tongue.
Worse
to
her
than
the
loss
of
St.
John
is
the
consciousness
that
that
loss
is
written
in
despair
's
grey
colours
on
her
faded
face
,
right
under
her
rival
's
victorious
eyes
.
"
How
long
?
I
really
forget
,
"
answers
Constance
,
with
affected
carelessness
.
"
Oh
,
no
!
By-the-by
,
I
recollect
;
it
was
almost
immediately
after
you
left
Felton
.
I
daresay
"
(
with
a
smile
)
"
that
you
were
among
the
ranks
of
the
prophets
;
lookers-on
proverbially
see
most
of
the
game
.
"
"
Indeed
—
no
!
"
cries
the
girl
,
with
a
passionate
disclaimer
,
the
agony
of
loss
made
sharper
by
the
humiliation
of
defeat
.
"
Nothing
ever
struck
me
as
more
unlikely
!
"
"
Indeed
!
And
why
,
may
I
ask
?
"
The
skein
is
finished
;
Esther
lifts
one
hand
to
her
face
,
and
feels
a
slight
relief
in
the
partial
shade
.
"
Why
,
pray
?
"
with
a
slightly
sharpened
accent
.
"
Because
—
because
,
"
she
answers
,
in
confusion
,
"
you
had
been
brought
up
together
from
children
;
because
Mr.
Gerard
's
manner
seemed
so
much
more
like
a
brother
's
than
a
—
a
—
lover
's
.
"
The
word
so
applied
half
chokes
her
.
"
We
dislike
public
demonstrations
of
affection
,
both
of
us
,
"
rejoins
the
other
,
coldly
displeased
;
"
we
leave
those
to
servants
and
savages
.
"
A
footman
enters
with
tea
in
handleless
red
dragon
cups
,
costly
as
age
,
brittleness
,
and
ingenious
ugliness
can
make
them
.
Esther
leans
back
in
her
chair
,
idle
,
staring
vacantly
at
the
pane
,
blurred
with
big
rain-drops
.
After
a
pause
,
"
You
have
not
congratulated
me
,
Miss
Craven
,
"
Constance
says
,
sipping
her
tea
delicately
;
her
madonna
smile
relaxing
the
severely
correct
lines
of
her
Greek
mouth
.
Esther
gives
a
great
start
.
"
I
?
Oh
,
I
beg
your
pardon
!
I
—
I
forgot
;
I
—
I
—
I
congratulate
you
!
"
"
I
was
just
going
to
write
and
tell
you
the
news
,
"
says
Constance
,
graciously
—
"
I
thought
it
might
interest
you
,
as
you
had
been
with
us
so
lately
,
and
seen
the
whole
thing
going
on
—
when
we
heard
of
your
brother
's
sudden
death
.
"
Esther
rises
abruptly
,
and
walks
to
the
window
,
with
that
painful
hatred
in
her
heart
towards
Miss
Blessington
that
we
feel
towards
those
who
lightly
name
our
sacred
dead
to
us
.
"
Was
he
your
only
brother
,
my
dear
?
"
inquires
Mrs.
Blessington
,
with
languid
interest
.
"
Yes
.
"
"
Dear
—
dear
!
Very
sad
—
very
sad
!
And
what
did
he
die
of
?
Consumption
?
"
"
No
—
diphtheria
.
"
"
Ah
!
A
very
fatal
complaint
,
my
dear
,
especially
among
children
.
I
have
always
had
a
great
horror
of
it
.
In
my
younger
days
it
used
to
be
called
sore
throat
,
but
I
suppose
it
killed
just
as
many
people
then
as
it
does
now
that
it
has
got
a
fine
long
Latin
name
.
I
suppose
your
poor
brother
suffered
a
great
deal
—
did
n't
he
,
love
?
"
No
answer
,
except
a
stifled
sob
,
a
rush
from
the
room
,
and
the
sound
of
flying
feet
upon
the
hall
's
stone
floor
.
There
are
some
things
past
human
endurance
;
and
to
hear
Jack
's
parting
agonies
—
agonies
whose
memory
she
herself
dare
as
yet
hardly
contemplate
in
her
heart
's
low
depths
—
lightly
discussed
by
a
gossiping
old
woman
,
is
one
of
those
things
.
CHAPTER
XXXI
.
"
GET
me
some
fresh
candles
—
long
ones
;
longer
than
these
—
as
long
as
you
possibly
can
,
"
Esther
says
that
same
eveing
,
on
going
to
bed
,
to
the
housemaid
whom
she
finds
putting
coals
on
her
fire
.
"
I
think
,
'
m
,
that
you
will
find
these
will
last
for
to-
night
,
"
the
woman
answers
,
looking
at
the
very
respectable
dimensions
of
the
unlit
candles
on
Esther
's
queer
old-fashioned
toilet-table
.
"
No
—
no
,
they
wo
n't
!
"
she
answers
,
nervously
;
"
it
is
better
to
be
on
the
safe
side
.
"
"
Would
you
like
a
night-light
,
miss
?
"
"
Oh
no
,
no
!
they
make
the
corners
of
the
room
blacker
than
ever
,
and
they
cast
such
odd
shadows
.
I
'm
so
afraid
of
the
dark
,
"
she
ends
,
shuddering
.
"
I
'm
afraid
you
do
n't
sleep
well
,
'
m
?
"
"
Not
very
.
By-the-by
"
(
with
a
sudden
inspiration
)
,
"
have
you
got
anything
that
you
could
give
me
to
make
me
sleep
—
any
opiate
of
any
kind
?
"
"
I
've
got
a
little
laudanum
,
ma'am
,
that
Mrs.
Franklin
give
me
last
week
when
I
had
a
bad
face
.
"
"
Fetch
it
me
,
"
she
cries
,
eagerly
;
"
that
is
,
if
you
do
n't
want
it
yourself
.
It
is
very
foolish
of
me
,
"
she
says
,
looking
rather
ashamed
,
"
but
I
cannot
sleep
for
fright
.
"
The
servant
goes
,
and
presently
returns
with
a
small
dark
blue
bottle
.
"
About
how
much
ought
one
to
take
,
I
wonder
?
"
Esther
says
,
holding
it
up
between
herself
and
the
firelight
.
"
If
you
have
never
been
used
to
take
it
before
,
I
should
think
two
or
three
drops
would
be
hample
,
'
m
;
I
hope
,
'
m
"
(
with
a
little
anxiety
in
her
florid
plebeian
face
)
,
"
as
you
'll
be
careful
not
to
take
a
h
overdose
,
or
you
might
chance
never
to
wake
up
again
:
I
knew
a
young
person
as
took
it
by
mistake
for
'
black
dose
'
—
it
was
the
fault
of
the
chemist
's
young
man
—
and
in
an
hour
she
was
a
corpse
;
they
said
as
she
had
took
enough
to
kill
ten
men
.
"
"
It
is
no
wonder
that
she
was
a
corpse
,
then
,
"
Miss
Craven
answers
,
with
a
slight
smile
.
"
I
should
not
think
"
(
scrutinising
the
little
bottle
inquisitively
)
,
"
that
there
was
enough
here
to
kill
one
woman
,
let
alone
ten
men
.
Yes
,
I
'll
be
careful
;
thanks
,
very
much
.
Good
night
!
"
(
with
her
pretty
courteous
smile
)
.
The
housemaid
being
gone
,
Esther
bolts
the
door
—
a
weakly
defensive
measure
against
one
class
of
assailants
,
the
crape-masked
burglars
;
though
,
as
she
is
aware
,
utterly
impotent
against
the
other
and
worse
class
—
the
intangible
,
unkeep-outable
revenants
;
the
rustlers
along
the
passage
,
the
rattlers
of
the
lock
.
