somewhere!
How
else
could
we
ever
have
conceived
the
idea
of
it
?
It
is
,
then
,
in
some
other
world
:
we
shall
find
it
on
the
other
side
of
these
drenched
,
nettly
charnels
—
on
the
other
side
of
corruption
's
disgrace
and
abasement
:
"
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
If
this
be
all
,
And
other
life
await
us
not
,
for
one
I
say
,
'
tis
a
poor
cheat
,
a
stupid
bungle
,
A
wretched
failure
1
I
,
for
one
,
protest
Against
it
—
and
I
hurl
it
back
with
scorn
!
"
Despair
never
stays
long
with
any
one
,
unless
it
is
specially
invited
.
Struck
with
sudden
horror
at
the
daring
blasphemy
of
her
thoughts
,
wretched
Esther
,
with
clasped
hands
and
a
flood
of
penitential
tears
,
sinks
upon
her
trembling
knees
.
God
grant
that
the
thoughts
that
come
to
us
,
we
know
not
whence
,
that
stab
us
in
the
dark
,
that
we
welcome
not
,
neither
cherish
at
all
—
yea
,
rather
,
drive
them
away
rudely
,
hatingly
—
may
not
be
counted
to
us
for
crimes
in
His
great
Day
of
Reckoning
,
any
more
than
the
sudden-smiting
disease
that
makes
the
strong
man
flag
in
his
noonday
is
counted
to
him
!
With
a
sudden
revulsion
of
feeling
,
with
a
paroxysm
of
devotion
,
powerfuller
than
the
former
one
of
doubt
had
been
,
the
desolate
child
,
'
prone
on
the
grave
of
her
one
treasure
,
lifts
quivering
lips
and
emptied
arms
to
Him
who
"
.
.
.
.
.
For
mankynde
's
sake
Justed
in
Jerusalem
,
a
joye
to
us
all
!
"
—
to
Him
of
whom
"
.
.
.
.
.
They
who
loved
Him
said
'
He
wept
,
'
None
ever
said
'
He
smiled
!
'
"
Perhaps
the
good
Lord
,
who
was
sorry
for
Mary
and
Martha
,
may
be
sorry
for
her
too
.
Perhaps
,
after
all
,
her
boy
is
well
rid
of
troublesome
breath
—
well
rid
of
his
cares
,
and
his
farm
,
and
his
useless
loving
sister
!
Perhaps
she
is
falsely
fond
to
desire
him
again
—
to
be
so
famished
for
one
sight
more
of
his
grey
laughing
eyes
,
of
his
smooth
stripling
face
!
Beyond
her
sight
,
he
may
be
in
the
fruition
of
extremest
good
—
in
the
sweet
shade
,
beneath
pleasant-fruited
trees
,
beside
great
cool
rivers
.
Would
she
tear
him
back
again
thence
to
toil
in
the
broiling
sun
,
because
,
so
toiling
,
he
would
be
in
her
sight
?
"
If
love
were
kind
,
why
should
we
doubt
That
holy
death
were
kinder
?
"
The
night
falls
fast
;
she
can
scarcely
any
longer
distinguish
the
clear
,
new
black
letters
on
the
cross
.
Lights
are
twinkling
from
the
village
alehouse
;
the
forge
shines
like
a
great
dull-red
jewel
in
the
surrounding
grey
;
laughing
voices
of
boisterous
men
are
wafted
unseemly
amongst
the
graves
.
Shuddering
at
the
sound
,
she
raises
herself
up
quickly
;
then
,
stooping
again
,
kisses
yet
once
more
the
wet
red
earth
that
is
now
closest
neighbour
to
her
brother
,
and
sobbing
"
Good-bye
,
my
boy
,
good-bye
!
—
God
bless
you
,
Jack
!
"
gathers
her
dusky
cloak
about
her
slight
shivering
figure
,
and
passes
away
through
the
darkness
.
CHAPTER
XXVIII
.
IT
has
snowed
all
day
;
an
immense
white
monotony
is
over
all
the
land
.
The
clouds
that
piled
themselves
in
sulky
threatening
last
night
behind
the
Welsh
hills
,
and
many
others
like
them
,
have
to-day
fulfilled
their
threats
,
and
have
been
,
through
all
the
daylight
hours
,
emptying
their
flaky
load
on
the
patient
earth
.
It
is
as
if
a
huge
white
bird
had
been
shaking
his
pinions
somewhere
,
high
up
in
the
air
—
shaking
down
millions
of
little
down
feathers
.
Rain
always
seems
in
earnest
,
snow
in
play
—
with
such
delicate
leisureliness
does
it
saunter
down
.
The
rushing
train
,
that
bears
Esther
to
her
new
distant
life
,
is
topped
like
any
twelfth-night
cake
;
so
are
the
wayside
stations
;
so
are
the
houses
in
the
smoky
towns
;
so
are
the
men
,
sparsely
walking
about
on
the
country
roads
;
so
are
the
engine
drivers
and
stokers
;
so
are
the
sheep
in
the
fields
.
Miss
Craven
has
been
sitting
all
day
long
in
the
narrow
enceinte
of
a
railway
carriage
,
between
the
two
close-shut
,
snow-blinded
windows
—
sitting
opposite
a
courteous
warrior
,
who
,
travelling
with
all
the
luxuriousness
which
his
sex
think
indispensable
,
is
magnanimous
enough
to
share
his
buffalo-robe
and
foot-warmer
with
her
.
A
téte-à-téte
of
so
many
consecutive
hours
with
a
man
would
,
under
any
other
circumstances
than
a
railway
journey
,
have
produced
an
intimacy
that
would
last
a
life-time
;
but
now
,
all
the
result
of
it
is
a
couple
of
bows
on
the
platform
at
Paddington
—
a
look
of
interested
curiosity
after
his
late
companion
's
retreating
figure
,
as
she
hurries
herself
and
her
small
properties
into
a
filthy
four-wheeler
,
on
the
part
of
the
warrior
,
and
total
oblivion
on
the
part
of
Esther
.
Since
that
time
she
has
traversed
London
in
her
dilapidated
shambling
growler
,
she
has
had
awful
misgiving
that
the
"
cabby
,
"
with
the
villany
that
all
women
ascribe
to
all
"
cabbies
,
"
is
purposely
taking
her
in
a
wrong
direction
—
is
bearing
her
away
to
some
dark
,
policeless
slum
,
there
to
be
robbed
and
murdered
.
She
has
reflected
,
with
cold
shivers
of
terror
,
as
to
what
would
be
the
wisest
course
to
pursue
,
supposing
such
to
be
the
case
.
Should
she
look
silently
out
of
window
till
she
caught
sight
of
the
friendly
helmet
and
tight
frock-coat
of
some
delivering
"
Bobby
,
"
and
then
scream
?
