is impossible! it shall never be! At the thinking of
it only, my hand trembles and my heart sinks. I bless the trembling
that unnerves me! I bless the sinking that turns me faint! I bless those
words in the letter which have revived the relenting thoughts that first
came to me two days since! Is it hard, now that events are taking me,
smoothly and safely, nearer and nearer to the End--is it hard to conquer
the temptation to go on? No! If there is only a chance of harm coming
to Midwinter, the dread of that chance is enough to decide me--enough
to strengthen me to conquer the temptation, for his sake. I have never
loved him yet, never, never, never as I love him now!"

"Sunday, August 10th.--The eve of my wedding-day! I close and lock this
book, never to write in it, never to open it again.

"I have won the great victory; I have trampled my own wickedness under
foot. I am innocent; I am happy again. My love! my angel! when to-morrow
gives me to you, I will not have a thought in my heart which is not
_your_ thought, as well as mine!"

XV. THE WEDDING-DAY.

The time was nine o'clock in the morning. The place was a private room
in one of the old-fashioned inns which still remain on the Borough side
of the Thames. The date was Monday, the 11th of August. And the person
was Mr. Bashwood, who had traveled to London on a summons from his son,
and had taken up his abode at the inn on the previous day.

He had never yet looked so pitiably old and helpless as he looked now.
The fever and chill of alternating hope and despair had dried, and
withered, and wasted him. The angles of his figure had sharpened. The
outline of his face had shrunk. His dress pointed the melancholy change
in him with a merciless and shocking emphasis. Never, even in his youth,
had he worn such clothes as he wore now. With the desperate resolution
to leave no chance untried of producing an impression on Miss Gwilt,
he had cast aside his dreary black garments; he had even mustered the
courage to wear his blue satin cravat. His coat was a riding-coat of
light gray. He had ordered it, with a vindictive subtlety of purpose,
to be made on the pattern of a coat that he had seen Allan wear. His
waistcoat was white; his trousers were of the gayest summer pattern, in
the largest check. His wig was oiled and scented, and brushed round, on
either side, to hide the wrinkles on his temples. He was an object to
laugh at; he was an object to weep over. His enem