She
then
seats
herself
at
the
dressing-table
,
flings
down
her
arms
among
her
brushes
and
combs
,
and
sinks
her
head
upon
them
,
in
closest
proximity
to
the
candles
,
whose
little
spires
of
flame
the
wind
,
thrusting
its
thin
body
in
between
window
and
frame
,
drives
right
against
the
tumbled
plenty
of
her
hair
.
In
this
attitude
she
remains
a
long
time
;
forgetting
even
to
search
under
the
bed
,
up
the
chimney
,
behind
the
screen
,
or
in
the
huge
japanned
chest
,
upon
which
a
disconnected
but
interesting
landscape
of
cocks
,
pagodas
,
and
junks
picks
itself
out
,
in
tarnished
yellow
,
from
the
dull
black
ground
.
It
is
impossible
for
the
most
comprehensive
mind
or
body
to
contain
any
two
distinct
,
even
though
not
necessarily
opposite
feelings
,
in
their
fullest
force
,
at
the
same
time
.
If
one
is
famished
with
hunger
,
one
cannot
be
consumed
by
thirst
;
if
one
is
consumed
by
thirst
,
one
cannot
be
famished
with
hunger
.
If
one
is
in
despair
at
being
forgotten
by
one
's
lover
,
one
is
indifferent
as
to
the
onset
of
any
number
of
ghosts
and
murderers
;
if
one
is
paralyzed
by
fear
of
ghosts
and
murderers
,
one
is
tolerably
indifferent
as
to
one
's
lover
's
lapse
of
memory
.
For
the
first
time
since
his
death
,
Jack
is
not
the
leading
thought
in
Esther
's
mind
.
Poor
dead
!
How
can
they
be
so
unreasonable
as
to
expect
to
be
anyone
's
leading
thought
?
Even
we
noisy
,
voiceful
,
visible
living
are
obliged
to
keep
crying
out
,
"
I
am
here
—
remember
me
,
"
in
order
not
to
sink
into
oblivion
amongst
our
neighbours
and
kinsfolk
.
"
Wilt
thou
remember
me
when
I
am
gone
,
Further
each
day
from
thy
vision
withdrawn
—
Thou
in
the
sunset
,
and
I
in
the
dawn
?
"
Pretty
,
tender
,
touching
lines
;
but
I
think
that
the
answer
to
them
,
if
given
truly
,
would
hardly
content
the
asker
:
"
I
will
remember
thee
for
a
very
little
while
;
even
till
I
see
some
one
younger
and
prettier
than
thou
wert
,
and
then
I
will
forget
thee
!
"
Miss
Craven
starts
up
,
after
awhile
,
and
begins
to
walk
up
and
down
,
over
the
creaky
,
up-and-downy
boards
,
and
to
speak
vehemently
and
out
loud
to
the
rats
,
who
,
numerous
and
cheerful
as
usual
,
are
scrabbling
,
pattering
,
squeaking
under
the
floor
,
behind
the
wainscot
,
in
the
japan-chest
.
"
At
all
events
,
"
she
says
,
with
a
sort
of
savage
satisfaction
,
"
there
is
one
comfort
:
he
'll
be
miserable
—
he
'll
curse
the
day
when
he
ties
himself
to
that
lump
of
blancmange
.
Blancmange
!
white
meat
!
that
exactly
expresses
her
;
she
looks
as
if
she
would
be
good
to
eat
—
soft
,
luscious
,
ripe
.
Unfortunately
,
a
man
does
not
contemplate
eating
his
wife
!
"
But
even
this
little
angry
gleam
of
comfort
has
but
a
short
life
.
Soon
,
too
soon
,
it
occurs
to
her
that
men
do
not
look
at
a
woman
with
women
's
eyes
.
Men
,
being
three
parts
animal
themselves
,
condone
any
offence
to
a
woman
the
animal
part
of
whom
is
perfect
and
beautiful
.
How
else
is
it
that
beauty
—
mere
blank
beauty
,
although
destitute
of
any
accessory
charms
—
can
always
command
its
price
in
the
market
,
and
that
price
a
high
one
?
In
marrying
Constance
,
St.
John
will
have
no
disappointments
to
undergo
,
no
discoveries
to
make
.
He
has
known
her
all
her
life
;
has
seen
her
change
from
a
handsome
stupid
child
into
a
handsomer
stupider
girl
,
and
bloom
,
lastly
,
into
a
handsomest
,
stupidest
woman
.
Constance
has
no
antecedents
;
she
is
a
woman
without
a
history
.
That
also
is
in
her
favour
.
A
man
likes
to
write
his
name
on
a
sheet
of
white
paper
better
than
on
one
upon
which
many
other
men
have
written
theirs
.
Perfectly
virtuous
,
perfectly
healthy
,
perfectly
beautiful
,
young
,
rich
,
not
ill-tempered
,
not
fast
,
not
shrew-tongued
—
surely
she
is
a
prize
worth
any
man
's
drawing
.
If
,
in
addition
to
her
long
list
of
qualifications
,
she
possessed
also
Desdemona
's
heart
and
Imogen
's
mind
,
it
would
be
too
hard
upon
the
rest
of
womankind
:
"
Why
should
one
woman
have
all
goodly
things
?
"
Want
of
sympathy
with
the
companion
of
her
life
makes
a
woman
embittered
,
reckless
—
sends
her
often
trespassing
on
her
neighbours
'
preserves
,
in
the
endeavour
to
find
there
that
congeniality
of
spirit
which
is
not
to
be
met
with
in
her
own
.
Want
of
sympathy
with
the
companion
of
his
life
sends
a
man
oftener
to
his
club
;
makes
him
much
pleasanter
to
other
women
when
he
goes
into
society
;
makes
him
sulky
and
sleepy
when
he
dines
at
home
—
that
is
all
.
Doubtless
St.
John
will
be
indifferent
to
his
bride
at
first
;
he
will
dislocate
his
jaw
with
yawning
during
their
wedding-tour
,
but
she
will
bear
him
children
;
"
selon
les
us
et
coutumes
Anglaises
,
elle
aura
beaucoup
d'enfants
;
"
he
will
like
her
for
that
.
Year
by
year
they
will
come
here
to
Blessington
,
probably
.
Year
by
year
she
(
Esther
)
will
see
the
blossom
of
a
fuller
contentment
on
his
wide
brow
,
the
quiet
of
a
deeper
rest
in
his
restless
eyes
.
And
she
herself
will
be
here
always
,
for
one
cannot
throw
away
one
's
daily
bread
.
Year
by
year
they
will
find
her
with
ever
thinner
hair
,
sharper
shoulders
,
drabber
cheeks
;
and
he
,
looking
upon
her
with
the
forgiveness
of
complete
indifference
,
will
say
to
himself
,
"
She
is
bad
,
and
she
is
ugly
;
I
was
well
rid
of
her
!
"
Than
to
be
so
forgiven
,
how
much
rather
would
she
have
been
struck
down
dead
by
his
hand
,
lifted
in
righteous
anger
and
vengeance
,
on
that
moonlit
September
night
,
beside
the
glassy
rush-brimmed
mere
at
Felton
!
A
sudden
rage
at
her
own
fatuity
fills
her
,
when
she
looks
back
on
that
idiotic
hope
that
had
upsprung
in
her
mind
,
that
his
object
in
coming
to
Blessington
was
to
pardon
her
,
and
take
her
back
to
himself
.
Do
men
ever
pardon
a
sin
against
themselves
?
"
...
..Worse
than
despair
,
Worse
than
the
bitterness
of
death
,
is
hope
.
It
is
the
only
ill
which
can
find
place
Upon
the
giddy
,
sharp
,
and
narrow
hour
Tottering
beneath
us
.
Plead
with
the
swift
frost
,
That
it
should
spare
the
eldest
flower
of
spring
;
Plead
with
awakening
earthquake
,
o'er
whose
couch
Even
now
a
city
stands
,
strong
,
fair
and
free
,
Now
stench
and
blackness
yawns
like
death
.