Should
she
open
the
door
and
jump
out
on
the
snowy
pavement
?
While
still
undecided
,
her
cab
stops
,
and
—
all
mean
back-streets
and
sorry
short-cuts
being
safely
passed-deposits
her
and
her
box
,
bag
,
and
umbrella
,
beneath
the
Shoreditch
lamps
and
among
the
Shoreditch
porters
.
Then
an
hour
's
waiting
in
the
crowded
general
waiting-room
,
where
all
the
chairs
are
occupied
by
fat
men
,
none
of
whom
make
a
movement
towards
vacating
theirs
in
favour
of
the
slender
weary
woman
,
who
,
with
crape
veil
thrown
back
from
her
sad
child-face
,
is
holding
her
little
numb
hands
over
the
fire
,
trying
vainly
to
bring
them
back
to
life
.
Then
more
train
;
then
a
three-miles
'
drive
in
a
fly
,
up
hill
and
down
dale
,
along
snowy
country
lanes
.
And
now
her
journey
is
ended
:
the
fly
has
stopped
at
the
door
of
a
great
,
vague
,
snow-whitened
bulk
,
that
she
takes
upon
trust
as
Blessington
Court
.
The
driver
,
having
rung
the
bell
,
now
stands
banging
his
arms
,
each
one
against
the
opposite
shoulder
,
in
the
rough
endeavour
to
restore
circulation
.
The
servants
are
too
comfortable
—
the
butler
over
his
mulled
port
in
the
housekeeper
's
room
,
and
the
footmen
over
their
mulled
beer
in
the
servants
'
hall
—
to
be
in
any
hurry
to
attend
to
the
summons
.
At
length
,
after
five
minutes
'
waiting
,
a
sound
of
withdrawing
bolts
and
turning
keys
makes
itself
heard
;
the
heavy
door
swings
inward
,
and
a
footman
appears
in
the
aperture
,
blinking
disgustedly
at
the
snow
,
which
drives
full
into
his
eyes
.
Esther
immediately
descends
,
and
enters
with
the
abrupt
haste
characteristic
of
extreme
nervousness
.
"
Will
you
pay
him
,
please
?
"
she
says
,
with
a
certain
flurry
of
manner
,
to
the
servant
.
"
I
—
I
do
n't
know
how
much
I
ought
to
give
him
—
how
many
miles
it
is
.
"
While
the
man
complies
with
her
request
,
she
stands
in
the
huge
stone-floored
hall
,
lit
only
by
firelight
,
shivering
with
cold
and
fear
.
She
peers
up
at
the
ceiling
—
of
which
,
by-the-bye
,
there
is
none
,
as
the
hall
runs
up
to
the
top
of
the
house
;
at
the
walls
,
from
which
great
life-size
figures
,
dimly
naked
,
glimmer
uncomfortably
cold
.
Anxious
doubts
assail
her
as
to
whether
there
are
any
rules
of
which
she
is
ignorant
for
a
"
companion
's
"
behaviour
and
deportment
;
she
is
not
aware
that
she
has
ever
seen
one
of
those
curious
animals
hitherto
in
the
course
of
her
life
.
Ought
they
to
make
a
reverence
on
entering
a
room
?
Ought
they
to
say
"
Sir
"
or
"
Ma'am
"
to
whoever
they
address
?
Ought
they
to
laugh
at
everybody
's
jokes
?
—
not
sit
down
unless
given
leave
so
to
do
,
and
not
speak
unless
spoken
to
?
So
wondering
,
she
tremblingly
follows
the
footman
as
he
opens
the
door
of
an
adjoining
apartment
,
and
,
announcing
"
Miss
Craven
,
"
retires
joyfully
to
the
society
of
his
compeers
and
his
beer
.
The
apartment
in
which
Esther
is
thus
left
stranded
is
as
large
as
the
hall
that
she
has
just
quitted
.
It
seems
to
her
oppressively
immense
—
quite
a
long
walk
from
the
door
to
the
inhabited
portion
.
A
very
big
roasting
fire
burns
on
the
hearth
:
and
right
in
front
of
it
,
in
the
very
glare
of
its
hot
red
eyes
,
sits
a
very
old
man
,
doubled
together
in
an
armchair
—
one
hand
in
his
breast
,
and
his
aged
head
sunk
upon
it
,
apparently
fast
asleep
.
An
old
lady
,
wrapped
up
in
a
shawl
,
reposes
in
another
easy-chair
,
with
her
eyes
likewise
closed
.
A
lamp
with
a
green
shade
burns
faintly
on
a
centre
table
,
and
beyond
lamp
and
table
sits
a
third
person
,
hidden
by
the
lamp-shade
from
Esther
's
eyes
.
"
Are
they
all
asleep
?
"
thinks
the
poor
girl
,
advancing
with
gentle
,
hesitating
steps
.
"
They
seem
to
be
.
How
can
I
wake
them
?
—
or
would
it
be
disrespectful
?
"
While
she
so
speculates
,
the
third
person
rises
and
comes
forward
.
"
How
do
you
do
,
Miss
Craven
?
You
must
have
had
a
cold
journey
,
I
'm
afraid
?
"
says
a
bland
,
unforgotten
voice
.
It
is
Miss
Blessington
.
In
an
instant
,
Esther
seems
to
have
jumped
back
over
the
past
intervening
months
—
to
be
just
entering
on
her
Felton
visit
.
There
is
the
same
voice
greeting
her
—
the
same
tones
of
polite
inquiry
;
the
same
words
almost
,
except
that
then
it
was
,
"
How
do
you
do
,
Miss
Craven
!
You
must
have
had
a
hot
journey
,
I
'm
afraid
?
"
and
now
it
is
,
"
How
do
you
do
,
Miss
Craven
?
You
must
have
had
a
cold
journey
,
I
'm
afraid
?
"
—
the
same
undulating
walk
;
the
same
effect
of
lilac
evening
clouds
.
Involuntarily
she
turns
her
head
and
glances
towards
the
window
,
half-expecting
to
see
St.
John
's
legs
disappearing
through
it
.
Instead
,
an
old
woman
's
voice
sounds
quavering
:
"
Are
you
Miss
Craven
,
my
dear
?
Come
here
!
"
Esther
does
not
hear
.
"
It
was
rather
cold
,
"
she
says
,
answering
Constance
,
in
half
bewilderment
between
past
and
present
,
her
eyes
dazed
with
the
light
after
her
long
,
dark
journey
.
"
Mrs.
Blessington
is
speaking
to
you
,
"
says
Constance
,
in
mild
reminder
.
Esther
turns
round
quickly
.
"
Oh
!
I
beg
your
pardon
—
I
did
not
hear
—
I
hope
I
was
not
rude
,
"
she
cries
,
forgetting
the
"
Ma'am
"
she
had
half-purposed
employing
.
"
Who
's
there
?
