She turned pale. "Not dead!"

"No. He will give us more trouble
still. He is in England. He went to
search for a boy labourer, who had enlisted.
That boy had seen you with her, too. Who
knows what he could tell?"

"And he found him?"

"You may be easy—no. He had died
from a sunstroke, and his story with him,
whatever it was. It would not tell against
you, for your share took place in your own
heart."

"This is fiendish," said Jessica.

"Deny it—swear!"

"You shall acquit me first from your
knowledge of me."

"I cannot."

She went away, torn with a secret
struggle. A cold kiss was their parting
salute. As he sat there alone on that
evening, it came back on him suddenly how
much a failure his pompously-planned life
had turned out; with all his magnificently-
planned schemes, which were to regulate
events to his ends, as a sort of providence;
even that boasted choice of a wife made
with such a flourish! How this had broken
down. A miserable failure indeed—he and
his works.

Inaction of this sort, and with such
thoughts, he could not endure: and
suddenly a strange idea came into his head,
and he felt himself irresistibly drawn down
to that old fatal St. Arthur's-on-the-Sea, to
be in its atmosphere, wander about those
scenes, and perhaps stumble on something
that might quiet his uneasy soul. In a
moment he had decided, hurriedly packed
a few things, and was presently in the
train.

By the time he reached St. Arthur's it
was evening. He had a dismal, weary
journey down, with no company but his
own thoughts, and when he arrived the
place had a strange look, as if he had
not seen it for years. As his eye fell on
the church, he thought of the monument
within; and it suddenly flashed on him that
that was the very anniversary week of the
death of the young heiress of Panton. This
seemed to him very strange and singular,
and the same fascination which had brought
him down drew him out to those pleasant
grounds near the river, which he had never
yet had courage to visit.

It was a beautiful evening, and the sun
was just setting as he reached the bank of
the river, at the point where the bridge—
that fatal Bridge of Sighs, as he called it
to himself—had once stood. There was the
little stone cross which marked the spot
where the young girl had fallen. As he stood
there looking at it, the struggle of the two
women, developed foolishly out of trifles,
and closed by such a catastrophe, opened
out before him. The more he thought of
it, the more he looked back, the more it was
rung in his ear, like the jangling of some
hoarse bell: "Yes, she did it. It was
beyond one of her character to resist. She
would have said to herself—I can hear her
saying it—'This is the chastising hand of
Heaven. Why should I interfere? She
herself has cut off the means which might
have saved her, I shall make no extra
exertion. I asked her to swear, but no, that
could not clear her. An eye-witness alone
would convince me."

He lingered on until it darkened gradually.
Below, in the town and harbour, he
saw lights beginning to twinkle. Then he
thought it time to return. As he advanced
to go, he said, half aloud: "It is a
deserved punishment, and I shall never see it
cleared up."

A low voice near him said: "No clearing
up is wanting. What more clear proof
do you require?"

He knew that voice, and saw Dudley
standing near him. Dudley, much changed,
grown aged, and worn, and hollow cheeked,
with fires burning in his eyes, and a strange,
wild, and fitful manner, that alarmed Conway.
"You wonder where I have come
from. Not from that earth"—pointing to
the cross—"where I wish I was laid. I
have been spirited across from that house,
where we all had so much happiness.
What would you say if I crossed on that
bridge, a spectral one, which led to such
misery? I tell you I see it there now,
its lines and network, as plainly as I see
you. This was a fitting opportunity for
us to meet here. If not, I was going to
look for you. We only want her, and then,
with the spirit of that poor saint, which, I
believe, never deserts this place, our
company would be complete!"

In a moment the other saw that Dudley
was under some excitement, that looked
like derangement. Yet he continued to
speak collectedly. "You see, I have come
back. I would not miss this anniversary.
Yes, I have returned unsuccessful. I
searched everywhere, but could not find
what I wanted. At last I discovered that
he was dead, else I would have brought
that witness home, and made him confront
her—your wife—on this very spot. Where
is she now?" Conway was silent.

"I understand," said the other. "We
understood each other before. You have