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pter 1 Shewing How Wrath Began
When Louis Trevelyan was twenty
If the infliction of pain an
when she was alone, and when she had read her niece’s three letters again and again
d, Livy.’
‘It seems to me as if I’d known him for ever. That soft, monotonous voice, which never became excited and never disagreeable, is as familiar to me as though I had lived with it all my life.’
‘I thought him very pleasant.’
‘Indeed, you did, Carry. And he thought you pleasant too. Doesn’t it seem odd? You were mending his glove for him this very afternoon, just as if he were your brother.’
‘Why shouldn’t I mend his glove?’
‘Why not, indeed? He w
en her aunt’s command. What right had her aunt to give any command upon the matter? Then crossed Dorothy’s mind, as she thought of this, a glimmering of an idea that no one can be entitled to issue commands who cannot enforce obedience. If Brooke and she chose to become man and wife by mutual co
e paused a moment, as though she might have a word to say. She had no word to say, and did not
ed by the occurrences of the last few months, but Nature and tender reminiscences still held him by some fibres of the heart — in a moment of natural indignation he had applied the touchstone, but its success grieved him. He could not bear to go on exposing his father; so he left the room with a deep sigh, in which pity mingled with shame and regret. He wandered out into the silent night, and soon was leaning on the gate of Albion Villa, gazing wistfully at the windows, and sore perplexed and nobly wretched.
As he was going out, Mr. Hardie raised his eyebrows with a look of disinterested wonder and curiosity; and touched his forehead to Jane, as much as to say, “Is he disordered in his mind?”
As soon as they were alone, he asked her coolly what Alfred meant. She said she had no idea. Then h
edites the cure. Now off we go to th’ other.”
“The body’s memory!” said Mr. Osmond to himself: “what on earth d
of a voice at such a time. And indeed both the lovers’ faces were a pretty sight and a study. How they stole loving glances, but tried to keep within bounds, and not steal more than three per minute! and how unconscious they endeavoured to look the intervening seconds! and what windows were the demure complacent visages they thought they were making shutters of! Innocent love has at least this advantage over melodramatic, that it can extract exquisite sweetness out of so small a thing. These sweethearts were not alone, could not open their hearts, must not even gaze too long; yet to be in the same room even on su
yet”
“Possibly. I really don’t know what you allude to.”
The son fixed his eyes on the father, and leaned across the table to him, till their faces nearly met.
t this; but at last they were conquered, and the name was written.
‘I have shewn your letter to my aunt, as I am sure you will think was best. I should have answered it before, only that I thought that she was not quite well enough to talk about it. She says, as I was sure she would, that what you propose is quite out of the question. I am aware that I am bound to obey her; and as I think that you also ought to do so, I shall think no more of what you have said to me and have written. It is quite impossible now, even if it might have been possible under other circumstances. I shall always remember your great kindness to me. Perhaps I ought to say that I am very grateful for the compliment you have paid me. I shall think of you always till I die.
Believe me to be,
Your very sincere friend,
DOROTHY STANBURY.’
The next day Miss Stanbury again came out of her room, and on the third day she was manifestly becoming stronger. Dorothy had as yet not spoken of her letter, but was prepared to do so as soon as she thought that a fitting opportunity had come. She had a word or two to say for herself; but she must not again subject herself to being told that she was taking her will of her aunt because her aunt was too ill to defend herself. But on the third day Miss Stanbury herself asked the question. ‘Have you written anything to Brooke?’ she asked.
‘I have answered his letter, Aunt Stanbury.’
‘And what have you said to him?’
‘I have told him that you disapproved of it, and that nothing more must be said about it.’
‘Yes of course you made me out to be an ogre.’
ive. ‘It is a great mistake,’ he said, ‘to think that anybody is either an angel or a devil.’ When Dorothy expressed an opinion that with some people angelic tendencies were predominant, and with others diabolic tendencies, he assented; but declared that it was not always easy to tell the one tendency from the other. At last, when Dorothy had made about five attempts to go, Mr Gibson’s name was mentioned. ‘I am very glad that you are not going to be Mrs Gibson,’ said he.