—
who
's
talking
?
"
asks
the
old
man
,
lifting
up
his
head
,
and
speaking
in
a
voice
tremulous
indeed
,
but
with
a
remnant
of
the
power
and
fire
that
"
youth
gone
out
had
left
in
ashes
.
"
No
one
answers
.
"
Who
's
there
,
Mrs.
Blessington
?
"
he
repeats
,
with
querulous
anger
.
"
Miss
Craven
,
uncle
—
the
young
lady
that
we
expected
to-day
—
do
n't
you
know
?
"
replies
Constance
,
stooping
gracefully
over
him
,
and
putting
her
lips
as
close
as
possible
to
his
withered
ear
.
"
H
'm
!
Tell
her
to
come
and
speak
to
me
.
I
want
to
see
what
she
is
like
,
"
he
rejoins
,
much
as
if
she
had
not
been
in
the
room
.
"
Go
to
him
,
my
dear
,
"
says
the
old
lady
.
"
And
speak
as
loud
as
you
can
;
he
is
as
deaf
as
a
post
,
"
adds
Constance
,
not
in
the
least
lowering
her
voice
at
the
announcement
,
in
perfect
confidence
of
the
truth
of
her
assertion
,
shrugging
her
handsome
shoulders
as
she
speaks
.
Esther
goes
trembling
,
and
lays
her
small
cold
hand
in
the
long
bony
wreck
of
muscle
,
vein
,
and
flesh
that
is
stretched
out
to
her
.
He
gazes
at
her
face
with
the
eager
intentness
of
the
purblind
.
"
What
is
your
name
?
"
he
asks
abruptly
.
"
Esther
,
"
she
answers
,
faltering
.
"
Cannot
hear
a
word
you
say
—
you
mumble
so
,
"
he
says
,
pettishly
.
"
Go
round
to
the
other
side
;
the
other
ear
is
the
best
,
"
suggests
Constance
,
calmly
.
Esther
obeys
.
"
Esther
,
"
she
repeats
,
speaking
unnecessarily
loud
this
time
—
at
the
top
of
her
voice
,
in
fact
,
out
of
sheer
nervousness
.
"
You
need
not
scream
at
me
,
my
dear
,
as
if
I
were
stone
deaf
.
Esther
or
Hester
,
did
you
say
?
"
"
Esther
.
"
"
And
who
gave
it
you
,
pray
?
"
"
My
father
and
mother
,
I
suppose
.
"
"
H
'm
!
Well
,
you
may
tell
them
,
with
my
compliments
,
"
he
says
,
with
a
senile
laugh
,
"
that
I
think
they
might
have
found
a
prettier
name
to
give
a
young
lady
,
and
that
the
old
squire
says
so
.
The
old
squire
says
so
,
"
he
repeats
,
chuckling
a
little
to
himself
.
"
I
cannot
tell
them
,
"
answers
Esther
,
half-crying
.
"
They
are
dead
.
"
"
Oh
,
indeed
!
"
There
his
interest
in
the
new
comer
seems
to
cease
.
His
white
head
sinks
back
on
his
breast
again
,
and
he
relapses
into
slumber
.
Esther
has
had
neither
luncheon
,
dinner
,
nor
tea
—
a
fact
which
none
of
her
companions
appear
to
contemplate
as
possible
.
One
bun
has
been
her
sole
support
throughout
the
long
bitter
day
—
only
one
,
because
all
such
buns
must
be
bought
with
Mrs.
Brandon
's
money
.
"
I
daresay
you
would
like
to
go
to
bed
,
dear
,
you
look
tired
,
"
says
Mrs.
Blessington
,
scanning
rather
curiously
Esther
's
fagged
,
woebegone
little
face
.
"
Travelling
is
so
much
more
fatiguing
than
it
used
to
be
in
former
days
,
when
one
travelled
in
one
's
own
carriage
,
whatever
they
may
say
.
I
remember
,
"
she
continues
,
with
an
old
woman
's
garrulity
,
"
Mr.
Blessington
and
I
travelling
from
London
to
York
by
easy
stages
of
twenty
miles
a
day
,
in
our
own
curricle
,
with
outriders
.
One
never
sees
a
curricle
nowadays
.
"
"
I
am
rather
tired
,
"
the
girl
answers
,
with
a
faint
smile
,
"
and
cravingly
hungry
,
"
she
might
have
added
,
but
does
not
.
"
Ring
the
bell
for
James
to
light
the
candles
.
"
Weak
from
inanition
,
and
with
limbs
cramped
by
long
remaining
in
one
position
,
Esther
follows
Miss
Blessington
up
low
flights
of
uncarpeted
stone
stairs
,
through
draughty
twisting
passages
,
along
a
broad
bare
gallery
,
down
more
passages
,
and
then
into
a
huge
gloomy
,
mouldy
room
—
frosty
,
yet
cold
,
despite
the
fire
burning
briskly
on
the
old-
fashioned-hobbed
grate
;
a
vast
dark
four-poster
,
hung
with
ginger-coloured
moreen
;
a
couch
that
looks
highly
suitable
for
lying-in-state
on
;
an
old-fashioned
screen
,
covered
with
caricatures
of
Fox
,
Burke
,
the
Regent
,
and
Queen
Caroline
;
and
on
the
walls
a
highly
valuable
and
curious
tapestry
,
which
waves
pleasantly
in
the
bitter
wind
that
enters
freely
beneath
the
ill-fitting
old
door
,
giving
an
air
of
galvanic
motion
and
false
life
to
the
ill-looking
Cupids
,
green
with
age
,
that
play
hide-and-seek
amongst
vases
,
broken
pillars
and
wormy
blue
trees
.
"
You
have
plenty
of
room
,
you
see
,
"
says
Miss
Blessington
,
with
a
curve
of
her
suave
lips
,
as
she
lights
the
candles
on
the
dressing-table
,
which
,
instead
of
being
pink
petticoated
,
white-muslined
deal
,
is
bare
sturdy
oak
,
with
millions
of
little
useless
drawers
and
pigeon-holes
in
it
.
"
Plenty
,
"
echoes
Esther
,
rather
aghast
,
surveying
her
premises
with
some
dismay
.
"
You
must
not
be
frightened
if
you
hear
odd
noises
;
it
's
only
rats
,
"
says
her
companion
,
putting
one
small
white-
booted
foot
on
the
fender
.
"
I
wish
that
—
that
stuff
would
not
sway
and
shake
about
so
,
"
says
the
young
girl
,
pointing
nervously
with
one
timid
fore-finger
to
the
tapestry
.
"
Might
not
some
one
get
behind
it
very
easily
and
hide
,
as
it
does
not
seem
to
be
fastened
down
?
"
"
Possibly
,
"
replies
Miss
Blessington
,
indifferently
.
"
I
never
heard
of
such
a
thing
having
happened
.
