Duringthe
prayers
,
Sir
Thomas
stands
bolt
upright
,
with
one
bent
knee
resting
on
his
chair
;
his
bristling
grey
head
,
shaggy
brows
,
and
fierce
spectacles
looming
above
the
red
curtain
,
to
the
admiration
and
terror
of
the
row
of
little
charity
girls
beneath
.
Constance
kneels
forward
on
a
hassock
,
with
a
large
,
ivory
prayer
book
,
gold-crossed
,
red-edged
,
in
one
hand
,
and
a
turquoise
and
gold-topped
double
scent-bottle
and
cobweb
cambric
handkerchief
in
the
other
.
She
confesses
in
confidence
to
her
pale
lavender
gloves
that
shehas
done
that
which
she
ought
not
to
have
done
,
and
has
left
undone
that
which
she
ought
to
have
done
;
making
graceful
little
salaams
and
undulations
of
head
and
body
every
two
minutes
.
Miladi
confesses
that
she
has
gone
to
sleep
.
St.
John
makes
no
pretence
of
kneeling
at
all
:
he
leans
,
elbow
on
knee
and
head
on
hand
,
and
looks
broken-hearted
,
as
men
have
a
way
of
doing
in
church
.
In
the
afternoon
,
no
one
at
Felton
thinks
of
attending
Divine
service
.
It
is
a
fiat
of
Sir
Thomas
's
that
no
carriage
,
horses
,
or
servants
are
to
be
taken
out
more
than
once
a
day
,
and
the
two
miles
'
walk
is
an
insuperable
impediment
to
Lady
Gerard
,
and
hardly
less
so
to
Constance
.
After
luncheon
the
three
ladies
are
sitting
in
the
garden
,
with
the
prospect
of
four
unbroken
hours
of
each
other
's
companionship
before
them
.
Masses
of
calceolarias
,
geraniums
,
lobelias
,
are
flaring
and
flaunting
around
them
—
masses
in
which
the
perverted
eye
of
modern
horticulture
sees
its
ideal
of
beauty
.
Nature
,
in
her
gardening
,
never
plants
great
,
gaudy
squares
and
ovals
and
rounds
of
red
and
blue
and
yellow
,
without
many
shades
of
tenderest
grey
and
green
to
soften
and
relieve
them
.
Across
the
grass
St.
John
comes
lounging
;
his
Sunday
frock
coat
sitting
creaseless
to
his
spare
,
sinewy
figure
.
Esther
hates
the
sight
of
that
coat
:
it
reminds
her
so
painfully
,
by
its
very
unlikeness
,
of
the
singular
garment
that
forms
the
head
and
crown
of
her
betrothed
's
scant
wardrobe
.
"
Do
you
know
,
I
have
half
a
mind
to
go
to
Radley
church
this
afternoon
.
Will
any
one
come
with
me
?
—
will
you
,
Conny
?
"
turning
,
mindful
of
last
night
,
with
a
conciliatory
smile
to
Miss
Blessington
.
"
How
far
is
it
?
"
she
asks
,
indolently
,
divided
between
her
hatred
of
walking
and
her
desire
to
frustrate
the
téte-à-
téte
she
sees
impending
between
St.
John
and
Esther
.
"
Three
or
four
miles
;
four
,
I
suppose
.
"
She
lifts
her
large
blue
eyes
languidly
,
"
Four
miles
there
,
and
four
miles
back
!
Are
you
mad
,
St.
John
?
What
do
you
suppose
one
is
made
of
?
"
Will
you
take
pity
on
me
then
,
Miss
Craven
?
"
turning
eagerly
to
Esther
.
She
tilts
her
hat
low
down
over
her
little
,
straight
,
Greek
nose
,
looks
up
at
him
with
shy
coquetry
under
the
brim
,
but
answers
not
.
"
A
man
who
delights
in
solitude
must
be
either
a
wild
beast
or
a
god
,
do
n't
you
know
?
I
have
no
pretence
to
be
either
:
I
hate
my
own
society
cordially
.
Come
"
(
with
a
persuasive
ring
in
his
pleasant
voice
)
;
"
you
had
much
better
.
"
"
Do
n't
be
so
absurd
,
St.
John
!
"
cries
Miss
Blessington
,
pettishly
.
"
Miss
Craven
would
far
rather
be
left
in
peace
.
"
"
Would
you
?
"
(
appealing
to
her
.
)
"
No
—
o
;
that
is
—
I
mean
—
I
think
I
should
like
the
walk
,
if
I
may
.
May
I
,
Lady
Gerard
?
do
you
mind
?
"
(
turning
sweet
red
cheeks
and
quick
eyes
towards
her
hostess
.
)
"
I
,
my
dear
!
Why
should
I
mind
?
"
responds
Miladi
,
leaning
back
and
fanning
herself
with
a
large
fan
(
I
believe
that
fat
women
often
suffer
a
foretaste
of
the
torments
of
the
damned
in
the
matter
of
heat
)
—
"
so
as
you
do
n't
ask
me
to
go
with
you
(
with
a
fat
smile
)
.
And
,
St.
John
,
be
sure
that
you
are
back
in
time
for
dinner
,
there
's
a
good
boy
!
You
know
what
a
fuss
Sir
Thomas
is
always
in
on
Sunday
evening
?
"
"
I
know
that
Sir
Thomas
is
digging
his
grave
with
his
teeth
as
fast
as
he
can
,
"
answers
St.
John
,
disrespectfully
.
"
Shall
not
we
be
rather
late
for
church
if
we
have
four
miles
to
go
?
"
asks
Esther
,
as
she
steps
out
briskly
beside
her
companion
,
while
heart
and
conscience
keep
up
a
quarrelsome
dialogue
within
her
.
"
It
is
not
four
miles
;
it
is
only
three
.
"
"
You
told
Miss
Blessington
four
?
"
"
So
I
did
;
but
I
drew
for
the
extra
mile
upon
the
rich
stores
of
my
imagination
.
"
"
Why
did
you
?
"
she
asks
,
turning
a
wondering
rosy
face
set
in
the
frame
of
a
minute
white
bonnet
towards
him
.
"
Did
you
ever
hear
of
the
invitations
that
the
Chinese
give
one
another
?
"
he
asks
,
laughing
,
and
switching
off
a
fern-head
with
a
baby
umbrella
—
"
which
,
however
pressing
they
may
be
,
are
always
expected
by
the
giver
to
be
declined
.
My
invitation
to
Conny
was
a
Chinese
one
:
I
was
not
quite
sure
that
she
would
understand
it
as
such
,
and
I
was
so
afraid
that
she
would
yield
to
my
importunities
,
that
I
had
to
embroider
a
little
in
the
matter
of
distance
;
do
you
see
?
"
There
has
been
rain
in
the
morning
;
now
the
clouds
have
rent
themselves
asunder
,
and
broken
up
into
great
glistering
rocks
,
peaks
,
and
spires
,
such
as
no
fuller
on
earth
could
white
:
"
Blue
isles
of
heaven
laugh
between
.
"
The
breeze
comes
more
freshly
over
the
wet
grasses
and
flowers
,
and
blows
in
little
fickle
puffs
against
St.
John
's
bronzed
cheeks
and
Esther
's
carnation
ones
.
The
girl
's
heart
is
pulsing
with
a
keen
,
sharp
joy
;
all
the
keener
,
as
the
heaven
's
blue
is
deeper
for
the
clouds
that
hover
about
it
.
"
I
shall
have
him
all
to
myself
for
three
hours
,
"
she
is
saying
inwardly
;
"
he
will
speak
to
no
one
but
me
;
he
will
hear
no
one
else
's
voice
(
she
forgets
the
parson
and
the
clerk
)
.
Surely
Bob
may
spare
me
these
three
hours
,
and
just
a
few
more
,
out
of
the
great
long
life
during
which
I
shall
tramp-tramp
at
his
side
!