‘I don’t know why you should be glad.’
‘Because I should not have liked your husband — not as your husband.’
‘He is an excellent man, I’m sure,’ said Dorothy.
‘Nevertheless I am very glad. But I did not think you would accept him, and I congratulate you on your escape. You would have been nothing to me as Mrs Gibson.’
t dear companion of his perils so precious to him as now. One might almost fancy that, by some strange sympathy, he felt the immediate happiness of his daughter depended on it. Many in my day believe that human minds can thus communicate, overleaping material distances. Not knowing, I can’t say. However, no such solution is really needed here. All the members of a united and loving family feel together and work together — without specific concert — though hemispheres lie between: it is one of the beautiful traits of true family affection. Now the Dodds, father, mother, sister, brother, were more one st of his life, and half of his front teeth were battered out of their sockets, but he fell, not from the brain being stunned, but the body driven to earth by the mere physical force of so momentous a blow, knocked down like a ninepin. He now sat up bewildered, and found himself in a pool of blood, his own. He had little sensation of pain, but he put his hand to his face, and found scarce a trace of his features, and his hand came away gory. He groaned.
Rising to his feet, he saw Dodd sitting at some distance; his first impulse was to fly from so terrible an antagonist, but, as he made for the ravine, he observed that Dodd was in a helpless condition, wounded perhaps by Moinard. And where was Moinard?
Nothing visible of him but his knife: that lay glittering in the road.
Thibout with anxious eye turned towards Dodd, kneeled to pick it up, and in the act a drop of his own blood fell on the dust beside it. He snarled like a wounded tiger, spat out half-a-dozen teeth, and crept on tiptoe to his safe revenge.
Awake from your lethargy or you are a dead man!
No! Thibout got to him unperceived, and the knife glittered over his head.
At this moment the air seemed to fill with clattering hoofs and voices, and
“Worse than that — worse!” groaned Maxhey, trembling all over. “Hush! — hold your tongue! Give me that letter! Don’t you never tell nobody nothing of what you have been a reading to me, and I’ll — I’ll — It’s only Jem’s fun: he is allus running his rigs — that’s a good wench now, and I’ll give ye a halfpenny.”
“La, Daddy,” said the child, opening her eyes, “I never heeds what I re-ads: I be wrapped up in the spelling. Dear heart, what a sight of long words folks puts in a letter, more than ever drops out of their mouths; which their fingers be longer than their tongues, I do suppose.”
Maxley hailed thus information characteristically. “Then we’ll say no more about the halfpenny.”
At this, Rose raised a lamentable cry, and pearly tears gushed forth.
“There, there!” said Maxley, deprecatingly; “here’s two apples for ye; ye can’t get them for less: and a halfpenny or a haporth is all one to you, but it is a great odds to me. And apples they rot; halfpence don’t.”
It was now nine o’clock. The bank did not open till ten; but Maxley went and hung about the door, to be the first applicant.
As he stood there trembling with fear lest the bank should not open at all, he thought hard, and the result was a double resolution: he would have his money out to the last shilling; and, this done, would button up his pockets and padlock his tongue. It was not his business to take care of his neighbours; nor to blow the Hardies, if they paid him his money on demand. “So not a word to my missus, nor yet to the town-crier,” said he.
Ten o’clock struck, and the bank shutters remained up. Five minutes more, and the watcher was in agony. Three minutes more, and up came a boy of sixteen whistling, and took down the shutters with an indifference that amazed him. “Bless your handsome face!” said Maxley with a sigh of relief.
He now summoned up all his firmness, and, having recourse to an art in which these shrewd rustics are supreme, made his face quite inexpressive, and so walked into the bank the every-day Maxley externally, but within a volcano ready to burst if there should be the slightest hesitation to pay him his money.
