AgainAmelia
's
lip
quivers
.
"
I
thought
,
"
she
says
gently
,
"
if
—
if
you
have
no
other
engagement
this
afternoon
;
if
—
if
you
are
free
—
—
"
Nothing
can
be
milder
than
the
form
which
this
suggestion
takes
,
and
yet
there
is
something
in
its
shape
that
provokes
him
.
"
Free
!
"
he
interrupts
tartly
,
"
of
course
I
am
free
!
Have
I
a
gouty
father
and
a
hysteric
sister
?
Why
should
not
I
be
free
?
"
"
I
am
very
glad
to
hear
it
,
"
rejoins
she
—
the
light
that
his
first
proposal
to
take
her
out
had
brought
into
her
face
growing
brighter
and
more
established
—
"
because
in
that
case
there
is
nothing
to
prevent
your
meeting
us
at
the
villa
,
and
—
—
"
"
And
seeing
you
and
Mrs.
Byng
walking
about
with
your
arms
round
each
other
's
necks
,
like
a
couple
of
schoolgirls
,
"
cries
he
,
with
a
sort
of
spurious
grumpiness
.
"
I
ca
n't
think
why
you
should
object
to
Amelia
walking
about
with
her
arm
round
Mrs.
Byng
's
neck
,
"
says
Cecilia
,
whose
attention
to
her
"
Etiquette
"
is
apparently
not
so
absorbing
but
that
she
has
some
to
spare
for
the
conversation
going
on
in
her
neighbourhood
.
They
all
laugh
a
little
;
and
harmony
being
restored
,
and
Jim
graciously
vouchsafing
to
forgive
Amelia
for
having
ignored
her
for
a
sennight
,
she
returns
to
her
patient
,
and
he
to
his
hotel
,
where
he
is
at
once
,
contrary
to
his
wish
,
pounced
upon
by
Byng
.
For
some
reason
,
which
he
would
be
puzzled
to
explain
to
himself
,
he
has
for
the
last
week
rather
avoided
his
friend
's
company
—
a
task
rendered
easier
by
the
disposition
manifested
by
the
young
man
's
mother
to
monopolize
him
,
a
disposition
to
which
Burgoyne
has
felt
no
inclination
to
run
counter
.
It
is
without
enthusiasm
that
he
receives
Byng
's
expressions
of
pleasure
in
their
accidental
meeting
.
"
I
have
been
searching
for
you
,
high
and
low
.
"
"
Have
you
?
"
"
Where
have
you
been
?
"
"
I
have
been
to
the
Anglo-Américain
"
—
with
a
flash
of
inward
self-congratulation
at
this
query
having
been
put
to-day
,
instead
of
yesterday
,
or
the
day
before
.
The
other
looks
disappointed
.
"
To
the
Anglo-Américain
?
I
thought
—
I
hoped
;
have
you
—
seen
them
lately
?
"
Burgoyne
has
ceased
to
feign
lack
of
understanding
to
whom
the
personal
pronoun
refers
,
and
he
answers
with
as
much
carelessness
as
at
a
moment
's
notice
he
can
put
on
:
"
Why
,
yes
,
I
have
,
once
or
twice
.
"
"
Do
they
—
do
not
they
think
it
strange
of
me
not
to
have
been
near
them
all
this
time
?
"
"
They
may
do
"
—
dryly
.
"
They
did
not
say
so
?
"
"
They
did
not
;
perhaps
"
—
sarcastically
—
"
the
subject
was
too
acutely
painful
for
them
to
allude
to
.
"
Frequently
as
he
has
exposed
himself
to
them
,
his
Mentor
's
sneers
never
fail
to
send
the
crimson
racing
into
Byng
's
face
,
and
it
finds
its
way
there
now
.
It
does
not
,
however
,
prevent
his
proceeding
,
after
a
confused
moment
or
two
,
with
his
anxious
catechism
.
"
She
—
she
has
not
referred
to
the
subject
?
"
"
What
subject
?
"
"
To
—
to
me
?
"
"
She
has
never
mentioned
your
name
.
Stay
"
—
his
veracity
winning
a
reluctant
victory
over
his
ill-nature
—
"
one
day
she
said
that
you
were
sunshiny
,
and
that
she
liked
sunshine
.
"
As
he
speaks
he
looks
down
at
his
boots
,
too
unaffectedly
annoyed
at
the
justification
of
Elizabeth
's
epithet
which
its
retailing
has
worked
on
Byng
's
countenance
to
be
able
to
contemplate
him
with
any
decent
patience
.
But
there
is
enough
evidence
in
the
boy
's
voice
of
the
effect
wrought
upon
him
by
Miss
Le
Marchant
's
adjective
to
make
his
comrade
repent
very
heartily
of
having
repeated
it
.
"
I
should
have
been
over
,
"
says
Byng
in
a
low
eager
way
,
"
every
day
,
every
hour
,
as
often
as
they
would
have
received
me
,
only
that
I
could
not
leave
my
mother
;
and
she
—
she
has
taken
them
en
grippe
!
"
"
En
grippe
?
Your
mother
?
"
repeats
Jim
,
too
honestly
and
disagreeably
startled
by
this
piece
of
news
to
be
able
any
longer
to
maintain
his
ironical
manner
;
"
why
?
"
The
other
shrugs
his
shoulders
dispiritedly
.
"
I
have
not
an
idea
;
it
cannot
be
because
they
did
not
seem
to
wish
to
be
introduced
to
her
at
the
Accademia
the
other
day
;
she
is
quite
incapable
of
such
pettiness
,
and
she
admired
HER
so
tremendously
at
first
,
did
not
she
?
You
heard
her
;
but
since
then
she
has
taken
it
into
her
head
that
there
is
something
—
I
cannot
bear
even
to
say
it
"
—
dashing
his
hat
and
gloves
vehemently
upon
the
table
—
"
something
louche
,
as
she
calls
it
,
about
her
.
Mother
thinks
that
she
—
she
—
she
"
—
sinking
his
voice
to
an
indistinct
half-whisper
—
"
has
—
has
gone
off
the
rails
some
time
or
other
.
Can
you
conceive
?
"
—
raising
his
tone
again
to
one
of
the
acutest
pain
and
indignation
—
"
that
anyone
—
any
human
being
could
look
in
her
face
and
harbour
such
a
notion
for
a
single
instant
?
"
He
stares
with
eyes
ablaze
with
wrathful
pity
at
his
friend
's
face
,
expecting
an
answering
outbreak
to
his
own
;
but
none
such
comes
.
Burgoyne
only
says
,
in
a
not
much
more
assured
key
than
that
which
the
young
man
had
employed
:
"
How
—
how
can
such
an
idea
have
got
into
your
mother
's
head
?
"
"
I
do
not
know
,
but
it
is
there
;
and
what
I
wanted
you
,
what
I
have
been
searching
everywhere
for
you
for
,
is
to
ask
you
to
—
to
set
her
right
,
at
once
,
without
any
delay
.
It
is
unbearable
that
she
should
go
on
thinking
such
things
,
and
nothing
could
be
easier
for
you
,
who
know
them
so
well
,
who
know
all
about
them
!
"
Burgoyne
is
at
first
too
much
stupefied
by
this
appeal
,
and
by
the
impossibility
of
answering
it
in
a
satisfactory
manner
,
to
make
any
response
at
all
;
but
at
length
:
"
Know
all
about
them
?
"
he
says
,
in
a
voice
whose
surface
impatience
hides
a
much
profounder
feeling
.
"
Who
dares
ever
say
that
he
knows
all
about
any
other
living
soul
?
How
many
times
must
I
tell
you
that
,
until
we
met
at
Genoa
,
I
had
not
set
eyes
on
Miss
Le
Marchant
for
ten
good
years
?