Three
hours
:
"
Then
let
come
what
come
may
No
matter
if
I
go
mad
,
I
shall
have
had
my
day
.
"
"
Let
me
carry
your
prayer
book
?
"
"
No
,
thanks
;
it
is
not
heavy
"
(
retaining
it
,
mindful
of
a
certain
inscription
in
the
fly-leaf
)
.
"
I
am
like
a
retriever
;
I
like
to
have
something
to
carry
"
(
taking
it
from
her
with
gentle
violence
)
.
"
'
Esther
Craven
from
Robert
Brandon
.
'
Who
is
Robert
Brandon
when
he
is
at
home
?
"
(
speaking
rather
shortly
.
)
Esther
's
heart
leaps
into
her
mouth
.
Shall
she
tell
him
now
,
this
minute
,
without
giving
herself
time
for
second
thoughts
,
which
are
not
by
any
means
always
best
?
Shall
she
lift
off
the
weight
of
compunction
,
anxiety
,
shame
,
that
has
been
pressing
upon
her
for
the
last
fortnight
?
—
let
it
fall
down
,
as
the
dead
albatross
fell
from
the
Ancient
Mariner
's
neck
—
"
Like
lead
into
the
sea
?
"
The
subject
has
introduced
itself
naturally
,
easily
,
without
any
of
the
dragging
in
by
the
head
and
shoulders
of
the
officiously-volunteered
confessions
that
she
had
salved
her
conscience
by
deprecating
.
Shall
she
,
with
strong
,
brave
hand
;
push
away
all
hope
of
the
fine
house
and
the
broad
lands
,
of
the
carriages
and
horses
,
the
roses
and
pine-apples
,
the
down
pillars
and
fragrances
of
life
?
Shall
she
courageously
,
nobly
,
and
yet
in
mere
bare
duty
,
turn
away
from
the
fairy
prince
and
return
to
her
hovel
and
scullionship
?
Shall
she
,
or
shall
she
not
?
"
Who
is
Robert
Brandon
"
repeats
St.
John
,
rather
crossly
.
In
the
second
that
follows
Esther
's
life
destiny
is
settled
.
She
refuses
the
good
and
chooses
the
evil
.
(
"
He
is
the
man
I
am
engaged
to
,
"
that
is
what
she
ought
to
have
said
.
)
"
He
is
in
the
—
th
foot
.
"
This
is
what
she
does
say
,
blushing
till
the
tears
come
into
her
eyes
,
turning
away
her
head
,
and
feeling
stabbed
through
and
through
with
shame
.
"
An
ally
of
yours
?
"
(
quickly
.
)
"
I
have
known
him
all
my
life
,
"
she
answers
,
evasively
.
"
I
thought
he
was
a
very
young
child
,
from
this
specimen
of
his
caligraphy
,
"
remarks
Gerard
,
superciliously
,
examining
Bob
's
sprawly
,
slanty
characters
.
"
He
would
be
none
the
worse
for
a
few
writing
lessons
.
"
Esther
is
a
mean
young
woman
:
she
feels
ashamed
of
her
poor
lover
,
and
his
pothooks
and
hangers
,
and
yet
vexed
with
St.
John
for
sneering
at
them
.
"
It
was
a
fact
worth
inscribing
,
I
must
say
,
"
continues
he
,
ironically
—
"
the
making
of
such
a
very
handsome
present
,
"
holding
the
poor
little
volume
between
his
lavender
kid
finger
and
thumb
,
and
surveying
it
with
a
disparaging
smile
.
"
He
must
have
had
a
great
deal
of
change
out
of
sixpence
,
I
should
think
.
"
"
If
you
have
nothing
better
to
do
than
abuse
my
property
,
"
cries
Esther
,
impulsively
,
snatching
it
out
of
his
hand
,
"
you
may
give
it
me
back
,
"
looking
half
disposed
to
whimper
.
"
I
apologise
,
"
responds
St.
John
,
gravely
.
"
I
did
not
mean
to
offend
you
;
I
give
you
carte
blanche
to
insult
mine
"
(
holding
out
a
very
minute
Russia
leather
one
)
.
"
But
may
I
ask
,
is
Mr.
Robert
Blandon
,
or
Brandon
,
or
what
's
his
name
,
your
godfather
?
"
"
No
;
why
?
"
"
Because
I
never
heard
of
any
one
being
given
a
prayer
book
except
as
a
wedding
present
,
or
by
their
godfathers
and
godmothers
at
their
baptism
.
As
you
are
not
married
,
I
know
it
could
not
have
been
the
first
case
,
and
so
I
concluded
it
must
be
the
last
.
"
"
Robert
is
not
old
enough
to
be
my
godfather
,
"
says
Essie
,
overcoming
by
a
great
effort
the
repugnance
to
pronouncing
the
fateful
name
:
"
he
is
quite
young
;
a
great
deal
younger
than
you
,
"
she
ends
,
rather
spitefully
.
"
He
might
easily
be
that
,
"
replies
St.
John
,
coldly
.
"
Once
,
not
so
very
many
years
ago
,
in
whatever
company
I
was
,
I
always
was
the
youngest
present
;
now
,
on
the
contrary
,
in
whatever
company
I
am
,
I
always
feel
the
eldest
present
.
I
do
n't
suppose
I
always
am
,
but
I
always
feel
as
if
I
were
.
"
"
I
believe
old
people
have
the
best
of
it
,
after
all
,
"
says
Esther
,
recovering
a
little
of
her
equanimity
:
"
they
have
certainly
fewer
troubles
than
young
ones
.
I
should
say
that
Sir
Thomas
was
decidedly
a
happier
man
than
you
are
.
"
"
A
man
's
happiness
is
proportioned
to
the
simplicity
of
his
tastes
,
I
suppose
,
"
answers
St.
John
,
sardonically
.
"
Sir
Thomas
's
happiness
lies
in
a
nutshell
:
he
has
two
ruling
passions
—
eating
and
bullying
;
he
has
a
very
fair
cook
to
satisfy
the
one
,
and
my
mother
always
at
hand
for
the
gratification
of
the
other
.
"
"
We
have
all
our
ruling
passions
,
"
rejoins
Esther
,
with
a
light
laugh
,
"
only
very
often
we
will
not
own
them
.
Mine
is
burnt
almonds
;
what
is
yours
?
"
"
Going
to
church
,
"
he
replies
,
in
the
same
tone
;
"
as
you
may
perceive
by
the
strenuous
efforts
I
have
made
to
get
there
this
afternoon
.
"
Radley
church
stands
on
a
knoll
.
Radley
parishioners
have
to
go
upwards
to
be
buried
—
a
happy
omen
,
it
is
to
be
boped
,
for
the
destination
of
their
souls
.
The
church
has
a
little
grey
tower
,
pretty
,
old
,
and
squat
,
and
a
peal
of
bells
—
these
are
its
claim
to
distinction
—
a
merry
peal
,
as
people
say
;
but
to
me
it
seems
that
in
all
the
gamut
of
sad
sounds
there
is
nothing
sadder
,
sorrowfuller
,
than
bells
chiming
out
sweetly
and
solemnly
across
the
summer
air
.
Rung
in
by
the
grave
music
of
their
invitation
,
St.
John
and
Esther
enter
.
Verger
or
pew-opener
is
there
none
,
so
they
slip
into
the
first
of
the
open
sittings
that
presents
itself
.
The
clergyman
is
young
and
energetic
:
he
has
rooted
up
the
tall
,
worm-eaten
,
oak
pews
—
disfiguring
compromises
between
cattle-pen
and
witness-box
—
has
clothed
several
"
Dear
little
souls
In
nice
white
stoles
,
—
"
and
is
trying
to
teach
himself
intoning
.
He
produces
at
present
only
prolonged
whining
groans
,
but
it
is
a
step
in
the
right
direction
.