“Good morning, Mr. Maxley,” said young Skinner.
“Good morning, sir.”
“What can we do for you?”
“Oh, I’ll wait my turn, sir.”
“Well, it is your turn now, if you like.”
‘I don’t feel spiteful against her, poor woman. I own I do not love Camilla. Not that I begrudge Camilla her present prosperity.’
‘Nor I either, Mr Burgess.’
‘She and Mr Gibson will do very well together, I dare say.’
‘I hope they will,’ said Dorothy, ‘and I do not see any reason against it. They have known each other a long time.’
‘A very long time,’ said Brooke. Then he paused for a minute, thinking how he might best tell her that which he had now resolved should be told on this occasion. Dorothy finished her tea and got up as though she were about to go to her duty upstairs. She had been as yet hardly an hour in the room, and the period of her relief was not fairly over. But there had come something of a personal flavour in their conversation which prompted her, unconsciously, to leave him. She had, without any special indication of herself, included herself among that company of old maids who are born and live and die without that vital interest in the affairs of life which nothing but family duties, the care of children, or at least of a husband, will give to a woman. If she had not meant this she had felt it. He had understood her meaning, or at least her feeling, and had taken upon himself to assure her that she was not one of the company whose privations she had endeavoured to describe. Her instinct rather than her reason put her at once upon her guard, and she prepared to leave the room. ‘You are not going yet,’ he said.
‘I think I might as well. Martha has so much to do, and she comes to me again at five in the morning.’
‘Don’t go quite yet,’ he said, pulling out his watch. ‘I know all about the hours, and it wants twenty minutes to the proper time.’
‘There is no proper time, Mr Burgess.’
‘Then you can remain a few minutes longer. The fact is, I’ve got something I want to say to you.’
He was now standing between her and the door, so that she could not get away from him; but at this moment she was absolutely ignorant of his purpose, expecting nothing of love from him more than she would from Sir Peter Mancrudy. Her face had become flushed when she mad
enough, and loving enough to make straight for her her paths, to bear for her her burdens, to be the father of her children, the staff on which she might lean, and the wall against which she might grow, feeling the sunshine, and sheltered from the wind. She had ever estimated her own value so lowly as to have told herself often that such success could never come in her way. From her earliest years she had regarded herself as outside the pale within which such joys are to be found. She had so strictly taught herself to look forward to a blank existence, that she had learned to do so without active misery. But not the less did she know where happiness lay; and when the good thing came almost within her reach, when it seemed that God had given her gifts which might have sufficed, when a man had sought her hand whose nature was such that she could have leaned on him with a true worship, could have grown against him as against a wall with perfect confidence, could have lain with her head upon his bosom, and have felt that of all spots that in the world was the most fitting for her when this was all but grasped, and must yet be abandoned, there came upon her spirit an agony so bitter that she had not before known how great might be the depth of human disappointment. But the letter was at last written, and when finished was as follows:
‘The Close, Exeter, March 1, 186-.
DEAR BROOKE.’
There had been many doubts about this; but at last they were conquered, and the name was written.
‘I have shewn your letter to my aunt, as I am sure you will think was best. I should have answered it before, only that I thought that she was not quite well enough to talk about it. She says, as I was sure she would, that what you propose is quite out of the question. I am aware that I am bound to obey her; and as I think that you also ought to do so, I shall think no more of what you have said to me and have written. It is quite impossible now, even if it might have been possible under other circumstances. I shall always remember your great kindness to me. Perhaps I ought to say that I am very grateful for the compliment you have paid me. I shall think of you always till I die.
Believe me to be,
Your very sincere friend,
DOROTHY STANBURY.’