"
"
Am
I
near
any
one
else
—
tolerably
near
,
I
mean
?
"
asks
Esther
,
her
heart
sinking
.
"
Not
very
.
"
"
Would
no
one
hear
me
if
I
screamed
?
"
she
inquires
,
laying
her
hand
unconsciously
on
the
marble
round
of
her
companion
's
firm
white
arm
,
while
her
frightened
eyes
burn
upon
Constance
's
impassive
face
.
"
We
will
hope
that
you
will
not
make
the
experiment
,
"
she
answers
,
with
a
cold
smile
,
and
so
goes
.
CHAPTER
XXIX
.
I
THINK
that
people
's
value
,
or
want
of
value
,
is
seldom
their
own
:
it
belongs
rather
to
the
circumstances
that
surround
them
—
to
attributes
foreign
to
themselves
—
outside
of
them
.
Had
Robinson
Crusoe
,
while
walking
down
Bond
Street
in
flowing
wig
and
lace
ruffles
,
first
met
his
man
Friday
,
he
might
have
tossed
him
sixpence
to
avoid
his
importunities
;
but
would
hardly
have
taken
him
into
intimate
friendship
—
would
hardly
even
have
admitted
him
as
a
man
and
a
brother
.
Among
the
blind
the
one-eyed
is
king
,
and
among
a
crowd
of
total
strangers
an
acquaintance
rises
into
a
friend
.
Lonely
Esther
is
half-inclined
to
effect
this
metamorphosis
in
the
case
of
Miss
Blessington
.
The
mere
fact
of
having
eaten
,
drank
,
and
slept
for
a
considerable
period
under
the
same
roof
with
her
—
the
bare
fact
of
having
lived
with
and
disliked
her
during
a
whole
month
and
more
—
was
enough
recommendation
in
a
house
not
one
of
whose
inmates
had
she
ever
beheld
before
.
Almost
as
a
friend
has
she
greeted
her
this
morning
.
With
admiration
most
unfeigned
,
though
made
a
little
bitter
by
mental
comparison
with
her
own
dimmed
,
grief-blighted
beauty
,
has
she
regarded
the
stately
woman
,
the
splendid
animal
,
sleek
and
white
as
a
sacred
Egyptian
cow
;
the
brilliancy
of
whose
pale
,
bright
hair
,
and
the
perfect
smoothness
of
her
great
satin
throat
,
are
heightened
by
the
sober
richness
of
her
creaseless
black
velvet
dress
.
Voluptuous
,
yet
cold
,
the
passions
that
her
splendid
physique
provoke
are
chilled
to
death
by
the
passionless
stupor
of
her
soul
.
I
am
not
at
all
sure
that
impassioned
ugliness
—
supposing
the
ugliness
to
be
moderate
,
and
the
passion
immoderate
—
has
not
more
attraction
for
the
generality
of
men
than
iced
beauty
.
Esther
's
warmth
is
thrown
away
;
she
might
as
well
expect
that
the
"
Venus
de
Medici
"
would
return
the
pressure
of
warm
clinging
fingers
with
her
freezing
,
sculptured
hand
.
"
I
was
so
glad
to
find
you
here
last
night
:
it
was
so
pleasant
to
see
a
face
one
knew
,
"
Miss
Craven
says
,
with
the
rash
credulity
of
youth
unexpectant
of
snubs
.
Miss
Blessington
looks
slightly
surprised
.
"
Tha
—
anks
;
it
is
very
good
of
you
to
say
so
,
I
am
sure
,
"
she
answers
,
rather
drawlingly
,
and
with
a
small
,
cold
smile
that
would
repress
demonstrations
much
more
violent
than
any
that
Esther
had
meditated
.
It
is
difficult
always
to
remember
that
one
is
a
"
companion
"
The
Blessington
dining-room
is
,
like
the
other
reception-rooms
,
huge
and
very
nobly
proportioned
.
Did
we
not
know
that
our
seventeenth
and
eighteenth
century
ancestors
were
not
giants
,
we
should
be
prone
to
imagine
that
it
must
have
been
a
race
of
Anakims
that
required
such
great
wide
spaces
to
sup
,
and
sip
chocolate
,
and
play
at
omnbre
in
.
The
furniture
is
in
its
dotage
;
it
has
,
figuratively
speaking
,
like
its
owners
,
lost
hair
and
teeth
,
and
all
unnecessary
etceteras
;
it
is
reduced
to
the
bare
elements
of
existence
.
Three
tall
windows
look
out
upon
a
flat
lawn
,
and
in
the
middle
of
this
lawn
,
exactly
opposite
Esther
's
eyes
,
as
she
sits
at
breakfast
,
is
an
unique
and
chaste
piece
of
statuary
,
entitled
"
The
Rape
of
the
Sabines
.
"
The
space
afforded
by
the
stone
pediment
is
necessarily
limited
,
and
consequently
Roman
and
Sabines
,
gentlemen
and
lady
,
are
all
piled
one
a-top
of
another
in
such
inextricable
confusion
as
to
demand
a
good
quarter
of
an
hour
's
close
observation
to
determine
which
of
the
muscular
writhing
legs
belong
to
the
Roman
ravisher
and
which
to
the
injured
Sabine
husband
.
As
the
sculptor
has
given
none
of
his
protégées
any
clothing
,
the
snow
has
been
kind
enough
to
throw
a
modest
white
mantle
over
them
all
.
"
Mr.
and
Mrs.
Blessington
do
not
come
down
to
breakfast
?
"
says
Esther
,
interrogatively
,
as
the
two
girls
seat
themselves
at
table
.
"
No
;
they
breakfast
in
their
own
rooms
.
"
"
I
suppose
,
"
says
Esther
,
with
some
embarrassment
,
"
that
they
will
send
for
me
if
they
want
me
for
anything
,
wo
n't
they
?
Perhaps
"
(
with
diffidence
)
—
"
perhaps
you
will
kindly
tell
me
the
sort
of
things
they
will
want
me
to
do
?
"
"
My
uncle
will
be
down
presently
,
"
answered
Miss
Blessington
,
"
and
he
will
then
expect
you
to
read
to
him
until
luncheon
.
"
"
To
read
what
?
The
Bible
?
"
inquired
Esther
,
who
has
a
vague
idea
that
the
Bible
is
the
only
form
in
which
literature
should
employ
the
attention
of
the
aged
.
"
The
Bible
?
Oh
,
dear
,
no
!
"
(
with
a
little
laugh
)
.
"
The
papers
:
the
Times
,
Saturday
,
and
Justice
of
the
Peace
,
are
his
favourites
;
he
takes
a
great
,
a
remarkable
interest
,
considering
his
age
,
in
politics
.
"
"
I
like
reading
aloud
,
"
says
Esther
,
resolute
to
look
on
the
bright
side
.
