tosuppose
that
a
person
in
such
rude
health
as
Cecilia
can
miss
her
as
I
do
,
"
she
says
querulously
;
"
I
was
always
her
first
object
,
she
always
knew
by
instinct
when
I
was
more
suffering
than
usual
;
who
cares
now
"
—
breaking
into
a
deluge
of
self-compassionating
tears
—
"
whether
I
am
suffering
or
not
?
"
Then
,
when
next
he
happens
to
be
alone
with
Cecilia
,
it
is
her
turn
to
assert
a
superiority
of
woe
;
a
superiority
claimed
with
still
more
emphasis
the
next
half
hour
by
the
father
.
With
a
patience
which
would
have
surprised
those
persons
who
had
seen
him
only
in
his
former
relations
with
the
family
of
his
betrothed
he
tries
to
soothe
the
sorrow
of
each
—
even
that
of
Sybilla
—
in
turn
;
but
to
his
own
heart
he
says
that
not
one
of
their
griefs
is
worthy
to
be
weighed
in
the
balance
with
his
.
In
the
case
of
none
of
theirs
is
the
woof
crossed
by
the
hideous
warp
of
self-reproach
that
is
woven
inextricably
into
his
.
They
have
worked
her
to
death
,
they
have
torn
her
to
pieces
by
their
conflicting
claims
;
their
love
has
been
exacting
,
selfish
,
inconsiderate
;
but
at
least
it
has
been
love
;
they
have
prized
her
at
almost
her
full
worth
while
they
had
her
.
For
him
it
has
been
reserved
as
for
the
base
Indian
,
to
"
Throw
a
pearl
away
Richer
than
all
his
tribe
.
"
In
the
intervals
—
neither
long
nor
many
—
between
his
ministrations
at
the
Anglo-Américain
,
Burgoyne
hurries
back
to
the
Minerva
to
see
that
Byng
has
not
blown
his
brains
out
.
In
the
present
state
of
mind
of
that
young
gentleman
this
catastrophe
does
not
appear
to
be
among
the
least
likely
ones
.
He
has
refused
to
leave
Florence
,
always
answering
the
suggestion
with
the
same
question
,
"
Where
else
should
I
go
?
"
and
if
pressed
,
adding
invariably
in
the
same
words
as
those
employed
by
him
on
the
first
day
of
his
loss
,
when
his
friend
had
urged
the
advisability
of
his
removing
his
countenance
from
the
beaded
stool
—
"
Where
shall
I
find
such
recent
and
authentic
traces
of
her
as
here
?
"
He
passes
his
time
either
on
the
Lung
'
Arno
,
staring
at
the
water
,
or
stretched
face
downwards
upon
his
bed
.
He
walks
about
the
town
most
of
the
night
,
and
Jim
suspects
him
of
beginning
to
take
chloral
.
Occasionally
he
rouses
up
into
a
quick
and
almost
passionate
sympathy
with
his
friend
's
trouble
,
asking
for
nothing
better
than
to
be
sent
on
any
errand
,
however
trivial
,
or
however
tiresome
,
in
Amelia
's
behalf
.
But
no
sooner
have
the
immediate
effects
of
the
appeal
to
his
kind-heartedness
died
away
,
than
he
sinks
back
into
his
lethargy
,
and
Jim
is
at
once
too
much
occupied
and
too
miserable
to
use
any
very
strenuous
endeavours
to
shake
him
out
of
it
.
But
yet
the
consciousness
of
the
tacit
engagement
,
under
which
he
lies
to
the
young
man
's
mother
,
to
look
after
him
,
coupled
with
the
absolute
impossibility
,
under
his
present
circumstances
,
of
fulfilling
that
engagement
,
and
his
uneasiness
as
to
what
new
form
the
insanity
of
Byng
's
grief
may
take
on
,
from
day
to
day
,
add
very
perceptibly
to
the
weight
of
his
own
already
sufficiently
ponderous
burden
.
It
is
the
ninth
day
since
Amelia
fell
sick
,
that
ninth
day
which
,
in
maladies
such
as
hers
,
is
,
or
is
at
least
reckoned
to
be
,
the
crisis
and
turning-point
of
the
disease
.
Jim
has
been
up
all
night
,
and
has
just
rushed
back
to
the
Minerva
,
for
the
double
purpose
of
taking
a
bath
,
and
of
casting
an
uneasy
eye
upon
his
charge
.
He
finds
the
latter
not
in
his
room
,
but
leaning
over
the
little
spiky
balcony
,
out
of
his
window
,
hanging
over
it
so
far
,
and
so
absorbedly
,
that
he
does
not
hear
his
friend
's
approach
,
and
starts
violently
when
Jim
lays
a
hand
on
his
shoulder
.
"
What
are
you
looking
at
?
"
"
I
;
oh
—
nothing
particular
!
What
should
I
be
looking
at
?
What
is
there
to
look
to
?
I
was
only
—
only
—
wondering
as
a
mere
matter
of
curiosity
,
how
many
feet
it
is
from
here
to
the
pavement
?
Sixteen
?
eighteen
?
twenty
?
"
Jim
's
only
answer
is
to
look
at
him
sadly
and
sternly
;
then
he
says
coldly
:
"
I
do
not
recommend
it
;
it
would
be
a
clumsy
way
of
doing
it
.
"
"
What
matter
how
clumsy
the
way
,
so
that
one
attains
the
end
?
"
asks
Byng
extravagantly
,
throwing
off
even
the
thin
pretence
he
had
at
first
assumed
;
"
who
cares
how
bad
the
road
is
so
that
it
leads
him
to
the
goal
?
"
'
Oh
,
amiable
lovely
death
!
Thou
odoriferous
stench
,
sound
rottenness
!
'
"
Jim
shudders
.
Death
has
been
so
near
to
him
for
the
last
nine
days
,
that
the
terrific
realism
of
Constance
's
apostrophe
seems
to
be
almost
more
than
he
can
bear
.
"
It
is
silliness
to
live
when
to
live
is
a
torment
,
and
then
,
have
we
a
prescription
to
die
,
when
death
is
our
physician
?
"
continues
Byng
loudly
and
wildly
,
clasping
his
hands
above
his
head
,
and
apparently
perfectly
indifferent
as
to
whether
the
other
inmates
of
the
hotel
,
or
passers-by
on
the
piazza
,
overhear
him
.
"
If
you
stay
here
much
longer
you
will
spare
yourself
the
trouble
of
putting
an
end
to
your
existence
,
"
replies
Jim
,
glancing
at
the
other
's
head
,
exposed
hatless
to
the
scorch
of
the
Tuscan
sun
,
"
for
you
will
certainly
get
a
sunstroke
.
"
So
saying
,
he
takes
him
quietly
,
yet
decidedly
,
by
the
arm
,
and
leads
him
within
the
room
.
Either
his
matter-of-fact
manner
,
or
the
sight
of
his
face
,
upon
which
,
well-seasoned
as
it
is
,
vigil
and
sorrow
have
begun
to
write
their
unavoidable
marks
,
brings
the
young
madman
back
to
some
measure
of
sense
and
self-control
.
"
I
had
no
fixed
intention
,
"
he
says
apologetically
,
still
looking
white
and
wild
;
"
you
must
not
think
I
meant
anything
;
but
,
even
if
I
had
—
do
you
know
—
have
you
ever
happened
to
read
anything
about
the
statistics
of
suicide
?
Do
you
know
what
an
increasing
number
of
people
every
year
find
life
intolerable
?
"
"
I
know
that
you
are
fast
making
my
life
intolerable
,
"
answers
Jim
,
fixing
his
tired
,
sleepless
eyes
with
melancholy
severity
upon
his
companion
.