"
At
the
tone
of
this
speech
,
so
widely
different
from
the
eager
acceptance
of
the
suggested
task
which
he
had
expected
,
Byng
's
face
takes
on
a
crestfallen
,
almost
frightened
look
.
"
But
when
you
knew
them
,
"
he
says
,
"
in
Devonshire
,
they
—
they
were
all
right
then
,
were
not
they
?
they
were
well
thought
of
?
—
there
was
nothing
against
them
?
"
"
Good
Heavens
—
no
!
"
replies
Jim
heartily
,
thankful
that
the
appeal
is
now
so
worded
as
to
enable
him
to
give
a
warm
testimony
in
favour
of
his
poor
friends
.
"
There
was
not
a
family
in
all
the
neighbourhood
that
stood
so
high
.
Everybody
loved
them
;
everybody
had
a
good
word
for
them
.
"
Byng
's
countenance
clears
a
little
.
"
And
there
is
no
reason
—
you
have
no
reason
for
supposing
anything
different
now
?
"
Jim
stirs
uneasily
in
his
chair
.
Can
he
truthfully
give
the
same
convinced
affirmative
to
this
question
as
to
the
last
?
It
is
a
second
or
two
before
he
answers
it
at
all
.
"
The
facts
of
life
are
enough
for
me
;
I
do
not
trouble
myself
with
its
suppositions
.
"
He
gets
up
and
walks
towards
the
door
as
he
speaks
,
resolved
to
bring
to
an
end
this
to
him
intolerable
catechism
.
"
But
you
must
have
an
opinion
—
you
must
think
,
"
cries
the
other
's
voice
,
persistently
pursuing
him
.
He
turns
at
bay
,
with
the
door-handle
in
his
hand
,
his
eyes
lightening
.
"
I
asked
her
permission
to
bring
Amelia
to
see
her
,
"
he
says
,
in
a
low
moved
voice
;
"
if
I
had
thought
as
ill
of
her
as
your
mother
does
,
do
you
think
I
should
have
done
that
?
"
CHAPTER
XIX
.
Camille
.
—
"
Que
me
conseilleriez-vous
de
faire
le
jour
où
je
verrais
que
vous
ne
m'aimez
plus
?
"
There
is
no
greater
fiction
than
that
for
time
to
go
quickly
implies
that
it
must
needs
go
pleasantly
.
Jim
has
seldom
spent
a
more
disagreeable
period
than
the
hours
which
follow
his
conversation
with
Byng
,
and
which
he
passes
in
his
own
bedroom
,
with
his
elbows
on
the
window-ledge
,
looking
blankly
out
at
the
Piazza
,
and
at
the
great
"
Bride
"
of
Arnolpho
's
planning
,
the
church
of
Santa
Maria
Novella
.
And
yet
,
when
the
city
clocks
,
which
have
chimed
unnoticed
by
him
several
times
,
at
length
convey
to
his
inattentive
ear
what
the
hour
is
,
he
starts
up
,
shocked
and
confused
at
its
lateness
.
He
had
meant
to
have
reached
the
Villa
Schiavone
in
time
to
receive
Amelia
,
and
now
she
must
have
long
preceded
him
,
and
be
attributing
his
tardiness
to
some
fresh
neglect
and
indifference
.
In
five
minutes
he
has
rearranged
his
dress
,
and
jumped
into
a
fiacre
.
Through
the
Porta
Romana
,
and
up
between
the
straight
row
of
still
and
inky
cypresses
,
up
and
up
to
where
the
villa
door
,
promising
so
little
and
performing
so
much
,
opens
as
so
many
do
,
straight
upon
the
road
.
The
day
has
changed
its
ravishing
blue
gaiety
for
a
pensive
cloudy
gloom
,
and
the
guests
at
the
villa
are
walking
about
without
any
sunshades
.
They
are
numerous
,
though
few
indeed
in
comparison
of
the
Banksia
roses
on
the
laden
wall
,
over
which
,
too
,
a
great
wistaria
—
put
in
,
as
the
host
with
a
just
pride
relates
,
only
last
year
—
is
hanging
and
flinging
its
lilac
abundance
.
And
seen
above
its
clusters
,
and
above
the
wall
,
what
a
view
from
this
raised
terrace
!
Jim
is
really
in
a
hurry
to
find
Amelia
,
and
yet
he
cannot
choose
but
stop
to
look
at
it
—
from
Galileo
's
tower
on
the
right
,
to
where
,
far
down
the
plain
of
the
Arno
,
Carrara
loses
itself
in
mist
.
It
is
all
dark
at
first
,
sullen
,
purple-gray
,
without
variation
or
stir
—
city
,
Duomo
,
Arno
,
Fiesole
,
and
all
her
chain
of
sister-hills
—
one
universal
frown
over
every
slope
and
jag
,
over
street
and
spire
,
over
Campanile
with
its
marbles
,
and
Santa
Croce
with
its
dead
.
But
now
,
as
it
draws
on
towards
sun-setting
,
in
the
western
sky
there
comes
a
beginning
of
light
,
a
faint
pale
tint
at
first
,
but
quickly
broadening
across
the
firmament
,
while
the
whole
huge
cloud
canopy
is
drawn
aside
like
a
curtain
,
and
,
as
a
great
bright
eye
from
under
bent
brows
,
the
lowering
sun
sends
arrows
of
radiance
over
plain
,
and
river
,
and
city
.
All
of
a
sudden
there
is
a
vertical
rain
of
dazzling
white
rays
on
the
plain
,
and
the
olive
shadows
,
merged
all
the
afternoon
in
the
universal
gray
,
fall
long
and
soft
upon
the
blinding
green
of
the
young
corn
.
He
has
forgotten
Amelia
.
Oh
,
that
that
other
,
that
creature
herself
made
out
of
sun-rays
and
sweet
rain-drops
,
were
beside
him
,
her
pulses
beating
,
as
they
so
surely
would
,
to
his
tune
,
her
whole
tender
being
quivering
with
delicate
joy
at
this
heavenly
spectacle
.
Someone
touches
him
on
the
shoulder
,
and
he
starts
violently
.
Has
the
intensity
of
his
invocation
called
her
spirit
out
of
her
light
body
,
and
is
she
indeed
beside
him
?
"
What
a
bad
conscience
you
must
have
!
Did
you
think
that
I
was
a
bailiff
?
"
cries
Mrs.
Byng
,
laughing
.
"
Where
is
Amelia
?
"
he
asks
,
rather
curtly
,
the
memory
of
Byng
's
communication
about
his
mother
being
too
fresh
in
his
mind
to
make
it
possible
for
him
to
answer
her
in
her
own
rallying
key
.
"
What
have
you
done
with
Amelia
?
"
"
What
a
'
Stand-and-deliver
'
tone
!
"
says
she
,
laughing
still
,
but
looking
not
unnaturally
surprised
.
"
Well
,
where
is
she
?
"
glancing
round
.
"
She
was
here
five
minutes
ago
with
Willy
.
Poor
Amelia
!
"
lowering
her
voice
to
a
more
confidential
key
.
"
I
am
so
glad
you
have
come
at
last
;
she
is
patience
personified
.
I
must
congratulate
you
upon
the
excellent
training
into
which
you
have
got
her
,
but
I
think
that
she
was
beginning
to
look
a
little
anxious
.
"
"
And
I
think
that
you
have
been
giving
the
reins
to
your
imagination
,
as
usual
,
"
replies
he
,
walking
off
in
a
huff
.
There
is
another
delightful
garden
at
the
back
of
the
villa
,
and
there
,
having
failed
to
find
her
in
the
first
,
he
now
with
growing
irritation
at
her
for
not
being
more
immediately
conspicuous
,
seeks
Amelia
.
