to go out into the fresh air, and appear on the
Corso, to the triumph of our Lucy, who was
proud of her share in that recovery, and heard,
with a thrill, the whisper, "There he is!" For
the gallant rescue was still talked about. And
it was in one of these first walks that the
unlucky Mr. West, just landed, met them.

CHAPTER XIX. CONSTANCE.

To that night Margaret often looked with a
shudder. He affected to talk of what he had
seen and heard in his travels, but she knew he
was raging in his heart. As the evening drew
on, the bright look seemed actually to fade out
of his face; the old look, which he had taken
away with him, to return. He barely sat out
their little dinner.

"I can't stay shut up here," he said, starting
up; "I must have air. Forgive me, Margaret
—the first night, and all—but I must go. I
have been accustomed, of late, to the open places
of England."

She said nothing, but how she felt for him!
How she would have felt for him, had she seen
him going along up the loneliest walk of the
place, unconscious of everything, and when he
reached the open field at the top talking aloud:

"God! that it should come to this! What
have I done? What crime have I committed,
to be punished in this way? What will become
of me? How shall I keep my head—my wits?
She did it on purpose to play with me—mock
—make a fool of me. And, O my God! let me
learn to pray that all thoughts of revenge may
be kept away from me!"

He was walking along rapidly, and talking in
this incoherent way.

"God forgive her! God forgive her!"

It sounded more like, "God punish her! God
punish her!"

"What is to become of me? What is life for
me? Another series of wretched loneliness and
miserable thoughts pursuing me everywhere. All
wrecked again, and never to recover for years.
Oh! what deep, wicked, cruel malice—and what
folly to meet it! One lesson should have been
enough, but I was not to be taught."

When he came in, that night, his sister stole
a look at him, and saw the traces of a hopeless
dejection and despair in his face. It wrung her
very heart. She saw before them both a time of
agony worse than any that had gone before; and
in her room that night she did not pray that
vengeance should not enter into her heart.
Her words were more unmeasured:

"That demon, with her false ways, her smooth
face, and soft words! How dare she? But, if
I live and have strength, she shall be punished."

Miserable night! Though the sum of unhappiness
and squalor made a large total in the colony,
there was no such misery as theirs in the
meanest little lodging. A worn and wistful
face, that of Constance, the little cousin,
looked in on him as he sat abstracted and
by himself that night. Margaret had come
to her and almost sternly bid her go to him.
"God help us all," she said to her; "you don't
know what is coming, and the misery that is
before us. We had this once before. You encouraged
him, recollect, in this folly—a fine piece
of self-sacrifice, as you thought it! You set him
against me and his own sisters, just to gratify
his present humour. I knew him better. See
what it has come to now!" Yet she was not
angry. She could not but have compassion for
that soft gentle face, which had now grown so
worn and wistful. "You speak to him, and
try and comfort him, if you can. He likes you.
I have not the arts for that. And yet I warned
him. Oh, if Heaven doesn't punish her, and
soon; let her take care that I do not reach her."

Constance stole in upon him. He looked up
and started, and greeted her with a show of
interest. "Ah, my poor Constance. Your
foolish cousin has come back to you. Well,
you see how the Machiavellian advice has
ended. You are no doctor, I fear, my child,
and had better keep to the household. Our
crafty plot has not brought us much."

"Oh," she exclaimed, passionately, "I am
wretched and miserable. Yes, it was all my
doing, and I shall never forgive myself."

He was startled at her real grief. "No,
no, my dear child, you must not think that.
And I don't mean it. It was my own old
folly, and it has served me right. When
a man could be such a child as I have
been, it is right I should suffer. But all I
ask is;—let us shut the subject out as quick as
we can. Let me bury my own folly as soon as
need be; and, above all, I rely on you, dear
Constance, to keep the news of this
humiliation from my sister. Of course you must
pity or feel even a contempt for me. I can't
help that. All my life has been a struggle, and
I know what a poor weak creature I am and
shall be. I have done my best, and I have
suffered for it, and am now going to suffer more.
But I rely on you for one thing at least, and
you will do me a real service, to control one
who makes too much of such"—and he smiled
—"of such a trifle. We must learn to bear these
things. Now leave me, like a dear child."

Early the following morning she found him
with the same hopeless look of dejection,
but with, also, an affected air of cheerfulness,
which made her very heart sink. He
was writing letters. "Tell me of something to
do, Margaret," he said; "after this long holiday
I have had, I should do some work." He had
several letters by him finished. One was to
Mr. Levy, the Jew gentleman, in which he
most earnestly pressed him to conceal all
mention of his name in the recent settlement;
in fact, he was to assure Mr. Dacres
that the whole was merely an exercise of his
own forbearance and indulgence. He hinted,
too, that any further liquidation would depend
on the observance of this condition. "They
shall not know I have been such a dupe of
theirs," he said to himself, as he folded it.

Then he wrote to Sir John Trotter, with a
similar request. As for the house Westown,
and "middle-age Jenkinson," he thought of