The next day Miss Stanbury again came out of her room, and on the third day she was manifestly becoming stronger. Dorothy had as yet not spoken of her letter, but was prepared to do so as soon as she thought that a fitting opportunity had come. She had a word or two to say for herself; but she must not again subject herself to being told that she was taking her will of her aunt because her aunt was too ill to defend herself. But on the third day Miss Stanbury herself asked the question. ‘Have you written anything to Brooke?’ she asked.
‘I have answered his letter, Aunt Stanbury.’
‘And what have you said to him?’
‘I have told him that you disapproved of it, and that nothing more must be said about it.’
wered as soon as her aunt should be well as to the possibility of her remaining in the Close subject to such injustice; but let her aunt say what she might, or do what she might, Dorothy could not leave her for the present. Miss Stanbury sat for a considerable time quite motionless, with her eyes closed, and did not stir or make signs of life till Dorothy touched her arm, asking her whether she would not take some broth which had been prepared for her. ‘Where’s Martha? Why does not Martha come?’ said Miss Stanbury. This was a hard blow, and from that moment Dorothy believed that it would be expedient that she should return to Nuncombe Putney. The broth, however, was taken, while Dorothy sat by in silence. Only one word further was said that evening by Miss Stanbury about Brooke and his love-affair. ‘There must be nothing more about this, Doroth
Had Mr Outhouse been an incumbent at the West-end of London, or had his maid been a West-end servant, in all probability the gentleman’s name would have been demanded; but Mr Outhouse was a man who was not very ready in foreseeing and preventing misfortunes, and the girl who opened the door was not trained to discreet usages in such matters. As she announced the fact that there was a gentleman, she pointed to the door, to show that the gentleman was there; and
ts. Her aunt had seemed to be not quite so well, or had declared herself to be tired, or had been a little cross or else Martha had come in at the nick of time. But there was Brooke Burgess’s letter unanswered, a letter that was read night and morning, and which was never for an instant out of her mind. He had demanded a reply, and he had a right at least to that. The letter had been with her for four entire days before she had ventured to speak to her aunt on the subject.
On the first of March Miss Stanbury came out of her bed-room for the first time. Dorothy, on the previous day, had decided on postponing her communication for this occasion; but, when she found herself sitting in the little sitting-room up stairs close at her aunt’s elbow, and perceived the signs of weakness which the new move had made conspicuous, and heard the invalid declare that the little journey had been almost too much for her, her heart misgave her. She ought to have told her tale while her aunt was still in bed. But presently there came a question, which put her into such a flutter that she was for the time devoid of all resolution. ‘Has Brooke written?’ said Miss Stanbury.
‘Yes aunt; he has written.’
‘Yes, you did.’
‘I said that nothing was going on, when Mr Gibson was —. If you choose to suspect me, Aunt Stanbury, I’ll go away. I won’t stay here if you suspect me. When Brooke spoke to me, I told him you wouldn’t like it.’
‘Of course I don’t like it.’ But she gave no reason why she did not like it.
‘And there was nothing more till this letter came. I couldn’t help his writing to me. It wasn’t my fault.’
‘Psha!’
‘If you are angry, I am very sor
be answered as soon as her aunt should be well as to the possibility of her remaining in the Close subject to such injustice; but let her aunt say what she might, or do what she might, Dorothy could not leave her for the present. Miss Stanbury sat for a considerable time quite motionless, with her eyes closed, and did not stir or make signs of life till Dorothy touched her arm, asking her whether she would not take some broth which had been prepared for her. ‘Where’s Martha? Why does not Martha come?’ said Miss Stanbury. This was a hard blow, and from that moment Dorothy believed that it would be expedient that she should return to Nuncombe Putney. The broth, however, was taken, while Dorothy sat by in silence. Only one word further was said that evening by Miss Stanbury about Brooke and his love-affair. ‘There must be nothing more about this, Dorothy; remember that; nothing at all. I won’t have it.’ Dorothy made no reply. Brooke’s letter was in her pocket, and it should be answered that night. On the following day she would let her aunt know what she had said to Brooke. Her aunt should not see the letter, but should be made acquainted with its purport in reference to Brooke’s proposal of marriage.