It
is
a
sheltered
leisurely
paradise
,
where
white
rose-trees
,
with
millions
of
bursting
buds
,
are
careering
over
the
walls
in
leafy
luxuriance
,
where
double
wallflowers
—
bloody
warriors
,
one
should
call
them
,
if
one
could
connect
any
warlike
idea
with
this
Eden
of
scented
peace
—
stocks
in
fragrant
row
are
flowering
as
we
Britons
never
see
them
flower
in
our
chary
isle
,
save
in
the
plates
of
a
Gardeners
'
Chronicle
.
But
among
them
he
finds
no
trace
of
his
homely
English
blossom
.
He
finds
,
indeed
,
him
who
had
been
named
as
her
late
companion
,
Byng
;
but
it
is
not
with
Amelia
,
but
with
one
of
the
pretty
young
daughters
of
the
house
that
he
is
pacing
the
straight
walk
in
lively
dialogue
.
Jim
accosts
him
formally
:
"
I
understood
that
Miss
Wilson
was
with
you
?
Do
you
happen
to
know
where
she
is
?
"
Byng
stops
short
in
his
leisurely
pacing
.
"
Why
,
where
is
she
?
"
he
says
,
looking
round
,
as
his
mother
had
done
,
but
with
a
more
guilty
air
.
"
She
was
here
five
minutes
ago
.
Where
can
she
have
disappeared
to
?
"
It
is
but
too
obvious
that
in
greeting
and
being
greeted
by
their
numerous
acquaintances
,
both
poor
Amelia
's
chaperon
and
that
chaperon
's
son
have
completely
forgotten
her
existence
.
Always
nervously
afraid
of
being
burdensome
,
Jim
feels
convinced
from
what
he
knows
of
her
character
that
she
is
going
about
in
unobtrusive
forlornness
,
the
extreme
smallness
of
her
Florentine
acquaintances
making
it
unlikely
that
she
has
found
anyone
to
supply
the
place
of
the
friends
who
have
become
so
entirely
oblivious
of
her
.
The
conviction
,
pricking
his
conscience
as
he
hastens
contritely
away
from
the
vainly-repentant
Byng
,
lends
speed
and
keenness
to
his
search
.
But
thorough
and
earnest
as
it
is
,
it
is
for
some
time
quite
unsuccessful
.
She
makes
one
of
no
group
,
she
loiters
under
no
Banksia
rose-bower
,
she
is
no
gazer
from
the
terrace
at
gold-misted
valley
or
aureoled
town
,
she
is
to
be
found
neither
in
hidden
nook
,
nor
evident
path
.
She
is
not
beneath
the
loggia
,
she
is
nowhere
out-of-doors
.
She
must
then
,
in
her
loneliness
,
have
taken
refuge
in
the
house
.
He
finds
himself
in
a
long
,
noble
room
,
with
a
frescoed
ceiling
,
a
room
full
of
signs
of
recent
habitation
and
recent
tea
,
but
which
has
apparently
been
deserted
for
the
sunset
splendours
on
the
terrace
.
He
can
see
no
single
occupant
.
He
walks
slowly
down
it
to
assure
himself
of
the
fact
of
its
entire
emptiness
.
By
a
singular
and
unaccountable
freak
of
the
builders
,
the
windows
are
set
so
high
in
the
wall
that
each
has
had
to
have
a
little
raised
daïs
erected
before
it
to
enable
the
inmates
to
look
comfortably
out
.
Upon
each
small
platform
stands
a
chair
or
two
,
and
low
over
them
the
curtains
sweep
.
As
he
passes
one
recess
,
he
notices
that
the
drapery
is
stirring
a
little
,
and
examining
more
closely
,
sees
the
tail
of
a
well-known
gown
—
of
that
gown
which
has
met
with
his
nearest
approach
to
approval
among
Amelia
's
rather
scanty
stock
—
peeping
from
beneath
the
stiff
rich
folds
of
the
old
Italian
brocade
.
It
is
the
work
of
a
second
to
sweep
the
latter
aside
,
and
discover
his
poor
fiancée
all
alone
,
and
crouching
desolately
in
a
low
arm-chair
.
There
is
something
so
unlike
her
in
the
attitude
,
something
so
different
from
her
usual
uncomplaining
,
unpretending
fortitude
,
something
so
disproportioned
to
the
cause
—
his
own
careless
but
not
criminal
delay
,
as
he
supposes
—
in
the
despair
evidenced
by
her
whole
pose
,
that
he
feels
at
once
terrified
and
angry
.
In
a
second
he
,
too
,
has
stepped
up
on
to
the
little
platform
beside
her
.
"
Amelia
!
"
he
cries
.
"
Amelia
!
What
are
you
doing
up
here
?
With
whom
are
you
playing
hide-and-seek
?
"
Her
words
and
her
smiles
are
apt
to
be
prompt
enough
,
Heaven
knows
,
to
spring
out
,
answering
his
least
hint
;
but
now
she
neither
speaks
nor
moves
a
muscle
of
her
face
.
She
scarcely
starts
at
all
at
his
sudden
apparition
and
address
,
and
no
light
comes
across
her
features
—
those
features
which
,
now
that
he
looks
at
them
more
closely
,
he
sees
to
be
set
in
a
much
more
pinched
pallor
than
even
three
watching
nights
and
a
week
of
airless
worry
can
account
for
.
"
Are
you
ill
?
"
"
No
;
I
am
not
ill.
"
The
sting
of
irritation
which
,
mixed
with
genuine
alarm
,
had
besieged
Jim
's
mind
on
his
first
realizing
her
crouched
and
unnatural
attitude
,
now
entirely
supersedes
any
other
feeling
.
Is
the
accidental
delay
of
half
an
hour
,
an
hour
,
say
even
an
hour
and
a
half
,
enough
to
justify
such
a
parade
of
anguish
as
this
?
"
Is
it
possible
,
"
he
inquires
,
in
a
tone
of
cold
displeasure
,
"
that
I
am
to
attribute
this
—
this
state
of
things
—
to
my
being
accidentally
late
?
It
was
a
mere
accident
:
it
is
not
like
you
to
make
a
scene
.
I
do
not
recognise
you
;
I
am
very
sorry
that
I
was
late
,
and
that
I
have
made
you
angry
.
"
The
chill
reproach
of
his
words
seems
to
rouse
her
to
a
state
more
akin
to
her
natural
one
,
to
the
humble
and
unexacting
one
which
is
habitual
to
her
.
"
Angry
!
"
she
repeats
:
"
angry
with
you
for
being
late
?
Oh
,
you
are
quite
mistaken
!
In
all
these
years
how
often
have
I
been
angry
with
you
?
"
There
is
such
a
meek
upbraiding
in
her
tone
that
his
ill-humour
gives
way
to
a
vague
apprehension
.
"
Then
what
is
it
?
"
he
cries
brusquely
;
"
what
is
it
all
about
?
I
think
I
have
a
right
to
ask
you
that
;
since
I
saw
you
last
something
must
have
happened
to
you
to
produce
this
extraordinary
change
.
"
She
heaves
a
long
dragging
sigh
.
"
Something
has
happened
to
me
;
yes
,
something
has
happened
!
"
"
But
what
—
what
kind
of
a
something
?
I
have
a
right
to
know
—
I
insist
upon
knowing
;
tell
me
!
"
He
has
grasped
both
her
hands
,
whose
unnatural
coldness
he
feels
even
through
her
rather
ill-fitting
gloves
.
So
strange
and
mean
a
thing
is
human
nature
that
even
at
this
moment
it
flashes
across
him
,
with
a
sense
of
annoyance
,
what
bad
gloves
Amelia
always
wears
.
However
,
he
is
not
troubled
with
them
long
,
for
she
takes
them
and
her
cold
hands
quietly
back
.
"
I
will
tell
you
,
there
is
no
question
of
insisting
.