"
Reading
aloud
to
my
uncle
is
very
fatiguing
,
"
replies
Constance
,
cheeringly
:
"
one
has
to
sustain
one
's
voice
at
a
pitch
several
octaves
higher
than
the
natural
one
.
I
attempted
reading
to
him
once
or
twice
,
but
it
affected
my
throat
so
much
that
I
had
to
leave
off
,
"
she
ends
,
with
a
little
lackadaisical
cough
.
"
I
daresay
it
wo
n't
affect
mine
,
"
rejoins
the
other
rather
drily
.
There
is
a
pause
.
Talking
is
a
vice
to
which
Miss
Blessington
is
nowise
addicted
—
more
especially
objectless
talking
to
a
little
person
of
the
feminine
gender
who
is
not
one
of
nous
autres
.
"
I
hope
,
"
says
Esther
,
presently
,
trusting
to
the
obtuseness
of
her
companion
's
perceptions
not
to
discover
the
flagrant
hypocrisy
of
the
question
—
"
I
hope
that
Sir
Thomas
was
quite
well
when
you
left
Felton
?
"
"
Quite
—
thanks
.
"
"
And
Lady
Gerard
?
"
"
Yes
—
thanks
.
"
"
And
—
and
"
(
bending
down
her
head
in
the
vain
endeavour
to
screen
the
red
blush
that
the
frosty
sun
,
flaming
in
through
the
window
opposite
,
makes
obtrusively
evident
)
—
and
Mr.
Gerard
?
"
"
He
is
very
well
—
thanks
,
"
replies
Miss
Blessington
,
with
the
conscious
smile
that
had
formerly
exasperated
Esther
,
and
with
an
emphasis
not
common
with
her
.
Miss
Blessington
does
not
usually
employ
emphasis
:
it
is
mezzoceto
,
as
is
enthusiasm
of
which
it
is
the
exponent
.
Half
an
hour
later
Esther
is
sitting
beside
the
old
squire
,
as
close
as
possible
to
his
best
ear
,
brandishing
the
Times
'
giant
squares
in
her
unaccustomed
hand
.
The
old
squire
is
a
superb
wreck
.
Spiteful
Time
is
fond
of
removing
the
landmarks
that
youth
sets
upon
our
faces
;
is
fond
of
changing
great
,
clear
,
almond
eyes
into
little
damp
jellies
—
sweet
moist
pursemouths
into
dry
bags
of
wrinkles
;
but
it
is
a
task
beyond
even
his
power
to
destroy
the
shape
of
that
grand
old
bent
head
—
to
deface
the
outlines
of
that
thin-nostriled
,
patrician
nose
.
"
What
shall
I
read
first
?
"
asks
the
young
girl
,
timidly
,
but
enunciating
each
syllable
with
painstaking
slowness
and
clearness
.
"
The
State
of
the
Funds
,
"
replies
the
old
gentleman
,
promptly
,
thrusting
his
hand
into
his
breast
,
and
closing
his
eyes
,
in
his
favourite
attitude
.
Esther
has
not
the
most
distant
idea
where
the
"
State
of
the
Funds
"
lives
:
she
turns
the
huge
sheets
topsy-turvy
—
inside
out
,
outside
in
—
in
the
vain
search
for
their
habitat
,
making
,
meanwhile
,
the
most
unjustifiable
aggressive
rustling
and
crackling
,
which
she
presumptuously
trusts
to
his
deafness
not
to
hear
.
"
Do
n't
make
such
an
infernal
crackling
,
my
dear
!
"
he
says
presently
,
with
some
pettishness
.
"
I
thought
you
could
not
hear
,
"
she
unwisely
answers
,
trembling
.
"
God
bless
my
soul
,
child
!
The
dead
would
have
heard
the
noise
you
were
making
,
"
he
rejoins
,
snappishly
.
Having
at
length
mastered
the
fact
that
the
"
State
of
the
Funds
"
comes
under
the
head
of
"
Money
Market
and
City
Intelligence
,
"
Esther
gives
the
desired
information
.
Then
follows
a
leader
:
"
The
position
of
American
politics
is
at
this
moment
peculiarly
perplexing
and
anomalous
;
so
perplexing
that
even
those
English
observers
who
,
like
ourselves
,
have
given
a
careful
and
constant
attention
to
the
course
of
the
Transatlantic
movement
since
the
first
appearance
of
Secession
,
can
hardly
pretend
clearly
to
understand
—
"
"
Pretend
clearly
to
what
?
For
God
's
sake
do
n't
gabble
so
!
"
"
Can
—
hardly
—
pretend
—
clearly
—
to
—
understand
—
the
—
full
—
meaning
—
of
—
the
—
situation
,
—
and
—
must
—
feel
—
that
—
it
—
would
—
be
—
"
"
Is
there
no
medium
,
may
I
ask
,
between
gabbling
and
drawling
?
"
"
And
must
feel
that
it
would
be
rash
to
express
a
confident
opinion
thereupon
.
"
Esther
now
proceeds
for
a
considerable
period
unchecked
—
gradually
and
unconsciously
relapsing
into
the
brisk
gallop
so
dear
to
youth
when
engaged
upon
a
subject
that
does
not
interest
it
.
Suddenly
a
deep
slumberous
breath
,
drawn
close
to
her
ear
,
makes
her
aware
that
her
hearer
has
lapsed
into
sleep
.
"
I
have
read
him
to
sleep
,
"
she
says
to
herself
,
with
a
sort
of
triumphant
feeling
at
her
own
prowess
,
taking
furtive
glances
at
the
wrinkled
profile
,
sunk
,
in
perfect
imbecility
of
slumber
,
on
his
breast
.
Not
feeling
any
particular
personal
interest
in
the
effect
of
Secession
upon
American
politics
,
she
stops
,
and
gazes
vacantly
out
of
window
at
the
"
Rape
of
the
Sabines
.
"
But
the
cessation
of
the
sweet
monotony
that
lulled
him
,
arouses
the
old
man
.
"
Go
on
—
go
on
!
"
he
cries
,
fussily
,
lifting
his
head
and
opening
his
dim
eyes
.
"
What
are
you
stopping
for
?
Read
that
paragraph
over
again
;
you
read
it
so
fast
that
I
could
not
quite
follow
the
meaning
of
it
.
"
She
complies
,
and
so
,
with
dozing
and
waking
,
waking
and
dozing
,
on
one
side
,
reading
and
stopping
,
stopping
and
reading
on
the
other
,
the
little
drama
plays
itself
out
till
nearly
luncheon-time
.
"
We
are
going
to
drive
into
Shelford
this
afternoon
;
do
you
feel
inclined
to
come
with
us
,
Constance
,
my
dear
?
"
asks
the
old
lady
,
as
they
quit
the
luncheon-table
—
Esther
dutifully
bringing
up
the
rear
,
with
air-cushion
,
footstool
,
and
couvre-pied
.