"
Amelia
is
—
you
are
as
well
aware
of
it
as
I
am
—
probably
dying
,
and
yet
even
now
,
thanks
to
you
,
into
my
thoughts
of
her
is
continually
pushing
the
fear
that
I
may
have
to
tell
your
mother
that
you
have
had
the
colossal
selfishness
to
rush
out
of
the
world
,
because
,
for
the
first
time
in
your
pampered
life
,
the
toy
you
cried
for
has
not
been
put
into
your
hand
.
"
Burgoyne
's
hopes
have
not
been
high
,
as
to
any
salutary
result
of
his
own
philippic
while
uttering
it
.
But
our
words
,
sometimes
,
to
our
surprise
,
turn
from
wooden
swords
to
steel
daggers
in
our
hands
.
For
a
moment
Byng
stands
as
if
stunned
;
then
he
breaks
into
a
tornado
of
sobs
and
tears
,
such
tears
as
have
often
before
angered
his
friend
,
but
which
now
he
welcomes
the
sight
of
,
as
perhaps
precursors
of
a
saner
mood
.
"
Oh
,
my
dear
old
chap
!
"
he
cries
,
catching
at
Jim
's
unresponsive
hand
,
and
wringing
it
hard
,
"
she
is
not
dying
really
?
You
do
not
mean
it
?
You
are
only
saying
it
to
frighten
me
?
Oh
!
dear
,
kind
Amelia
.
Not
dying
!
not
dying
?
"
"
I
do
not
know
:
to-day
is
the
turning-point
,
they
say
;
even
now
it
may
have
come
.
"
"
And
why
are
not
you
with
her
?
Why
do
not
you
go
back
to
her
?
"
cries
Byng
,
in
a
broken
voice
of
passionate
excitement
,
the
tears
still
racing
down
his
face
.
"
And
leave
you
to
go
tomfooling
out
there
again
?
"
asks
Jim
,
with
a
nod
of
his
head
towards
the
balcony
,
seen
from
where
they
stand
,
grilling
in
the
midday
blaze
.
The
verb
employed
,
if
closely
looked
into
,
bears
a
ludicrous
disproportion
to
the
intended
action
indicated
,
but
neither
of
the
men
sees
anything
ridiculous
in
it
.
"
I
will
not
!
"
cries
Byng
,
in
eager
asseveration
;
"
I
give
you
my
word
of
honour
I
will
not
;
if
you
do
not
believe
me
,
take
me
with
you
!
Keep
me
with
you
all
day
!
Do
you
think
that
I
,
too
,
do
not
want
to
know
how
Amelia
is
?
Do
you
think
that
I
am
indifferent
as
to
whether
she
lives
or
dies
?
Poor
,
good
Amelia
!
When
I
think
of
that
drive
to
Vallombrosa
,
only
ten
days
ago
!
They
two
sitting
side
by
side
,
so
happy
,
laughing
and
making
friends
with
each
other
!
"
He
covers
his
face
with
his
hands
,
and
through
them
the
scalding
drops
trickle
;
but
only
for
a
moment
.
In
the
next
,
he
has
dashed
them
away
,
and
is
moving
restlessly
about
the
room
,
looking
for
his
hat
.
"
Let
us
go
this
instant
,
"
he
says
urgently
;
"
my
poor
old
man
,
do
you
think
I
would
willingly
add
a
feather
weight
to
your
burden
?
I
should
never
forgive
myself
if
I
kept
you
a
second
longer
from
her
at
such
a
time
;
let
us
go
at
once
.
"
Burgoyne
complies
;
but
under
pretext
of
making
some
change
in
his
dress
,
escapes
from
his
friend
,
for
just
the
few
minutes
necessary
to
write
and
despatch
a
telegram
to
the
young
man
's
mother
.
It
runs
thus
:
"
No
cause
for
alarm
,
but
come
at
once
.
He
is
perfectly
well
,
but
needs
you
.
"
If
,
as
is
to
be
hoped
,
Mrs.
Byng
is
still
in
London
,
reaping
the
succession
of
the
old
relative
whose
death-bed
she
had
quitted
Florence
to
attend
,
his
message
will
bring
her
hither
within
forty-eight
hours
,
and
the
burden
of
responsibility
,
now
grown
so
insupportable
,
will
be
shifted
from
his
shoulders
.
Until
those
forty-eight
hours
have
elapsed
,
he
must
not
again
let
Byng
out
of
his
sight
.
The
day
rolls
by
,
the
critical
ninth
day
rolls
by
on
its
torrid
wheels
to
eventide
,
and
when
that
eventide
comes
,
it
finds
Cecilia
Wilson
running
down
from
Amelia
's
room
,
to
give
the
last
news
of
her
to
the
three
men
and
one
woman
waiting
below
.
"
I
think
he
seems
quite
satisfied
,
"
she
says
,
in
answer
to
the
silent
hungry
looks
of
question
addressed
to
her
,
and
alluding
to
the
doctor
,
who
is
still
with
the
patient
;
"
the
strength
is
maintained
;
the
temperature
lower
.
"
What
a
dreadful
parrot-sound
the
two
phrases
,
so
familiar
to
us
all
in
the
newspaper
bulletins
of
distinguished
men
on
their
death-beds
,
have
during
the
last
week
assumed
in
Burgoyne
's
ears
;
"
you
can
speak
to
him
yourself
when
he
comes
down
,
of
course
,
Jim
;
but
I
am
sure
he
is
satisfied
.
"
"
She
is
better
!
—
she
is
saved
!
"
cries
Byng
,
rushing
forward
and
snatching
both
Cecilia
's
hands
—
"
do
you
say
that
she
is
really
saved
?
"
"
Oh
,
are
you
here
still
,
Mr.
Byng
?
how
very
kind
of
you
!
"
replies
Cecilia
,
a
tinge
of
colour
rushing
over
her
mealy
face
—
that
face
,
ten
days
ago
,
clothed
in
so
many
roses
—
"
well
,
I
am
afraid
he
does
not
go
quite
so
far
as
that
,
but
he
says
it
is
as
much
as
we
can
expect
,
and
even
I
can
see
that
she
is
not
nearly
so
restless
.
"
"
Thank
God
!
—
thank
God
!
"
In
the
ardour
of
his
thanksgiving
he
presses
her
hands
closer
,
instead
of
dropping
them
,
a
fact
of
which
he
is
entirely
unaware
,
but
so
is
not
she
;
and
who
knows
,
even
at
that
serious
moment
,
what
tiny
genial
hope
may
slide
into
her
plump
heart
!
Again
this
night
Burgoyne
does
not
go
to
bed
,
from
a
superstitious
fear
that
if
he
does
,
if
he
seems
to
take
for
granted
an
improvement
,
that
very
taking
for
granted
may
annul
it
—
may
bring
on
a
relapse
.
But
when
the
next
morning
finds
no
such
backsliding
to
have
taken
place
,
when
each
hour
through
the
cheerfully
broadening
day
brings
falling
fever
and
steadying
pulse
,
then
indeed
he
cautiously
opens
the
door
of
his
heart
to
let
a
tiny
rose-pinioned
hope
creep
in
—
then
at
last
,
on
the
third
night
,
he
stretches
his
tired
limbs
in
deep
slumber
upon
his
bed
.
He
has
received
a
brief
telegram
from
Mrs.
Byng
to
announce
her
arrival
as
fast
as
boat
and
train
can
bring
her
;
and
seven
o'clock
on
Saturday
morning
—
he
having
sent
his
despatch
to
her
on
the
previous
Wednesday
—
finds
him
pacing
the
platform
of
the
railway-station
,
awaiting
the
incoming
of
the
morning
express
from
Turin
.
He
is
pacing
it
alone
,
for
he
has
thought
it
best
not
to
reveal
to
her
son
the
fact
of
her
expected
return
,
not
being
at
all
sure
in
what
spirit
he
will
receive
it
,
nor
whether
indeed
the
news
of
it
might
not
even
drive
him
,
in
his
present
unsound
state
of
mind
,
to
fly
from
the
place
at
her
approach
.
