Down in the parlour, with the grey of morning
stealing in through the diamond panes, and
mixing curiously with the faint light of the evening's
wax-candles, taken from the dinner-table,
he talked with her for some time alone. She had
brought him in there, and softly closed the door.

"What am I to say," she said—"what am I
to do? O, good, noble, and generous," she
went on, in a sort of sad monotone, "I shall
never forget this night! If you would let
me go down on my knees before you—if there
was any way in the wide world by which I
could show, and by which I could atone—
but now, indeed, my eyes are opened, and I
see what I foolishly ought to have seen before."

The little clock in the hall struck half-past
four. He started. "What do you mean?" he
said, hurriedly. "What am I to understand?"

"I am unworthy," she went on as hurriedly
—"I feel it now—utterly unworthy of one like
you. I feel myself insignificant near you. I feel
ashamed to think how I could ever have——"

"Hush!" he said, gently: "you will only
awaken an old dream, which I have long
struggled to forget, and which now—ah yes!—must
be forgotten." He put his hand to his forehead.
"I have been in a dream all this night. I must
go now, and hear no more."

"One moment," she said. "It is only right
that this should come from me. If you should
ever again think me worthy of what you
proposed that last night I saw you—if you should,
I say, I should not answer as I did then, but
only think myself proud and happy to spend
my life with one who is so generous and noble."

He had gone to the door, and came back
slowly. "Why," he said, hastily, "what is this?
You are promised to him."

"No, no, no," she answered. "Never!
never!"

"O," he said, with a sort of wail of agony,
"I see now. This also has come too late. Too
late!"

"Too late!" she said, in wonder.

"There has been some fatal mistake. Why
did you not tell me? They told me you were
to marry him. And I—good God!—I am to
marry another this very morning." The little
clock now struck the quarter. "There!" he
said, starting, "I must hurry to the place. She
saved me from death. She thinks she loves me.
I had come to think that you only despised, or
at most pitied me. No, no. I must go. I
dare not draw back. Honour—everything—it
would kill her."

"No, no," she said, "you must not think of
that. It is as much a grief for me as for you.
It is my fault, too, and I shall expiate it. But
my prayers, wishes, regard, everything, goes
with——"

The hand of the little clock was travelling on
slowly.

"Yes, I must go," he said, despairingly.
"What am I to do? They wait. And all I
suffered for this." He paused a moment. "Yes,
there is only one course." He took her hand,
pressed his lips on it, and rushed away.

In that cold frosty morning he took a last
look at the great cathedral, with which seemed
associated that dream of all his past hopes and
fears. He could not bring himself to look on
it now. It seemed a sort of cruel, insensible,
destroying monster.

At the station were the crowd of fresh, eager
people who had slept well all night and were
eager to begin the day—agricultural people,
commercial men, travellers—but none with so heavy
and despairing a heart as the pale gentleman who
had been up all the night, and was hurrying back
to town for "the merry marriage bells."

Raw and rueful that breaking day seemed to
him as they travelled. The fresh fields, the
almost joyful alacrity of the early day, the stout
rustics staring from the hedges, thinking it
would be soon time for breakfast—all these
things jarred on him. Gradually, however, with
the sense of action, the feeling of stern duty
came back upon him. He grew at last calmly to
face his situation, and only to look back at
intervals, as to a dreadful nightmare that made
him shudder. Duty, honour, everything,
asserted their old claim on that fine nature.

In town by eight, he had hurried away to his
rooms. There he went through some last
preparations for the task that was before him, trained
himself, as well as the time would allow, to a
little cheerfulness, or at least to composure, tried
to eat something, and then set off to see Captain
Diamond.

That honest gentleman came down to him in
the parlour, and closed the door with some
solemnity.

"What is all this, Tillotson?" he said,
gravely. "We have been hearing strange
things."

"For mercy's sake," said Mr. Tillotson,
excitedly, "not now—not now, my dear friend!
I have gone through a great deal. I could tell
you everything, and should tell you—for I would
trust you indeed before all the world—but do
not ask me now. I am ready, and will carry
out what I shall undertake to-day with all faith
and sincerity, and even love, at all risks—even
that of life itself! There! And let me swear
this to you, Captain Diamond. It will give me
strength for the struggle. But you know me
to be a man of honour."

To Captain Diamond there was something
wild in all this. Still he had such true faith in
his friend that his brow cleared at once, and he
said not a word.

"I know you, Tillotson," he said, squeezing
his hand, "and can understand a little, and
admire you for this all the time."

The grim Martha, though, flitted past him
with a deadly and suspicious look. Then he
went away. The captain, with radiant face,
and splendid in a new coat specially ordered for
the occasion, came to his elder niece in the
drawing-room.

"He is a noble fellow," he said; "true as
steel. I declare to Heaven we can't come near
him, or even understand him. She'll be a happy
girl indeed. Not a word, ye see, to her. Ah!
there's my pet herself."

And there she was, like a fairy queen out of