he would try and bring matters round with West.
There had been a foolish misunderstanding; no
doubt there had been faults on both sides;
and, without a word to Lucy, determined to
repair forthwith to Mr. West's. "It is a scandal
the way we have neglected him. No wonder
he's sulky; and that chit of mine is as skittish
as a lamb. I'll patch it up with a little soothering.
Harco, my boy, you've brought round a
more hostile jury than that!"

These were sore trials for our Lucy; but she
had hope, and was confident, and, though no
letter had reached her, she was sure Vivian would
return to her. She felt something like a pang
when she heard of Mr. West's illness, something
like sudden feeling that she had to do
with this. Her gentle heart was inexpressibly
touched with the picture of the lonely infatuated
man, whose life seemed like exercise in a prison.
What if she had been unkind, ungrateful? After
all, his crime and his enmity came of loving her.
She went to her father, as he came in, and putting
her face up wistfully to his, said:

"I think, Harco, we should go and ask after
that poor Mr. West."

Mr. Dacres freed himself a little impatiently.
He was worried, and not in the humour for
affection or endearment.

"Oh, he's well enough. He'll do well. He
has a nice aide-de-camp there to take care of him.
His precious sister is off—off to Paris, it seems."

"Off to Paris!" she repeated in wonder and
alarm. "Then she is gone after him! Oh,
papa, papa, she will do him some harm. I wish
he was back with us again."

At any sacrifice, she must appear at the
Guernsey Beauforts' ball, wear a show of happiness
there, be watched closely by malicious
eyes—in short, go through that dismal probation,
a pardonable Spartan bit of acting—one
of the sorest trials which fashion imposes.

The room in the établissement had been
exquisitely decorated. Lenôtre, a famous
gardener from Hâvre, had come over and superintended
the flowers. The mayor had lent shrubs,
in square tubs, from his grounds. The outside
of the building was hung with variegated lamps.
The whole town—the fishermen even—gathered
in crowds to see the company arrive. Mounted
gendarmes were on duty. The orchestra,
reinforced also from Hâvre, was in the gallery.
The supper was undertaken by "Le Buff," of
the Royal. The decorations and upholstering
were under the charge of the local "furnisher."
It would be a superb ceremonial, and long
remembered in the place.

By ten o'clock the guests were arriving. They
were received in person by Mr. Beaufort himself
and Mrs. Beaufort, that lady looking very worn,
and having an air of fright in her face. She
was sumptuously dressed. Mr. Beaufort was
unusually gracious and voluble, all smiles and talk.
Even Captain Filby, in a blue coat and gilt
buttons and a puce-coloured under waistcoat, as he
looked round, was a little confounded, and
seemed to think those ruthless stories, which
he had circulated so piteously, had been more or
less logically confuted. Here was the maire, in
full official dress, and the maire's lady, bowing
and bending; here was the juge de paix, the
English consul, and the English clergyman.
They all flocked in. And here, a little after,
came Mr. Harcourt Dacres and his daughter.
Any "taste of divarshion" made him forget
everything, even, as he said, "if he was to be
arrested the next hour." So he was all beaming
smiles and ready wit.

A hundred eyes followed Lucy as she walked,
leaning on the gay Dacres's arm, charmingly
dressed, fresh as a rose-bud, but very nervous
and sad at heart. What malicious eyes! what
more malicious mouths, on which rested a meaning
smile, and between which fluttered the
scarcely whispered sentences: "I always said it
would come to that;" "He got out of it, sir, and
deserted her;" "Don't you see she's trying to
bear up? She comes here to show she doesn't
feel it. It won't do—won't do, ma'am!" Need
we say that this was Captain Filby's remark?

Mr. Blacker, too, was introducing, marshalling,
pushing his way, making sudden swoops
right through the room, riding roughshod over
every obstacle, to seize on some gentleman or
lady, whispering some agitated message. For
one person he was looking very eagerly—Mr.
Morton, and his friend, Mr. Parkes, "son, you
know, of one of our English judges." Shading
his eyes, peering down the room, rushing on
these sudden expresses at surprised strangers
who resembled his missing friends, Mr. Blacker
was not a little disturbed. Suddenly a letter was
brought to him, which he read with as much
importance as if he was on horseback commanding
an army in a battle.

"Bless me, where are they? Why don't
they come in?"

But the charming Wilkinson was not there—
neither that bewitching lady nor her husband.
It had not yet got abroad that there had been
a scene the day before, a reconciliation and
making up, and determination to return home
to their dear old England, which they said they
wished they had never left. The packet, which
sailed according to the tide, left that night at
one o'clock, and they would get away privately
by it from this wretched place, into which they
wished they had never come. Yet there would,
of course, come a time when they would look
back to their gay life there, and quote incidents
to their dull agricultural friends; and it is to be
feared the bewitching Wilkinson often thought,
not with displeasure, of the seductive Ernest
Beaufort.

To Lucy, the sight of this gay scene, the
lights, the flowers, the music, and the bright
company, only made her more dispirited. Her
little heart was heavy; she would not dance,
though she was glad to see her dear Harco in
such spirits, and his figure all but "capering,"
as he said, afar off. Somehow, before her was
a faint hope that, before the brilliant night was
over, something might come about. And to
this door, where so many were coining in, her
eyes were always wandering. Suddenly, to her
astonishment, they fell upon a grim figure standing
by itself, in some finery that was sober and