The
morning
air
,
in
its
early
clear
coolness
,
blows
sweet
here
,
under
the
station-roof
,
unconquered
even
by
engine
smoke
,
and
on
Jim
's
face
as
he
walks
up
and
down
—
careworn
as
it
still
is
—
there
comes
,
now
and
again
,
a
half-born
smile
.
He
is
never
one
to
hope
very
easily
,
but
surely
now
—
now
that
yet
another
night
has
been
prosperously
tided
over
,
there
can
,
even
to
him
,
seem
no
reasonable
ground
for
doubt
that
Amelia
has
turned
the
corner
.
Amelia
,
with
the
corner
turned
—
Byng
,
in
five
minutes
wholly
off
his
hands
!
The
only
wonder
is
,
that
the
small
smile
never
comes
quite
to
the
birth
.
The
train
is
punctual
,
and
almost
at
its
due
moment
draws
up
in
dusty
length
at
the
platform
.
Its
passengers
are
comparatively
few
;
for
at
this
latening
season
most
of
the
English
are
winging
home
to
their
rooky
woods
;
and
he
has
no
difficulty
in
at
once
discovering
among
them
the
tall
smart
figure
—
smart
even
after
forty-eight
hours
of
the
unluxurious
luxury
of
a
wagon-lit
—
of
the
lady
he
is
awaiting
.
As
he
gives
her
his
hand
to
help
her
down
the
high
step
,
the
admiring
thought
crosses
his
mind
of
what
a
large
quantity
of
fatigue
,
dust
,
and
uneasiness
of
mind
a
radically
good-looking
Englishwoman
,
in
radically
good
clothes
,
can
undergo
without
seeming
much
the
worse
for
them
.
Before
her
neat
narrow
foot
has
touched
the
pavement
,
a
brace
of
eager
questions
shoots
out
of
her
mouth
.
"
Am
I
in
time
?
Am
I
too
late
?
"
"
In
time
for
what
?
Too
late
for
what
?
"
"
Has
he
—
has
he
done
anything
—
anything
irrevocable
?
Is
he
—
is
he
?
I
suppose
that
horrid
woman
has
got
hold
of
him
?
I
suppose
that
is
why
you
sent
for
me
!
"
By
this
time
she
is
safely
landed
at
his
side
,
which
is
possibly
the
reason
why
he
at
once
lets
fall
her
hand
.
"
I
am
not
aware
that
there
is
any
'
horrid
woman
'
in
the
case
.
"
"
Oh
,
what
does
it
matter
what
I
call
her
?
"
cries
the
mother
,
fast
becoming
frantic
at
the
delay
in
answering
her
passionate
questions
.
"
I
will
call
her
what
you
please
;
you
know
perfectly
whom
I
mean
;
she
has
got
hold
of
him
,
I
suppose
.
I
always
knew
she
would
!
Did
not
I
tell
you
so
?
but
is
it
too
late
?
is
there
no
way
of
getting
him
off
?
"
Now
that
Burgoyne
has
a
nearer
view
of
Mrs.
Byng
,
he
sees
that
she
has
a
more
fagged
and
travel-worn
air
than
he
had
at
first
supposed
,
and
her
dusty
eyes
are
fastened
upon
him
with
such
a
hunger
of
interrogation
,
that
,
angered
and
jarred
as
he
is
by
her
tone
,
he
has
not
the
heart
any
longer
to
keep
her
in
suspense
.
"
If
you
are
alluding
to
Miss
Le
Marchant
,
I
may
as
well
tell
you
at
once
that
she
has
left
Florence
.
"
"
Left
Florence
!
Do
you
mean
to
say
that
she
has
run
away
with
someone
else
?
"
She
puts
the
question
in
all
good
faith
,
her
lively
imagination
having
easily
made
the
not
very
wide
jump
from
the
fact
already
established
in
her
own
mind
of
Elizabeth
being
an
adventuress
,
to
the
not
much
more
difficult
one
to
swallow
,
of
her
having
devoured
another
fils
de
famille
,
as
well
as
Mrs.
Byng
's
own
.
For
a
moment
,
Burgoyne
turns
away
,
voice
and
countenance
alike
beyond
his
control
.
He
has
by
no
means
perfectly
recovered
either
,
when
he
answers
—
"
Yes
,
with
someone
else
—
she
has
reached
the
pitch
of
turpitude
of
leaving
Florence
with
her
mother
.
"
"
She
is
gone
?
"
cries
Mrs.
Byng
,
with
an
accent
of
the
highest
relief
and
joy
;
"
gone
away
altogether
,
do
you
mean
?
—
oh
,
thank
God
!
"
—
then
,
with
a
sudden
lapse
into
affright
,
she
adds
rapidly
—
"
and
he
is
gone
after
her
?
—
he
is
not
here
?
"
"
No
,
he
is
here
.
"
"
Then
why
has
not
he
come
to
meet
me
?
"
—
suspiciously
.
"
He
did
not
know
you
were
expected
.
"
"
You
did
not
tell
him
?
"
"
No.
"
"
Why
did
not
you
tell
him
?
"
"
I
did
not
know
how
he
would
take
it
.
"
"
Do
you
mean
to
say
"
—
falling
from
her
former
rapidity
of
utterance
to
a
dismayed
incredulous
slowness
—
"
that
he
will
not
be
glad
to
see
me
?
—
that
Willy
will
not
be
glad
to
see
me
?
"
"
I
mean
to
say
that
I
am
afraid
you
will
not
find
him
very
much
in
sympathy
with
you
;
I
do
not
think
he
will
find
it
easy
to
hear
you
speak
of
Miss
Le
Marchant
in
the
terms
,
and
make
the
implication
about
her
that
you
did
just
now
,
"
replies
Jim
,
avenging
by
this
sentence
the
wrongs
done
to
Elizabeth
,
and
doing
it
so
well
,
that
a
moment
later
a
feeling
of
compunction
comes
over
him
at
the
success
of
his
own
attempt
at
retributive
justice
.
Mrs.
Byng
turns
pale
.
"
Then
she
has
got
hold
of
him
?
"
she
says
under
her
breath
.
"
Got
hold
of
him
?
"
repeats
Jim
,
his
ire
aroused
again
,
no
sooner
than
allayed
,
by
this
mode
of
expression
;
"
you
certainly
have
the
most
extraordinary
way
of
misconceiving
the
situation
!
Got
hold
of
him
?
when
she
had
to
leave
Florence
at
a
moment
's
notice
to
escape
his
importunities
!
"
But
at
this
,
Mr.
Burgoyne
's
auditor
looks
so
hopelessly
bewildered
that
he
thinks
it
the
simplest
plan
at
once
,
in
the
fewest
possible
words
,
to
put
her
in
possession
of
the
tale
of
her
son
's
achievements
and
disasters
.
He
does
this
,
partly
to
stem
the
torrent
of
her
questions
,
the
form
that
they
have
hitherto
taken
producing
in
him
a
feeling
of
frenzied
indignation
,
which
he
doubts
his
own
power
much
longer
to
conceal
—
partly
in
order
to
set
Elizabeth
's
conduct
with
the
least
possible
delay
in
its
true
light
before
her
.
Surely
,
when
she
has
been
told
of
her
magnanimous
renunciation
,
she
will
do
her
justice
,
will
cease
to
load
her
with
those
hard
names
and
insulting
assertions
that
have
made
him
grind
his
own
teeth
to
listen
to
.
But
in
this
expectation
he
soon
finds
that
he
is
mistaken
.
The
wrath
of
Mrs.
Byng
against
Elizabeth
for
having
"
drawn
in
"
her
son
,
as
she
persists
in
stating
the
case
,
is
surpassed
only
by
indignation
at
her
insolence
in
having
"
thrown
him
over
.