"
Not
to-day
,
aunt
,
I
think
—
thanks
,
"
answers
Constance
,
with
the
utmost
sweetness
;
the
"
Not
to-day
"
seeming
to
imply
that
on
some
future
morrow
she
will
gladly
avail
herself
of
the
invitation
to
join
her
elderly
relatives
in
their
triste
airing
;
but
Miss
Blessington
being
in
her
generation
a
wise
woman
,
that
morrow
never
comes
.
The
old
family-coach
rolls
round
the
frosty
sweep
to
the
door
;
two
large
horses
,
sleek
and
fat
with
over-many
oats
and
over-little
work
,
draw
it
.
"
The
tails
of
both
hung
down
behind
,
Their
shoes
were
on
their
feet
.
"
"
Give
me
your
arm
,
Miss
Craven
;
one
is
very
apt
to
fall
this
frosty
weather
,
"
says
the
old
lady
,
appearing
at
the
door
,
transformed
,
by
the
aid
of
numberless
cloaks
and
shawls
,
and
a
huge
velvet
bonnet
,
date
anno
domini
,
into
a
large
and
perfectly
shapeless
bundle
.
Supported
on
one
side
by
Esther
's
slender
arm
,
and
on
the
other
by
the
florid
and
plethoric
butler
,
she
is
hoisted
up
the
three
steps
into
the
body
of
the
ancient
machine
,
which
is
painted
invisible
green
,
and
hung
marvellous
high
in
air
.
The
same
course
is
pursued
with
the
old
gentleman
,
who
,
muffled
,
comfortered
,
and
scarved
up
to
the
tip
of
his
venerable
nose
,
follows
.
Lastly
,
the
young
prop
steps
in
,
and
sits
down
humbly
with
her
back
to
the
horses
—
a
process
which
usually
ends
in
making
her
sick
.
The
windows
are
shut
tight
up
;
a
great
hot
skin
of
some
wild
beast
is
thrown
over
their
knees
;
in
that
confined
atmosphere
it
emits
a
strong
furry
odour
,
more
powerful
than
agreeable
;
striving
emulously
with
it
—
sometimes
mastering
it
,
sometimes
mastered
by
it
—
is
the
fusty
smell
of
the
cloth
lining
.
The
old
people
do
not
seem
to
perceive
either
;
old
noses
haie
less
keen
scent
,
old
lungs
require
less
air
to
feed
on
,
than
young
ones
.
"
Trit-trot
,
trit-trot
,
trit-trot
,
"
goes
the
old
vehicle
along
the
beaten
snow
of
the
broad
turnpike-road
.
As
they
are
jogging
a
little
brisklier
than
usual
down
a
very
slight
decline
,
the
old
gentleman
speaks
—
his
strong
,
shaky
old
voice
loudly
audible
above
the
"
rumble
—
rumble
—
rumble
,
"
which
,
joined
to
the
want
of
air
,
is
fast
making
Esther
faint
and
headachy
:
"
What
the
deuce
does
Ruggles
mean
going
at
such
a
pace
down
these
steep
hills
?
Does
he
think
he
is
to
knock
my
horses
'
legs
all
to
pieces
for
his
own
amusement
?
"
"
I
'm
sure
I
do
n't
know
,
Mr.
Blessington
,
"
answers
the
old
lady
,
nervously
laying
hold
of
the
side
of
the
carriage
;
"
it
is
not
at
all
safe
this
slippery
weather
;
I
'm
sure
I
hope
the
horses
are
roughed
.
"
"
Miss
Craven
,
tell
him
to
mind
what
he
is
about
;
tell
him
to
go
slower
—
much
slower
,
"
says
the
old
gentleman
,
in
some
excitement
.
Miss
Craven
,
having
with
some
difficulty
lowered
the
front
window
,
thrusts
her
head
out
of
it
,
and
,
having
taken
the
opportunity
to
open
mouth
and
nose
and
eyes
as
wide
as
they
will
go
,
to
inhale
as
large
a
quantity
as
possible
of
crisp
fresh
air
,
cries
:
"
Ruggles
!
Ruggles
!
go
slower
!
much
slower
!
"
Ruggles
grins
,
but
complies
,
and
subsides
into
a
solemn
walk
,
which
continues
until
they
reach
Shelford
.
There
smug
bareheaded
shop-keepers
,
violet-nosed
,
scarlet-fingered
,
standing
out
in
the
cold
street
at
the
carriage-door
,
executing
with
pleased
alacrity
extensive
commissions
of
half
a
yard
of
elastic
for
Miss
Blessington
—
three
ounces
of
red
wool
for
Mrs.
Blessington
's
knitting
—
half
a
dozen
blue
envelopes
for
Mr.
Blessington
.
Then
,
"
trit-trot
,
jig-jog
,
"
home
again
.
Dinner
at
six
:
a
later
hour
would
be
fatal
to
his
digestion
,
the
old
gentleman
thinks
,
then
,
a
nice
long
evening
—
long
as
one
of
those
Veillées
du
Cháteau
,
when
Madame
la
Baronne
read
aloud
some
enthralling
yet
severely
moral
tale
,
and
Cassar
and
Caroline
and
Pulchérie
all
sat
entranced
,
unheeding
the
flight
of
time
,
as
ticked
away
by
the
château
clocks
.
There
is
only
one
small
lamp
in
the
whole
of
the
grand
old
room
,
and
that
,
in
deference
to
the
old
man
's
failing
eyes
,
is
hung
with
so
large
and
deep
a
green
shade
,
that
it
is
impossible
to
see
to
do
anything
by
its
light
.
There
is
nothing
for
it
but
to
gape
,
from
seven
till
ten
,
at
the
great
battle-pieces
hung
round
the
walls
—
to
endeavour
to
make
out
,
by
the
aid
of
the
fitful
firelight
,
the
singularly
clean
dead
bodies
,
free
apparently
from
the
slightest
speck
of
dust
,
or
stain
of
blood
;
at
the
red-nostriled
chargers
,
snorting
away
their
ebbing
lives
with
all
four
legs
in
the
air
.
At
ten
o'clock
,
James
rung
for
,
to
light
the
candles
:
then
Mrs.
Blessington
,
her
air-cushion
,
work-basket
,
and
Shetland
shawl
,
escorted
to
her
room
;
two
long
chapters
and
several
psalms
read
to
her
;
then
a
frightened
rush
along
dark
passages
and
draughty
galleries
to
the
great
distant
bedroom
—
to
the
rats
'
multifarious
noises
;
to
the
ingenious
tunes
played
by
the
wind
upon
the
rattling
window-frames
;
to
the
ginger-curtained
bed
and
many-folded
screen
;
to
possible
sleep
,
and
certain
terrors
—
terrors
none
the
less
awful
for
being
totally
unreasonable
.