I
should
have
told
you
anyhow
;
but
not
here
"
—
glancing
nervously
round
the
dropped
curtains
—
"
not
now
!
"
"
Why
not
here
?
Why
not
now
?
"
Her
face
quivers
.
"
I
could
not
,
"
she
says
piteously
.
"
I
do
not
quite
know
how
I
shall
get
through
telling
it
;
it
must
be
somewhere
—
somewhere
where
it
will
not
matter
if
I
do
break
down
!
"
He
stares
at
her
in
an
unfeigned
bewilderment
,
again
slightly
streaked
with
wrath
.
"
Have
you
gone
mad
,
Amelia
?
or
are
you
taking
a
leaf
out
of
Sybilla
's
book
?
If
you
do
not
clear
up
this
extraordinary
mystification
at
once
,
I
shall
be
compelled
to
believe
either
the
one
or
the
other
.
"
Again
her
face
contracts
with
pain
.
"
Oh
,
if
it
were
only
a
mystification
!
"
she
says
,
with
a
low
cry
.
"
I
cannot
tell
you
here
;
it
is
physically
impossible
to
me
.
But
do
not
be
afraid
"
—
with
an
accent
of
bitterness
,
which
he
is
quite
at
a
loss
to
account
for
—
"
you
shall
not
have
long
to
wait
;
I
will
tell
you
,
without
fail
,
to-morrow
;
to-morrow
morning
,
if
you
like
.
Come
as
early
as
you
please
,
I
shall
be
ready
to
tell
you
;
and
now
would
you
mind
leaving
me
?
I
want
to
have
a
few
moments
to
myself
before
I
see
anybody
—
before
I
see
Mrs.
Byng
;
will
you
please
leave
me
?
"
It
is
so
apparent
that
she
is
in
deadly
earnest
,
and
resolute
to
have
her
request
complied
with
,
that
he
can
do
nothing
but
step
dizzily
down
off
the
little
daïs
,
feeling
as
if
the
world
were
turning
round
with
him
.
A
quarter
of
an
hour
later
he
sees
her
leaving
the
party
with
Mrs.
Byng
,
looking
as
simple
,
as
collected
,
and
not
very
perceptibly
paler
than
usual
.
CHAPTER
XX
.
There
is
always
something
in
the
nature
of
a
mountain
in
a
night
that
is
interposed
between
us
and
either
any
promised
pleasure
or
any
threatened
pain
.
In
the
case
of
pleasure
,
we
are
naturally
in
a
hurry
to
scale
it
,
in
order
to
see
how
full
of
sunshine
and
flowers
is
the
happy
valley
on
the
other
side
;
and
in
the
case
of
pain
,
we
are
all
scarcely
less
eager
to
ascertain
how
deep
is
the
abyss
,
how
choking
the
swamp
,
how
angry
the
waves
that
wait
us
beyond
the
dusty
hill
.
Burgoyne
has
no
expectation
of
finding
anything
agreeable
on
the
further
slope
of
his
mountain
,
and
yet
the
time
seems
long
to
him
,
till
he
has
climbed
its
crest
,
and
slidden
down
its
other
side
.
Early
and
splendid
as
is
the
new
light
that
takes
possession
of
him
and
his
shutterless
bedroom
,
he
upbraids
it
as
a
laggard
;
and
the
hours
that
pace
by
till
the
one
appointed
for
the
explanation
of
yesterday
's
mystery
seem
to
him
to
hobble
on
crutches
.
What
can
Amelia
have
to
say
to
him
that
needs
such
a
pomp
of
preparation
?
What
can
have
turned
Amelia
into
a
Tragedy
Queen
?
What
miracle
can
have
made
her
take
the
imperative
mood
?
For
it
was
the
imperative
mood
unquestionably
which
,
contrary
to
all
precedent
,
she
had
made
use
of
when
she
had
commanded
him
,
most
gently
it
is
true
,
since
,
being
by
her
nature
gentle
,
she
can
do
nothing
ungently
,
to
leave
her
.
He
absolutely
laughs
at
the
topsy-turviness
of
the
idea
.
What
can
she
have
to
say
that
requires
so
carefully
selected
a
spot
to
say
it
in
?
—
a
spot
where
"
it
does
not
matter
if
she
does
break
down
.
"
What
,
in
Heaven
's
name
,
can
she
be
going
to
say
that
inspires
her
with
such
a
cold-blooded
intention
beforehand
of
breaking
down
?
Jim
's
state
of
mind
is
something
that
of
the
Baron
's
in
"
On
ne
badine
pas
avec
l'amour
,
"
on
hearing
that
his
daughter
's
governess
had
been
turning
somersaults
in
a
field
of
luzerne
.
"
Non
,
en
vérité
,
non
,
mon
ami
,
je
n'y
comprends
absolûment
rien
.
Tout
cela
me
paraît
une
conduite
désordonnée
,
il
est
vrai
,
mais
sans
motif
comme
sans
excuse
.
"
If
she
were
any
other
woman
,
he
should
ascribe
her
behaviour
to
some
tiresome
but
passing
tantrum
,
evoked
by
his
delay
in
appearing
?
But
in
the
past
eight
years
how
many
hundred
times
has
he
kept
her
waiting
?
and
has
she
ever
failed
to
meet
him
with
the
same
meek
good-humour
that
has
not
had
even
a
tinge
of
reproachful
forgiveness
in
it
.
As
she
herself
had
said
,
"
In
all
these
years
how
often
have
I
been
angry
with
you
?
"
He
has
been
angry
with
her
times
out
of
mind
,
angry
with
her
on
a
thousand
unjust
and
unkind
counts
;
angry
with
her
for
her
slowness
,
her
bad
complexion
,
her
want
of
a
sense
of
humour
;
for
a
hundred
things
that
she
cannot
help
,
that
she
would
have
altered
—
oh
,
how
gladly
!
—
if
she
could
!
But
how
often
has
she
been
angry
with
him
?
In
vain
he
searches
his
memory
,
hoping
to
overtake
some
instance
of
ill-humour
,
or
even
pettishness
,
that
may
make
the
balance
between
them
hang
a
little
more
equal
.
But
in
vain
.
She
has
never
been
angry
with
him
.
And
even
now
neither
her
face
nor
her
manner
—
whatever
else
of
strange
and
unparalleled
they
may
have
conveyed
—
have
conveyed
the
idea
of
anger
.
But
if
not
anger
,
what
then
can
be
the
cause
that
has
produced
a
change
so
startling
in
one
so
little
given
to
impulsive
action
or
eccentricities
of
emotion
?
Can
she
have
heard
anything
about
him
?
anything
to
his
discredit
?
He
searches
his
conscience
,
but
whether
it
be
that
that
organ
is
not
a
particularly
sensitive
one
,
or
that
it
really
has
no
damaging
facts
to
give
up
,
it
is
silent
,
or
almost
so
.
He
has
perhaps
been
rather
slack
in
his
attendance
upon
her
of
late
,
but
at
her
own
bidding
.
At
his
visits
to
the
Le
Marchants
'
no
one
could
take
exception
,
dictated
as
they
so
obviously
have
been
by
philanthropy
,
and
his
conversations
with
Elizabeth
—
how
few
and
scant
!
his
heart
heaves
a
rebellious
sigh
at
their
paucity
—
might
be
proclaimed
without
excision
at
the
market
cross
.
Our
thoughts
are
our
own
,
and
are
,
moreover
,
so
safely
padlocked
in
our
minds
that
he
does
not
think
it
worth
while
to
inquire
whether
,
if
his
future
wife
could
have
looked
in
and
seen
the
restive
fancies
capering
,
saddleless
and
bridleless
,
there
,
she
might
have
been
justified
in
assuming
a
crouching
attitude
and
a
sorrowfully
commanding
manner
.