"
As
to
the
genuineness
of
this
last
action
she
expresses
,
it
is
true
,
the
most
complete
incredulity
.
"
It
was
only
to
enhance
her
own
value
.
Do
you
suppose
that
she
expected
him
to
take
her
at
her
word
?
She
thought
,
of
course
,
that
he
would
follow
her
—
that
he
would
employ
detectives
—
it
is
a
proof
"
—
with
an
angry
laugh
—
"
that
he
cannot
be
quite
so
bad
as
you
make
him
out
,
that
he
has
not
done
so
.
"
"
I
would
not
put
it
into
his
head
,
if
I
were
you
,
"
replies
Jim
,
with
an
anger
no
less
real
,
and
a
merriment
no
less
spurious
than
her
own
.
By
this
time
they
have
reached
the
hotel
;
and
Jim
,
having
helped
his
companion
out
of
the
fiacre
,
shows
symptoms
of
leaving
her
.
"
Will
not
you
stay
to
breakfast
with
me
?
"
she
asks
,
a
little
aghast
at
this
unexpected
manœuvre
;
"
I
cannot
make
my
toilette
till
the
luggage
arrives
:
and
I
suppose
that
he
"
—
her
eyes
wandering
wistfully
over
the
hotel
front
till
they
rest
on
her
son
's
closed
persiennes
—
"
that
he
is
not
up
yet
;
it
would
be
a
sin
to
wake
him
;
do
stay
with
me
.
"
"
I
am
afraid
I
cannot
.
"
"
Why
cannot
you
?
"
—
with
an
impatient
but
friendly
little
mocking
imitation
of
his
tone
.
"
You
are
not
"
—
with
a
conciliatory
smile
—
"
angry
with
an
old
hen
for
standing
up
for
her
own
chick
?
"
Jim
smiles
too
.
"
I
do
not
think
that
the
old
hen
need
have
clucked
quite
so
loudly
;
but
that
is
not
why
I
am
leaving
her
;
I
must
go
.
"
"
Where
must
you
go
?
"
"
To
the
Anglo-Américain
.
"
She
lifts
her
eyebrows
.
"
At
this
hour
—
you
forget
how
early
it
is
.
Well
,
Amelia
has
got
you
into
good
training
;
but
I
can
assure
you
that
you
will
still
find
her
in
bed
.
"
He
sighs
.
"
I
am
afraid
that
there
is
not
much
doubt
of
that
.
"
"
What
do
you
mean
?
—
she
is
not
ill
,
surely
?
"
—
in
a
tone
of
lively
surprise
—
"
Amelia
ill
?
—
impossible
!
"
He
looks
at
her
with
an
irrational
stupefaction
.
It
appears
to
him
now
,
in
the
distortion
of
all
objects
that
the
last
fortnight
has
brought
,
as
if
Amelia
's
illness
had
spread
over
the
whole
of
his
life
,
as
if
there
had
never
been
a
time
when
she
had
not
been
ill
,
and
yet
of
this
event
,
immense
as
it
seems
to
him
in
its
duration
,
the
woman
before
him
obviously
has
never
heard
.
When
he
comes
to
think
of
it
,
how
should
she
?
In
point
of
fact
it
is
not
a
fortnight
since
Miss
Wilson
fell
sick
,
and
during
that
fortnight
he
himself
has
not
written
her
a
line
;
neither
,
he
is
equally
sure
,
has
her
son
.
"
I
am
evidently
very
much
behind
the
time
,
"
she
says
,
noting
the
,
to
her
,
unintelligible
astonishment
in
his
face
;
"
but
you
must
remember
that
I
have
been
kept
completely
in
the
dark
—
has
she
been
ill
?
"
In
answer
he
tells
her
,
with
as
much
brevity
and
compression
as
he
had
employed
in
the
tale
of
Elizabeth
's
disappearance
,
that
of
Amelia
's
illness
,
often
interrupted
by
her
expressions
of
sympathy
.
At
the
end
she
says
:
"
I
am
so
thankful
I
did
not
hear
till
she
was
getting
better
!
It
would
have
made
me
so
wretched
to
be
such
a
long
way
off
!
"
Her
adoption
of
his
trouble
as
her
own
,
an
adoption
whose
sincerity
is
confirmed
by
her
impulsive
seizure
of
his
hand
,
and
the
feeling
look
in
her
handsome
eyes
make
him
forgive
the
exaggeration
of
her
statement
,
and
go
some
way
towards
replacing
her
in
that
position
in
his
esteem
which
her
diatribes
against
Elizabeth
had
gone
near
to
making
her
forfeit
.
"
But
it
will
be
all
right
now
,
"
continues
she
sanguinely
;
"
there
will
be
nothing
to
do
but
to
build
up
her
strength
again
,
and
she
is
young
—
at
least
"
—
as
the
reminiscence
of
Amelia
's
unyouthful
appearance
evidently
flashes
across
her
mind
,
of
that
prematurely
middle-aged
look
which
an
unequal
fortune
gives
to
some
plain
women
—
"
at
least
,
young
enough
for
all
practical
purposes
.
"
Whether
it
be
due
to
the
possession
of
this
modified
form
of
juvenility
,
to
an
excellent
constitution
,
or
to
what
other
reason
,
certain
it
is
that
the
next
two
days
go
by
without
any
diminution
,
rather
with
a
sensible
and
steady
increase
,
in
Miss
Wilson
's
favourable
symptoms
,
and
,
on
the
afternoon
of
the
latter
of
these
days
,
Cecilia
,
in
rather
impatient
answer
to
Jim
's
long
daily
string
of
questions
about
her
,
says
:
"
You
could
judge
much
better
if
you
saw
her
yourself
.
I
do
not
see
why
you
should
not
see
her
to-morrow
for
a
minute
,
that
is
to
say
,
if
you
would
promise
not
to
talk
or
ask
her
any
questions
.
"
"
But
would
it
be
safe
?
"
inquires
he
,
with
a
tremble
in
his
voice
.
He
desires
passionately
to
see
her
;
until
he
does
he
will
never
believe
that
she
is
really
going
to
live
;
he
has
a
hunger
to
assure
himself
that
no
terrible
metamorphosis
has
passed
over
her
in
these
nightmare
days
;
and
yet
,
coupled
with
that
hunger
,
is
a
deep
dread
,
which
translates
itself
into
his
next
halting
words
.
"
Shall
I
be
—
shall
I
be
very
much
shocked
?
is
she
—
is
she
very
much
changed
?
"
"
She
does
look
pretty
bad
,
"
replies
Cecilia
half
sadly
,
yet
with
the
sub-lying
cheerfulness
of
assured
hope
;
"
for
one
thing
she
is
so
wasted
.
I
suppose
that
that
is
what
makes
her
look
so
much
older
;
but
then
you
know
Amelia
never
did
look
young
.
"
It
is
the
second
time
within
two
days
that
the
fact
of
his
betrothed
's
maturity
has
been
impressed
upon
him
,
and
formerly
it
would
have
caused
him
a
pang
;
but
now
,
of
what
moment
is
it
to
him
that
she
looks
a
hundred
,
if
only
she
is
living
,
and
going
to
live
?
"
Has
she
—
has
she
asked
after
me
?
"
"
We
do
not
allow
her
to
speak
,
but
if
anyone
mentions
your
name
there
comes
a
sort
of
smile
over
her
face
;
such
a
ridiculous-sized
face
as
it
is
now
!
"
The
tears
have
come
into
Cecilia
's
large
stupid
eyes
,
and
Jim
himself
is
,
with
regard
to
her
,
in
the
position
of
the
great
Plantagenet
,
when
he
heard
the
lovely
tale
of
York
and
Suffolk
's
high
death
.
"
I
blame
you
not
For
hearing
this
;
I
must
perforce
compound
With
mistful
eyes
;
or
they
will
issue
too
!