CHAPTER
XXX
.
THIS
first
day
is
a
sample
of
Esther
's
new
life
;
the
other
days
were
like
it
—
not
a
jot
better
,
not
a
jot
worse
.
The
same
thing
happened
at
the
same
time
each
day
:
no
two
things
ever
changed
places
.
It
was
a
life
that
provided
all
the
necessaries
of
life
—
that
demanded
no
hard
manual
labour
,
no
overworking
of
the
brain
.
The
intellectual
faculties
that
it
called
into
play
must
have
been
possessed
by
any
moderately
intelligent
seven-years
'
child
.
No
one
bullies
Esther
;
no
one
oppresses
her
;
no
one
troubles
their
head
much
about
her
.
So
as
she
performs
her
monotonous
,
easy
,
tiresome
little
duties
towards
them
,
the
old
people
have
no
sort
of
objection
to
her
enjoying
life
,
if
she
can
.
With
the
aged
,
comfort
and
happiness
are
interchangeable
terms
:
continuous
warmth
of
body
,
pleasant-tasted
meats
,
a
profound
stagnant
quiet
around
their
arm-chairs
,
much
sleep
—
these
are
their
summum
bonum
.
They
have
had
love
,
and
have
outlived
it
—
excitement
also
,
and
grief
:
they
have
outlived
all
but
the
elemental
instincts
that
refuse
to
be
outlived
.
Looking
back
from
the
vantage-ground
of
dotage
on
the
fought
battle
of
life
,
they
wonder
that
any
one
can
long
to
be
in
the
thick
of
it
.
In
this
life
of
Esther
's
there
are
no
hardships
to
be
borne
—
none
of
those
sufferings
,
the
enduring
of
which
with
self-conscious
complacent
heroism
almost
compensates
them
.
It
has
none
of
the
elements
of
tragedy
:
there
is
nothing
very
noble
in
bearing
with
respectable
patience
the
trifling
annoyance
of
making
yourself
hoarse
roaring
the
price
of
wheat
,
and
the
pros
and
cons
of
disendowment
,
into
an
old
man
's
ear
;
there
is
nothing
grand
in
picking
up
the
countless
dropped
stitches
in
an
old
woman
's
knitting
.
In
it
there
is
nothing
to
endure
,
nothing
to
enjoy
;
it
is
essentially
negative
,
flat
,
stale
,
sterile
.
It
would
be
all
very
well
if
any
end
were
to
be
seen
to
it
;
if
it
were
not
a
sort
of
small
Eternity
in
life
;
if
there
were
to
be
distant
holidays
to
be
looked
forward
to
,
when
the
few
saved
pounds
might
be
poured
,
with
the
joyful
generosity
of
the
very
poor
,
into
some
stricken
parent
's
lap
—
might
go
to
buy
boots
and
shoes
for
needy
little
brothers
and
sisters
.
But
"
Fatherly
,
motherly
,
sisterly
,
brotherly
Home
she
has
none
.
"
All
her
life
seems
crowded
into
the
seventeen
years
behind
her
;
there
seems
to
be
nothing
left
to
happen
in
the
fifty
or
sixty
years
ahead
.
She
has
nothing
to
look
forward
to
but
huge
cycles
of
newspaper-reading
,
footstool-carrying
,
message-
running
;
of
lending
all
her
useful
organs
of
sight
and
hearing
and
touch
to
others
;
of
keeping
for
herself
only
her
suffering
,
aching
,
empty
heart
!
"
Every
succeeding
year
will
steal
something
away
from
her
beauty
.
"
People
pity
her
now
,
because
she
is
so
young
and
pretty
—
not
reflecting
that
the
possession
of
the
two
best
gifts
under
heaven
makes
her
so
much
the
less
worthy
a
subject
for
compassion
.
Twenty
years
hence
,
she
will
probably
be
a
"
companion
"
still
—
will
be
not
near
so
young
,
nor
near
so
touching
,
and
infinitely
more
to
be
pitied
.
The
snow
lies
long
—
longer
than
it
generally
does
at
this
time
of
year
.
Ordinarily
the
old
Cheshire
saying
holds
good
:
"
If
there
's
ice
in
October
as
'll
hould
a
duck
,
All
the
rest
of
the
winter
'll
turn
to
muck
!
"
But
this
October
there
has
been
ice
enough
to
hold
many
ducks
;
but
yet
the
rest
of
the
winter
shows
no
signs
of
,
as
the
homely
saw
phrases
it
,
"
turning
to
muck
.
"
In
the
little
flower-garden
,
round
three
sides
of
which
the
ivied
buttressed
house
is
built
,
only
a
white
heap
here
,
and
a
white
depression
there
,
show
where
bush
or
bed
were
wont
to
be
.
Over
the
fair
wide
park
,
with
all
its
mimic
hills
and
valleys
,
copses
and
spinneys
,
God
has
laid
a
great
sheet
—
great
as
the
one
that
was
let
down
by
its
four
corners
on
the
housetop
to
the
fastidious
Apostle
—
a
sheet
purely
,
crisply
,
miserably
white
.
In
the
park
Esther
,
in
the
early
gloaming
,
after
the
daily
drive
,
so
literally
a
promenade
en
voiture
,
takes
long
walks
;
ruins
her
boots
,
discolours
her
petticoats
,
and
makes
her
crape
crimp
with
snow-water
:
strolls
listless
and
alone
under
the
old
bare
trees
that
have
stripped
off
all
their
clothing
—
now
at
the
very
time
that
they
seem
to
need
them
most
;
traces
the
slender
footprints
of
the
famished
birds
—
the
little
delicate
tracks
crossing
and
recrossing
one
another
.
And
always
the
leading
thought
—
displaced
now
and
then
by
lesser
thoughts
,
that
flit
like
travelling
swallows
through
her
mind
,
but
ever
,
ever
returning
—
is
,
"
Where
is
Jack
?
Where
has
my
boy
gone
to
?
Where
is
he
now
,
at
this
moment
"
If
some
trusty
messenger
could
but
come
to
her
,
with
sure
tidings
,
saying
,
"
It
is
well
with
him
!
"
Has
she
any
reason
for
believing
him
to
be
in
heaven
,
beyond
the
vague
confidence
that
most
people
seem
to
feel
that
their
relatives
must
be
there
,
on
the
principle
,
I
suppose
,
of
the
French
Duke
,
of
whom
his
kindred
remarked
,
that
"
God
would
certainly
think
twice
'
avant
de
damner
une
personne
de
sa
qualité
!
'
"
Jack
's
death
had
been
most
unlike
the
deaths
of
the
shining
Evangelical
lights
in
Bessy
Brandon
's
books
,
whose
whole
lives
had
been
but
trifling
prologues
to
the
jubilant
drama
of
their
death
.