‘I won’t have it!’ That had been her aunt’s command. What right had her aunt to give any command upon the matter? Then crossed Dorothy’s mind, as she thought of this, a glimmering of an idea that no one can be entitled to issue commands who cannot enforce obedience. If Brooke and she chose to become man and wife by mutual consent, how could her aunt prohibit the marriage? Then there followed another idea, that commands are enforced by the threatening and, if necessary, by the enforcement of penalties. Her aunt had within her hand no penalty of which Dorothy was afraid on her own behalf; but she had the power of inflicting a terrible punishment on Brooke Burgess. Now Dorothy conceived that she herself would be the meanest creature alive if she were actuated by fears as to money in her acceptance or rejection of a man whom she loved as she did Brooke Burgess. Brooke had an income of his own which seemed to her to be ample for all purposes. But that which would have been sordid in her, did not seem to her to have any stain of sordidness for him. He was a man, and was bound to be rich if he could. And, moreover, what had she to offer in herself, such a poor thing as was she, to make compensation to him for the loss of fortune? Her aunt could inflict this penalty, and therefore the power was hers, and the power must be obeyed. She would write to Brooke in a manner that should convey to him her firm decision.
But not the less on that account would she let her aunt know that she thought herself to have been ill-used. It was an insult to her, a most ill-natured insult that telling her that Brooke had been a fool for loving her. And then that accusation against her of having been false, of having given one reason for refusing Mr Gibson, while there was another reason in her heart, of having been cunning and then untrue, was not to be endured. What would her aunt think of her if she were to bear such allegations without indignant protest? She would write her letter, and speak her mind to her aunt as soon as her aunt should be well enough to hear it.
As she had resolved, she wrote her letter that night before she went to bed. She wrote it with floods of tears, and a bitterness of heart which almost conquered her. She too had heard of love, and had been taught to feel that the success or failure of a woman’s life depended upon that whether she did, or whether she did not, by such gifts as God might have given to her, attract to herself some man strong enough, and good enough, and loving enough to make straight for her her paths, to bear for her her burdens, to be the father of her children, the staff on which she might lean, and the wall against which she might grow, feeling the sunshine, and sheltered from the wind. She had ever estimated her own value so lowly as to have told herself often that such success could never come in her way. From her earliest years she had regarded herself as outside the pale within which such joys are to be found. She had so strictly taught herself to look forward to a blank existence, that she had learned to do so without active misery. But not the less did she know where happiness lay; and when the good thing came almost within her reach, when it seemed that God had given her gifts which might have sufficed, when a man had sought her hand whose nature was such that she could have leaned on him with a true worship, could have grown against him as against a wall with perfect confidence, could have lain with her head upon his bosom, and have felt that of all spots that in the world was the most fitting for her when this was all but grasped, and must yet be abandoned, there came upon her spirit an agony so bitter that she had not before known how great might be the depth of human disappointment. But the letter was at last written, and when finished was as follows:
‘The Close, Exeter, March 1, 186-.
DEAR BROOKE.’
There had been many doubts about this; but at last they were conquered, and the name was written.
‘I have shewn your letter to my aunt, as I am sure you will think was best. I should have answered it before, only that I thought that she was not quite well enough to talk about it. She says, as I was sure she would, that what you propose is quite out of the question. I am aware that I am bound to obey her; and as I think that you also ought to do so, I shall think no more of what you have said to me and have written. It is quite impossible now, even if it might have been possible under other circumstances. I shall always remember your great kindness to me. Perhaps I ought to say that I am very grateful for the compliment you have paid me. I shall think of you always till I die.
Believe me to be,
Your very sincere friend,
DOROTHY STANBURY.’
