, as she hinted, obtained leave from her parents to send
for him. His last bank note carried him down to Whitford; and, calm
and determined, as one who feels that he has nothing more to lose on
earth, and whose torment must henceforth become his element, he
entered the Priory that evening.

He hardly spoke or looked at a soul; he felt that he was there on an
errand which none understood; that he was moving towards Argemone
through a spiritual world, in which he and she were alone; that, in
his utter poverty and hopelessness, he stood above all the luxury,
even above all the sorrow, around him; that she belonged to him, and
to him alone; and the broken-hearted beggar followed the weeping
Honoria towards his lady's chamber, with the step and bearing of a
lord. He was wrong; there were pride and fierceness enough in his
heart, mingled with that sense of nothingness of rank, money, chance
and change, yea, death itself, of all but Love;--mingled even with
that intense belief that his sorrows were but his just deserts,
which now possessed all his soul. And in after years he knew that
he was wrong; but so he felt at the time; and even then the strength
was not all of earth which bore him manlike through that hour.

He entered the room; the darkness, the silence, the cool scent of
vinegar, struck a shudder through him. The squire was sitting half
idiotic and helpless, in his arm-chair. His face lighted up as
Lancelot entered, and he tried to hold out his palsied hand.
Lancelot did not see him. Mrs. Lavington moved proudly and primly
back from the bed, with a face that seemed to say through its tears,
'I at least am responsible for nothing that occurs from this
interview.' Lancelot did not see her either: he walked straight up
towards the bed as if he were treading on his own ground. His heart
was between his lips, and yet his whole soul felt as dry and hard as
some burnt-out volcano-crater.

A faint voice--oh, how faint, how changed!--called him from within
the closed curtains.

'He is there! I know it is he! Lancelot! my Lancelot!'

Silently still he drew aside the curtain; the light fell full upon
her face. What a sight! Her beautiful hair cut close, a ghastly
white handkerchief round her head, those bright eyes sunk and
lustreless, those ripe lips baked, and black and drawn; her thin
hand fingering uneasily the coverlid.--It was too much for him. He
shuddered and turned h