Rest
is
good
after
exertion
,
and
so
Essie
thinks
.
The
south
wind
has
been
playing
tricks
with
the
dusk
riches
of
her
hair
.
Nature
has
been
laying
on
her
bistre
under
the
great
liquid
eyes
,
and
emptying
a
whole
potful
of
her
rouge
on
the
rose
velvet
round
of
her
cheeks
.
She
is
not
in
apple-pie
order
at
all
,
and
yet
"
She
was
most
beautiful
to
see
,
Like
a
lady
from
a
far
countree
.
"
If
Esther
were
to
murder
any
one
,
and
her
guilt
were
to
be
brought
home
to
her
as
plainly
as
the
eye
of
day
shines
in
the
sky
at
noon
,
judge
and
jury
would
combine
to
acquit
her
.
"
Blessed
be
God
,
who
has
made
beautiful
women
!
"
says
the
Bedouin
,
and
Gerard
echoes
the
benediction
,
as
he
stands
with
his
big
lavender
thumb
on
one
side
of
the
hymn
book
,
and
her
small
,
lavender
thumb
on
the
other
,
while
the
"
dear
little
souls
"
are
singing
sweetly
and
quickly
:
"
There
God
for
ever
sitteth
,
Himself
of
all
the
Crown
;
The
Lamb
,
the
Light
that
shineth
,
And
goeth
never
down
.
"
Grand
words
,
that
make
one
feel
almost
good
and
almost
happy
merely
to
say
them
!
There
is
only
one
hymn-book
in
the
pew
,
and
St.
John
is
glad
of
it
.
There
is
something
pleasant
in
the
sense
of
union
and
partnership
,
though
it
be
only
a
three
minutes
'
partnership
in
a
dog's-eared
psalter
.
"
Is
not
there
some
different
way
of
going
home
?
"
asks
Essie
,
as
they
stand
side
by
side
,
after
service
,
in
the
high
churchyard
,
looking
down
on
the
straggling
damson
trees
,
the
grey
smoke
spiring
northwards
under
the
south
wind
's
faint
blowing
,
the
dark-blue
green
of
the
turnip
fields
.
"
I
hate
going
back
the
same
way
one
came
;
it
shows
such
a
want
of
invention
!
"
"
There
is
another
way
,
"
answers
St.
John
,
scooping
out
a
little
plump
green
moss
from
a
chink
in
the
wall
with
the
point
of
his
umbrella
,
while
the
parson
and
the
parson
's
sister
,
on
their
homeward
way
,
turn
their
heads
to
look
at
them
—
the
parson
at
Esther
,
the
parson
's
sister
at
St.
John
—
Jack
at
Jill
,
and
Jill
at
Jack
as
is
the
way
of
the
world
;
"
but
it
is
a
good
deal
longer
and
a
great
deal
muddier
than
the
one
we
came
by
.
"
"
I
like
mud
,
"
says
Essie
,
gaily
,
stooping
and
picking
a
daisy
from
a
little
child
's
grave
at
her
feet
;
"
it
is
my
native
element
;
at
home
we
are
up
to
our
knees
in
mud
in
winter
,
and
over
our
ankles
in
summer
.
"
So
they
chose
the
longer
and
the
muddier
way
.
It
is
its
length
that
is
its
recommendation
to
them
both
,
I
think
.
Down
the
village
street
,
past
the
Loggerheads
and
the
Forge
,
and
along
a
long
country
lane
,
paved
unevenly
with
round
stones
after
a
way
our
forefathers
in
some
of
the
northern
counties
had
of
paving
,
in
imperfect
prophetic
vision
of
MacAdam
.
To-day
no
broad
waggon-wheel
groans
,
nor
hoofed
foot
clatters
along
;
only
a
few
cottagers
and
smart-bonneted
servant
girls
trudge
along
to
the
Primirive
Wesleyan
Methodist
Chapel
,
built
A.D.
1789
,
that
stands
in
simple
,
dissenting
ugliness
at
the
hill-foot
,
while
over
its
newly-painted
,
gingerbread-coloured
door
stands
this
modest
announcement
:
"
This
is
the
Gate
of
Heaven
.
"
"
It
strikes
me
,
"
says
St.
John
,
rousing
himself
out
of
a
reverie
which
has
lasted
a
quarter
of
an
hour
—
"
it
strikes
me
as
one
of
the
few
instances
in
which
one
's
experience
tallies
with
what
one
reads
in
novels
,
the
awkward
knack
people
have
of
interrupting
one
at
the
wrong
moment
.
"
"
How
do
you
mean
"
asks
Essie
,
coming
out
of
a
reverie
,
too
.
"
I
never
,
"
pursues
he
,
taking
off
his
hat
,
and
passing
his
hand
over
the
broad
red
mark
it
has
made
on
his
forehead
—
"
I
never
read
aloud
to
any
one
in
my
life
—
I
was
rather
fond
of
reading
poetry
at
one
period
of
my
history
,
I
leave
you
to
guess
which
—
not
that
she
cared
about
it
—
she
did
not
know
Milton
from
Tommy
Moore
;
but
I
never
read
to
her
in
the
course
of
my
life
without
the
footman
coming
in
to
put
coals
on
at
the
most
affecting
passages
—
Arthur
's
parting
from
Guinivere
,
say
,
or
Medora
's
death
—
and
clattering
down
the
tongs
and
shovel
,
making
the
devil
's
own
row
.
"
Esther
laughs
.
"
These
reflections
are
à
propos
of
—
what
?
"
"
Of
Conny
's
most
ill-timed
entry
last
night
,
"
he
answers
,
with
energy
.
"
I
do
n't
suppose
she
makes
such
a
midnight
raid
once
in
five
years
,
and
she
certainly
could
not
have
found
you
and
me
téte-à-téte
at
two
in
the
morning
more
than
once
in
fifty
years
.
Why
could
not
she
leave
us
in
peace
that
once
?
We
did
not
grudge
her
any
amount
of
pleasant
dreams
;
why
need
she
grudge
us
our
pleasant
wakefulness
?
"
"
Do
you
think
she
came
on
purpose
,
then
?
"
asks
Essie
,
her
eyes
opening
as
round
in
alarmed
surprise
as
a
baby
's
when
a
grown-up
person
makes
ugly
faces
at
it
.
He
shrugs
his
shoulders
slightly
.
"
Cannot
say
,
I
'm
sure
.
Conny
is
not
much
in
the
habit
of
burning
the
midnight
oil
in
the
pursuit
of
knowledge
generally
.
If
it
was
accident
,
she
came
in
at
a
wonderfully
à
propos
,
or
rather
mal
à
propos
,
moment
.
Tell
me
,
"
he
says
,
crossing
over
to
her
side
of
the
road
,
and
fixing
frankly-asking
eyes
upon
her
;
"
I
may
be
mistaken
—
it
is
a
misfortune
to
which
I
am
often
incident
—
but
I
could
not
help
thinking
that
,
just
as
that
unlucky
candle
appeared
round
the
corner
last
night
,
you
were
going
to
tell
me
something
—
something
about
yourself
?
I
thought
I
saw
it
in
your
face
.
I
think
I
deserved
some
little
reward
for
raking
up
for
your
behoof
the
ashes
of
that
old
fire
that
I
burnt
my
fingers
at
so
badly
once
.
"
Esther
still
remains
silent
,
but
turns
her
long
neck
from
one
side
to
the
other
with
a
restless
,
uneasy
motion
.
"
Are
lamplight
and
the
small
hours
indispensable
accessories
"
he
asks
,
with
gentle
pleading
in
look
and
words
—
"
or
could
not
you
tell
me
as
well
now
?
"
"
Tell
you
what
"
she
says
,
turning
round
sharp
upon
him
,
and
snapping
,
as
a
little
cross
dog
snaps
at
the
heels
of
the
passer-by
—
"
must
I
invent
something
?