The next day Miss Stanbury again came out of her room, and on the third day she was manifestly becoming stronger. Dorothy had as yet not spoken of her letter, but was prepared to do so as soon as she thought that a fitting opportunity had come. She had a word or two to say for herself; but she must not again subject herself to being told that she was taking her will of her aunt because her aunt was too ill to defend herself. But on the third day Miss Stanbury herself asked the question. ‘Have you written anything to Brooke?’ she asked.
‘I have answered his letter, Aunt Stanbury.’
‘And what have you said to him?’
‘I have told him that you disapproved of it, and that nothing more must be said about it.’
‘Yes of course you made me out to be an ogre.’
inted.’
‘I shall never see C. G. again, I suppose. I should like to see him again. I guess you would too, Carry. Eh?’
‘Of course, I should why not?’
‘I never knew a man so imperturbable, and who had yet so much to say for himself. I wonder what he is! Perhaps he’s on business, and that man was a kind of a clerk.’
‘He had livery buttons on,’ said Carry.
‘And does that make a difference?’
‘I don’t think they put clerks into livery, even in England.’
‘Nor yet mad doctors,’ said Olivia. ‘Well, I like him very much; and the only thing against him is that he should have a man, six feet high, going about with him doing nothing.’
‘You’ll make me angry, Livy, if you talk in that way. It’s uncharitable.’
‘In what way?’
‘About a mad doctor.’
‘It’s my belief,’ said Olivia, ‘that he’s an English swell, a lord, or a duke and it’s my belief, too, that he’s in love with you.’
‘It’s my belief, Livy, that you’re a regular ass;’ and so the conversation was ended on that occasion.
On the next day, about noon, the American Minister, as a part of the duty which he owed to his country, read in a publication of that day, issued for the purpose, the names of the new arrivals at Florence. First and foremost was that of the Honourable Charles Glascock, with his suite, at the York Hotel, en route to join his father, Lord Peterborough, at Naples. Having read the news first to himself, the minister read it out loud in the presence of his nieces.
‘That’s our friend C. G.,’ said Livy.
‘I should think not,’ said the minister, who had his own ideas about an English lord.
‘I’m sure it is, because of the tall man with the buttons,’ said Olivia.
‘It’s very unlikely,’ said the secretary of legation. ‘Lord Peterborough is a man of immense wealth, very old, indeed. They say he is dying at Naples. This man is his eldest son.’
‘Is that any reason why he shouldn’t have been civil to us?’ asked Olivia.
‘I don’t think he is the sort of man likely to sit up in the banquette; and he would have posted over the Alps. Moreover, he had his suite with him.’
‘His suite was Buttons,’ said Olivia. ‘Only fancy, Carry, we’ve been waited on for two days by a lord as is to be, and didn’t know it! And you have mended the tips of his lordship’s glove!’ But Carry said nothing at all.
Late on that same evening, they met Mr Glascock close to the Duomo, under the shade of the Campanile. He had come out as they had done, to see by moonlight that loveliest of all works made by man’s hands. They were with the minister, but Mr Glascock came up and shook hands with them.
‘I would introduce you to my uncle, Mr Spalding,’ said Olivia ‘only as it happens we have never yet heard your name.’
‘My name is Mr Glascock,’ said he, smiling. Then the introduction was made; and the American Minister took off his hat, and was very affable.
‘Only think, Carry,’ said Olivia, when they were alone that evening, ‘if you were to become the wife of an English lord!’
Chapter 41 Shewing what Took Place at St Diddulph’s
Nora Rowley, when she escaped from the violence of her lover, at once rushed up to her own room, and managed to fasten herself in before she had been seen by any one. Her eider sister had at once gone to her aunt when, at Hugh’s request, she had left the room, thinking it right that Mrs Outhouse should know what was being done in her own house. Mrs Outhouse had considered the matter patiently for a while, giving the lovers the benefit of her hesitation, and had then spoken her mind to Stanbury, as we have already heard. He had, upon the whole, been so well pleased with what had occurred, that he was not in the least angry with the parson’s wife when he left the parsonage. As soon as he was gone Mrs Outhouse was at once joined by her elder niece, but Nora remained for a while alone in her room.
