“Oh yes; I have seen him.”

Percy was short in his speech, and pale as Robert had never seen him before.  He requested hastily to be told the situation of Lord Elling’s pew.

“Don’t you think of going into the gallery?” said Robert, but received no answer, and with an inward moan of “Good God! they’ll think I’ve come here in a sort of repentance,” he found himself walking down the aisle; and presently, to his amazement, settled in front of the Fairly pew, and with his eyes on Mrs. Lovell.

What was the matter with her?  Was she ill?  Robert forgot his own tribulation in an instant.  Her face was like marble, and as she stood with the prayer-book in her hand, her head swayed over it:  her lips made a faint effort at smiling, and she sat quietly down, and was concealed.  Algernon and Sir John Capes were in the pew beside her, as well as Lady Elling, who, with a backward-turned hand and disregarding countenance, reached out her smelling-bottle.

“Is this because she fancies I know of her having made a bet of me?” thought Robert, and it was not his vanity prompted the supposition, though his vanity was awakened by it.  “Or is she ashamed of her falsehood?” he thought again, and forgave her at the sight of her sweet pale face.  The singing of the hymns made her evident suffering seem holy as a martyr’s.  He scarce had the power to conduct himself reverently, so intense was his longing to show her his sympathy.

“That is Mrs. Lovell—­did you see her just now?” he whispered.

“Ah?” said Major Waring.

“I’m afraid she has fainted.”

“Possibly.”

But Mrs. Lovell had not fainted.  She rose when the time for rising came again, and fixing her eyes with a grave devotional collectedness upon the vicar at his reading-desk, looked quite mistress of herself—­but mistress of herself only when she kept them so fixed.  When they moved, it was as if they had relinquished some pillar of support, and they wavered; livid shades chased her face, like the rain-clouds on a grey lake-water.  Some one fronting her weighed on her eyelids.  This was evident.  Robert thought her a miracle of beauty.  She was in colour like days he had noted thoughtfully:  days with purple storm, and with golden horizon edges.  She had on a bonnet of black velvet, with a delicate array of white lace, that was not suffered to disturb the contrast to her warm yellow hair.  Her little gloved hands were both holding the book; at times she perused it, or, the oppression becoming unendurable, turned her gaze toward the corner of the chancel, and thence once more to her book.  Robert rejected all idea of his being in any way the cause of her strange perturbation.  He cast a glance at his friend.  He had begun to nourish a slight suspicion; but it was too slight to bear up against Percy’s self-possession; for, as he understood the story, Percy had been the sufferer, and the lady had escaped without a wound.  How, then, if such were the case, would she be showing emotion thus deep, while he stood before her with perfect self-command?