"
As
he
walks
away
he
is
filled
with
a
solemn
joy
,
one
of
those
deep
serious
gladnesses
with
which
not
the
stranger
,
no
,
nor
even
the
close
friend
or
loving
kinsman
intermeddleth
.
He
is
under
an
engagement
to
meet
Mrs.
Byng
at
a
certain
hour
,
but
although
that
hour
has
already
come
and
passed
,
he
feels
that
he
cannot
face
all
her
sincere
congratulations
without
some
preparatory
toning
down
of
his
mood
.
The
streets
,
with
their
gay
va-et-vient
,
their
cracking
whips
and
shouting
drivers
,
seem
all
too
secular
and
every-day
to
match
the
profundity
of
his
reverent
thankfulness
.
He
takes
it
with
him
into
the
great
cool
church
that
stands
so
nigh
at
hand
to
his
hotel
,
Santa
Maria
Novella
.
The
doors
fall
behind
him
noiselessly
as
he
enters
,
shutting
out
the
fiery
hot
piazza
,
and
the
garish
noises
of
the
world
.
In
the
great
dim
interior
,
cold
and
tranquil
,
there
is
the
usual
sprinkling
of
tourists
peering
up
at
its
soaring
columns
,
trying
to
read
themselves
,
out
of
their
guide-books
,
into
a
proper
admiration
for
Cimabue
's
large-faced
Virgin
and
ugly
Bambino
,
folded
,
with
all
its
gold
and
sombre
colours
,
in
the
dignity
of
its
twice
two
centuries
of
gloom
.
There
are
the
usual
three
or
four
blue-trousered
soldiers
strolling
leisurely
about
,
there
is
a
curly-tailed
little
dog
trotting
hither
and
thither
unforbidden
,
ringing
his
bell
,
and
there
are
the
invariable
tanned
peasant-women
kneeling
at
the
side-altars
.
He
does
not
belong
to
the
ancient
Church
,
but
to-day
he
kneels
beside
them
,
and
the
tears
he
had
hastened
away
to
hide
from
Cecilia
come
back
to
make
yet
dimmer
to
his
view
the
details
of
the
dim
altar-pieces
behind
the
tall
candles
.
His
eye
,
as
he
rises
to
his
feet
again
,
falls
on
the
contadina
nearest
him
.
What
is
she
praying
for
?
In
the
expansion
of
his
own
deep
joy
he
longs
to
tell
her
how
much
he
hopes
that
,
whatever
it
is
,
she
will
obtain
it
.
It
is
not
the
contadina
who
,
standing
a
little
behind
,
joins
him
as
he
turns
away
from
the
altar
.
"
I
saw
you
go
into
the
church
,
"
says
Mrs.
Byng
,
her
smile
growing
somewhat
diffident
as
she
sees
the
solemnity
of
his
face
,
"
so
I
thought
I
would
follow
you
;
do
you
mind
?
shall
I
go
away
?
"
He
would
,
of
the
two
,
have
preferred
that
she
had
not
followed
him
,
that
he
had
been
given
five
more
minutes
to
himself
;
but
he
naturally
does
not
say
so
.
"
Since
we
are
here
,
shall
we
go
into
the
cloisters
?
"
and
he
assents
.
A
small
Dominican
monk
,
with
a
smile
and
a
bunch
of
keys
,
is
opening
a
door
to
some
strangers
,
prowling
like
our
friends
about
the
church
.
The
latter
follow
,
the
little
monk
enveloping
them
too
in
his
civil
smile
.
Down
some
steps
into
the
great
cloister
,
under
whose
arches
pale
frescoes
cover
the
ancient
walls
—
where
in
Florence
are
there
not
frescoes
?
—
and
the
hands
that
painted
them
seem
all
to
have
wielded
their
brushes
in
that
astounding
fifteenth
century
,
which
was
to
Florence
's
life
what
May
is
to
Italy
's
year
.
For
some
moments
they
stand
silent
,
side
by
side
,
perhaps
picking
out
familiar
scenes
from
among
the
sweet
faded
groups
—
a
slim
Rebecca
listening
to
Eliezar
's
tale
,
and
looking
maiden
pleasure
at
his
gifts
;
a
shivering
Adam
and
Eve
chased
out
of
Paradise
;
an
Adam
and
Eve
dismally
digging
and
stitching
respectively
;
Old
Testament
stories
that
time
has
blurred
,
that
weather
—
even
in
this
dry
air
—
has
rubbed
out
and
bedimmed
,
and
that
yet
,
in
many
cases
,
still
tell
their
curious
faint
tale
decipherably
.
"
Good
news
this
evening
,
I
hope
?
"
says
Mrs.
Byng
presently
,
growing
a
little
tired
of
her
companion
's
taciturnity
,
being
indeed
always
one
of
those
persons
who
are
of
opinion
that
the
gold
of
which
silence
is
said
to
be
made
has
a
good
deal
of
alloy
in
it
.
"
I
am
to
see
her
to-morrow
.
"
He
speaks
almost
under
his
breath
,
either
because
he
has
no
great
confidence
in
his
voice
,
if
he
employ
a
higher
key
,
or
because
there
seems
to
him
a
certain
sanctity
in
this
promised
meeting
on
the
kindly
hither
side
of
the
grave
which
has
so
lately
yawned
.
Mrs.
Byng
is
much
too
old
and
intimate
a
friend
of
Jim
's
not
to
have
been
pretty
well
aware
of
the
state
of
his
feelings
during
the
past
eight
years
,
though
certainly
not
through
any
communication
from
him
.
So
it
is
,
perhaps
,
scarcely
to
be
wondered
at
that
she
presently
says
,
in
a
tone
tinged
with
admiring
surprise
:
"
How
fond
you
are
of
her
!
"
He
receives
the
remark
in
a
jarred
silence
,
his
eye
resting
on
the
square
of
neglected
graves
in
the
middle
of
the
cloister
,
how
unlike
our
turfy
quads
and
lawns
.
A
commonplace
nineteenth
century
photographer
,
with
his
vulgar
camera
planted
on
the
time-worn
stones
,
is
evidently
trying
to
persuade
the
little
monk
to
pose
for
his
picture
.
The
gentle-looking
Fra
laughs
,
and
draws
up
his
cowl
,
then
lowers
it
again
,
folding
his
arms
,
and
trying
various
postures
.
"
You
are
so
much
fonder
of
her
than
you
were
!
"
This
speech
—
though
such
is
certainly
far
from
the
good-natured
speaker
's
intention
—
stings
Burgoyne
like
a
whip-lash
.
"
I
was
always
fond
of
her
—
I
always
thought
her
the
very
best
woman
in
the
world
;
you
know
!
"
—
with
an
accent
of
almost
anguished
appeal
—
"
that
I
always
thought
her
the
very
best
woman
in
the
world
.
"
"
Oh
,
yes
;
of
course
,
I
know
you
did
,
"
replies
she
,
astonished
and
concerned
at
the
evident
and
extreme
distress
of
his
tone
.
"
That
is
not
quite
the
same
thing
as
being
fond
of
her
,
is
it
?
But
"
—
with
a
laugh
that
is
at
once
uneasy
and
reassuring
—
"
what
does
that
matter
now
?
Now
your
fondness
for
her
is
as
indisputable
as
Tilburina
's
madness
;
and
,
for
my
part
,
I
always
think
people
get
on
quite
as
well
,
if
not
better
,
afterwards
,
if
they
do
not
begin
quite
so
volcanically
.
"
But
her
light
and
well-meant
words
fail
to
remove
the
painful
impression
from
her
hearer
's
mind
.
Has
she
,
during
all
these
years
,
been
crediting
him
with
a
wish
for
Amelia
's
death
,
that
she
should
be
so
much
astonished
at
his
thankfulness
for
her
being
given
back
to
him
?
