“She lives, my son,” were the first words he uttered, but his tone was not joyful; “our beloved and gentle Mary yet lives, and soon, very soon you shall meet, not to part on earth again.”

Herbert gazed wildly in his face, he clasped his hands convulsively, and then he bowed his head in a deep and fervent burst of thanksgiving.

“And Greville,” said Percy, impatiently, “has he so soon consented? father, you have not descended to entreaties, and to such a man?”

“Percy, peace,” said his father, gravely.  “With Mr. Greville I have enchanged no words.  Thank God, I sought not his house with any hostile intention, with any irritation urging me against him.  Percy, he is dead, and let his faults die with him.”

“Dead!” repeated the young man, shocked and astonished, and Herbert started up.  His lip quivered with the vain effort to ask an explanation.

It was even so, that very morning Greville had breathed his last, with all his sins upon his head, for no time had been allowed him either for repentance or atonement.  A few days after Mary had written to Herbert, her father had been brought home senseless, and dreadfully injured, by a fall from his horse.  His constitution, shattered by intemperance and continued dissipation, was not proof against the fever that ensued; delirium never left him.  For five days Mrs. Greville and Mary watched over his couch.  His ravings were dreadful; he would speak of Dupont, at one time, with imprecations; at others, as if imploring him to forbear.  He would entreat his child to forgive him; and then, with fearful convulsions, appear struggling with the effort to drag her to the altar.  Mary heard, and her slight frame shook and withered each day faster than the last, but she moved not from her father’s side.  In vain Mrs. Greville watched for some returning consciousness, for some sign to say he died in peace.  Alas! there was none.  He expired in convulsions; and scarcely had his wife and child recovered the awful scene, when the entrance of the hated Dupont roused them to exertion.  He came to claim Mary as his promised wife, or send them forth as beggars.  The house and all that it contained, even to their jewels, were his; for Greville had died, owing him debts to an amount which even the sale of all they possessed could not entirely repay.  He had it in his power to arrest the burial of the scarcely cold corpse, to stain the name of the dead with undying infamy; and he vowed that he would use his power to its utmost extent, if Mary’s consent were not instantly given.  Four-and-twenty hours he gave her to decide, and departed, leaving inexpressible wretchedness behind him, on the part of Mrs. Greville, and the calm stupor of exhaustion and despair pervading Mary’s every faculty.

“My child, my child, it shall not be; you shall not be that heartless villain’s wife.  I have health; I can work, teach, do anything to support us, and why, oh, why should you be thus sacrificed?  Mary, Mary, you will live, my child, to bless your desolate and wretched mother.  Oh, my God, my God, why hast thou thus forsaken me?  I have trusted in thee, and wilt thou thus fail me?  To whom can I appeal—­what friend have I near me?”