"
"
Are
you
sure
that
it
is
necessary
to
invent
?
"
he
asks
,
scanning
the
fair
,
troubled
face
with
searching
gaze
.
She
pulls
a
bunch
of
nuts
out
of
the
hedge
from
among
their
rough-ribbed
green
leaves
,
and
begins
to
pick
them
out
of
their
sheath
.
"
What
am
I
to
tell
you
?
"
she
says
,
petulantly
,
a
suspicion
that
he
may
have
heard
a
rumour
of
her
engagement
crossing
her
mind
:
"
that
I
live
in
an
old
farm-house
with
my
brother
Jack
,
and
that
we
are
very
hard
up
—
you
know
already
;
that
'
Sudrydachi
'
is
Welsh
for
'
How
do
you
do
'
and
that
our
asparagus
has
answered
very
badly
this
year
?
"
"
Of
course
,
I
cannot
force
your
confidence
,
"
he
answers
,
rather
coldly
.
"
Why
do
you
insist
upon
my
having
something
to
confide
?
What
reason
have
you
for
supposing
that
I
have
?
"
she
cries
,
with
increased
irritation
.
"
None
whatever
,
but
what
you
yourself
have
given
me
!
"
"
I
!
"
"
Yes
,
you
;
not
your
words
,
but
your
face
now
and
then
.
Do
n't
think
me
impertinent
.
You
know
what
unhappy
reason
I
have
had
to
be
suspicious
.
But
tell
me
"
(
trying
his
best
to
get
a
look
round
the
corner
into
the
averted
,
perturbed
face
of
his
companion
)
—
"
tell
me
whether
there
is
not
something
between
you
and
—
and
—
that
fellow
that
gave
you
the
prayer-book
?
"
Esther
's
heart
gives
one
great
bounding
throb
;
the
thin
muslin
of
her
dress
but
poorly
conceals
its
hard
,
quick
pulsings
.
One
more
chance
for
her
!
Fate
generally
gives
us
two
or
three
chances
before
it
allows
us
to
consign
ourselves
irrecoverably
to
the
dogs
.
One
more
choice
between
loyalty
and
disloyalty
—
a
plain
question
,
to
be
answered
plainly
,
unequivocally
—
Yes
or
No
;
Robert
or
St.
John
.
The
man
whose
conversation
bores
her
,
whose
proximity
and
whose
gaze
leave
her
colder
than
snow
on
an
alp
's
high
top
an
hour
before
sunrise
,
and
with
whom
she
has
promised
to
live
till
death
do
them
part
;
or
the
man
,
no
whit
better
or
handsomer
,
whose
coming
,
felt
,
though
unseen
,
makes
her
whole
frame
vibrate
,
as
a
harp
's
strings
vibrate
under
the
player
's
hands
—
beneath
whose
eyes
hers
sink
down
bashful
,
yet
passionate
—
the
man
whom
,
after
this
week
,
she
must
see
never
again
until
death
do
them
unite
.
Woman-like
,
she
tries
to
avoid
the
alternative
.
"
What
is
that
to
you
?
"
she
retorts
,
abruptly
,
endeavouring
to
be
playful
,
and
succeeding
only
in
being
rude
.
"
Nothing
whatever
,
"
he
replies
,
flushing
angrily
;
and
then
they
walk
on
for
some
distance
in
silence
.
"
Are
you
angry
?
"
asks
Esther
,
presently
,
with
a
smile
,
half
saucy
,
half
frightened
.
"
I
?
not
in
the
least
,
"
he
replies
,
with
an
air
of
ostentatious
indifference
,
but
with
a
complexion
undoubtedly
florider
than
nature
made
his
.
"
You
look
excessively
cross
,
and
have
not
uttered
a
word
for
the
last
half
mile
,
"
she
says
,
pouting
out
her
full
red
under-lip
,
and
then
looking
(
a
little
alarmed
at
her
own
audacity
)
to
see
in
what
spirit
he
takes
her
impertinence
.
"
When
I
do
not
get
civil
answers
to
civil
questions
,
I
think
it
best
to
hold
my
tongue
,
"
he
says
,
stalking
along
with
his
head
up
,
and
hitting
viciously
with
his
umbrella
at
the
tall
,
yellow
mulleins
in
the
hedge
.
"
People
's
ideas
differ
as
to
what
are
civil
questions
,
"
says
Essie
,
trying
to
stalk
too
,
and
to
elevate
nose
and
chin
in
emulation
of
his
.
"
Suppose
that
I
had
asked
you
how
many
times
you
had
been
refused
,
would
you
have
answered
me
?
"
"
Undoubtedly
I
should
,
"
he
replies
,
gravely
.
"
How
many
times
have
you
?
"
she
asks
,
coming
down
from
her
elevation
of
offended
dignity
with
a
jump
,
and
looking
up
at
him
with
naïve
,
eager
curiosity
.
"
Questions
should
be
answered
in
the
order
of
priority
in
which
they
are
asked
,
"
he
replies
,
with
a
smile
of
amusement
at
her
simplicity
,
but
with
a
good
deal
of
dissatisfied
doubt
underlying
the
smile
.
"
Answer
my
question
,
and
I
'll
answer
yours
.
"
Esther
turns
away
,
and
passes
her
hand
along
the
hedge
,
catching
idly
at
any
grasses
or
flowers
that
come
in
her
way
,
to
the
great
detriment
of
her
Sunday
gloves
.
His
anxiety
overcomes
his
hurt
pride
.
"
Give
me
an
answer
one
way
or
another
,
"
he
says
,
breathing
rather
short
.
"
Is
there
not
something
between
you
and
him
?
"
Esther
is
silent
.
"
No
"
is
a
plain
downright
lie
,
at
which
conscience
demurs
,
and
"
Yes
"
a
cannon-ball
that
will
knock
her
away
from
St.
John
's
side
out
into
the
drear
,
great
world
for
ever
.
"
For
God
's
sake
answer
me
!
"
he
says
again
,
in
great
agitation
at
a
dumbness
that
seems
to
him
ominous
.
Hearing
the
sharp
pain
and
angry
fear
in
his
voice
,
she
hesitates
no
longer
.
Lie
or
no
lie
,
she
takes
the
plunge
.
"
Nothing
!
"
she
says
,
faintly
,
turning
first
milk-white
,
then
red
as
a
rose
in
her
burning
prime
.
"
Why
do
you
turn
away
your
face
?
Are
you
quite
certain
?
"
he
asks
,
quickly
,
only
half
convinced
by
her
weak
negation
.
"
Certain
,
"
she
replies
,
indistinctly
,
as
if
just
able
to
echo
his
words
,
but
not
to
frame
any
of
her
own
.
"
Why
do
you
stammer
and
blush
,
then
,
whenever
his
name
is
mentioned
?
"
he
asks
,
with
jealous
impatience
.
"
I
wo
n't
stand
being
catechised
in
this
way
,
"
she
cries
,
blazing
out
angrily
,
and
stopping
short
,
while
sparks
of
fire
,
half
quenched
in
tears
of
vexation
,
dart
from
the
splendid
night
of
her
eyes
.
"
I
have
answered
a
question
which
you
ought
never
to
have
asked
;
you
must
be
a
person
of
very
little
observation
,
"
she
continues
,
sharply
,
"
not
to
have
discovered
during
the
three
weeks
that
I
have
been
with
you
that
I
blush
at
everything
and
nothing
;
I
should
be
as
likely
as
not
to
blush
when
Sir
Thomas
's
name
was
mentioned
,
or
—
or
—
"
"
Or
mine
,
"
suggests
St.
John
,
ironically
;
"
put
it
as
strongly
as
you
can
.
"
"
Or
yours
,
if
you
like
,
"
she
answers
,
hardily
,
but
crimsoning
painfully
meanwhile
in
confirmation
of
her
words
.
