some passionate impulse, and locked the door
inside.

Then she went into the study, paused—
tottered forward—paused again—swayed for
an instant where she stood, and fell prone on
the floor in a dead swoon.

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIFTH.

MR. THORNTON sate on and on. He felt that
his company gave pleasure to Mr. Hale; and
was touched by the half-spoken wishful
entreaty that he would remain a little longer
—the plaintive "Don't go yet," which his
poor friend put forth from time to time. He
wondered Margaret did not return; but it
was with no view of seeing her that he lingered.
For the hour—and in the presence of
one who was so thoroughly feeling the nothingness
of earth—he was reasonable and self-controlled.
He was deeply interested in all
her father said

Of death, and of the heavy lull,
And of the brain that has grown dull.

It was curious how the presence of Mr.
Thornton had power over Mr. Hale to make
him unlock the secret thoughts which he kept
shut up even from Margaret. Whether it was
that her sympathy would be so keen, and
show itself in so lively a manner, that he
was afraid of the reaction upon himself,
or whether it was that to his speculative
mind all kinds of doubts presented themselves
at such a time, pleading and crying aloud to
be resolved into certainties, and that
he knew she would have shrunk from
the expression of any such doubts—nay,
from him himself as capable of conceiving them—
whatever was the reason, he could unburden
himself better to Mr. Thornton than to her
of all the thoughts and fancies and fears that
had been frost-bound in his brain till now.
Mr. Thornton said very little; but every
sentence he uttered added to Mr. Hale's reliance
and regard for him. Was it that he
paused in the expression of some remembered
agony, Mr. Thornton's two or three words
would complete the sentence, and show how
deeply its meaning was entered into. Was it
a doubt—a fear—a wandering uncertainty
seeking rest, but finding none—so tear-blinded
were its eyes—Mr. Thornton, instead
of being shocked, seemed to have passed
through that very stage of thought himself,
and could suggest where the exact ray of
light was to be found, which should make
the dark places plain. Man of action as he
was, busy in the world's great battle, there
was a deeper religion binding him to God in
his heart, in spite of his strong wilfulness,
through all his mistakes, than Mr. Hale had
ever dreamed. They never spoke of such
things again, as it happened; but this one
conversation made them peculiar people to
each other; knit them together, in a way
which no loose indiscriminate talking about
sacred things can ever accomplish. When
all are admitted, how can there be a Holy of
Holies?

And all this while, Margaret lay as still
and white as death on the study floor! She
had sunk under her burden. It had been
heavy in weight and long carried; and she
had been very meek and patient, till all at
once her faith had given way, and she had
groped in vain for help! There was a pitiful
contraction of suffering upon her beautiful
brows, although there was no other sign of
consciousness remaining. The mouth—a
little while ago, so sullenly projected in
defiance—was relaxed and livid.

E par che de la sua labbia si mova
Uno spirto soave e pien d'amore,
Chi va dicendo a l'anima: sospira!

The first symptom of returning life was a
quivering about the lips—a little mute
soundless attempt at speech; but the eyes
were still closed; and the quivering sank into
stillness. Then feebly leaning on her arms
for an instant to steady herself, Margaret
gathered herself up, and rose. Her comb
had fallen out of her hair; and with an intuitive
desire to efface the traces of weakness,
and bring herself into order again, she sought
for it, although from time to time, in the
course of the search, she had to sit down and
recover strength. Her head drooped forwards—
her hands meekly laid one upon
the other—she tried to recall the force of her
temptation, by endeavouring to remember
the details which had thrown her into such
deadly fright; but she could not. She only
understood two facts—that Frederick had
been in danger of being pursued and detected
in London, as not only guilty of manslaughter,
but as the more unpardonable leader of the
mutiny, and that she had lied to save him.
There was one comfort; her lie had saved
him, if only by gaining some additional time.
If the inspector came again to-morrow, after
she had received the letter she longed
for to assure her of her brother's safety,
she would brave shame, and stand in her
bitter penance—she, the lofty Margaret—
acknowledging before a crowded justice-room,
if need were, that she had been as "a dog,
and done this thing." But if he came
before she heard from Frederick; if he
returned, as he had half threatened, in a
few hours, why! she would tell that lie
again; though how the words would come
out, after all this terrible pause for reflection
and self-reproach, without betraying her
falsehood, she did not know, she could not
tell. But her repetition of it would gain time
—time for Frederick.

She was roused by Dixon's entrance into
the room. Dixon had just been letting out
Mr. Thornton.

He had hardly gone ten steps in the street,
before a passing omnibus stopped close by
him, and a man got down, and came up to
him, touching his hat as he did so. It was
the police-inspector.