He
is
as
far
as
ever
from
solving
the
problem
,
when
—
for
once
in
his
life
before
his
time
at
the
rendezvous
—
he
presents
himself
at
the
familiar
door
.
It
is
opened
to
him
by
Amelia
herself
.
She
has
often
done
it
before
,
seeming
to
know
by
instinct
his
ring
from
that
of
any
other
person
,
but
to-day
the
familiar
action
disconcerts
him
.
He
had
expected
to
be
received
with
a
formality
and
pomp
of
woe
such
as
yesterday
had
seemed
to
threaten
;
and
here
is
Amelia
looking
exactly
like
her
ordinary
self
,
except
that
she
is
perhaps
rather
more
carefully
dressed
than
usual
;
but
that
may
be
due
to
the
fact
of
her
having
,
for
the
first
time
,
assumed
the
fresh
calico
gown
,
which
the
high
summer
of
the
Italian
April
morning
seems
to
justify
.
Whether
it
be
due
to
the
calico
gown
or
not
,
there
is
an
indisputable
air
of
gala
about
her
,
and
she
is
smiling
.
A
revulsion
of
feeling
comes
over
the
man
,
to
whom
her
tragic
semi-swooning
airs
had
given
a
wakeful
night
.
It
was
a
tantrum
after
all
,
then
;
a
storm
in
a
teacup
.
And
now
her
common
sense
has
come
to
the
rescue
,
and
she
has
seen
the
folly
of
quarrelling
with
her
bread
and
butter
.
These
reflections
naturally
do
not
translate
themselves
into
responsive
smiles
on
his
face
,
but
she
does
not
seem
to
notice
his
dour
looks
.
"
I
have
a
proposal
to
make
to
you
,
"
she
says
,
still
smiling
.
"
Father
is
so
well
this
morning
,
quite
easy
,
and
he
has
been
wheeled
into
the
sitting-room
to
see
Sybilla
.
She
has
been
very
good
about
him
this
time
,
and
quite
believes
that
he
has
been
really
bad
.
"
"
How
good
of
her
!
"
comments
Jim
grimly
;
"
it
would
be
so
easy
and
so
amusing
to
play
at
having
a
swollen
toe
,
would
not
it
?
"
"
And
so
,
"
continues
Miss
Wilson
,
wisely
ignoring
his
fleer
at
her
sister
,
"
I
am
perfectly
free
,
and
I
want
you
to
take
me
somewhere
,
some
little
drive
or
expedition
;
you
see
,
"
with
a
conciliatory
glance
at
her
own
modest
finery
,
"
I
counted
upon
your
saying
'
yes
'
;
I
dressed
so
as
not
to
keep
you
waiting
.
"
Every
word
of
this
sentence
confirms
Burgoyne
in
the
idea
implanted
by
her
first
address
.
This
is
her
amende
,
and
she
is
quite
right
to
make
it
.
But
she
would
have
been
more
right
still
if
her
conduct
had
not
rendered
it
necessary
.
Amelia
is
not
the
type
of
woman
who
through
life
will
gain
much
by
pouts
.
Perhaps
,
by-and-by
,
very
kindly
and
delicately
,
he
may
obliquely
hint
this
to
her
.
But
all
that
he
says
aloud
is
the
rather
stiff
acquiescence
conveyed
in
the
words
:
"
By
all
means
.
I
am
quite
at
your
service
.
"
"
And
now
where
shall
we
go
?
"
continues
Amelia
,
shutting
the
door
behind
her
and
beginning
to
cross
the
hotel
courtyard
at
his
side
;
"
that
is
the
next
thing
—
not
to
any
gallery
or
church
,
I
think
,
if
you
do
not
mind
;
I
say
such
stupid
things
about
Art
,
and
the
more
I
try
,
the
stupider
they
are
;
let
us
go
somewhere
into
the
country
—
I
can
understand
the
country
.
I
am
not
afraid
of
saying
stupid
things
about
it
.
"
Into
Burgoyne
's
mind
comes
the
odious
thought
that
he
would
not
put
it
past
his
betrothed
to
say
stupid
things
even
about
the
Tuscan
landscape
,
but
he
only
awaits
her
decision
in
a
respectful
silence
while
helping
her
into
a
fiacre
.
"
It
would
be
a
sin
to
be
under
any
roof
to-day
but
this
one
,
"
she
says
,
looking
up
to
the
immeasurable
azure
bridge
above
her
head
;
"
would
you
mind
—
could
you
spare
time
to
go
to
Fiesole
?
"
His
only
answer
is
to
repeat
the
word
Fiesole
to
the
driver
,
who
,
with
the
inevitable
tiny
poodle-shaven
dog
beside
him
,
is
awaiting
the
order
as
to
his
destination
.
It
is
but
a
little
way
to
Fiesole
,
as
we
all
know
,
but
yet
,
as
the
slow
hired
vehicle
crawls
up
the
steep
ascent
,
with
the
driver
walking
alongside
,
or
even
lagging
behind
,
there
would
be
time
and
opportunity
to
say
a
good
deal
.
But
Amelia
says
next
to
nothing
.
Perhaps
the
heat
makes
her
sleepy
,
for
it
is
so
hot
,
so
hot
between
the
garden
walls
,
where
the
rose
hedges
are
beginning
to
show
a
pale
flush
of
plenteous
pink
among
their
multitude
of
green
buds
.
Young
,
indeed
,
just
born
as
the
roses
are
,
the
highway
dust
has
already
powdered
them
with
its
ash-toned
white
.
He
does
not
know
it
at
the
time
,
but
those
dust-filmed
rosebuds
have
found
a
home
in
his
memory
from
which
no
after-sights
,
however
numerous
,
will
dislodge
them
.
They
have
reached
the
village
,
and
left
their
carriage
,
and
begun
,
silently
still
,
to
ascend
the
steep
lane
up
which
the
feet
of
most
of
Europe
and
America
have
in
turn
climbed
to
see
the
famous
view
that
rewards
the
little
effort
.
Past
the
cottages
,
whose
inmates
,
tranquilly
sitting
in
their
doorways
,
or
leaning
idly
against
their
door-posts
,
have
probably
seen
all
that
is
illustrious
,
notorious
,
history-making
of
the
day
,
pass
pantingly
.
Is
there
a
prime
minister
,
a
princess
,
a
poet
,
a
prima
donna
,
of
the
time
,
that
has
not
toiled
up
the
steep
path
to
the
welcome
rest
of
the
bench
on
the
high
plateau
,
on
the
hillside
?
Jim
and
Amelia
are
certainly
not
likely
to
figure
in
the
annals
of
their
time
,
but
the
peasants
look
at
them
with
as
much
or
as
little
interest
as
if
they
were
.
An
immortal
,
unless
his
immortality
is
printed
on
his
back
in
letters
as
large
as
those
that
announce
Colman
's
mustard
to
the
world
,
has
,
to
the
vulgar
,
very
much
the
air
of
one
of
themselves
.
Our
friends
have
reached
the
haven
of
the
stone
seat
,
and
,
thanks
to
the
earliness
of
the
hour
,
have
it
all
to
themselves
,
save
for
a
trio
of
sunburnt
women
of
the
people
,
with
handkerchiefs
tied
over
their
tanned
heads
,
who
tease
them
to
buy
straw
hand-screens
.
And
when
they
have
bought
a
couple
,
and
made
it
kindly
but
distinctly
evident
that
no
amount
of
worrying
will
induce
them
to
buy
any
more
,
even
these
leave
them
in
peace
and
descend
the
hill
again
,
in
search
of
newer
victims
.
They
are
alone
under
the
sky
's
warm
azure
.
Beneath
their
eyes
spreads
one
of
those
nobly
lovely
spectacles
that
Italy
and
spring
,
hand
in
hand
,
alone
can
offer
.