At
a
little
distance
farther
on
,
their
path
forsakes
the
road
and
leads
across
a
line
of
grass
fields
.
St.
John
crosses
the
first
stile
,
and
waits
politely
on
the
other
side
to
help
Esther
over
.
"
No
,
no
!
"
she
cries
,
petulantly
,
withdrawing
her
foot
from
the
first
rung
—
"
I
hate
being
helped
over
stills
.
Go
on
,
please
.
"
He
obeys
,
and
walks
on
.
Her
dignity
does
not
allow
her
to
hurry
her
pace
to
overtake
him
,
nor
does
his
permit
him
to
slacken
his
steps
till
she
come
up
with
him
;
and
they
walk
on
in
single
file
,
goose-fashion
,
through
two
fields
and
a
half
.
Dividing
and
watering
the
third
field
,
as
the
four
ancient
rivers
divided
and
watered
the
rose
gardens
and
asphodel
fields
of
Paradise
,
a
little
beck
,
with
many
turns
and
bends
and
doublings
back
upon
itself
,
strays
babbling
,
like
a
silver
ribbon
twisted
among
the
meadow
's
green
hair
.
It
is
not
like
the
Welsh
brooks
,
fretful
and
brawling
,
making
little
waterfalls
and
whirlpools
and
eddies
over
and
about
every
water-worn
stone
;
smoothly
it
flows
on
,
as
a
holy
,
eventless
life
flows
towards
the
broad
sea
whose
tides
wash
the
shores
of
Time
.
In
dry
weather
it
is
slow-paced
enough
,
and
crystal
clear
;
now
the
late
heavy
rains
have
quickened
its
current
,
and
rolled
it
along
,
turbid
and
muddy
.
Even
though
swollen
,
however
,
it
is
still
but
a
narrow
thread
,
and
St.
John
clears
it
at
a
jump
.
"
Shall
I
go
on
still
?
"
he
asks
,
with
a
malicious
smile
from
the
other
side
,
addressing
Esther
,
who
stands
looking
down
rather
ruefully
at
the
quick
,
brown
water
at
her
feet
.
"
I
believe
you
knew
of
this
,
and
brought
me
here
on
purpose
to
make
a
fool
of
me
,
"
she
cries
,
reproachfully
.
"
I
did
nothing
of
the
kind
,
"
he
answers
,
quietly
.
"
Last
time
I
was
here
there
was
a
plank
thrown
across
;
but
you
see
the
stream
has
been
higher
than
it
is
now
"
(
pointing
to
the
drenched
grass
and
little
deposit
of
sticks
and
leaves
on
the
bank
)
,
"
and
has
probably
carried
it
away
.
"
"
How
am
I
to
get
over
?
"
she
asks
,
hopelessly
,
with
a
look
of
childish
distress
on
her
face
.
"
I
'll
carry
you
,
"
he
answers
,
springing
back
to
her
side
;
"
the
brook
is
shallower
farther
down
;
I
can
lift
you
over
with
the
greatest
ease
imaginable
.
"
"
That
you
sha
n't
!
"
answers
Esther
,
civilly
turning
her
back
upon
him
.
"
May
I
ask
why
?
"
he
asks
,
coolly
.
"
After
the
number
of
times
I
have
carried
you
up
and
down
stairs
at
Felton
,
you
can
hardly
be
afraid
of
my
letting
you
fall
?
"
"
The
very
fact
of
my
having
already
had
so
many
obligations
to
you
makes
me
resolved
not
to
add
to
their
number
,
"
she
replies
,
stiffly
,
with
an
effort
to
look
dignified
,
which
her
laughing
,
débonnaire
,
seductive
style
of
beauty
tenders
peculiarly
unsuccessful
.
"
If
you
can
suggest
any
better
plan
,
I
shall
be
delighted
to
assist
you
in
carrying
it
out
,
"
rejoins
he
,
smothering
a
smile
.
"
I
'll
jump
!
"
she
says
,
desperately
,
eyeing
meanwhile
the
hurrying
stream
and
space
between
bank
and
bank
with
calculating
look
.
"
You
cannot
,
"
he
cries
,
hastily
;
"
you
'll
get
a
ducking
as
sure
as
I
stand
here
.
Do
n't
be
so
silly
!
"
The
word
"
silly
"
acts
as
a
whip
and
spur
to
Essie
's
flagging
courage
.
She
retreats
a
few
yards
from
the
edge
,
in
order
to
get
a
little
run
to
give
her
a
better
spring
.
"
As
headstrong
as
an
allegory
on
the
banks
of
the
Nile
!
"
remarks
Gerard
,
resignedly
,
quoting
Mrs.
Malaprop
and
folding
his
arms
.
Neither
the
preparatory
run
,
nor
the
tremendous
bound
she
takes
,
avail
to
save
Miss
Craven
from
the
fate
which
her
obstinacy
and
the
comparative
shortness
of
her
legs
render
unavoidable
.
She
jumps
short
,
and
falls
forward
on
the
wet
bank
;
her
lavender
kid
gloves
digging
convulsively
into
it
,
and
her
legs
disporting
themselves
fish-like
in
the
brook
.
He
is
at
her
side
in
an
instant
,
raises
gently
and
lifts
her
on
to
the
grass
,
unmindful
of
the
pollution
caused
to
his
coat
by
the
muddy
contact
.
"
What
a
fool
I
was
!
"
she
cries
,
passionately
,
sinking
down
among
a
grove
of
huge
burdock
leaves
,
smothered
in
shame
and
angry
blushes
.
St.
John
thinks
it
rude
to
disagree
with
her
,
so
holds
his
peace
.
"
Why
do
n't
you
laugh
at
me
?
why
do
n't
you
jeer
me
?
"
she
continues
,
vehemently
;
"
why
do
n't
you
tell
me
you
are
very
glad
of
it
,
and
that
I
richly
deserve
it
,
as
I
see
you
are
longing
to
do
?
Anything
would
be
better
than
standing
there
like
a
stock
or
a
stone
!
"
"
It
is
not
of
much
consequence
how
I
stand
or
how
I
look
,
"
he
replies
,
coldly
.
"
It
would
be
more
to
the
purpose
to
know
how
you
are
to
get
home
!
"
"
I
will
walk
as
I
am
,
"
she
cries
impulsively
,
springing
to
her
feet
;
"
it
will
be
a
fit
penance
for
my
idiocy
,
and
you
shall
go
on
ahead
.
I
do
n't
want
you
to
be
disgraced
by
being
seen
in
company
with
such
an
object
.
"
"
That
is
very
probable
,
is
n't
it
?
"
he
answers
,
laughing
good-humouredly
.
"
No
,
I
have
a
better
proposition
than
that
,
I
think
.
It
has
just
occurred
to
me
that
an
old
servant
of
ours
lives
at
no
great
distance
from
here
,
her
cottage
is
not
more
than
three
or
four
fields
off
.
If
you
can
manage
to
get
there
she
would
dry
your
clothes
for
you
in
a
minute
.
"
Rendered
docile
by
her
late
disaster
,
feeling
very
small
,
and
hanging
her
head
,
Esther
acquiesces
.
Her
gown
,
from
which
every
particle
of
starch
or
stiffness
has
fled
,
clings
to
her
limbs
and
defines
their
form
;
the
water
drips
down
from
her
in
a
thousand
little
spouts
and
rivulets
;
bang
,
bang
,
go
her
soaked
petticoats
against
her
ankles
at
every
step
she
takes
.
"
You
have
had
almost
enough
of
taking
me
out
to
walk
,
I
expect
,
"
she
remarks
presently
,
rather
grimly
.