Oh
!
plead
With
famine
and
wind-walking
pestilence
,
Blind
lightning
,
or
the
deep
sea
;
not
with
man
—
Cruel
,
cold
formal
man-righteous
in
words
,
In
deeds
a
Cain
.
"
She
sits
down
before
her
looking-glass
,
and
stares
desperately
,
with
inner
eyes
,
at
the
blank
ruin
of
her
life
;
with
outer
eyes
at
the
ruin
mirrored
in
her
sunken
,
altered
face
,
that
the
old
looking-glass
,
blurred
with
rust
stains
,
makes
look
more
sunken
and
altered
still
.
Involuntarily
she
lifts
her
thumb
and
forefinger
,
and
lays
them
in
the
hollows
of
her
cheek
,
as
if
seeking
for
the
red
carnations
that
used
to
flower
so
fairly
there
.
She
has
noticed
before
the
decay
of
her
beauty
—
noticed
it
with
apathy
,
as
who
should
say
,
"
Everything
else
is
gone
,
why
should
not
this
go
too
?
"
But
now
she
observes
it
with
a
sick
pang
,
as
at
the
parting
with
a
friend
;
she
would
give
ten
years
of
her
life
to
reach
it
back
again
.
"
It
was
only
for
my
beauty
he
liked
me
,
"
she
says
,
still
speaking
aloud
;
"
it
was
only
for
my
beauty
that
anybody
could
like
me
;
there
is
nothing
else
to
like
in
me
.
I
never
was
clever
,
or
said
witty
things
,
or
sang
,
or
played
:
I
was
only
pretty
.
Now
that
that
is
gone
,
everything
is
gone
!
"
As
one
shipwrecked
,
floating
about
on
a
plank
among
the
weltering
waves
of
some
great
plunging
,
grey-green
sea
,
strains
his
eyes
along
the
horizon
to
see
some
sail-speck
,
some
misty
palm-island
,
that
looks
as
though
it
were
hung
midway
in
air
;
so
she
strains
her
mental
eyes
to
catch
sight
of
some
friendly
ship
that
may
take
her
off
from
this
rock
of
her
despair
.
This
world
is
full
,
of
pairs
,
but
some
oversight
has
left
a
good
many
odd
ones
also
;
Esther
is
an
odd
one
.
Her
road
has
come
to
a
blank
wall
,
and
there
stopped
.
Is
there
no
ladder
that
can
overclimb
this
wall
?
—
no
gap
in
all
the
thickness
of
its
brick-and-mortar
?
—
no
outlet
?
She
rises
and
stands
by
the
fire
;
her
eyes
down-dropped
on
the
blue-and-white
Dutch
tiles
—
on
the
hobs
,
and
queer
brass-inlaid
dogs
:
involuntarily
she
raises
them
,
and
they
rest
upon
the
little
laudanum-bottle
on
the
chimneypiece
.
Quick
as
lightning
,
an
answer
to
her
thought-question
seems
flashed
across
her
mind
.
There
is
a
ladder
that
can
over-climb
any
wall
;
there
is
a
gap
that
can
give
egress
through
the
stoutest
masonries
;
there
is
an
outlet
from
the
deepest
dungeon
;
and
this
ladder
,
this
gap
,
this
outlet
,
men
call
Death
.
Over
the
sea
of
her
memory
the
housemaid
's
words
float
back
:
"
I
hope
you
'll
be
careful
not
to
take
an
overdose
,
'
m
,
or
you
might
chance
never
to
wake
again
!
"
They
had
been
spoken
in
careful
warning
;
to
her
they
seemed
words
of
persuasive
promise
.
Never
to
wake
again
!
Never
to
say
again
in
the
evening
,
"
Would
God
it
were
morning
!
"
and
in
the
morning
,
"
Would
God
it
were
evening
!
"
To
Esther
,
the
great
sting
of
death
had
always
laid
in
his
pain
—
in
his
gasping
breath
,
twitched
features
,
writhen
unfleshed
limbs
;
but
this
death
that
comes
in
sleep
can
be
no
bitterer
than
a
mother
that
lifts
her
little
slumbering
child
out
of
his
small
bed
(
he
not
knowing
)
,
and
bears
him
away
softly
.
The
idea
of
self-slaughter
,
when
first
suggested
,
has
always
something
terrific
,
especially
to
us
,
who
from
our
birth
have
been
taught
to
look
upon
it
as
a
crime
hardly
second
to
murder
;
to
us
,
to
whom
Cato
's
great
heroism
and
Lucretia
's
chaste
martyrdom
seem
as
sins
.
Some
vague
idea
that
suicide
is
forbidden
in
the
Scriptures
runs
through
Esther
's
mind
.
She
sits
down
at
the
table
,
and
,
drawing
a
Bible
towards
her
,
searches
long
among
the
partial
,
temporary
,
and
local
prohibitions
and
commands
of
the
Books
of
the
Law
,
and
still
longer
among
the
universal
,
all-applying
prohibitions
and
commands
of
Gospel
and
Epistle
.
Whether
it
be
that
she
search
ill
,
or
that
there
is
nought
therein
written
on
the
subject
she
seeks
,
she
knows
not
;
only
she
finds
nothing
;
and
,
closing
the
book
,
she
leans
her
pale
cheek
on
her
closed
white
hand
.
Her
brain
feels
strangely
calm
,
and
she
even
forgets
the
darkness
of
the
night
,
musing
on
a
deeper
darkness
.
What
is
this
death
,
that
we
write
in
such
great
black
letters
?
After
all
,
what
is
it
that
we
know
about
him
,
for
or
against
?
Is
it
fair
to
condemn
him
unheard
,
unknown
?
Why
should
we
give
him
any
embodiment
?
—
why
should
we
personify
him
at
all
?
He
is
but
an
ending
:
what
is
there
in
the
end
of
anything
more
terrifying
than
in
its
beginning
,
or
its
middle
?
Death
is
but
the
end
of
life
,
as
birth
is
its
beginning
,
and
as
some
unnoticed
moment
in
its
course
is
its
middle
.
Why
are
the
waters
in
which
we
set
our
feet
at
the
last
more
coldly
awful
than
those
out
of
which
we
stepped
at
the
first
?
Both
—
both
,
are
they
not
portions
of
the
great
sea
of
Eternity
that
floweth
ever
round
Time
's
little
island
?
A
clock
is
wound
up
for
a
certain
number
of
hours
;
when
that
number
of
hours
has
elapsed
,
it
stops
.
Our
more
complicated
machinery
is
wound
up
to
go
for
a
certain
number
of
years
,
months
,
days
;
when
that
number
of
years
,
months
,
and
days
is
elapsed
,
we
stop
—
that
is
all
.
What
is
this
life
,
about
the
taking
or
keeping
of
which
we
make
such
a
clamour
,
as
if
it
were
some
great
,
costly
,
goodly
thing
?
"
It
is
but
a
watch
or
a
vision
Between
a
sleep
and
a
sleep
.
"
It
is
cowardly
,
disloyal
,
say
they
,
for
a
soldier
to
desert
the
post
at
which
he
has
been
set
.
Ay
,
but
the
galley-slave
,
chained
to
an
oar
,
if
he
can
but
break
his
chain
and
be
gone
,
may
flee
away
,
and
none
blame
him
.
A
prisoner
that
is
not
on
parole
,
what
shall
hinder
him
from
escaping
?
If
he
can
but
burst
his
bars
,
and
draw
his
strong
bolts
,
may
he
not
out
and
away
into
the
free
air
?
If
,
before
our
birth
,
in
that
unknown
pre-existence
of
ours
at
which
backward-reaching
memory
catches
not
,
we
,
standing
looking
into
life
,
had
said
,
"
Oh
,
Master
,
give
me
of
this
life
!
I
know
not
what
it
is
,
but
I
would
fain
taste
it
;
and
if
Thou
givest
it
to
me
,
I
swear
to
Thee
to
keep
and
guard
it
carefully
,
as
long
as
I
may
—
.