Had she committed herself; and if so, did she regret it? He had behaved very badly to her, certainly, taking her by the hand and putting his arm round her waist. And then had he not even attempted to kiss her? He had done all this, although she had been resolute in refusing to speak to him one word of kindness though she had told him with all the energy and certainty of which she was mistress, that she would never be his wife. If a girl were to be subjected to such treatment as this when she herself had been so firm, so discreet, so decided, then indeed it would be unfit that a girl should trust herself with a man. She had never thought that he had been such a one as that, to ill-use her, to lay a hand on her in violence, to refuse to take an answer. She threw herself on the bed and sobbed, and then hid her face and was conscious that in spite of this acting before herself she was the happiest girl alive. He had behaved very badly of course, he had behaved most wickedly, and she would tell him so some day. But was he not the dearest fellow living? Did ever man speak with more absolute conviction of love in every tone of his voice? Was it not the finest, noblest heart that ever throbbed beneath a waistcoat? Had not his very wickedness come from the overpowering truth of his affection for her? She would never quite forgive him because it had been so very wrong; but she would be true to him for ever and ever. Of course they could not marry. What! would she go to him and be a clog round his neck, and a weight upon him for ever, bringing him down to the gutter by the burden of her own useless and unworthy self? No. She would never so injure him. She would not even hamper him by an engagement. But yet she would be true to him. She had an idea that in spite of all her protestations which, as she looked back upon them, appeared to her to have been louder than they had been, that through the teeth of her denials, something of the truth had escaped from her. Well let it be so. It was the truth, and why should he not know it? Then she pictured to herself a long romance, in which the heroine lived happily on the simple knowledge that she had been beloved. And the reader may be sure that in this romance Mr Glascock with his splendid prospects filled one of the characters.
She had been so wretched at Nuncombe Putney when she had felt herself constrained to admit to herself that this man for whom she had sacrificed herself did not care for her, that she could not now but enjoy her triumph. After she had sobbed upon the bed, she got up and walked about the room smiling; and she would now press her hands to her forehead, and then shake her tresses, and then clasp her own left hand with her right, as though he were still holding it. Wicked man! Why had he been so wicked and so violent? And why, why, why had she not once felt his lips upon her brow?
And she was pleased with herself. Her sister had rebuked her because she had refused to make her fortune by marrying Mr Glascock; and, to own the truth, she had rebuked herself on the same score when she found that Hugh Stanbury had not had a word of love to say to her. It was not that she regretted the grandeur which she had lost, but that she should, even within her own thoughts, with the consciousness of her own bosom, have declared herself unable to receive another man’s devotion because of her love for this man who neglected her. Now she was proud of herself. Whether it might be accounted as good or ill-fortune that she had ever seen Hugh Stanbury, it must at any rate be right that she should be true to him now that she had seen him, and had loved him. To know that she loved and that she was not loved again had nearly killed her. But such was not her lot. She too had been successful with her quarry, and had struck her game, and brought down her dear. He had been very violent with her, but his violence had at least made the matter clear. He did love her. She would be satisfied with that, and would endeavour so to live that that alone should make life happy for her. How should she get his photograph and a lock of his hair? and when again might she have the pleasure of placing her own hand within his great, rough, violent grasp? Then she kissed the hand which he had held, and opened the door of her room, at which her sister was now knocking.
‘Nora, dear, will you not come down?’
‘Not yet, Emily. Very soon I will.’
‘And what has happened, dearest?’
‘There is nothing to tell, Emily.’
, bpleasant at least to a pair at a time. At a few minutes before twelve they were all gone, and then came the shock.
‘Dolly, my dear, what do you think of Mr Gibson?’
d misery is, as I believe, the worst form of crime, this retention of
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