"
You
have
had
almost
enough
of
jumping
brooks
,
I
expect
,
"
he
retorts
,
drily
;
and
then
they
walk
on
in
silence
till
they
reach
a
little
whitewashed
cottage
,
with
its
slip
of
potato
ground
and
plot
of
pinks
and
marigolds
and
larkspurs
—
an
oasis
of
tilled
ground
among
the
wilderness
of
pasturage
.
St.
John
knocks
at
the
half-open
door
and
puts
his
head
in
.
"
Are
you
at
home
,
Mrs.
Brown
?
How
are
you
?
"
says
he
,
in
that
frank
,
friendly
voice
that
goes
far
to
make
the
Felton
tenants
wish
that
Sir
St.
John
reigned
in
Sir
Thomas
's
stead
.
"
Quite
well
,
thank
you
,
Mr.
St.
John
;
I
hope
I
see
you
the
same
,
"
replies
the
person
addressed
,
coming
to
the
door
with
a
jolly
red
face
and
a
voluminous
widow
's
cap
that
contradict
one
another
;
"
it
's
a
long
time
since
we
've
seen
you
come
our
way
.
"
"
So
it
is
,
Mrs.
Brown
;
but
,
you
see
,
I
have
been
after
the
partridges
.
"
"
And
Sir
Thomas
,
I
hope
he
keeps
pretty
well
,
Mr.
St.
John
?
"
"
Yes
,
thanks
.
"
"
And
Miladi
,
I
hope
she
has
her
health
.
"
"
Yes
,
thanks
.
"
"
And
Miss
Bl
—
?
"
"
"
Yes
,
thanks
,
"
interrupts
St.
John
,
rather
impatiently
,
breaking
through
the
thread
of
her
interrogatories
.
"
Do
you
see
,
Mrs.
Brown
,
that
this
young
lady
has
met
with
an
accident
:
she
has
tumbled
into
the
brook
.
Do
you
think
you
could
let
her
dry
herself
at
your
fire
a
bit
?
"
"
Eh
dear
,
Miss
,
you
are
in
a
mess
!
"
!
"
ejaculates
Mrs.
Brown
,
walking
round
Esther
,
and
surveying
her
curiously
,
as
she
stands
close
behind
Gerard
,
dripping
still
,
with
a
hang-dog
air
and
chattering
teeth
.
"
Why
,
you
have
not
a
dry
stitch
upon
you
;
you
are
one
mask
of
mud
!
Would
you
please
to
step
in
?
"
Mrs.
Brown
and
Essie
retire
into
an
inner
chamber
for
the
purpose
of
removing
the
wet
clothes
and
replacing
them
temporarily
with
some
of
the
contents
of
Mrs.
Brown
's
wardrobe
.
St.
John
remains
in
the
outer
room
,
looks
at
the
clock
,
behind
whose
dial-plate
a
round
china-moon-face
peeps
out
;
takes
up
the
mugs
on
the
dresser
:
"
For
a
Good
Boy
,
"
"
A
Keepsake
from
Melford
,
"
"
A
Present
from
Manchester
,
"
hiding
amongst
numberless
gilt
flourishes
;
chivies
the
tabby
cat
;
counts
the
flitches
of
bacon
hanging
from
the
rafters
;
walks
to
the
door
,
and
watches
the
bees
crawling
in
and
out
of
the
low
door
of
their
straw
houses
,
and
the
maroon
velvet
nasturtiums
trailing
along
the
borders
,
and
lifting
their
round
leaves
and
dark
faces
up
to
the
knees
of
the
standard
rose
.
As
he
so
stands
,
whistling
softly
and
musing
,
some
one
joins
him
in
the
doorway
.
He
turns
and
beholds
Esther
,
bashful
,
shame-faced
,
metamorphosed
.
To
Mrs.
Brown
's
surprise
,
she
has
declined
the
magnanimous
offer
of
her
best
black
silk
.
There
is
nothing
coquettish
or
picturesque
,
as
she
is
aware
,
about
an
ill-made
dress
that
tries
to
follow
the
fashion
and
fails
—
destined
,
too
,
for
a
woman
treble
her
size
.
She
has
chosen
in
preference
,
a
short
,
dark
,
linsey
petticoat
and
lilac
cotton
bedgown
,
which
,
by
its
looseness
,
can
adapt
itself
to
the
round
slenderness
of
her
tall
,
lissom
figure
.
Her
bonnet
was
not
included
in
the
ruin
of
her
other
garments
,
but
she
has
taken
it
off
,
as
destructive
to
the
harmony
of
her
costume
.
St.
John
surveys
her
for
some
moments
:
looks
upward
from
petticoat
to
bedgown
,
and
downward
from
bedgown
to
petticoat
,
but
observes
a
discreet
silence
.
"
Does
it
become
me
?
"
she
asks
at
last
,
with
shy
vanity
.
"
Why
do
not
you
say
something
?
"
"
I
have
been
so
unlucky
in
two
or
three
of
my
remarks
lately
,
"
replies
he
,
with
a
concluding
glance
at
the
round
,
bare
arms
that
emerge
whitely
from
the
short
cotton
sleeves
,
"
that
I
have
become
chary
of
making
any
more
.
"
"
You
need
not
be
afraid
of
offending
me
by
telling
me
that
it
is
unbecoming
,
"
she
says
,
gravely
—
"
quite
the
contrary
.
I
"
—
she
continues
rather
discontentedly
—
"
think
that
it
suits
me
too
well
,
as
if
it
were
a
dress
that
I
ought
to
have
been
born
to
.
Upon
Miss
Blessington
now
such
a
costume
would
look
utterly
incongruous
.
"
St.
John
bursts
out
laughing
.
"
A
goddess
in
a
bed-gown
!
Diana
of
the
Ephesians
in
a
linsey
petticoat
!
Perish
the
thought
!
"
Esther
looks
mortified
,
and
turns
away
.
The
cleansing
of
Miss
Craven
's
garments
is
a
lengthy
operation
.
Mrs.
Brown
retreats
into
her
back
kitchen
,
draws
forward
a
washtub
,
kneels
down
beside
it
,
turns
up
her
sleeves
,
and
with
much
splashing
of
hot
water
and
lathering
of
soap
,
rubs
and
scrubs
,
rings
out
,
dries
,
and
irons
the
luckless
gown
and
petticoat
.
It
is
latish
and
duskish
by
the
time
that
St.
John
and
his
companion
set
out
on
their
homeward
way
.
Two
or
three
starflowers
have
already
stolen
out
,
and
are
blossoming
,
infinitely
distant
,
in
the
meadows
of
the
sky
.
They
are
not
loquacious
:
it
is
the
little
shallow
rivulet
that
brawls
;
the
great
deep
river
runs
still
.
Silently
they
walk
along
;
her
little
feet
trip
softly
through
the
rustling
grass
beside
him
:
the
evening
wind
blows
her
light
garments
against
him
.
He
has
taken
her
little
gloveless
hand
as
he
helps
her
over
a
stile
(
adversity
has
made
her
abject
,
and
she
no
longer
spurns
his
assistance
)
,
and
now
retains
it
,
half
absently
.
Bare
palm
to
bare
palm
,
they
saunter
through
the
rich
,
dim
land
.
It
is
dusk
,
but
not
so
dusk
but
that
they
can
see
their
dark
eyes
flashing
into
one
another
:
sharp
,
stinging
pleasure
shoots
along
their
young
,
full
veins
.
The
vocabularies
of
pain
and
of
delight
are
so
meagre
,
that
each
has
to
borrow
from
the
other
to
express
its
own
highest
height
and
deepest
depth
.
As
they
pass
along
a
lane
,
whose
high
grass
banks
and
overgrown
hawthorn
hedges
make
the
coming
night
already
come
,
Esther
's
foot
stumbles
over
a
stone
.
The
next
moment
she
is
in
his
arms
,
and
he
is
kissing
her
repeatedly
.
"
Esther
,
will
you
marry
me
?