To
some
,
indeed
,
it
may
seem
that
the
prospect
from
the
Bellosguardo
side
of
the
valley
is
even
more
beautiful
,
since
Fiesole
,
sitting
so
high
as
she
does
,
dwarfs
the
opposite
hills
,
and
makes
the
looker
lose
their
wavy
line
.
They
seem
flat
in
comparison
,
the
plain
appears
wider
,
the
beloved
city
more
distant
,
and
does
not
show
the
same
exquisite
distinctness
of
separate
tower
and
spire
and
palace
.
But
yet
such
comparison
is
mere
carping
.
Who
can
wish
for
a
sight
more
divinely
suave
and
fair
than
this
from
the
bench
above
Fiesole
?
Not
a
breath
of
smoke
dares
to
hang
about
the
glorious
old
town
,
dimming
its
lustre
,
and
between
them
and
it
what
a
spread
of
manifold
colour
,
of
more
"
mingled
hue
"
than
the
rainbow
's
"
purfled
scarf
doth
show
!
"
The
moon-tinted
olives
,
twilight
and
ghostly
,
even
in
the
dazzling
radiance
of
this
superb
morning
hour
,
with
the
blinding
green
of
the
young
corn
about
their
gray
feet
,
the
cypress
taper-flames
,
the
gay
white
houses
,
terrace
gardened
,
and
,
above
all
,
the
vast
smile
of
the
Tuscan
heaven
.
At
first
Amelia
's
muteness
seems
natural
and
grateful
to
Jim
,
as
the
outcome
of
the
awe
and
hush
that
exceeding
beauty
breathes
on
the
human
heart
,
but
by-and-by
,
as
it
is
prolonged
beyond
the
limits
that
seem
to
him
fit
or
agreeable
,
it
begins
to
get
on
his
nerves
.
After
having
so
genuinely
and
wantonly
alarmed
him
,
has
she
brought
him
here
,
without
any
expressions
of
regret
or
remorse
,
simply
to
steep
herself
in
a
silent
luxury
of
selfish
enjoyment
?
After
brooding
resentfully
on
this
idea
for
a
considerable
time
,
he
translates
it
into
speech
.
"
I
thought
that
you
had
something
to
say
to
me
?
"
It
seems
as
if
her
soul
had
gone
out
into
the
sun
and
April-painted
champaign
country
,
and
that
it
is
only
with
an
effort
and
a
sigh
that
she
fetches
it
home
again
:
"
So
I
have
.
"
"
And
how
much
longer
am
I
to
wait
for
it
?
"
There
is
no
indication
of
any
capacity
for
patience
in
his
tone
.
She
brings
her
look
back
from
the
shining
morning
city
,
and
fixes
it
wistfully
upon
him
.
"
Are
you
in
such
a
hurry
to
hear
?
"
The
pathetic
streak
in
her
voice
,
instead
of
conciliating
,
chafes
him
.
What
is
the
sense
of
this
paraphernalia
of
preliminaries
?
Why
not
come
to
the
point
at
once
?
if
indeed
there
is
a
point
—
a
fact
of
which
he
begins
to
entertain
grave
doubts
.
"
I
do
not
know
what
you
call
hurry
,
"
he
replies
drily
;
"
I
have
been
awaiting
this
mystic
utterance
for
sixteen
or
seventeen
hours
.
"
Her
sallow
cheek
takes
on
a
pinky
tinge
of
mortification
at
his
accent
.
"
You
are
quite
right
,
"
she
answers
quickly
;
"
I
have
no
business
to
keep
you
waiting
.
I
meant
to
tell
you
as
soon
as
we
got
here
;
I
asked
you
to
bring
me
here
on
purpose
,
only
—
—
"
"
You
told
me
that
you
must
make
the
communication
at
some
place
where
it
would
not
matter
if
you
did
break
down
,
"
says
he
,
rather
harshly
helping
her
memory
;
"
you
must
allow
that
that
was
not
an
encouraging
exordium
.
Do
you
look
upon
this
"
—
glancing
ironically
round
—
"
as
a
particularly
suitable
place
for
breaking
down
?
"
Again
that
pain-evidencing
wave
of
colour
flows
into
her
face
.
There
is
such
an
unloving
mockery
in
his
displeased
voice
.
"
I
shall
not
break
down
,
"
she
replies
,
forcing
herself
to
speak
with
quiet
composure
;
"
you
need
not
be
afraid
that
I
shall
.
I
know
that
yesterday
I
was
foolish
enough
to
say
the
very
words
you
quote
,
but
I
was
not
quite
myself
then
;
I
did
not
quite
know
what
I
was
saying
;
I
had
only
just
heard
it
.
"
"
It
?
What
IT
?
Is
this
a
new
riddle
?
For
Heaven
's
sake
let
us
hear
the
answer
to
the
first
before
we
embark
on
any
fresh
one
!
"
"
It
is
no
riddle
,
"
replies
she
,
her
low
patient
tones
contrasting
with
his
exasperated
ones
,
"
nothing
could
be
plainer
;
it
was
only
that
I
happened
to
overhear
something
rather
—
rather
painful
—
something
that
was
not
intended
for
me
.
"
His
angry
cheek
blanches
as
his
thought
flies
arrow-quick
to
the
one
subject
of
his
perennial
apprehension
.
Someone
has
been
poisoning
her
ear
with
cowardly
libels
,
or
yet
more
dreadful
truths
about
Elizabeth
Le
Marchant
.
For
a
moment
or
two
his
tongue
cleaves
to
the
roof
of
his
mouth
,
then
he
says
in
a
tone
which
he
uselessly
tries
to
make
one
of
calm
contempt
alone
:
"
If
you
had
lived
longer
in
Florence
,
you
would
know
how
much
importance
to
attach
to
its
tittle-tattle
and
cancans
.
"
She
shakes
her
head
with
a
sorrowful
obstinacy
.
"
This
was
no
tittle-tattle
—
no
cancan
.
"
Her
answer
seems
but
to
confirm
him
in
this
first
horrible
suspicion
.
"
It
is
astonishing
,
"
he
says
,
in
a
strangled
voice
,
"
how
ready
even
the
best
women
are
to
believe
evil
;
what
—
what
evidence
have
you
of
the
truth
of
—
of
these
precious
stories
?
"
"
What
evidence
?
"
she
repeats
,
fastening
her
sad
eyes
upon
him
—
"
the
evidence
of
my
own
heart
.
I
realize
now
that
I
have
known
it
all
along
.
"
Read
by
the
light
of
his
fears
,
this
response
is
so
enigmatic
that
it
dawns
upon
him
with
a
flash
of
inexpressible
solace
that
perhaps
he
may
be
on
the
wrong
track
after
all
.
His
ideas
are
precipitated
into
such
a
state
of
confusion
by
this
blessed
possibility
that
he
can
only
echo
in
a
stupefied
tone
:
"
Have
known
what
all
along
?
"
She
has
turned
round
on
the
stone
bench
upon
which
they
have
hitherto
been
sitting
side
by
side
,
and
,
as
he
in
the
eagerness
of
his
listening
has
done
the
same
thing
,
they
are
now
opposite
to
one
another
,
and
he
feels
as
well
as
sees
her
hungry
eyes
devouring
his
face
.
"
That
you
are
sick
of
me
,
"
she
answers
,
in
a
heart-wrung
whisper
,
"
sick
to
death
of
me
—
that
was
what
she
said
.
"
It
is
impossible
to
deny
that
Burgoyne
's
first
impulse
is
one
of
relief
.
He
has
been
mistaken
,
then
.
Elizabeth
's
secret
is
in
the
same
state
of
precarious
safety
as
her
enemy
's
departure
from
Florence
had
left
it
in
.