"
But
have
we
ever
so
asked
for
it
?
Has
it
not
been
thrust
upon
us
,
undesiring
,
unconsulted
,
as
a
gift
that
is
neither
of
beauty
nor
of
price
?
Who
can
chide
us
,
if
,
laying
it
down
meekly
at
the
everlasting
feet
,
we
say
,
"
Oh
,
Great
Builder
!
take
back
that
house
in
which
,
a
reluctant
tenant
,
Thou
hast
placed
me
.
Resume
Thy
gift
;
it
is
a
burden
too
heavy
for
me
!
Lay
it
,
I
pray
Thee
,
on
shoulders
that
mayhap
may
bear
it
stoutlier
!
"
She
lifts
the
bottle
,
having
uncorked
it
,
to
her
lips
and
tastes
.
It
has
a
deathly
,
sickly
flavour
,
not
enticing
.
Hesitating
,
she
holds
it
in
her
hand
,
half-frightened
,
half-allured
;
while
her
heart
beats
loud
and
hard
.
"
It
is
the
key
to
all
my
doubts
,
"
she
says
within
herself
,
looking
steadfastly
at
it
;
"
it
is
the
answer
to
all
my
questions
.
If
I
do
but
drink
this
little
draught
,
I
shall
have
all
knowledge
;
I
shall
never
wonder
again
!
I
shall
know
where
Jack
is
;
I
shall
be
with
him
!
But
shall
I
?
"
Ay
,
that
's
the
rub
!
Even
in
this
small
world
,
to
be
alive
at
the
same
time
with
another
person
is
not
necessarily
,
or
even
probably
,
to
be
with
him
.
Wide
continents
,
high
mountains
,
deep
rivers
often
sever
those
that
are
closest
of
kin
;
and
in
the
world
of
the
dead
,
which
,
being
so
much
more
populous
,
must
be
so
much
the
greater
,
is
it
not
likely
that
still
wider
continents
,
higher
mountains
,
deeper
rivers
,
may
part
two
that
would
fain
be
together
?
What
if
,
before
her
time
,
she
incur
the
abasement
of
death
,
the
dishonour
of
corruption
,
and
yet
attain
not
the
object
for
whose
sake
she
is
willing
desperately
to
lay
her
comely
head
in
the
dust
?
She
changes
her
attitude
,
puts
down
the
bottle
,
and
again
stoops
her
small
flower-face
on
her
bent
fingers
—
her
thoughts
varying
their
channel
a
little
:
"
If
I
go
,
I
shall
leave
no
gap
behind
me
,
any
more
than
a
teacupful
of
water
taken
out
of
a
great
pool
leaves
a
gap
behind
.
If
it
is
disgraceful
to
go
willingly
out
of
the
world
,
instead
of
being
dragged
unwillingly
out
of
it
,
my
disgrace
is
my
own
.
I
involve
no
one
else
in
it
;
there
is
no
one
of
my
name
left
to
be
ashamed
of
me
.
I
leave
no
work
undone
in
the
world
.
Hundreds
of
others
can
carry
air-cushions
,
and
read
to
a
deaf
old
man
far
more
patiently
than
I
have
done
.
My
fifty
pounds
a
year
will
go
to
put
daily
bread
into
some
other
poor
woman
's
mouth
,
to
whom
it
may
perhaps
taste
sweeter
than
it
has
done
to
me
.
"
Her
head
sinks
forward
again
on
her
outstretched
arms
.
...
.
"
It
is
awful
to
go
out
into
the
dark
all
by
oneself
,
"
she
thinks
,
with
a
pang
of
intense
self-pity
,
as
she
feels
the
warm
,
gentle
life
throbbing
in
her
round
,
tender
limbs
:
"
and
I
,
that
hate
the
dark
so
—
,
is
it
very
wicked
of
me
to
think
of
this
thing
?
People
will
say
so
,
but
I
will
not
hear
them
.
Where
shall
I
be
to-morrow
at
even
?
"
"
You
will
be
at
Blessington
,
and
feeling
a
good
deal
ashamed
of
your
absurd
paroxysm
of
cowardly
despair
,
"
answers
plain
common
sense
,
who
,
in
the
shape
of
an
untold
multitude
of
rats
,
begins
rushing
and
gnawing
,
hundred-
toothed
,
scampering
hundred-footed
behind
the
walls
.
Esther
lifts
her
foolish
prone
head
,
and
listens
.
"
Skurry
—
skurry
!
"
go
the
rats
;
"
Crack
!
"
go
the
beams
;
"
Thud
!
"
goes
some
unexplained
bulk
,
in
the
dining-room
underneath
!
As
the
tide
,
at
flood
,
creeps
up
and
over
the
sands
,
so
the
child
's
old
fear
creeps
up
and
over
her
new
mad
scheme
of
suicide
.
"
Rustle
—
rustle
!
"
come
the
ghostly
dresses
along
the
China
gallery
;
"
Click
,
rattle
—
rattle
,
click
!
"
goes
the
door-lock
.
Down
goes
the
laudanum
bottle
on
the
table
,
and
Esther
,
springing
to
her
feet
,
begins
to
unfasten
,
with
fingers
rendered
nervous
by
extreme
haste
,
her
dress
and
the
belt
round
her
slim
waist
.
"
Crack
—
crack
—
crack
!
"
goes
something
close
to
the
bed-head
;
"
Bang
!
"
goes
a
distant
door
.
There
is
no
wind
;
what
or
who
can
have
executed
that
bang
The
fire
,
which
has
been
burning
hollow
for
some
time
,
collapses
,
and
falls
in
suddenly
with
a
clear
,
loud
noise
.
In
one
leap
Miss
Craven
is
in
bed
and
beneath
the
sheltering
bed-clothes
.
All
very
well
pensively
to
contemplate
,
in
half-earnest
,
the
conveying
oneself
out
of
a
world
that
has
been
a
most
harsh
step-mother
to
one
,
but
by
no
means
well
to
have
one
's
graceful
farewells
to
existence
broken
in
upon
by
a
nation
tailed
and
whiskered
—
by
the
spirits
of
old
reprobates
in
flowered
dressing-gowns
,
and
of
ladies
,
who
nightly
carry
their
patched
and
powdered
heads
like
parcels
under
their
arms
.
Good
night
,
wicked
woman
!
May
the
rats
career
all
night
over
your
small
face
,
as
a
punishment
for
your
great
idiocy
!
CHAPTER
XXXII
.
ST.
JOHN
has
arrived
;
he
has
jumped
down
from
the
dog-cart
that
brought
him
from
the
station
,
wrapped
up
in
a
huge
greatcoat
lined
with
otter-skin
,
that
makes
him
look
like
"
three
single
gentlemen
rolled
into
one
.
"
His
nose
,
always
rather
a
salient
point
in
his
face
,
is
reddened
by
the
east
winds
,
and
his
eyelids
purple
with
want
of
sleep
,
as
he
has
been
travelling
night
and
day
—
not
from
any
violent
hurry
to
reach
his
destination
,
but
because
boats
and
mail-trains
suited
—
from
the
South
of
Ireland
,
where
for
the
last
ten
days
he
has
been
daily
shooting
the
wily
woodcock
,
and
nightly
putting
into
practice
the
excellent
resolution
expressed
in
the
song
of
"
not
going
home
till
morning
,
"
with
some
rather
fast
bachelor-friends
,
who
,
like
himself
,
are
as
yet
destitute
of
household
angels
,
to
bring
heaven
to
their
hearths
,
to
take
away
their
cues
,
blow
out
their
cigars
,
and
reduce
the
number
of
their
brandies
and
sodas
.
Neither
a
good-looking
nor
a
good-tempered
young
man
does
he
look
as
he
makes
his
descent
.
The
first
he
cannot
help
—
the
second
he
can
.