"
he
asks
,
in
a
passionate
whisper
,
forgetting
to
make
any
graceful
periphrasis
to
explain
his
meaning
,
using
the
plain
words
as
they
rise
in
his
heart
.
No
answer
.
Emotions
as
complicated
as
intense
check
the
passage
of
her
voice
.
Even
here
,
on
this
highest
pinnacle
of
bliss
—
pinnacle
so
high
that
she
had
hardly
dared
hope
ever
to
climb
there
—
the
thought
of
Bob
and
his
despair
flashes
before
her
:
her
own
remarks
about
the
senselessness
of
kissing
—
about
its
being
a
custom
suited
only
to
savages
,
and
her
own
great
aversion
to
it
—
recur
to
her
with
a
stab
of
remorse
.
"
You
wo
n't
?
"
cries
St.
John
,
mistaking
the
cause
of
her
silence
,
in
a
voice
in
which
extreme
surprise
and
profound
alarm
and
pain
are
mixed
in
equal
quantities
.
Still
no
answer
.
"
If
you
have
been
making
a
fool
of
me
all
this
time
,
you
might
,
at
least
,
have
the
civility
to
tell
me
so
,
"
he
says
,
in
a
voice
so
sternly
cold
that
remorse
,
coyness
,
and
all
other
feelings
merge
into
womanish
fear
.
"
Do
n't
blame
me
before
I
deserve
it
,
"
she
says
,
with
a
faint
smile
.
"
I
will
mar
—
"
She
finishes
her
sentence
on
his
breast
.
Perfect
happiness
never
lasts
more
than
two
seconds
in
this
world
;
at
the
end
of
that
time
St.
John
's
doubts
return
.
He
puts
her
a
little
way
from
him
,
that
she
may
be
a
freer
agent
.
"
Esther
,
"
he
says
,
"
I
half
believe
that
you
said
'
yes
'
out
of
sheer
fright
;
you
thought
I
was
going
to
upbraid
you
;
and
I
am
aware
"
(
with
a
half
smile
)
"
that
there
are
few
things
you
would
not
do
or
leave
undone
to
avoid
a
scolding
;
you
did
not
say
it
readily
,
as
if
you
were
glad
of
it
.
I
know
that
you
have
only
known
me
three
weeks
,
that
I
am
not
particularly
likeable
,
especially
by
women
,
and
that
I
always
show
to
the
worst
possible
advantage
at
home
.
All
I
beg
of
you
is
,
tell
me
the
truth
:
Do
you
like
me
,
or
do
you
not
?
"
"
I
do
like
you
.
"
"
Like
is
such
a
comprehensive
word
,
"
he
says
,
with
a
slight
,
impatient
contracting
of
his
straight
brows
.
"
You
like
Mrs.
Brown
,
I
suppose
,
for
washing
your
clothes
?
"
"
I
like
you
better
than
Mrs.
Brown
.
"
"
I
did
not
doubt
that
,
"
he
answers
,
laughing
;
"
probably
you
like
me
better
than
Sir
Thomas
,
than
my
mother
,
than
Constance
,
perhaps
;
but
such
liking
as
that
I
would
not
stoop
to
pick
off
the
ground
.
I
must
be
first
or
nowhere
.
Am
I
first
?
"
"
No
,
you
are
not
,
"
she
answers
firmly
.
His
countenance
falls
,
as
Cain
's
did
.
"
I
am
not
!
"
he
repeats
,
in
a
constrained
voice
.
"
Who
is
then
,
may
I
ask
?
"
"
Jack
,
my
brother
—
he
is
,
and
always
will
be
!
"
"
Bah
!
"
cries
Gerard
,
laughing
,
and
looking
immensely
relieved
.
"
How
you
frightened
me
!
I
believe
you
did
it
on
purpose
,
as
you
said
to
me
about
the
brook
this
afternoon
.
After
him
,
am
I
first
?
"
"
Yes
.
"
"
Before
—
what
's
his
name
?
—
the
fellow
that
writes
such
a
remarkably
good
hand
—
before
Brandon
?
"
"
Why
do
you
always
worry
me
about
him
?
"
she
exclaims
,
angrily
,
turning
away
.
"
Why
do
you
so
strongly
resent
being
worried
about
him
?
"
retorts
St.
John
suspiciously
.
"
It
is
wearisome
to
hear
a
person
always
harping
on
one
string
,
"
she
answers
coldly
.
"
Believe
me
or
not
,
as
you
choose
;
but
please
spare
me
the
trouble
of
these
repeated
and
useless
asseverations
.
"
"
I
beg
your
pardon
!
"
he
says
,
his
countenance
clearing
,
and
passing
his
arm
round
her
half-shrinking
,
half-yielding
form
.
"
I
will
never
dig
him
up
as
long
as
I
live
.
Peace
to
his
ashes
!
Oh
darling
!
"
he
continues
,
his
voice
changing
to
an
emphatic
,
eager
,
impassioned
key
—
"
I
have
been
so
little
used
to
having
things
go
as
I
wish
,
that
I
can
hardly
believe
it
is
I
that
am
standing
here
.
Pinch
me
,
that
I
may
be
sure
that
I
am
awake
!
Oh
Esther
!
is
it
really
true
?
Can
you
possibly
be
fond
of
me
?
So
few
people
are
!
Not
a
soul
in
the
wide
world
,
I
do
believe
,
except
my
old
mother
.
The
girl
that
I
told
you
about
last
night
lay
in
my
arms
,
and
let
me
kiss
her
as
you
are
doing
;
she
kissed
me
back
again
,
as
you
do
not
do
;
I
looked
into
her
eyes
,
and
they
seemed
true
as
truth
itself
,
and
all
the
while
she
was
lying
to
me
:
my
very
touch
must
have
been
hateful
to
her
,
as
it
is
to
you
,
perhaps
?
"
"
You
are
always
referring
to
that
—
that
person
,
"
says
Esther
,
lifting
great
jealous
eyes
,
and
a
mouth
like
a
ripe
cleft
cherry
,
through
the
misty
twilight
towards
him
.
"
I
perceive
that
I
am
only
a
pis
aller
after
all
.
If
you
had
ceased
to
care
for
her
,
you
would
have
forgiven
her
long
ago
,
and
have
given
up
measuring
everybody
else
by
her
standard
.
"
"
I
have
forgiven
her
fully
and
freely
,
"
he
answers
,
magnanimously
,
and
standing
heart
to
heart
with
a
woman
"
...
..fairer
than
the
evening
air
,
Clad
in
the
beauty
of
a
thousand
stars
;
More
lovely
than
the
monarch
of
the
sky
,
In
wanton
Arethusa
's
azured
arms
.
"
He
may
afford
to
be
magnanimous
.
"
I
not
only
forgive
her
,
but
hale
down
blessings
on
her
own
and
her
plunger
's
ugly
head
.
To
be
candid
,
"
he
ends
,
laughing
,
"
I
forgave
her
a
year
ago
,
when
I
met
her
at
Brainton
Station
,
grown
fat
,
with
a
red
nose
,
and
a
tribe
of
squinting
children
,
who
,
but
for
the
finger
of
Providence
interposing
,
might
have
been
mine
.
"
Speaking
,
he
lays
his
lips
upon
the
blossom
of
her
sweet
red
mouth
;
but
she
,
pricked
with
the
sudden
smart
of
recollected
treachery
,
draws
away
from
him
.
"
Come
,
"
she
says
,
with
a
slight
shiver
,
"
let
us
go
home
.
We
shall
get
into
dreadful
disgrace
as
it
is
;
what
will
Sir
Thomas
say
?
"
"
I
can
tell
you
beforehand
,
"
says
St.
