“Forgive you! You were worn out. Listen, darling! Nugent will be here soon. Go to your room, and put on a white gown.” She smiled faintly. “I--I wish it; you shall have no bad omens at your wedding, Margery. Pauline, attend mademoiselle.” Margery hesitated, and then obeyed silently. “Heaven give me strength!” prayed Enid, as she felt herself growing faint. “But this one thing, this marriage over, and I shall die content.” Margery went to her room, and listlessly allowed the maid to wave her hair and adjust the simple white cambric dress; but her hands were trembling and her senses numb. A wedding! It seemed like a dream. The prayer book the maid handed her recalled her to the reality; and with faltering steps she went back to the dying woman. Three men were in the room as she entered, but she was scarcely conscious of their presence. She went straight to Lady Enid, and sat down beside her, her hand clasped in hers, her head bowed. Then she felt herself raised to her feet, she saw Dr. Fothergill bend and put a vial to Enid’s rigid lips, and the next minute a solemn voice sounded through the room, and the marriage service began. Margery felt her hand clasped in a firm hold; she uttered her responses in a voice that sounded far away; but her eyes never left the pale face lying back on the pillows, with a gleam of joy in the sweet eyes. The ceremony was over, the blessing was spoken, and together Lord Court and his wife knelt beside Enid’s bed to catch the faint whispers that fell from her pallid lips; they saw her eyes gaze into theirs with a glow of heavenly radiance, they saw her hand move feebly toward them, they seemed to hear the prayer uttered for their happiness; and then the dying girl’s eyelids drooped, a fluttering sigh escaped her lips, her head fell forward, and--Margery knew no more. Nugent, Earl of Court, saw the servants bear his wife from the room; but he remained kneeling by his sister’s body, gazing on the calm, marblelike face, the still form of her he had loved so well. CHAPTER XVIII. Vane Charteris was astonished beyond words when she found that the assertion she had made regarding Margery’s voyage to Australia in company with Robert Bright and her so-called father was absolutely confirmed by fact. Nothing could have been more opportune, no more satisfactory _dénouement_ to the whole affair could have taken place had she arranged it herself. It had needed only jealousy to finish what she had begun; and its poison now rankled in Stuart Crosbie’s heart. He was stunned, almost overwhelmed by Margery’s apparent treachery and heartlessness. He did not know, he had never fathomed till now, how greatly he had loved, what a flood of passion had overtaken him. Margery had been the sun of his existence, and she was gone--worse than gone--she was faithless!