His
ill-humour
is
owing
partly
to
a
violent
headache
;
partly
to
the
information
,
just
imparted
to
him
by
the
butler
,
that
"
the
family
dines
at
six
o'clock
now
reg'lar
—
no
difference
made
whatever
company
there
may
be
—
on
account
of
the
old
squire
's
'
ealth
.
"
Perhaps
,
had
St.
John
known
that
a
woman
was
watching
his
arrival
,
he
might
have
endeavoured
to
smooth
his
features
into
an
expression
of
greater
amiability
.
Had
he
known
that
that
woman
was
Esther
Craven
,
the
look
of
bored
annoyance
would
certainly
have
given
way
to
a
stronger
one
,
whether
of
pleasure
or
pain
.
Crouched
on
one
of
the
paintless
window-seats
in
the
China
gallery
,
she
watches
his
coming
,
as
she
had
watched
his
going
;
only
that
now
she
makes
no
smallest
effort
to
attract
his
attention
—
cowers
away
rather
in
the
dark
,
while
he
stands
,
unconscious
and
grumbling
,
in
the
patch
of
red
light
that
comes
through
the
open
hall-door
.
He
has
been
here
half
an
hour
now
—
half
an
hour
spent
in
the
hot
airtight
saloon
,
where
the
giant
fire
draws
a
strong
woolly
smell
from
Miss
Blessington
's
winter
dress
,
as
she
sits
right
into
the
fire
—
a
practice
not
permitted
by
the
autocrat
of
Felton
,
and
consequently
largely
indulged
in
by
his
subjects
when
away
from
his
master-eye
.
The
old
squire
has
requested
St.
John
to
come
round
to
his
other
side
—
to
draw
his
chair
closer
to
his
—
to
speak
more
distinctly
.
The
old
lady
has
explained
to
him
the
exact
manner
in
which
the
draught
comes
through
the
middle
window
,
and
catches
her
just
at
the
back
of
the
neck
,
so
that
when
she
wakes
in
the
morning
it
is
so
stiff
that
she
can
hardly
turn
it
a
quarter
of
an
inch
one
way
or
another
.
Miss
Blessington
has
expressed
one
fear
that
he
had
had
a
cold
journey
down
,
and
another
that
he
had
not
been
able
to
get
a
foot-warmer
at
Shoreditch
;
there
were
always
so
shamefully
few
there
,
particularly
these
afternoon
trains
,
that
all
the
business-men
came
down
from
their
offices
by
.
Constance
had
certainly
never
spoken
a
truer
word
,
than
in
saying
that
she
and
her
lover
were
not
fond
of
public
demonstrations
;
the
question
that
their
acquaintance
asked
each
other
was
,
whether
they
were
any
fonder
of
private
ones
.
As
the
clock
strikes
half-past
five
,
Miss
Blessington
rises
and
floats
away
lightly
,
and
without
noise
,
to
dress
.
Not
for
a
kingdom
would
she
rob
one
second
from
the
sacred
half-hour
—
all
too
short
already
—
though
the
toilette
to
be
made
is
only
for
the
benefit
of
two
purblind
old
people
,
who
cannot
see
it
,
and
of
a
young
man
who
does
not
know
gingham
from
"
gaze
de
Chambéry
,
"
and
who
has
seen
her
in
short
frock
and
trousers
,
in
long
dress
and
chignon
,
in
court-
dress
,
in
ball-dress
,
in
walking-dress
,
in
driving-dress
,
in
staying-at-home
dress
,
any
thousand
number
of
times
during
the
last
seventeen
years
.
Momently
the
hot
close
atmosphere
is
making
Gerard
's
headache
worse
;
momently
the
prospect
of
the
six-o'clock
dinner
becomes
more
intolerable
to
him
.
Heroically
,
however
,
he
enters
into
conversation
with
his
great
aunt-in-law
elect
.
"
So
you
have
been
trying
an
experiment
,
I
hear
,
"
he
says
,
scratching
the
cat
's
ear
and
cheek
and
chin
as
she
successively
lifts
them
to
him
for
titillation
,
—
"
set
up
a
'
companion
,
'
have
n't
you
?
Do
you
find
it
work
well
?
"
"
You
must
ask
grandpapa
,
"
replies
the
old
lady
,
looking
towards
her
husband
,
who
,
with
head
sunk
on
chest
,
lips
protruded
,
and
eyes
closed
,
seems
at
the
present
moment
hardly
in
a
condition
to
be
put
through
a
catechism
on
any
subject
;
"
he
has
more
to
say
to
her
than
I
have
.
You
see
it
was
too
great
a
strain
on
dear
Constance
's
strength
reading
to
him
every
day
,
and
he
dislikes
Gurney
's
reading
"
(
Gurney
is
the
valet
)
:
"
he
says
he
never
minds
his
stops
,
and
bawls
at
him
;
and
so
we
thought
it
better
to
get
a
person
of
more
education
,
who
would
be
always
on
the
spot
,
and
—
"
"
And
whose
strength
,
"
interrupts
St.
John
,
a
little
ironically
,
"
unlike
Constance
's
,
would
be
warranted
un-overworkable
?
"
"
Exactly
,
"
answers
the
old
lady
,
innocently
.
"
And
she
is
a
satisfactory
beast
of
burden
,
I
hope
?
"
says
Gerard
,
yawning
till
the
tears
come
into
his
eyes
;
"
fetches
and
carries
well
?
"
"
She
seems
a
nice
,
quiet
,
ladylike
person
enough
,
"
replies
Mrs.
Blessington
,
leaning
back
placidly
in
her
chair
,
with
her
hands
,
in
black
kid
half-gloves
,
lying
folded
in
her
lap
—
"
only
,
unfortunately
,
over-sensitive
:
those
sort
of
people
always
are
.
Why
,
it
was
only
yesterday
that
she
rushed
from
this
room
with
such
violence
that
she
nearly
shook
Constance
and
me
out
of
our
chairs
,
because
I
made
some
slight
observation
about
a
brother
of
hers
who
died
lately
,
and
to
whom
,
it
seems
,
she
was
much
attached
.
I
'm
sure
I
had
no
intention
of
hurting
her
feelings
,
poor
girl
!
"
"
Girl
!
"
repeats
St.
John
,
laughing
;
"
that
means
a
gushing
thing
of
fifty
,
I
suppose
?
"
"
More
like
fifteen
.
By-the-by
,
she
said
something
the
other
day
about
having
known
you
.
"
"
Known
me
!
"
cries
the
young
man
,
opening
his
quick
grey
eyes
.
"
Well
,
'
more
know
Tom
Fool
than
Tom
Fool
knows
.
'
I
never
knew
any
one
in
my
life
that
had
a
'
companion
'
—
of
this
sort
,
I
mean
.
What
may
my
unknown
friend
's
name
be
?
"
But
at
this
juncture
,
before
the
name
of
his
unknown
friend
can
be
confided
to
him
,
the
old
squire
,
waking
up
,
urgently
requests
to
be
told
what
they
are
talking
about
,
which
information
is
communicated
,
in
a
succession
of
long
dull
roars
,
into
his
good
ear
.
St.
John
takes
advantage
of
the
diversion
to
leave
the
room
,
and
,
running
upstairs
,
knocks
at
Constance
's
door
.
"
Constance
!
"
"
Who
's
there
?
"
(
Voice
rather
muffled
—
from
under
an
avalanche
of
hair
apparently
)
.
"
I
.
Can
you
come
out
and
speak
to
me
for
a
minute
,
if
you
are
not
in
too
great
deshabille
?
"
"
Certainly
.
"
Ordinarily
,
Miss
Blessington
is
a
prude
;
but
to
appear
for
an
instant
before
her
betrothed
in
light-blue
cashmere
lined
with
blue
satin
,
and
her
hair
in
golden
rain
about
her
shoulders
,
is
,
she
thinks
,
for
once
permissible
.
