Constance had told her. But, alas! she could not
explain away the great act she was about to
undertake.

"I know," she said, "your nobleness and
generosity. You have overpowered and humiliated
me. I see how much you are above me.
Oh, had I but known all this in time!"

"No matter now," he said, gently; "it was
my folly and stupidity."

"No," said Lucy, eagerly, "but my dull
incapability of appreciating your delicacy. I took
everything literally. I thought, when you went
away, that you meant me, really, to decide for
myself, and if I did not find that I was growing
to like and love you, that you yourself would
not be content. I declare solemnly that this
was what was in my mind. I was a foolish
school-girl then, and took everything to the
very letter. Then there was this storm, and
the saving of the sailors, and I was——"

"You were dazzled. Most natural. I
suppose I was not young enough to dazzle, and
too sober. There was the mistake."

"No, no," she said, passionately; "that had
nothing to do with it. You must not think
that. When you went away, I solemnly looked
forward to being happy with you. I was sure
of it. But then, when you returned, and they told
me what seemed to me cruel and unkind things
—you know I am a little quick in temper—I
was too quick to defend myself."

"You should not have believed them," he
said, gently. "You might have known me
better. I your enemy? Impossible!"

"I was foolish and childish."

"And your head was full of this other
brilliant man. Well," he said, sadly, "this is only
the old, old story. Yet I cannot tell you what
comfort it is to me to hear all this—that there
has been misconception."

"Oh! and you must get well and strong,
and be cheerful and happy again. For what am
I," added Lucy, in her vehement way, "to
cause any trouble or grief to any one—an
untrained, uninformed, and, I am afraid, selfish
school-girl, with no gifts of any kind? Oh! if
you will only let me always see you, and know
you, and like you, as I did of old: if you will
only let me strive to repair what I have done,
and show you how sincerely I have always loved
and respected you—will you? And we shall
be so happy, one day."

She looked at him wistfully, and with such
pleading eyes, that something like hope and
peace seemed to come to him. He was about
to speak, with the old smile on his lips, when
Lucy heard a step, and, looking round, saw
with affright the tall, grim figure standing
behind them. They were now almost at his door.

"So you come to him with soft promises,
now that you have worked his ruin. Leave
us! Do not listen to her wicked words,
Gilbert. And I tell you this besides, Lucy
Dacres, it will not help you, nor save you.
Such heathenish and wicked cruelty as yours is
not to be passed by without punishment.
Vengeance will come, sooner or later, never fear."

Lucy looked frightened, and shrank away.

"Hush, Margaret," said West, angrily.
"There is no need of speaking in that way.
No one wants vengeance. "We have been both
victims of a mistake."

It would be hard to describe Margaret's
scornful laugh.

"So, on the eve of her marriage, she
wishes to leave all smooth—to leave everything
happily settled behind her by a few soft words.
But it will not do—it will not do. Take care,
Lucy Dacres! I tell you, you shall not escape."

There was so much menace, so much of
prophecy that might be fulfilled, that Lucy's heart
was struck with a chill.

"What do you mean?" she said, trembling.
"I have done you no harm, and meant no
harm."

"Hush!" said he, kindly. "All will be well.
Margaret's love for me makes her judge
severely of every one. Now, dear Lucy, I will
not keep you any longer. You have taken a
load off my heart. Every wish and prayer for
happiness attend you."

Again Margaret laughed. "Heaven will not
join in that blessing."

CHAPTER XL. SISTER NEMESIS.

WHEN Lucy flew away, not a little disturbed
by Margaret's look of hate, Gilbert went in with
his sister. He was struck with the strange
change in her face, and spoke to her kindly;
but she answered bitterly:

"So it is fixed for the morning. They are
determined to go on with it, with scenes of
death multiplied about them. It is indecent.
But they will bring down judgment on
themselves."

There was silence for a moment; then he
answered, softly:

"My dear Margaret, I want to speak to you
very seriously. You know what has gone on
for these past weeks and months. You have
seen my humiliation and infatuation, and I
know how it has distressed and affected
you——"

"It was not your fault," she interrupted.
"Do not think it, Gilbert. I never thought
so, nor blamed you. We have suffered, God
knows, but you were not accountable. Those
who are will be punished, never fear. It is
coming—coming."

"No, no!" said he, gently. "Nothing is
coming. I want no one punished; certainly,
not her, poor child! Child, indeed! I am
afraid, if we were to decide who has been the
child in this matter, I should——" Then,
suddenly, "Oh! when I think, Margaret, of what
I have seen to-night, and the scenes about us,
and of the great business of life—the hours
wasted so selfishly on my own sorrows—I feel
ashamed and humiliated. What I would wish
now is, to shake off this folly which has held
me so long; and I look to you, Margaret, and
to Constance to aid me."

Margaret had risen, and was pacing the room
pensively.

"I know what that means," she went on
presently. "You have found a new path: take