"
I
believe
that
this
illness
is
the
best
thing
that
could
have
happened
to
you
both
,
"
continues
Mrs.
Byng
,
feeling
uncomfortably
that
she
has
not
been
happy
in
her
choice
of
a
topic
,
and
yet
unable
to
leave
it
alone
.
"
It
will
have
drawn
you
so
much
together
:
in
fact
"
—
again
laughing
nervously
—
"
I
think
we
are
all
looking
up
.
As
I
told
you
,
after
the
first
shock
,
Willy
really
was
rather
glad
to
see
me
;
and
you
would
not
believe
how
discreetly
I
handle
the
burning
subject
—
yes
,
everything
is
on
the
mend
,
and
we
are
all
going
to
have
a
lovely
time
,
as
the
Yankees
say
!
"
CHAPTER
XXX
.
"
The
world
's
a
city
full
of
straying
streets
,
And
Death
the
market-place
where
each
one
meets
.
"
The
words
are
scarcely
out
of
Mrs.
Byng
's
mouth
before
she
adds
,
in
a
changed
key
,
and
with
an
altered
direction
of
the
eyes
—
"
Is
this
person
looking
for
you
?
He
seems
to
be
coming
straight
towards
us
.
"
Jim
turns
his
head
at
her
speech
,
and
at
once
recognises
in
the
figure
hastening
towards
them
the
porter
of
the
Anglo-Américain
hotel
.
The
man
looks
strangely
,
and
carries
a
slip
of
paper
,
unfolded
and
open
,
in
his
hand
.
In
a
second
Jim
has
sprung
to
his
side
,
has
snatched
the
paper
,
and
is
staring
at
its
contents
.
They
are
hardly
legible
,
scrawled
tremblingly
with
a
pencil
,
and
for
a
moment
he
cannot
make
them
out
.
Then
,
as
he
looks
,
in
one
horrible
flash
their
import
has
sprung
into
his
eyes
and
brain
.
"
She
is
gone
;
come
to
us
!
"
Mrs.
Byng
is
reading
too
,
over
his
shoulder
.
In
going
over
the
scene
in
memory
afterwards
,
he
believes
that
she
gives
a
sort
of
scream
,
and
says
,
"
Oh
,
what
does
it
mean
?
It
is
not
true
!
"
But
at
the
time
he
hears
,
he
knows
nothing
.
He
is
out
of
the
church
;
he
is
in
the
fiacre
waiting
at
the
door
:
he
is
tearing
through
the
streets
,
with
the
hot
summer
air
flowing
in
a
quick
current
against
his
face
.
He
thinks
afterwards
at
what
a
pace
the
horse
must
have
been
going
,
and
how
the
poor
jade
must
have
been
lashed
to
keep
it
up
to
that
useless
speed
.
At
the
time
he
thinks
nothing
,
he
feels
nothing
.
He
rushes
through
the
court
of
the
hotel
,
rushes
through
what
seem
to
be
people
;
he
thinks
afterwards
that
they
must
have
been
waiters
and
chambermaids
,
and
that
there
came
a
sort
of
compassionate
murmur
from
them
as
he
passed
.
He
is
up
the
stairs
,
the
three
flights
;
as
he
tears
up
,
three
steps
at
a
time
,
there
comes
across
his
numbed
intelligence
a
flash
of
wonder
why
they
always
give
Amelia
the
worst
room
.
He
is
at
that
door
,
outside
which
he
has
spent
so
many
hours
of
breathless
listening
;
he
need
no
longer
stay
outside
it
now
.
It
is
open
,
inviting
him
in
.
He
is
across
that
,
as
yet
,
unpassed
threshold
,
that
threshold
over
which
he
was
to
have
stepped
in
careful
,
soft-footed
joy
to-morrow
.
He
has
pushed
through
the
people
—
why
must
there
be
people
everywhere
?
—
of
whom
the
room
seems
full
,
unnecessarily
full
;
he
is
at
the
bedside
.
Across
the
foot
a
figure
seems
thrown
—
he
learns
afterwards
that
that
is
Sybilla
.
Another
figure
is
prostrate
on
the
floor
,
heaving
,
in
dreadful
dry
sobs
;
that
is
Cecilia
.
A
third
is
standing
upright
and
tearless
,
looking
down
upon
what
,
an
hour
ago
,
was
his
most
patient
daughter
.
They
have
left
her
alone
now
—
have
ceased
to
tease
her
.
They
no
longer
hold
a
looking-glass
to
her
pale
mouth
,
or
beat
her
tired
feet
,
or
pour
useless
cordials
between
her
lips
.
They
have
ceased
to
cry
out
upon
her
name
,
having
realized
that
she
is
much
too
far
away
to
hear
them
.
Neither
does
he
cry
out
.
He
just
goes
and
stands
by
the
father
,
and
takes
his
thin
old
hand
in
his
;
and
together
they
gaze
on
that
poor
temple
,
out
of
which
the
spirit
that
was
so
much
too
lovely
for
it
has
fleeted
.
Later
on
they
tell
him
how
it
came
about
;
later
on
,
when
they
are
all
sitting
huddled
in
the
little
dark
salon
.
Cecilia
is
the
spokeswoman
,
and
Sybilla
puts
in
sobbing
corrections
now
and
again
.
"
She
was
sitting
up
the
moment
before
;
the
nurse
was
holding
her
propped
up
—
she
said
she
was
so
tired
of
lying
.
She
had
been
quite
laughing
,
the
nurse
said
.
"
"
Almost
laughing
,
"
corrects
Sybilla
,
who
has
forgotten
to
lie
down
upon
her
sofa
,
and
is
sitting
on
a
hard
chair
like
anyone
else
.
"
Quite
laughing
,
"
continues
Cecilia
,
"
at
her
own
arm
for
being
so
thin
.
She
had
pushed
up
her
sleeve
to
look
at
it
,
and
had
said
something
—
something
quite
funny
,
only
the
nurse
could
not
remember
the
exact
words
—
and
then
,
all
in
a
minute
,
she
called
out
,
in
quite
an
altered
voice
,
'
The
salts
!
Quick
!
Quick
!
'
and
her
head
just
fell
back
,
and
she
was
gone
!
"
"
And
she
had
not
bid
one
of
us
good-bye
!
"
cries
Sybilla
,
breaking
into
a
loud
wail
.
Then
comes
a
dreadful
and
incongruous
flash
of
that
ridiculous
,
which
is
the
underlining
to
all
our
tragedies
,
across
Jim
's
mind
at
this
last
lament
.
The
going
,
"
taking
no
farewell
,
"
naturally
seems
to
Sybilla
the
most
terrible
feature
in
the
whole
case
,
to
her
who
has
so
repeatedly
taken
heartrending
last
farewells
of
her
family
.
"
Who
would
ever
have
thought
that
I
should
have
survived
her
?
"
pursues
Sybilla
,
still
sobbing
noisily
,
and
without
the
least
attempt
at
self-control
.
Cecilia
,
who
is
sitting
with
her
head
on
her
arms
resting
on
the
table
,
lifts
her
tear-blurred
face
and
answers
this
apostrophe
in
a
voice
choked
with
weeping
.
"
Jim
always
did
;
he
always
said
that
you
would
see
us
all
out
.
"
Again
that
dreadful
impulse
towards
mirth
assails
Burgoyne
.
Is
it
possible
that
,
at
such
an
hour
,
he
can
feel
a
temptation
to
laugh
out
loud
?
But
,
later
again
,
this
horrible
mood
passes
;
later
,
when
they
have
all
grown
more
composed
,
when
their
tears
run
more
gently
,
when
their
voices
are
less
suffocated
,
and
they
are
telling
each
other
little
anecdotes
of
her
,
aiding
each
other
's
memories
to
recall
half-effaced
traits
of
her
homely
kindness
,
of
her
noiseless
self-denials
,
of
her
deep
still
piety
.