Has
he
come
to
make
some
demonstration
of
affection
?
—
to
give
her
some
warmer
greeting
than
the
nonchalant
handshake
with
which
they
met
?
Or
has
he
,
has
he
—
oh
sweeter
,
warmer
thought
!
—
brought
her
a
present
from
Ireland
?
Visions
of
Irish
poplin
,
Irish
lace
,
bog-oak
and
gold
,
cunningly
fashioned
together
into
bracelet
or
necklace
,
float
before
her
mind
's
eye
.
In
a
moment
,
with
a
little
affected
coyness
on
her
face
,
she
stands
before
him
;
stands
before
him
—
and
he
does
not
even
see
her
!
He
has
opened
one
of
the
rusty
casements
in
the
passage
,
and
thrust
his
head
out
,
feeling
the
keen
eastern
blast
blow
against
his
throbbing
brow
with
a
sense
of
relief
.
He
has
evidently
no
gift
in
his
hand
,
nor
does
he
seem
to
be
assailed
by
any
very
over-powering
temptation
to
embrace
her
,
blue
and
gold
and
white
miracle
though
she
be
.
Hearing
her
he
turns
,
and
the
expression
of
his
countenance
is
glum
.
"
I
say
,
does
this
sort
of
thing
happen
every
day
?
"
"
What
sort
of
thing
?
"
(
with
a
little
pique
at
the
errand
on
which
she
has
been
called
away
from
among
her
cosmetics
)
.
"
This
feeding
,
I
cannot
call
it
dining
,
like
savages
,
at
mid-day
?
"
"
It
is
a
fancy
of
my
uncle
,
"
replies
Constance
,
with
the
door-handle
still
in
her
hand
;
"
he
imagines
that
,
if
he
dined
later
,
he
should
not
have
time
to
digest
his
food
before
going
to
bed
.
"
St.
John
utters
an
impatient
exclamation
.
"
In
Heaven
's
name
let
him
digest
in
bed
,
then
;
or
,
if
not
,
let
him
dine
by
himself
!
I
'm
sure
no
one
would
object
to
that
arrangement
.
Poor
old
boy
!
he
ca
n't
help
it
;
but
it
does
take
away
one
's
appetite
to
see
a
very
old
man
mumbling
his
food
,
like
a
toothless
old
dog
over
a
bone
.
"
"
I
suppose
he
may
dine
at
what
hour
he
chooses
in
his
own
house
?
"
says
Constance
,
coldly
.
"
Of
course
he
may
.
He
may
go
back
to
the
manners
and
customs
of
the
ancient
British
,
"
rejoins
Gerard
,
impatiently
;
"
he
may
get
up
in
the
middle
of
the
night
and
paint
himself
in
blue-and-white
stripes
,
instead
of
wearing
coat
and
waistcoat
,
if
he
chooses
—
only
he
can
hardly
expect
civilized
beings
to
join
him
.
"
"
I
always
think
it
right
,
on
principle
,
to
humour
old
people
's
whims
,
"
answers
Constance
,
taking
the
high
moral
tone
that
she
has
adopted
more
than
once
since
their
engagement
in
any
discussion
with
her
lover
,
a
tone
symptomatic
of
what
the
postnuptial
line
of
attack
is
likely
to
be
.
"
A
very
excellent
sentiment
,
my
dear
,
"
says
St.
John
,
a
little
mockingly
,
"
worthy
of
being
copied
by
little
boys
and
girls
after
they
have
mastered
straight
strokes
and
pot-hooks
;
but
to-night
I
must
request
the
aged
to
humour
my
whim
,
and
my
whim
is
to
absent
myself
from
this
symposium
.
I
have
got
a
splitting
headache
,
and
am
altogether
pretty
nearly
dead-beat
.
I
have
hardly
a
leg
to
stand
upon
:
if
you
wo
n't
take
it
as
a
personal
insult
,
I
have
a
good
mind
to
turn
in
at
once
.
I
have
not
been
in
bed
,
for
any
time
worth
speaking
of
,
for
the
last
ten
days
.
"
"
Indeed
!
"
replies
Constance
,
freezing
up
,
and
looking
as
though
tortures
should
not
wring
from
her
any
question
as
to
what
had
been
the
vicious
pursuits
that
had
detained
her
lover
from
balmy
slumbers
.
"
You
will
please
yourself
of
course
.
"
"
If
every
one
pleased
themselves
,
and
no
one
else
,
this
would
be
a
much
more
passable
world
to
live
in
,
"
retorts
St.
John
,
with
a
little
misanthropy
;
"
for
then
each
person
would
get
their
fair
share
of
attention
neither
more
nor
less
,
which
is
what
they
do
not
now
.
"
But
the
last
half
of
his
sentence
is
addressed
to
himself
,
as
his
madonna
has
retired
again
within
her
shrine
.
Meanwhile
,
for
the
first
time
since
her
brother
's
death
,
the
"
companion
"
—
the
nice
,
quiet
,
young
ladylike
person
,
whose
only
fault
is
being
over-sensitive
—
is
,
like
Constance
,
making
a
toilette
.
Since
Jack
's
death
she
has
daily
put
on
her
clothes
,
as
a
necessary
preliminary
to
the
day
's
work
;
but
it
has
been
a
task
full
of
weariness
—
devoid
of
pleasure
.
To-night
,
like
Constance
,
she
makes
a
toilette
,
and
like
Constance
,
it
is
for
the
benefit
of
the
young
man
who
does
not
know
gingham
from
"
gaze
de
Chambéry
.
"
It
is
not
,
however
,
with
any
faintest
hope
that
her
Sunday
frock
,
any
more
than
her
work-a-day
one
,
will
bring
back
her
lost
lover
to
her
side
,
that
she
puts
the
former
on
.
The
very
strength
of
her
faith
in
his
honour
hinders
the
possibility
of
his
turning
away
from
the
woman
he
has
promised
to
marry
to
any
other
woman
from
entering
her
head
.
Only
,
seeing
,
as
plainly
as
if
it
were
another
's
and
not
her
own
,
the
ruin
of
the
face
that
meets
her
,
daily
and
nightly
,
in
the
dim
oval
of
the
old
glass
in
its
tarnished
frame
,
she
wishes
that
that
ruin
might
be
revealed
slowly
,
and
by
degrees
(
not
all
at
once
)
,
to
him
that
had
once
thought
her
so
fair
.
For
this
one
night
,
she
would
fain
look
like
her
old
self
—
would
fain
be
pretty
plump
Esther
Craven
,
whose
face
,
dimpled
and
débonnaire
,
men
used
to
turn
round
in
the
street
to
look
after
—
instead
of
the
thin
depressed
"
companion
,
"
whom
if
men
looked
at
at
all
,
it
was
only
to
pity
her
sunken
white
cheeks
and
sombre
mourning
weeds
.
Her
Sunday
frock
is
a
lugubrious
combination
of
cheap
black
silk
and
crape
,
against
which
her
artistic
eye
has
been
revolting
ever
since
she
heard
of
St.
John
's
coming
.
A
little
white
tucker
will
not
make
her
any
the
less
mindful
of
Jack
.
And
so
she
has
been
devoting
most
of
the
short
winter
daylight
to
the
inserting
of
such
a
tucker
,
and
to
cutting
the
funereal
body
square
.
The
alterations
have
been
effected
,
now
the
Sunday
frock
is
on
:
if
it
had
been
costliest
velvet
or
satin
,
instead
of
papery
silk
at
two-and-sixpence
a
yard
,
its
black
could
not
have
contrasted
better
with
the
milkwhite
of
the
long
lily
.
throat
and
swelling
bust
.
Esther
has
lost
flesh
a
good
deal
lately
;
but
,
being
small-boned
and
thoroughly
well-made
,
no
unsightly
hollows
show
as
yet
,
like
salt-cellars
,
beneath
her
collar-bones
—
not
yet
are
elbows
or
shoulders
sharp
.