His
second
impulse
—
our
second
impulses
are
mostly
our
best
ones
,
equally
free
from
the
headlongness
of
our
first
,
and
the
cold
worldly
wisdom
of
our
third
—
is
one
of
genuine
indignation
,
concern
,
and
amazement
.
"
What
who
said
?
"
"
Mrs.
Byng
.
"
His
stupefaction
deepens
.
"
Mrs.
Byng
—
Mrs.
Byng
told
you
that
I
was
sick
of
you
?
Sick
to
death
of
you
?
"
"
Oh
,
no
,
"
she
cries
,
even
her
emotion
giving
way
to
her
eagerness
to
correct
this
misapprehension
,
"
she
did
not
tell
me
so
!
How
could
you
imagine
such
a
thing
?
She
is
far
,
far
too
kind-hearted
;
she
would
not
hurt
a
fly
intentionally
,
and
would
be
exceedingly
pained
if
she
thought
I
had
overheard
her
.
"
He
shrugs
his
shoulders
despairingly
.
"
Je
m'y
perds
!
She
told
you
,
and
she
did
not
tell
you
;
you
heard
,
and
you
did
not
hear
.
"
"
I
am
telling
it
very
stupidly
,
I
know
,
"
she
says
apologetically
,
"
very
confusedly
;
and
of
course
I
ca
n't
expect
you
to
understand
by
instinct
how
it
was
.
"
She
sighs
profoundly
,
and
then
goes
on
quickly
,
and
no
longer
looking
at
him
.
"
You
know
she
took
me
to
the
party
,
but
when
we
reached
the
villa
,
I
found
that
she
knew
so
many
people
,
and
I
so
few
,
that
I
should
only
be
a
burden
to
her
if
I
kept
continually
by
her
side
,
and
as
I
was
rather
tired
—
you
know
that
I
had
not
been
in
bed
for
two
or
three
nights
—
I
thought
I
would
go
into
the
house
and
rest
,
so
as
to
be
quite
fresh
by
the
time
you
came
.
I
fancied
it
was
not
unlikely
you
might
be
a
little
late
.
"
His
conscience
,
at
the
unintentional
reproach
of
this
patient
supposition
,
reminds
him
of
its
existence
by
a
sharp
prick
.
How
many
times
has
her
poor
vanity
suffered
the
bruise
of
being
long
first
at
the
rendezvous
?
"
I
discovered
that
chair
by
the
window
under
the
curtain
,
the
one
where
you
found
me
.
"
"
Well
?
"
"
It
was
so
quiet
there
,
as
everybody
was
in
the
garden
,
that
I
suppose
I
fell
asleep
;
at
least
I
remember
nothing
more
until
suddenly
I
heard
Mrs.
Byng
's
voice
saying
—
—
"
"
Saying
what
?
"
"
Her
son
was
with
her
—
he
had
brought
her
in
to
have
some
tea
;
it
was
to
him
that
she
was
speaking
;
she
was
asking
him
about
me
,
where
I
was
?
where
he
had
left
me
?
whether
he
had
seen
me
lately
?
And
then
she
said
,
'
Poor
Amelia
,
Jim
really
does
neglect
her
shamefully
;
and
yet
one
cannot
help
being
sorry
for
him
,
too
;
it
was
such
child-stealing
in
the
first
instance
,
and
he
is
evidently
dead-sick
of
her
!
It
is
so
astonishing
that
she
does
not
see
it
!
'
"
There
is
something
almost
terrible
in
the
calm
distinctness
with
which
Amelia
repeats
the
sentences
that
had
laid
the
card-house
of
her
happiness
in
the
dust
.
Certainly
she
keeps
her
promise
to
him
to
the
letter
;
she
gives
no
lightest
sign
of
breaking
down
.
There
is
not
a
tear
in
her
eye
,
not
a
quiver
in
her
voice
.
After
a
moment
's
pause
,
she
continues
:
"
And
then
he
,
Mr.
Byng
,
answered
,
'
Poor
soul
,
it
—
it
is
odd
!
She
must
have
the
hide
of
a
hippopotamus
.
'
"
Amelia
has
finished
her
narrative
,
repeating
the
young
man
's
galling
comment
,
with
the
same
composure
as
his
mother
's
humiliatingly
compassionate
ones
;
and
for
a
space
her
sole
auditor
is
absolutely
incapable
of
making
any
criticism
upon
it
.
He
is
forbidden
,
if
he
had
wished
it
,
to
offer
her
even
the
mute
amends
of
a
dumb
endearment
,
by
the
reappearance
on
the
scene
of
a
couple
of
the
sun-scorched
peasant
torments
with
their
straw
hand-screens
.
It
is
not
likely
that
those
so
lately
bought
should
have
worn
out
already
;
but
yet
they
renew
their
importunities
with
such
a
determined
obstinacy
,
as
if
they
knew
this
to
be
the
case
;
and
it
is
not
until
they
are
lightened
of
two
more
,
that
they
consent
once
again
to
retire
,
leaving
the
warm
bright
plateau
to
the
lovers
—
if
indeed
they
can
be
called
such
.
CHAPTER
XXI
.
"
True
,
be
it
said
,
whatever
man
it
said
,
That
love
with
gall
and
honey
doth
abound
;
But
if
the
one
be
with
the
other
way
'd
,
For
every
dram
of
honey
therein
found
A
pound
of
gall
doth
over
it
redound
.
"
"
She
was
perfectly
right
,
"
says
Amelia
,
still
speaking
quite
quietly
;
"
it
is
astonishing
that
I
should
not
have
seen
it
;
and
it
was
child-stealing
;
you
were
barely
twenty-one
,
and
I
—
I
was
not
very
young
for
a
woman
even
then
—
I
was
twenty-three
.
I
ought
to
have
known
better
.
"
For
once
in
his
life
Burgoyne
is
absolutely
bereft
of
speech
.
It
is
always
a
difficult
matter
to
rebut
a
charge
of
being
dead
sick
of
a
woman
without
conveying
an
insult
in
the
very
denial
;
and
when
there
lies
a
horrid
substratum
of
truth
under
the
exaggeration
of
the
accusation
,
the
difficulty
becomes
an
impossibility
.
"
However
,
it
might
have
been
much
worse
,
"
continues
Miss
Wilson
;
"
just
think
if
I
had
overheard
it
only
after
I
had
married
you
,
when
I
knew
that
there
was
nothing
but
death
that
could
rid
you
of
me
.
I
thank
God
I
have
heard
it
in
time
.
"
His
throat
is
still
too
dry
for
him
to
speak
;
but
he
stretches
out
his
arm
to
encircle
her
in
a
mute
protest
at
that
thanksgiving
over
her
own
shipwreck
;
but
,
for
the
first
time
in
her
life
,
she
eludes
his
caress
.
"
Child-stealing
,
"
she
repeats
,
under
her
breath
;
"
and
yet
"
—
with
a
touching
impulse
of
apology
and
deprecation
—
"
you
seemed
old
for
your
age
;
you
seemed
so
much
in
earnest
;
I
think
you
really
were
;
"
—
a
wistful
pause
—
"
and
afterwards
,
though
of
course
I
could
not
help
seeing
that
I
was
not
to
you
what
you
were
to
me
,
yet
I
thought
—
I
hoped
that
if
I
waited
—
if
I
was
patient
—
if
no
one
else
—
no
one
more
worthy
of
you
came
between
us
"
—
another
and
still
wistfuller
delay
in
her
halting
speech
—
"
you
might
grow
a
little
fond
of
me
,
out
of
long
habit
;
I
never
expected
you
to
be
more
than
a
little
fond
of
me
!
"
He
has
entirely
hidden
his
face
in
his
two
hands
,
so
that
she
is
without
that
index
to
guide
her
as
to
the
effect
produced
by
her
words
,
and
he
continues
completely
silent
.