They
bring
out
her
photographs
,
mourning
over
their
being
so
few
,
and
such
old
and
long-ago
ones
.
There
are
effigies
by
the
dozen
of
Cecilia
,
and
even
touching
presentments
of
Sybilla
stretched
in
wasted
grace
upon
her
day
bed
;
but
it
had
never
occurred
to
anyone
—
least
of
all
to
Amelia
herself
—
that
there
is
any
need
for
her
image
to
be
perpetuated
.
And
now
they
are
searching
out
,
as
treasures
most
precious
,
the
scanty
faded
likenesses
that
exist
of
her
,
planning
how
they
can
be
enlarged
,
and
repeated
,
and
daintily
framed
,
and
generally
done
homage
and
tender
reverence
to
.
Jim
listens
,
occasionally
putting
in
a
low
word
or
two
,
when
appealed
to
to
confirm
or
correct
the
details
of
some
little
story
about
her
.
But
it
seems
to
him
as
if
his
anguish
only
begins
when
the
stream
of
their
reminiscences
turns
into
the
channel
of
her
love
for
him
.
"
Oh
,
Jim
,
she
was
fond
of
you
!
We
were
none
of
us
anywhere
,
compared
to
you
;
she
worshipped
the
ground
you
trod
upon
.
We
all
knew
—
did
not
we
,
Sybilla
?
—
did
not
we
,
father
?
—
when
you
used
to
be
away
for
so
long
,
and
wrote
to
her
so
seldom
—
—
Oh
,
I
know
!
"
—
hastily
—
"
that
you
were
not
to
blame
,
that
you
were
in
out-of-the-way
places
,
where
there
was
no
post
:
but
there
were
sometimes
long
gaps
between
your
letters
;
and
we
always
knew
—
did
not
we
?
—
when
she
had
heard
from
you
by
her
face
,
long
before
she
spoke
.
"
Next
it
is
—
"
How
she
fired
up
if
anyone
said
anything
slightingly
of
you
:
she
never
cared
in
the
least
if
one
abused
herself
;
she
always
thought
she
quite
deserved
it
;
but
if
anybody
dared
to
say
the
least
disparaging
thing
of
you
"
—
it
is
pretty
evident
,
though
at
the
moment
in
his
agony
of
preoccupation
the
idea
does
not
occur
to
Jim
,
that
this
has
not
been
an
uncommon
occurrence
—
"
she
was
like
a
lioness
at
once
.
"
"
The
saddest
thing
of
all
,
"
says
Sybilla
,
taking
up
the
antiphonal
strain
,
"
is
that
she
should
have
died
just
as
she
was
beginning
to
be
so
happy
!
"
Just
beginning
to
be
so
happy
?
And
he
might
have
made
her
heavenly
happy
so
easily
,
since
she
asked
so
little
—
for
eight
years
.
The
groan
he
utters
is
low
in
proportion
to
the
depth
of
the
fountain
whence
it
springs
,
and
they
do
not
hear
it
.
If
they
did
,
they
would
in
mercy
stop
;
instead
,
they
go
on
.
"
Did
you
ever
see
anything
so
radiant
as
she
was
—
that
last
fortnight
?
She
used
to
say
that
she
was
quite
ashamed
of
being
so
much
more
fortunate
than
anyone
else
,
she
seemed
always
trying
to
make
up
to
us
for
not
being
so
happy
as
she
.
Oh
,
she
was
happy
that
last
fortnight
!
"
This
time
he
does
not
groan
,
he
seems
to
himself
to
have
passed
into
that
zone
of
suffering
which
cannot
be
expressed
or
alleviated
by
the
utterance
of
any
sound
.
Perhaps
,
by-and-by
,
Cecilia
dimly
divines
something
,
some
faint
shadow
of
what
he
is
enduring
;
for
she
begins
with
well-intentioned
labour
to
try
to
assert
lamely
that
Amelia
had
always
been
happy
,
well
,
fairly
happy
,
as
happy
as
most
people
.
You
could
not
expect
,
in
this
dreadful
world
,
to
be
always
in
the
best
of
spirits
,
but
she
had
never
complained
.
And
,
oh
!
that
last
fortnight
she
had
been
happy
,
it
was
a
pleasure
to
see
her
!
And
,
oh
,
what
a
comfort
it
must
be
now
to
Jim
to
think
that
it
was
all
owing
to
him
.
She
puts
out
her
hand
kindly
to
him
as
she
speaks
,
and
he
takes
it
,
and
silently
wrings
it
in
acknowledgment
of
the
endeavour
—
however
clumsy
—
to
lay
balm
upon
that
now
immedicable
wound
.
He
stays
most
of
the
night
with
them
;
and
when
at
length
,
overcome
with
weariness
and
sorrow
,
they
rise
from
their
grief-stricken
postures
to
go
to
bed
,
he
kisses
them
all
solemnly
,
even
the
old
man
.
He
has
never
kissed
any
of
them
before
,
except
once
or
twice
Cecilia
on
some
return
of
his
from
the
Antipodes
,
and
because
she
seemed
to
expect
it
.
Three
days
later
Burgoyne
leaves
Florence
;
and
,
as
his
arrival
in
the
City
of
Flowers
had
been
motived
by
Amelia
alive
,
so
is
his
departure
to
companion
her
dead
.
END
OF
PART
ONE
.
PART
II
.
Elizabeth
.
CHAPTER
I
.
"
It
was
a
chosen
plot
of
fertile
land
,
Amongst
wide
waves
set
like
a
little
nest
,
As
if
it
had
by
Nature
's
cunning
hand
Been
choycely
picked
out
from
all
the
rest
,
And
laid
forth
for
ensample
of
the
best
.
No
daintie
flower
or
herb
that
grows
on
ground
,
No
arborete
with
painted
blossomes
drest
,
And
smelling
sweete
,
but
there
it
might
be
found
To
bud
out
faire
,
and
throwe
her
sweet
smell
all
around
.
"
Time
has
stepped
upon
another
year
;
not
much
more
than
stepped
,
since
that
year
's
first
month
is
not
yet
out
;
and
Burgoyne
has
stepped
upon
another
continent
before
we
again
rejoin
him
.
There
are
few
,
if
any
of
us
,
who
,
in
the
course
of
our
lives
,
have
not
had
occasion
to
wish
that
certain
spaces
in
those
lives
might
be
represented
by
the
convenient
asterisks
that
cover
them
in
books
;
but
this
is
unfortunately
impossible
to
Jim
,
as
to
the
rest
of
us
;
and
he
has
fought
through
each
minute
and
its
minuteful
of
pain
(
happily
no
minute
can
contain
two
minutefuls
)
during
the
seven
months
that
have
elapsed
since
we
parted
from
him
.
At
first
those
minutes
held
nothing
but
pain
;
he
could
not
tell
you
which
of
them
it
was
that
first
admitted
within
its
little
compass
any
alien
ingredient
;
and
he
was
shocked
and
remorseful
when
he
discovered
that
any
such
existed
.
But
that
did
not
alter
the
fact
.
He
has
not
sold
his
guns
;
on
the
contrary
,
he
has
bought
two
new
ones
,
and
he
has
visited
his
old
friends
,
the
Rockies
.
Since
Amelia
's
funeral
—
immediately
after
which
he
again
quitted
England
—
he
has
seen
no
member
of
his
dead
betrothed
's
family
,
nor
has
he
held
any
intercourse
,
beyond
the
exchange
of
an
infrequent
letter
,
with
Mrs.
Byng
or
her
son
.
From
the
thought
of
both
these
latter
he
shrinks
,
with
a
distaste
equal
in
degree
,
though
inspired
by
different
causes
.
From
Mrs.
