towards me as one that you had sought
for and found; that you could have loved
and cherished, and taught, and made like
to yourself. You may know this now that
all is at an end, and that we never go
back on what has happened. In the long,
dark night of my life this will be a little
lamp, always kept burning."

"You noble girl," cried Conway, scarcely
knowing what he was about to say. "Why
did I not learn all this before? Your true,
faithful nature and my own foolish heart
were between; and I say to you solemnly,
were anything to break this off anything
to happen which should set us both free
and looking towards each other—I would
swear to rush back to your feet."

He was gone. Jessica looked after him
long and wildly. "This is the comfort he
leaves me, as he thinks! It is but planting
another dagger in my heart. Oh!"
she added, passionately, "that I may be
taught not to forgive her, but to hate her
with a growing hate for this work of hers!"

She remained long in that state. Her
father then strode in. "Where is he?" he
said. "I told them to show him into my
study. Mr. Dudley, I mean."

"He was not here," she said, coldly.

"Oh! Come. No tragics. Show some
sense. Make the best of all this. It is to
be made up to me. Lord Formanton is a
man of honour."

Thus Dr. Bailey.

The scorn in Jessica's face! "I see! It
is all becoming clearer every moment. You
are to be paid for this."

"No insolence to me, ma'am. I have
done my duty. Where's Mr. Dudley?
He went in through the greenhouse."

"He is not here, and I do not want
to see him." She left the room. Mr.
Dudley could not be found, to the great ill
humour of the doctor. But Mr. Dudley
was a very impatient man, and very likely,
having got into the greenhouse and heard
voices in the drawing-room, he was not to
bo kept waiting, and went away in disgust.

  CHAPTER XX. FATHER AND DAUGHTER.

MEANWHILE, during these days, the
Grundys of the seaport were kept in a
fever of excitement by the various
dramatic events: the sudden illness of the
Queen of Panton, her no less mysterious
recovery; the open defiance—the throwing
down the gauntlet—in that removal
of the bridge, which had actually been
sold, and was lying there on the banks
in pieces, waiting removal. There was
much angry feeling about this injudicious
step, more than perhaps its value deserved,
and it was felt that Sir Charles had
hopelessly forfeited all chance of sitting for the
borough. More interested still were they
in the struggle between the two girls, now
it would seem approaching a crisis; and,
best of all, wild and delightful rumours
were afloat that the battle was for the
fascinating Conway, who, it was believed, had
offered for the heiress, but was fiercely
claimed by that bold and fearless parson's
daughter. They had made out a complete
theory. It was for this Lord Formanton
had come down specially, and it was for
this that Doctor Bailey was seen posting
about, taking strides of extra length.

Miserable days of flurry and agitation
followed for one of the actresses in that
scene, the hapless Jessica, who found all
her boasted training and resolution melting
down in the hot fires of agitation and
excitement. Leaden weights seemed to be
hung round her heart; she listened eagerly
for reports and news, but could hear little.
It was said, indeed, that the yacht was
at last going away. The sailors were
making their purchases and getting in
stores. A dinner of a farewell nature
—the news as usual coming via
Silvertop—was preparing at the castle, at
which it was believed something certain
would transpire as to what was making the
public mind so feverish. Lord Formanton
had remained a few days, and was actually
a guest at the castle, that cunning nobleman
wishing, no doubt, to keep watch and
ward against one whose designs he still
feared, and who might attempt a surprise.
Long after, he often described her as "one
of the most dangerous girls he ever met."
They all saw little of the hero, who seemed
to keep on board his vessel. To Jessica
this suspense was growing intolerable. She
longed for him to be gone, to be married,
to be doing something, to be writing. She
felt the life she herself led was growing
unendurable; something of action, even the
life of a governess, was preferable. Her
father and his coarse violence, or violent
coarseness, was too much.

It was the morning of that dinner, the
morning, too, of what was to be for her a
very remarkable day. She sat at the
gloomy breakfast table, silent as usual,
while her father opened his letters. He
did not at all relish her new manner, as it
brought a sort of inconvenience. He read
one with great eagerness.