Brilliancy
of
colouring
is
gone
;
but
the
head
,
arched
like
the
Clyte
's
,
is
still
left
,
and
great
plenty
of
night
dark
hair
to
clothe
it
.
Instead
of
the
unnatural
protuberance
of
a
chignon
,
she
has
arranged
this
hair
in
the
thick
plain
twists
with
which
in
the
old
time
Miss
Blessington
's
betrothed
used
—
...
.
"
to
play
Not
knowing
—
,
"
and
,
so
playing
,
spoke
in
loving
commendation
of
them
.
In
like
twists
Miss
Blessington
herself
often
disposes
her
locks
—
twists
purchased
by
her
for
a
considerable
price
from
M
.
Isidore
,
golden
hair
being
hard
to
match
,
and
consequently
expensive
.
It
is
five
minutes
to
six
.
The
toilette
is
finished
,
and
Esther
stands
before
the
glass
considering
it
;
but
with
none
of
the
triumphant
self-content
with
which
a
fine
woman
usually
regards
the
victory
that
art
and
nature
,
fighting
side
by
side
,
have
achieved
on
the
battle-field
of
her
face
.
Colour
had
been
Esther
's
strong
point
,
and
colour
has
gone
from
her
;
as
it
goes
from
a
violet
sent
in
a
letter
,
or
from
a
poppy
dried
between
the
leaves
of
a
love-song
.
A
raging
desire
for
rouge
,
raddle
,
plate-powder
—
anything
to
bring
back
that
flower-flush
that
used
to
need
no
persuasion
to
stay
with
her
—
enters
her
mind
.
But
neither
rouge
nor
raddle
is
near
,
and
for
plate-powder
she
would
have
to
apply
to
the
butler
—
an
effort
for
which
not
even
her
great
wish
to
appear
once
more
red-cheeked
before
her
ex-lover
can
nerve
her
.
Suddenly
,
her
eyes
fall
on
a
spray
of
scarlet
geranium
,
that
,
plucked
this
morning
in
the
conservatory
,
she
has
worn
all
day
in
the
breast
of
her
dress
.
A
recollection
comes
to
her
of
having
,
when
a
child
,
crushed
one
of
those
dazzling
flowers
against
the
face
of
another
child
,
and
of
having
laughed
with
pleasure
at
the
scarlet
stain
.
She
snatches
up
eagerly
some
of
the
petals
,
and
rubs
them
on
her
cheeks
;
the
hue
produced
,
though
too
scarlet
for
nature
,
is
vivid
and
beautifying
.
She
sets
to
work
on
the
other
cheek
.
Esther
is
not
a
very
cunning
artiste
;
she
has
no
idea
of
softening
off
edges
with
cotton-wool
—
of
working
deftly
from
cheekbone
downwards
.
She
is
only
possessed
by
a
great
longing
to
get
back
,
for
this
one
night
,
something
of
her
old
brilliancy
.
And
in
this
she
partially
succeeds
.
The
result
of
her
labours
is
,
indeed
,
a
too
hectic
bloom
;
but
the
bright
colour
seems
to
fill
up
somewhat
the
hollowed
cheeks
—
seems
to
bring
back
a
little
of
the
old
childish
débonnaire
grace
.
Her
labour
ended
,
she
runs
downstairs
quickly
—
not
giving
herself
time
for
remorse
at
the
meretricious
nature
of
her
charms
,
and
listens
,
trembling
all
over
,
at
the
saloon-door
before
entering
.
There
is
no
sound
except
the
rolling
grunts
with
which
,
unheard
by
himself
,
the
old
gentleman
accompanies
every
respiration
.
A
footman
crosses
the
hall
;
the
"
companion
"
must
not
be
caught
eavesdropping
;
she
turns
the
door-handle
and
goes
in
.
The
old
squire
,
with
coat-tails
under
his
arms
,
standing
on
tottery
old
legs
before
the
fire
;
the
old
lady
,
in
her
evening-cap
,
sunk
in
armchair
and
Shetland
shawls
;
Miss
Blessington
,
with
blue
bands
binding
close
her
waved
golden
hair
,
and
an
expression
of
face
less
bland
than
usual
,
on
the
ottoman
.
No
one
else
.
"
How
smart
you
are
,
my
dear
!
"
the
old
lady
says
,
not
.
unkindly
,
her
faded
eyes
straying
slowly
over
the
square-
cut
bodice
,
white
tucker
,
and
cabled
hair
.
"
Is
that
in
honour
of
Mr.
Gerard
?
"
"
It
is
rather
thrown
away
if
it
is
,
"
says
Mr.
Gerard
's
future
owner
,
with
some
temper
:
"
St.
John
has
chosen
to
make
an
invalid
of
himself
tonight
,
and
has
gone
to
bed
.
"
No
need
now
for
the
geranium
dye
—
a
great
hot
blush
burns
through
it
—
burns
throat
and
brow
and
neck
;
she
has
made
herself
up
in
vain
.
"
Gone
to
bed
!
"
repeats
Mrs.
Blessington
,
raising
herself
a
little
from
among
her
pillows
—
"
at
six
o'clock
!
Dear
me
,
love
,
I
hope
he
is
not
ill
!
I
thought
he
seemed
rather
absent
when
he
was
talking
to
me
before
I
went
to
dress
;
and
he
left
the
room
so
abruptly
too
!
Are
you
sure
,
Constance
,
that
he
would
not
like
something
sent
up
to
him
?
"
"
He
is
quite
able
to
take
care
of
himself
,
I
assure
you
—
thanks
,
aunt
,
"
replies
Constance
,
not
without
a
vexed
ring
in
her
low
flute
voice
.
"
If
we
served
him
right
,
we
should
accept
him
as
the
invalid
he
pretends
himself
,
and
allow
him
nothing
but
a
little
water-gruel
or
arrowroot
.
"
"
It
seems
so
unnatural
,
a
young
man
going
to
bed
without
his
dinner
;
I
'm
sure
,
dear
,
I
hope
it
is
nothing
serious
,
"
cries
the
old
lady
,
with
that
righteous
horror
of
death
and
sickness
which
,
by
some
strange
contrariety
,
one
finds
so
often
amongst
the
aged
,
so
seldom
amongst
the
young
.
"
Nothing
more
serious
than
the
natural
results
of
ten
days
'
Irish
hospitality
,
"
replies
Constance
,
with
a
laugh
,
which
,
though
low
and
highbred
,
is
not
mirthful
;
"
men
are
so
fond
of
one
another
's
society
when
they
get
together
,
that
they
never
can
take
it
in
moderation
.
I
dislike
bachelor
parties
particularly
.
"
"
He
is
making
the
most
of
his
time
,
my
dear
—
he
knows
it
is
short
,
"
suggests
the
old
lady
,
smiling
and
nodding
,
and
looking
wise
.
"
Quite
right
,
too
!
—
quite
right
!
Sensible
fellow
—
knows
when
he
is
well
off
!
So
did
I
when
I
was
his
age
—
eh
,
Mrs.
Blessington
?
"
chimes
in
the
squire
,
who
,
for
a
wonder
,
has
caught
the
drift
of
the
talk
;
chuckling
to
himself
at
the
recollection
—
perfectly
clear
,
though
he
forgets
what
happened
yesterday
—
of
the
pleasant
immoralities
that
have
the
weight
of
over
half
a
century
lying
upon
them
.
"
Dinner
!
"
announces
the
butler
,
coming
close
up
to
his
master
,
and
bawling
unnecessarily
loud
.
"
You
'll
have
to
be
content
with
the
old
squire
again
,
Conny
,
my
dear
,
"
says
the
old
man
,
putting
out
his
feeble
arm
;
"
you
'll
find
the
old
fellows
are
best
,
after
all
.