Byng
,
because
he
knows
that
she
was
aware
of
his
weariness
of
his
poor
love
—
that
poor
love
whom
,
had
he
but
known
it
,
he
had
so
short
a
time
to
be
weary
of
;
and
from
Byng
,
because
,
despite
the
ocean
of
sorrow
,
of
remorse
,
of
death
that
rolls
in
its
hopelessness
between
him
and
her
,
he
cannot
even
yet
think
,
without
a
bitter
pang
,
of
the
woman
who
had
inspired
the
young
man
's
hysterical
tears
and
sincere
,
though
silly
,
suicidal
impulses
.
Jim
took
that
pang
with
him
to
the
Rockies
,
stinging
,
even
through
the
overlying
load
of
his
other
and
acknowledged
burden
of
repentant
ache
and
loss
,
and
he
has
brought
it
back
with
him
.
He
packs
it
into
his
portmanteau
as
much
as
a
matter
of
course
as
he
does
his
shirts
—
in
fact
more
so
,
for
he
has
once
inadvertently
left
his
shirts
behind
,
but
the
pang
never
.
It
is
the
20th
day
of
January
;
here
,
in
England
,
the
most
consistently
detestable
month
in
the
year
.
The
good
Januaries
of
a
British
octogenarian
's
life
might
be
counted
upon
the
thumbs
of
that
octogenarian
's
hands
.
The
favoured
inhabitants
of
London
have
breakfasted
and
lunched
by
gaslight
;
have
groped
their
way
along
their
dirty
streets
through
a
fog
of
as
thick
and
close
a
fabric
as
the
furs
gathered
round
their
chilled
throats
;
have
,
even
within
their
houses
,
seen
each
other
dimly
across
a
hideous
yellow
vapour
that
kills
their
expensive
flowers
,
and
makes
their
unwilling
palm-trees
droop
in
homesick
sadness
.
There
is
no
fog
about
the
Grand
Hotel
,
Mustapha
Supérieur
,
Algiers
;
no
lightest
blur
of
mist
to
dim
the
intensity
of
the
frame
of
green
in
which
its
white
face
is
set
.
It
is
not
so
very
grand
,
despite
its
unpromising
big
name
,
as
it
stands
high
aloft
on
the
hillside
,
looking
out
over
the
bay
and
down
on
the
town
,
looking
down
more
immediately
upon
tree-tops
,
and
on
the
Governor
's
summer
palace
.
It
is
an
old
Moorish
house
,
enlarged
into
an
hotel
,
with
little
arched
windows
sunk
in
the
thick
walls
,
with
red-tiled
floors
,
and
balconies
,
with
low
white
balustrades
of
pierced
brick
,
up
which
the
lush
creepers
climb
and
wave
—
yes
,
climb
and
wave
on
this
20th
of
January
.
From
the
red-floored
balcony
over
the
creepers
,
between
the
perennial
leafage
of
the
unchanging
trees
,
one
can
daily
descry
in
the
azure
bay
the
tiny
puff
of
smoke
that
tells
that
the
mail
steamer
from
Marseilles
has
safely
breasted
the
Gulf
of
Lyons
,
threaded
her
away
among
the
Isles
,
and
brought
her
freight
of
French
and
English
and
American
news
to
the
hands
and
ears
of
the
various
expectant
nationalities
.
To-day
,
blown
by
a
gently
prosperous
wind
,
the
boat
is
punctual
.
It
is
the
Eugène
Perrère
,
the
pet
child
of
the
Transatlantic
Company
,
the
narrow
and
strong-engined
little
vessel
which
is
wont
to
accomplish
the
transit
in
a
period
of
time
less
by
an
hour
than
her
brother
craft
.
To-day
she
has
brought
but
one
guest
to
the
Grand
Hotel
,
who
,
having
left
the
bulk
of
his
luggage
to
be
struggled
for
by
Arabs
,
and
by
the
hotel-porter
at
the
Douane
,
arrives
at
the
modest
Moorish-faced
hostelry
,
having
,
with
British
mercifulness
,
walked
up
the
break-neck
green
lane
that
leads
from
the
steep
main
road
in
order
to
spare
the
wretched
little
galled
,
pumped
horse
that
has
painfully
dragged
him
and
his
bag
from
the
pier
.
He
has
travelled
straight
through
from
London
—
fifty-five
hours
without
a
pause
—
so
that
it
is
not
to
be
wondered
at
that
his
thoughts
turn
affectionately
towards
a
wash
and
a
change
of
raiment
.
Having
extracted
from
the
case
of
unclaimed
letters
in
the
bar
two
or
three
that
bear
the
address
of
James
Burgoyne
,
Esq.
,
he
is
ushered
to
his
room
by
the
civil
little
fussy
Italian
landlord
,
who
,
in
order
to
enhance
his
appreciation
of
the
apartment
provided
for
him
,
assures
him
,
in
voluble
bad
French
,
that
only
yesterday
he
had
been
obliged
to
turn
away
a
party
of
eight
.
It
is
not
until
refreshed
by
a
completed
toilette
—
and
who
can
overrate
the
joy
of
a
bath
after
a
journey
?
—
that
it
occurs
to
him
to
look
out
of
window
.
His
room
possesses
two
.
One
faces
the
hill
's
rich-clothed
steepness
,
and
a
row
of
orange-trees
covered
with
fruit
,
and
at
whose
feet
tumbled
gold
balls
lie
.
But
the
dusk
is
falling
fast
,
and
he
can
only
dimly
see
the
prodigality
of
green
in
which
the
modest
Grand
Hotel
lies
buried
.
The
other
window
looks
out
—
but
a
very
little
way
lifted
above
it
,
for
the
room
is
on
the
ground
floor
—
upon
the
red-tiled
terrace
.
It
is
growing
very
dim
too
.
At
the
present
moment
it
is
empty
and
deserted
,
but
the
chairs
studded
over
its
surface
in
talkative
attitudes
,
as
if
sociable
twos
and
threes
had
drawn
together
in
chat
,
tell
plainly
that
earlier
in
the
day
it
had
been
frequented
,
and
that
several
people
had
been
sitting
out
on
it
.
Jim
's
London
memories
are
too
fresh
upon
him
for
him
not
to
find
something
ludicrous
in
the
idea
of
sitting
out
of
doors
on
the
20th
of
January
.
How
pleasant
it
would
have
been
to
do
so
to-day
in
Hyde
Park
!
He
turns
back
to
the
table
with
a
smile
at
the
idea
,
and
,
taking
out
a
writing-case
,
sits
down
to
scribble
a
line
.
Jim
's
correspondence
is
neither
a
large
nor
an
interesting
one
.
On
the
present
occasion
,
his
note
is
merely
one
of
reminder
as
to
some
trifling
order
,
addressed
to
the
landlord
of
his
London
lodgings
.
It
does
not
take
him
ten
minutes
to
pen
,
and
when
it
is
finished
he
turns
to
have
one
final
look
out
of
window
before
leaving
the
room
.
How
quickly
the
dark
has
fallen
!
The
empty
chairs
show
indistinct
outlines
,
and
the
heavy
green
trees
have
turned
black
.
But
the
terrace
is
no
longer
quite
empty
.
A
footfall
sounds
—
coming
slowly
along
it
.
One
of
the
waiters
,
no
doubt
,
sent
to
fetch
in
the
chairs
;
but
,
no
!
an
overworked
Swiss
waiter
,
hurried
by
electric
bells
,
and
with
an
imminent
swollen
table
table
d'hôte
upon
his
burdened
mind
,
never
paced
so
slowly
,
nor
did
anything
male
ever
step
so
lightly
.
It
must
be
a
woman
;
and
even
now
her
white
gown
makes
a
patch
of
light
upon
the
dark
background
of
the
quickly
on-coming
night
.
A
white
gown
on
the
20th
of
January
!
Again
that
pleasing
sense
of
the
ludicrous
tickles
