Superstition; in the culture of pure reasoning;
in the science of absolute fact. Accordingly, I
placed before me the very book which Julius
Faber had advised me to burn; I forced all my
powers of mind to go again over the passages
which contained the doctrines that his admonition
had censured; and, before daybreak, I had
stated the substance of his argument, and the
logical reply to it, in an elaborate addition to my
chapter on "Sentimental Philosophers." While
thus rejecting the purport of his parting counsels,
I embodied in another portion of my work
his views on my own "illusions," and as here
my common sense was in concord with his, I
disposed of all my own previous doubts in an
addition to my favourite chapter "On the Cheats of
the Imagination." And when the pen dropped
from my hand, and the day-star gleamed through
the window, my heart escaped from the labour
of my mind, and flew back to the image of Lilian.
The pride of the philosopher died out of me,
the sorrow of the man reigned supreme, and I
shrank from the coming of the sun, despondent.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

NOT till the law had completed its proceedings
and satisfied the public mind as to the murder
of Sir Philip Derval, were the remains of the
deceased consigned to the family mausoleum.
The funeral was, as may be supposed, strictly
private, and when it was over, the excitement
caused by an event so tragical and singular,
subsided. New topics engaged the public talk,
and—in my presence, at least—the delicate
consideration due to one whose name had been so
painfully mixed up in the dismal story, forbore a
topic which I could not be expected to hear
without distressful emotion. Mrs. Ashleigh I
saw frequently at my own house; she honestly
confessed that Lilian had not shown that grief at the
cancelling of our engagement which would alone
justify Mrs. Ashleigh in asking me again to see
her daughter, and retract my conclusions against
our union. She said that Lilian was quiet, not
uncheerful, never spoke of me nor of Margrave,
but seemed absent and preoccupied as before,
taking pleasure in nothing that had been wont to
please her; not in music, nor books, nor that
tranquil pastime which women call work, and in
which they find excuse to meditate, in idleness,
their own fancies. She rarely stirred out—even
in the garden—when she did, her eyes seemed to
avoid the house in which Margrave had lodged, and
her steps the old favourite haunt by the Monks'
Well. She would remain silent for long hours
together, but the silence did not appear melancholy.
For the rest, her health was more than
usually good. Still, Mrs. Ashleigh persisted in
her belief that, sooner or later, Lilian would
return to her former self, her former sentiments
for me, and she entreated me not as yet to let
the world know that our engagement was broken
off. "For if," said she, with good sense, "if it
should prove not to be broken off, only
suspended, and afterwards happily renewed, there
will be two stories to tell when no story be
needed. Besides, I should dread the effect on
Lilian, if offensive gossips babbled to her on a
matter that would excite so much curiosity as
the rupture of a union in which our neighbours
have taken so general an interest."

I had no reason to refuse acquiescence in Mrs.
Ashleigh's request, but I did not share in her
hopes; I felt that the fair prospects of my life
were blasted; I could never love another, never
wed another; I resigned myself to a solitary
hearth, rejoiced, at least, that Margrave had
not revisited at Mrs. Ashleigh's; had not,
indeed, reappeared in the town. He was still
staying with Strahan, who told me that his guest
had ensconced himself in Forman's old study,
and amused himself with reading—though not for
long at a time—the curious old books and
manuscripts found in the library, or climbing trees like
a schoolboy, and familiarising himself with the
deer and the cattle, which would group round him
quite tame, and feed from his hand. Was this the
description of a criminal? But if Sir Philip's
assertion were really true; if the criminal were
man without soul; if without soul, man would
have no conscience, never be troubled by repentance,
and the vague dread of a future world,—
why, then, should not the criminal be gay
despite his crimes, as the white bear gambols as
friskily after his meal on human flesh? These
questions would haunt me despite my
determination to accept as the right solution of all
marvels the construction put on my narrative by
Julius Faber.

Days passed; I saw and heard nothing of
Margrave! I began half to hope that, in the
desultory and rapid changes of mood and mind
which characterised his restless nature, he had
forgotten my existence.

One morning I went out early on my rounds,
when I met Strahan unexpectedly.

"I was in search of you," he said, "for more
than one person has told me that you are looking
ill and jaded. So you are! And the town now
is hot and unhealthy. You must come to Derval
Court for a week or so. You can ride into town
every day to see your patients. Don't refuse.
Margrave, who is still with me, sends all kind
messages, and bade me say that he entreats you
to come to the house at which he also is a
guest!"

I started. What had the Sein-Læca required
of me, and obtained to that condition my
promise? "If you are asked to the house at which
I also am a guest, you will come; you will meet
and converse with me as guest speaks to guest
in the house of a host!" Was this one of the
coincidences which my reason was bound to
accept as coincidences and nothing more? Tut,
tut! Was I returning again to my "hallucinations?"
Granting that Faber and common sense
were in the right, what was this Margrave? A
man to whose friendship, acuteness, and energy
I was under the deepest obligations; to whom
I was indebted for active services that had saved