Whether
,
even
after
her
rude
awakening
,
she
still
,
deep
in
her
heart
,
cherishes
some
pale
hope
of
a
denial
,
an
explaining
away
of
the
reported
utterances
,
who
shall
say
?
It
is
with
a
half-choked
sigh
that
she
goes
on
:
"
But
you
could
not
;
I
am
not
so
unjust
as
not
to
know
that
you
tried
your
best
.
Poor
fellow
!
it
must
have
been
uphill
work
for
you
"
—
with
a
first
touch
of
bitterness
—
"
labouring
to
love
me
,
for
eight
years
;
is
it
any
wonder
that
you
failed
?
and
I
was
so
thick-skinned
I
did
not
see
it
—
the
'
hide
of
a
hippopotamus
'
indeed
!
There
could
not
be
a
juster
comparison
;
and
now
all
I
can
do
is
to
beg
your
pardon
for
having
spoilt
eight
of
your
best
years
—
your
best
years
"
—
with
slow
iteration
;
"
but
come
"
—
more
lightly
—
"
you
have
some
very
good
ones
left
too
;
you
are
still
quite
young
;
for
a
man
you
are
quite
young
;
the
harm
I
have
done
you
is
not
irreparable
;
I
think
"
—
with
an
accent
of
reproach
—
"
you
might
ease
my
mind
by
telling
me
that
the
harm
I
have
done
you
is
not
irreparable
!
"
Thus
appealed
to
,
it
is
impossible
for
him
any
longer
to
maintain
his
attitude
of
disguise
and
concealment
.
His
hands
must
needs
be
withdrawn
from
before
his
face
;
and
,
as
he
turns
that
face
towards
her
,
she
perceives
with
astonishment
,
almost
consternation
,
that
there
is
an
undoubted
tear
in
each
of
his
hard
gray
eyes
.
"
And
what
about
the
harm
I
have
done
to
you
?
"
he
asks
under
his
breath
,
as
if
having
no
confidence
in
his
voice
;
"
what
about
the
eight
best
years
of
your
life
?
"
A
look
of
affection
,
so
high
and
tender
and
selfless
,
as
to
seem
to
remove
her
love
out
of
the
category
of
the
mortal
and
the
transitory
,
dawns
and
grows
in
her
wan
face
.
"
Do
not
fret
about
them
,
"
she
answers
soothingly
,
"
they
were
—
they
always
will
have
been
—
the
eight
best
years
of
my
life
.
They
were
full
of
good
and
pleasant
things
.
Do
not
forget
—
I
would
not
for
worlds
have
you
forget
—
I
shall
never
forget
myself
—
that
they
all
came
to
me
through
you
!
"
At
her
words
,
most
innocent
as
they
are
of
any
intention
of
producing
such
an
effect
,
a
hot
flush
of
shame
rises
to
his
very
forehead
,
as
his
memory
presents
to
him
the
successive
eras
into
which
these
eight
good
years
had
divided
themselves
:
six
months
of
headlong
boyish
passion
;
six
months
of
cooling
fever
;
and
seven
years
of
careless
,
intermittent
,
matter-of-course
,
half-tenderness
.
"
Through
me
?
"
he
repeats
,
with
an
accent
of
the
deepest
self-abasement
;
"
you
do
not
mean
to
be
ironical
,
dear
;
you
were
never
such
a
thing
in
your
life
;
you
could
not
be
if
you
tried
;
but
if
you
knew
what
a
sweep
you
make
me
feel
when
you
say
the
sort
of
thing
you
have
just
said
!
—
and
so
it
is
all
to
come
to
an
end
,
is
it
?
Good
as
these
eight
years
have
been
,
you
have
had
enough
of
them
?
You
do
not
want
any
more
like
them
?
"
She
says
neither
yes
nor
no.
He
remains
unanswered
,
unless
the
faint
smile
in
her
weary
eyes
and
about
her
drooped
mouth
can
count
for
a
reply
.
"
And
all
because
you
have
heard
some
fool
say
that
I
was
tired
of
you
?
"
The
tight
smile
spreads
a
little
wider
,
and
invades
her
pale
cheeks
.
"
Worse
than
tired
!
sick
!
sick
to
death
!
"
She
is
looking
straight
before
her
,
at
the
landscape
simmering
in
the
climbing
sun
,
the
divine
landscape
new
and
young
as
it
was
before
duomo
and
bell-tower
sprang
and
towered
heavenwards
.
Why
should
her
gaze
dwell
any
more
upon
him
?
She
has
renounced
him
,
her
eyes
must
fain
renounce
him
too
.
As
he
hears
her
words
,
as
he
watches
her
patient
profile
,
the
sole
suffering
thing
in
the
universal
morning
joy
,
a
great
revulsion
of
feeling
,
a
great
compassion
mixed
with
as
large
a
remorse
pours
in
torrent
over
his
heart
.
These
emotions
are
so
strong
that
they
make
him
deceive
even
himself
as
to
their
nature
.
It
seems
to
him
as
if
scales
had
suddenly
fallen
from
his
eyes
,
showing
him
how
profoundly
he
prizes
the
now
departing
good
,
telling
him
that
life
can
neither
ask
nor
give
anything
better
than
the
undemanding
,
selfless
,
boundless
love
about
to
withdraw
its
shelter
from
him
.
His
arm
steals
round
her
waist
,
and
not
once
does
it
flash
across
his
mind
—
as
,
to
his
shame
be
it
spoken
,
it
has
often
flashed
before
—
what
a
long
way
it
has
to
steal
!
"
Am
I
sick
of
you
,
Amelia
?
"
She
makes
no
effort
to
release
herself
.
It
does
him
no
harm
that
she
should
once
more
rest
within
his
clasp
.
But
she
still
looks
straight
before
her
at
lucent
Firenze
and
her
olives
,
and
says
three
times
,
accompanying
each
repetition
of
the
word
with
a
sorrowful
little
head-shake
:
"
Yes
!
yes
!
YES
!
"
He
will
compel
her
to
look
at
him
,
his
own
Amelia
.
Have
not
all
her
tender
looks
been
his
for
eight
long
years
?
He
puts
out
his
disengaged
hand
,
and
with
it
determinately
turns
her
poor
quivering
face
round
so
as
to
meet
his
gaze
.
"
Am
I
sick
of
you
,
Amelia
?
"
In
the
emotion
of
the
moment
,
it
appears
to
him
as
if
there
were
something
almost
ludicrously
improbable
and
lying
about
that
accusation
,
in
which
,
when
first
brought
against
him
,
his
guilty
soul
had
admitted
more
than
a
grain
of
truth
.
Her
faded
eyes
turn
to
his
,
like
flowers
to
their
sun
;
the
veracity
of
his
voice
and
of
his
eager
gray
orbs
—
still
softened
from
their
habitual
severity
by
the
tears
that
had
so
lately
wet
them
—
making
such
a
hope
,
as
,
five
minutes
ago
,
she
had
thought
never
again
to
cherish
,
leap
into
splendid
life
in
her
sick
heart
.
"
Is
it
possible
?
"
she
murmurs
,
almost
inaudibly
,
"
do
you
mean
—
that
you
are
not
?
"
They
go
down
the
hill
,
past
the
cottages
,
and
the
incurious
peasants
,
hand
in
hand
,
her
soul
running
over
with
a
deep
joy
;
and
his
occupied
by
an
unfamiliar
calm
,
that
is
yet
backed
by
an
ache
of
remorse
,
and
by
—
what
else
?
That
"
else
"
he
himself
neither
could
nor
would
define
.
He
spends
the
whole
of
that
day
with
Amelia
,
both
lunching
and
dining
with
her
and
her
family
;
a
course
which
calls
forth
expressions
of
unaffected
surprise
,
not
at
all
tinctured
with
malice
—
unless
it
be
in
the
case
