it then, Gilbert—but it is unkind and cruel of
you. You never felt for me as I feel for you—
I, whose heart has bled for you. You have no
sympathy for me! Never mind! perhaps you
are weary of me; and as you would take a new
course, then take it without me, with all my
heart. I little thought this was in store for
me to-night——"

"But, Margaret, dearest," he said; "this is
incomprehensible——"

Again she interrupted him:

"Do as you like—do as you will. You are
weak enough to forgive. That is your excuse.
But, understand, I do not change."

She passed from the room. He heard her
door close upon her. Her strange words
troubled him. That night he did not see her again.
And yet, disturbed and distressed as he was, it
was the most tranquil he had passed for a long
time. The hideous nightmare, that had preyed
on him, had passed away. A hundred times he
found himself strangely wondering at himself.
It seemed like a dream from which he had just
awakened. He knew Margaret's nature well—
that it was upright and honourable, though
violent and fitful—and in time all her natural
resentment would pass by.

That had been a feverish, hurried day for all
the leading actors in this little history. Lucy,
inexpressibly comforted by the soothing effects
of her visit, applied herself to her preparations.
Mr. Dacres, in spite of his dread of infection,
went about with an affectation of enormous
business. Vivian, now cheerful and with an
air of relief, had finished his preparations.
He was to sail in two days for Brighton,
and would thence post with all despatch down
to Southampton, where he would catch the
Duchess of Kent, sailing on the fatal day.
It was a time of union and separation, of
sorrow and of joy. Yet everything had come
about at last in the happiest way. All was
well, because ending well, and because thought
for so long to be not likely to end well.
Mr. Dacres was going to do "the handsome
thing." The handsome thing was a visit, of
amende to "poor West." Margaret saw him
come in, and went past with a smile described
by Mr. Dacres as sufficient "to sour a gallon
of milk." Then he went off gaily "to charter,"
as he called it, the Rev. Mr. Penny, who was
delighted at the coming ceremony. Then he
had to see " Shabbow, at the restywrong,"
about the little breakfast.

That night, as Lucy went to rest, she found on
her table a very pretty case—a bracelet, the
handsomest the colony could furnish—very
costly. (Alas! it had been made to Mr. Ernest
Beaufort's order, a present for Mrs. Wilkinson,
and had been left on the jeweller's hands.)
Inside the case was a little piece of paper, with
the inscription, "A reconciliation present."
It had been chosen by Constance.

Constance had, however, other work on hand.
She was haunted, by the impression that
Margaret was at the bottom of all this coming and
apparent happiness. There was no mistaking
that grim sister's calm acquiescence and her
confident acceptance of the situation—the cold
triumph with which she spoke of the morrow's
marriage.

"She has to do with it; she has brought it
about with some bad end, I know. She
means ruin by it. If it destroys them, it will
destroy Gilbert. If I could only find out! But
there is no time—oh! there is no time!"

There was very little time indeed. The lamps
were dangling in the streets, and lighted; a café
or two was filling. Margaret scarcely spoke,
but seemed almost to suspect Constance's
suspicions of her. Yet she had a bitter and coldly
triumphant look—a vein of confidence which
doubled suspicion.

That was a troubled night for the gentle
Constance. A tremendous responsibility seemed
to have been laid on her shoulders; she hardly
knew what to do. She had spoken to
Margaret with a sort of hint; but that woman,
strangely changed—as indeed was every one
during these days—met her with an almost
fierce warning.

"What do you mean? Beware of interfering
with me!"

CHAPTER, XLI. THE WEDDING-DAY.

THE morning had now come round, bright
and gay, in strange contrast to the dismal
scenes going on in the colony. West was still
asleep—even dreaming. It was about six
o'clock when he heard a knocking at his door.
He started up—the bright crystal-built palaces
of dream-land faded out, and dissolved into the
night again.

He heard a voice at the door—an agitated
voice. "Oh, monsieur, get up. She is ill—
poor mademoiselle."

He was up and dressed in a moment—
scared—alarmed. To be ill in those days was
to be ill to death. "Is it dangerous? What
is it? Send for the doctor instantly."

"Oh, sir," said the girl, "he is coming; and
I fear it is it!"

West was in Margaret's room in a moment.
Alas! there could be no mistake: the grim
ogre, stalking about, had arbitrarily chosen
another victim. The work of his fingers was
there—on the face—the ghastly look which
soon grew but too familiar.

"Oh, Margaret," he cried, all but wringing
his hands at this new sorrow. This was a
commentary on what he had thought last night,
and of the hint of the abbé—that, beside these
real griefs, incident to mortal life, love-lorn
sorrows dwindle down of a sudden—seem as a
child's grief over the breaking of some toy.

Constance was there, pale and agitated; and
here was the rehabiliated Macan, who had
hardly got an hour's sleep, just looking in, by
hurried express, and snatched from his breakfast.
Whenever Dr. Macan, in later and
happier times, talked of that awful visitation,
there were people of the Filby sort ready to
wink and say, after he had left the room, "Did
you hear the old hypocrite? Why he blesses
the day it came!"