"
"
I
quite
agree
with
you
,
uncle
—
I
think
they
are
,
"
replies
Constance
,
gravely
;
and
so
,
the
old
man
supported
on
one
young
girl
's
arm
,
and
the
old
woman
on
another
's
,
the
procession
toddles
solemnly
,
at
a
snail
's
pace
,
into
the
carefully-warmed
and
shaded
dining-room
.
"
What
a
brilliant
colour
you
have
to-night
,
Miss
Craven
!
"
says
Constance
that
evening
;
endeavouring
vainly
to
get
a
strong
light
thrown
upon
Esther
's
countenance
—
the
one
small
lamp
,
with
its
deep
green
shade
,
effectually
baffling
her
.
"
I
went
out
in
the
wind
,
and
it
caught
my
face
,
"
answers
Esther
,
hurriedly
:
involuntarily
raising
her
hands
to
her
cheeks
and
then
snatching
them
away
again
,
in
the
fear
that
the
scarlet
dye
,
staining
them
,
may
betray
her
secret
.
"
But
there
was
no
wind
to-day
,
and
I
did
not
think
that
you
had
been
outside
the
doors
?
"
"
Yes
,
I
was
;
I
went
for
a
run
in
the
park
just
before
dressing-time
.
"
"
It
must
have
been
quite
dark
.
"
"
It
is
never
quite
dark
out-of-doors
;
total
darkness
is
a
human
invention
,
I
think
;
there
is
always
a
sort
of
owl
light
.
"
Constance
shrugs
her
shoulders
:
"
Chacun
à
son
goût
,
I
prefer
leaving
it
to
the
owls
.
"
"
It
stifles
me
staying
indoors
all
day
;
I
have
never
been
used
to
it
.
"
Miss
Blessington
unbuttons
her
great
eyes
a
little
:
"
Really
?
"
"
Yes
,
really
.
"
"
But
there
was
no
wind
,
surely
?
"
persists
Constance
.
"
Not
a
breath
!
"
replies
the
other
,
absently
,
forgetting
her
former
excuse
for
her
brilliant
face
.
"
There
never
is
any
wind
worth
calling
a
wind
in
these
low
countries
;
the
winds
keep
to
the
mountains
,
and
very
wise
of
them
too
.
"
"
But
you
said
it
was
the
wind
that
had
caught
your
face
?
"
says
Constance
,
raising
herself
from
her
lounging
attitude
with
more
animation
than
is
customary
to
her
.
Esther
starts
.
"
Oh
!
so
I
did
—
I
forgot
;
I
meant
the
air
,
of
course
.
"
Constance
looks
slightly
sceptical
,
but
is
too
well-bred
to
pursue
her
inquiries
further
;
merely
saying
,
languidly
,
as
she
rearranges
the
cushions
upon
which
her
stately
shoulders
rest
posed
,
"
Glycerine-cream
is
the
best
thing
in
the
world
for
a
chapped
face
.
"
"
Is
it
?
"
answers
Essie
,
guiltily
conscious
that
a
little
cold
water
is
the
only
glycerine-cream
needed
to
effect
the
cure
of
her
chapped
face
.
"
Have
you
seen
St.
John
since
he
came
?
"
asks
Constance
,
presently
;
the
links
that
connect
his
name
with
her
artificially-reddened
countenance
being
painfully
evident
to
Miss
Craven
.
"
No
—
yes
—
no
,
not
to
speak
to
.
"
"
You
were
out
when
he
came
,
I
suppose
,
were
n't
you
?
"
"
No
,
I
was
upstairs
,
"
"
I
have
not
told
him
you
are
here
;
it
will
be
a
surprise
to
him
to
meet
an
old
acquaintance
.
"
Esther
gives
an
involuntary
start
of
dismay
.
"
Why
did
not
you
tell
him
?
"
she
asks
,
hurriedly
.
"
I
!
Oh
,
I
do
n't
know
;
I
have
the
worst
memory
in
the
world
.
I
have
intended
to
tell
him
in
every
letter
,
but
I
have
always
forgotten
.
"
"
Will
he
stay
here
long
?
"
asks
Miss
Blessington
's
unsuccessful
rival
,
in
a
low
voice
,
bending
down
her
head
.
"
I
do
n't
know
,
I
'm
sure
;
he
is
always
so
full
of
engagements
,
and
I
never
allow
him
to
refuse
a
good
invitation
on
my
account
.
"
"
Will
your
wedding
be
soon
,
Miss
Blessington
?
"
(
spoken
quietly
and
firmly
)
.
"
I
really
have
not
thought
about
it
"
(
with
a
little
yawn
,
as
if
the
subject
were
rather
a
wearisome
one
than
otherwise
)
;
"
'
sufficient
unto
the
day
is
the
evil
thereof
.
'
I
do
n't
suppose
I
shall
be
given
more
than
two
or
three
months
longer
;
some
time
in
the
spring
,
I
daresay
.
"
"
I
always
think
it
is
a
good
omen
when
people
are
married
in
the
spring
,
"
says
the
young
companion
,
with
a
dreamy
smile
;
"
when
the
world
is
beginning
all
over
again
,
it
is
right
that
people
's
new
life
should
begin
with
it
.
"
"
Do
you
think
so
?
I
do
n't
much
believe
in
omens
.
May
is
certainly
the
best
time
for
Paris
.
I
have
set
my
heart
upon
seeing
the
Grand
Prix
run
for
;
unfortunately
,
St.
John
hates
Paris
.
"
"
All
men
hate
all
towns
,
I
think
,
except
American
men
;
'
good
Americans
when
they
die
go
to
Paris
,
'
somebody
said
,
did
n't
they
?
"
"
Did
they
?
It
was
rather
irreverent
,
do
n't
you
think
?
By-the-by
,
some
one
told
me
in
the
summer
that
you
were
engaged
to
be
married
;
is
it
true
?
I
hope
you
wo
n't
think
me
impertinent
for
asking
.
"
"
Not
in
the
least
;
but
it
is
not
true
.
"
"
Really
?
How
odd
it
is
the
way
those
sort
of
reports
get
about
!
"
"
Very
odd
;
people
are
singularly
fond
of
pairing
their
neighbours
,
but
they
do
n't
often
hit
upon
the
right
pairs
.
"
"
Perhaps
not
,
"
answers
Constance
,
closing
her
eyes
,
and
looking
bored
,
whereupon
Esther
lapses
into
silence
.
Every
Jack
has
his
Jill
;
but
my
Jill
is
probably
in
Siberia
or
Hong
Kong
,
and
yours
is
close
at
hand
;
so
I
marry
yours
,
and
you
,
being
in
Siberia
or
Hong
Kong
,
marry
mine
,
and
we
both
rue
it
to
our
dying
day
.
CHAPTER
XXXIII
.
NEXT
morning
St.
John
wakes
,
recovered
from
his
ill
temper
,
his
headache
,
and
all
the
effects
of
his
Irish
saturnalia
.
Perhaps
,
had
he
known
who
it
was
that
lay
wakeful
in
a
great
ginger
four-poster
,
two
doors
off
,
his
slumbers
would
not
have
been
so
profound
.
The
hounds
meet
twelve
miles
away
,
at
Shepherds
Hatch
.
By
nine
o'clock
he
is
in
the
saddle
,
and
riding
quietly
along
the
deep
Essex
lanes
and
wet
fields
,
with
a
soft
,
south
wind
blowing
in
his
face
,
and
the
grass
,
crisped
by
the
slightest
possible
frost
,
beneath
the
horse
's
hoofs
.
He
is
lucky
enough
to
come
in
for
the
run
of
the
season
;
has
the
satisfaction
of
seeing
many
better
men
than
himself
floundering
,
hatless
and
well-watered
,
in
a
brook
,
or
getting
croppers
over
stiff
hawthorn
hedges
;
over
all
which
obstacles
his
grey
,
a
new
investment
,
of
whose
fencing
powers
he
and
his
groom
had
been