John
,
gaily
;
"
he
will
say
,
with
his
usual
charming
candour
,
that
,
if
we
ask
his
opinion
,
we
are
a
couple
of
fools
to
go
gadding
about
to
strange
churches
just
to
see
a
parcel
of
lighted
candles
and
squeaking
little
boys
and
popish
mummeries
;
that
,
for
his
part
,
he
has
stuck
to
his
parish
church
for
the
last
fifty
years
,
and
means
to
do
so
to
the
end
of
the
chapter
;
and
that
,
if
we
do
n't
choose
to
conform
to
the
rules
of
his
house
,
etc.
"
"
Does
he
always
say
the
same
?
"
asks
Esther
,
smiling
.
"
Always
.
A
long
and
affectionate
study
of
his
character
has
enabled
me
to
predicate
with
exactness
what
he
will
say
on
any
great
subject
,
Esther
.
"
"
How
do
you
know
that
my
name
is
Esther
?
"
she
asks
naïvely
.
"
You
have
never
heard
any
one
call
me
so
.
"
"
Do
you
forget
the
flyleaf
of
the
Prayer-book
that
—
Hang
it
!
I
was
on
the
point
of
uttering
the
forbidden
name
!
"
Smiling
,
he
looks
for
an
answering
smile
from
her
,
but
finds
none
.
"
I
have
heard
of
you
as
Esther
Craven
from
my
youth
up
,
"
he
continues
.
"
Before
you
came
we
speculated
as
to
what
'
Esther
'
Craven
would
be
like
;
it
was
only
when
you
arrived
in
propriá
personá
that
you
rose
into
the
dignity
of
'
Miss
'
Craven
.
"
"
I
hate
being
called
Esther
,
"
she
says
,
plaintively
,
with
eyes
down-drooped
to
the
lush-green
grasses
that
bow
and
make
obeisance
beneath
her
quick
feet
;
"
it
always
makes
me
feel
as
if
I
were
in
disgrace
.
Jack
never
calls
me
Esther
unless
he
is
vexed
with
.
me
.
Call
me
Essie
,
please
.
"
"
Essie
,
then
.
"
"
Well
?
"
"
I
think
it
right
to
warn
you
"
putting
an
arm
of
resolute
possession
,
bolder
than
ever
poor
Brandon
's
had
been
,
round
her
supple
figure
—
for
who
is
there
in
these
grey
evening
fields
to
witness
the
embrace
?
)
—
"
I
think
it
right
to
warn
you
that
I
may
very
possibly
grow
like
Sir
Thomas
in
time
;
they
tell
me
that
I
have
a
look
of
him
already
.
I
do
not
see
that
myself
;
but
,
even
if
that
does
come
to
pass
,
can
you
promise
to
like
me
even
then
?
"
"
Even
then
.
"
"
I
may
very
probably
d
—
n
the
servants
,
and
be
upset
for
a
whole
evening
if
there
are
lumps
in
the
melted
butter
;
I
may
very
probably
insist
on
your
playing
backgammon
with
me
every
evening
,
and
insist
,
likewise
,
on
your
being
invariably
beaten
.
Can
you
bear
even
that
?
"
"
Even
that
.
"
They
both
laugh
;
but
in
Esther
's
laugh
there
is
a
ring
of
bitterness
,
which
she
herself
hears
,
and
wonders
that
he
does
not
.
As
they
near
the
house
,
they
see
thin
slits
of
crimson
light
through
the
dining-room
shutters
.
Esther
involuntarily
quickens
her
pace
.
"
Why
are
you
in
such
a
hurry
?
"
he
asks
,
his
eyes
shining
eager
with
reproachful
passion
in
the
passionless
white
starlight
.
"
Who
knows
?
to-morrow
we
may
be
dead
;
to-day
we
are
as
gods
,
knowing
good
and
evil
.
This
walk
has
not
been
to
you
what
it
has
to
me
,
or
you
would
be
in
no
haste
to
end
it
.
"
"
I
do
n't
suppose
it
has
,
"
she
answers
,
half-absently
,
with
a
sigh
.
He
had
expected
an
eager
disclaimer
,
and
is
disappointed
.
"
There
can
be
but
one
explanation
of
that
,
"
he
says
,
angrily
.
"
If
you
only
knew
—
,
"
begins
Esther
,
with
an
uncertain
half-inclination
to
confess
,
though
late
.
"
If
you
are
going
to
tell
me
anything
disagreeable
,
"
he
says
,
quickly
putting
his
hand
before
her
mouth
,
"
stop
!
Tell
me
to-morrow
,
or
the
day
after
,
but
not
now
—
not
now
!
Let
there
be
one
day
of
my
life
on
which
I
may
look
back
and
say
,
as
God
said
when
he
looked
back
upon
His
new
world
,
'
Behold
,
it
is
very
good
!
'
"
She
is
silent
.
"
And
yet
,
perhaps
,
it
would
be
better
if
I
knew
the
end
of
your
sentence
;
if
I
only
knew
—
what
?
—
how
little
you
care
about
me
?
"
"
You
are
mistaken
,
"
she
answers
,
roused
into
vehemence
.
"
I
love
you
so
well
,
that
I
have
grown
hateful
to
myself
!
"
and
having
spoken
thus
oracularly
,
she
raises
herself
on
tip-toe
,
lifts
two
shy
burning
lips
to
his
,
and
kisses
him
voluntarily
.
Then
,
amazed
at
her
own
audacity
,
clothed
with
shame
as
with
a
garment
,
she
tears
herself
out
of
his
arms
,
as
in
delightful
surprise
he
catches
her
to
his
heart
,
and
flies
with
frenzied
haste
into
the
house
.
CHAPTER
XVII
.
THE
sweetness
of
September
is
that
of
the
last
few
days
spent
with
a
friend
that
goeth
on
a
very
long
journey
;
and
we
know
not
whether
,
when
he
returneth
,
we
shall
go
to
meet
him
with
outstretched
arms
,
or
shall
smile
up
at
him
only
through
the
eyes
of
the
daisies
that
flower
upon
our
straight
green
graves
.
"
Our
sweetest
songs
are
those
that
tell
of
saddest
thought
,
"
and
our
sweetest
seasons
are
,
to
my
thinking
,
those
in
which
the
ecstasies
of
possession
are
mixed
with
the
soft
pain
of
expected
parting
.
A
September
sun
—
such
a
one
as
warmly
kissed
the
quiet
faces
of
our
young
dead
heroes
,
as
they
lay
thick
together
on
Alma
's
hill-side
—
is
shining
down
with
even
mildness
upon
the
just
and
the
unjust
,
upon
Constance
Blessington
's
grass-green
gown
as
she
sits
at
breakfast
,
and
on
the
hair
crown
of
yellow
gold
with
which
Providence
has
seen
fit
to
circle
her
dull
fair
brows
.
"
I
think
that
you
must
have
regretted
being
in
such
a
hurry
to
run
away
from
the
garden
and
us
,
"
she
is
saying
,
with
a
gentle
smile
of
lady-like
malice
,
to
Esther
,
à
propos
of
her
yesterday
's
misadventure
.
"
Sitting
in
the
shade
eating
nectarines
is
certainly
pleasanter
occupation
than
grovelling
on
your
hands
and
knees
on
a
mud-bank
,
"
replies
Esther
,
demurely
.
"
St.
John
is
so
terribly
energetic
!
"
says
Miss
Blessington
,
rather
lackadaisically
;
"
he
would
have
walked
me
off
the
face
of
the
earth
long
ago
if
I
had
let
him
.
"
Remembering
the
Chinese
invitation
,
Esther
cannot
repress
an
involuntary
smile
.
"
What
about
St.
John
?
"
says
the
young
man
,
entering
;
having
caught
his
own
name
,
with
that
wonderful
acuteness
of
hearing
with
which
every
one
is
endowed
when
themselves
are
in
question
.
"
Much
better
have
stuck
to
your
parish
church
,
"
says
Sir
Thomas
,
brandishing
a
large
red
and
yellow
bandanna
,
which
is
