She had thrown aside much, to be sure, to fall upon such a penalty. John Faber would have made her his wife could she have escaped the meshes of a net she herself had tied. He would have lifted her above all these sordid creeds of a puny society to the heights of freedom and of opportunity. She believed that she could have risen with him and upheld a position his money would have won for them. She saw herself the mistress of a splendid house; heard her name in high places; believed that she was born to rule and not to serve. And opportunity had passed her by for this. The man who would have ennobled her had sailed for America, and she did not believe he would return. In any case, she did not dare to think of him now. As she had sown, so must she reap. Something of an intolerable despair afflicted her now, and drove her to silent tears. The stillness of the house, the measured chiming of the church bells, the monotonous fall of footsteps upon the pavement, how they all suggested the round of the insufferable days she must live! It had been so different a month ago, when her name had been honoured and her activities abundant. How full her life had been then, when many had honoured her, and she had gone proudly in and out among the people. Such an opportunity could not recur; and she reflected that it had been made for her by one who had been willing that she should wear the laurel his brains had won. He was on the Atlantic now, and all must seem but an episode in his story. Here, perchance, she did herself less than justice; for her aims had been noble and her faith quite honest. She had desired the supreme gift of peace upon earth, and much that she had done was the fruit of an enthusiasm which had brought this very shame upon her. She would not think of it now nor remember her sacrifice. Enough to say that the night of her hopes had come down, and that the day would never dawn again. So the long hours passed wearily. At eight o'clock there came a telegram from her father in vague terms, but such as she had expected: "Am doing all possible. Everything will be well. Shall not return yet. Writing." She crumpled the paper in her hand and fell to wondering what the message meant. Had Silvester discovered such an escapade as his faith discerned or something of which he would not speak? She knew not what to think, but remembered her last words to him, that he should telegraph to John Faber in case the yacht had not sailed. In case it had not sailed! Her face flushed and her heart beat faster when she repeated the words. And yet, God knows, it could matter little to her whether the _Savannah_ was still in Southampton Water or had passed the Lizard Light upon its way to the great Atlantic. V