Death
had
been
to
them
an
ecstasy
;
they
had
died
with
words
of
confident
rapture
on
their
lips
,
with
strains
of
welcoming
music
in
their
ears
:
he
had
departed
painfully
,
sadly
,
almost
dumbly
;
no
sound
of
triuphant
clarions
greeted
him
from
beyond
Death
's
deep
ford
.
Is
he
,
then
,
in
hell
?
Oh
blessed
doctrine
of
cleansing
purgatorial
pains
!
if
our
faith
would
but
admit
of
you
!
Which
of
us
does
not
seem
to
himself
so
much
too
bad
for
heaven
,
so
much
too
good
for
hell
?
"
Let
Faustus
live
in
hell
a
thousand
years
,
A
hundred
thousand
,
and
at
the
last
be
saved
!
"
Where
is
he
,
then
?
—
where
is
he
?
She
takes
counsel
of
the
mute
forces
of
nature
—
of
the
clouds
,
the
snows
,
and
the
blasts
But
of
what
use
?
They
knew
not
of
his
story
;
or
,
if
they
did
,
they
were
forbidden
to
tell
of
it
;
silence
was
laid
like
a
seal
upon
their
lips
.
It
is
not
in
the
most
edifying
books
that
the
grandest
sayings
are
to
be
found
.
What
can
be
nobler
than
this
of
Rousseau
's
dying
Julie
:
"
Qui
s'endort
dans
le
sein
d'un
père
,
n'est
pas
en
souci
du
réveil
?
"
The
wearier
in
body
she
can
return
from
these
long
,
sad
rambles
,
the
better
pleased
is
Esther
;
for
is
not
weariness
the
father
of
sleep
—
sleep
,
the
one
impartial
thing
under
heaven
;
sleep
,
the
radical
;
sleep
,
the
leveller
,
that
leaves
a
king
's
arms
to
embrace
a
tinker
?
But
of
what
use
is
it
to
sleep
,
if
in
sleep
one
hear
—
"
False
voices
,
feel
the
kisses
of
false
mouths
,
And
footless
sound
of
perished
feet
?
"
And
worse
even
than
such
dream-tortured
slumber
is
fear-tortured
waking
.
Constitutionally
timid
,
a
weakened
body
and
broken
spirit
have
made
Esther
pitiably
nervous
.
Jealousy
,
remorse
,
and
fear
run
a
dreary
race
for
the
palm
of
extremest
suffering
;
and
I
am
not
sure
that
fear
does
not
win
.
The
poor
child
suffers
the
torments
of
the
damned
in
her
huge
hearse-bed
in
the
far-off
,
rat-haunted
,
ghostly
old
chamber
.
She
dreads
falling
asleep
,
for
fear
of
waking
to
find
the
low
fire
playing
antics
with
Burke
's
long
nose
and
spectacles
,
with
Pitt
's
maypole
figure
on
the
screen
;
flickering
over
the
malignant
fleshy
Cupids
on
the
wall
;
waking
to
see
,
looking
in
upon
her
through
the
curtains
,
Jack
's
face
—
not
kind
,
débonnaire
,
smiling
,
as
she
used
to
see
it
in
the
study
at
home
(
for
that
could
frighten
no
one
)
,
but
solemn
,
stiff
,
with
closed
eyes
and
bandaged
chin
,
as
she
had
last
seen
it
.
Sometimes
she
sits
up
in
bed
,
a
cold
sweat
standing
on
her
brow
,
as
some
noise
,
distincter
than
usual
,
sounds
through
the
room
;
"
thud
,
thud
,
"
as
of
some
falling
object
;
an
unexplained
rustling
in
the
passage
;
a
little
clicking
in
the
door-lock
—
sits
up
,
listening
with
strained
ears
,
thinking
,
"
Can
that
be
rats
?
"
Momently
she
expects
to
see
some
crape-masked
burglar
enter
the
door
or
window
.
And
if
such
burglar
did
enter
,
it
would
be
useless
to
scream
for
help
;
she
is
too
far
off
from
the
rest
of
the
household
to
be
heard
:
it
would
be
of
no
use
to
ring
the
bell
,
for
it
rings
downstairs
,
miles
away
,
and
everybody
is
in
bed
and
asleep
upstairs
.
So
she
lies
quaking
—
her
terror
now
and
then
rising
to
such
an
uncontrollable
pitch
that
she
feels
as
though
,
if
it
lasted
a
moment
longer
,
she
must
go
mad
:
listening
with
intense
impatience
to
the
leisurely
"
Tick-tack
,
tick-tack
,
tick-tack
"
of
the
cuckoo-
clock
outside
;
listening
with
inexpressible
longing
to
hear
it
say
,
"
Cuckoo
,
cuckoo
,
cuckoo
,
cuckoo
!
"
four
times
.
At
four
o'clock
she
will
be
safe
,
she
thinks
;
at
four
o'clock
cocks
begin
to
crow
,
dairymaids
to
get
up
,
the
bodiless
dead
return
to
their
churchyard
homes
,
night
's
unutterable
horror
to
pass
.
What
wonder
if
,
after
the
agony
of
such
vigils
—
agony
causeless
,
you
will
say
,
unreasonable
,
but
none
the
less
real
,
none
the
less
acute
for
that
—
she
comes
down
in
the
morning
wan
,
nerveless
,
with
haggard
cheeks
,
and
great
dark
streaks
under
the
unrested
beauty
of
her
eyes
?
"
The
time
is
near
the
birth
of
Christ
.
"
"
Stir-up
Sunday
"
is
past
;
people
have
bought
their
raisins
,
and
suet
,
and
citron
,
and
begun
to
mix
their
Christmas
puddings
.
Turkeys
lie
dead
,
thick
as
autumn-leaves
in
Vallambrosa
.
The
snow
is
gone
,
but
not
without
leaving
Miss
Craven
the
legacy
of
a
very
bad
cold
,
derived
from
countless
soaked
stockings
and
neglected
wet
petticoats
.
She
has
had
it
a
fortnight
,
and
her
weakened
,
lowered
frame
seems
incapable
of
shaking
off
the
trifling
ailment
.
For
a
week
her
voice
has
been
almost
gone
,
and
she
has
consumed
many
sticks
of
liquorice
,
many
boxes
of
black
currant
lozenges
,
in
the
endeavour
to
bring
it
back
to
the
requisite
shouting
pitch
for
the
inevitable
daily
newspaper
reading
.
It
is
afternoon
:
heavy
rain
,
following
the
thaw
,
has
prevented
the
invariable
drive
to
Shelford
.
Mrs.
Blessington
and
the
two
girls
are
sitting
in
the
great
room
hung
with
battle-pieces
,
which
is
old-fashionedly
named
"
the
saloon
.
"
It
is
a
mercy
that
it
is
a
great
room
—
else
the
fire
,
piled
halfway
up
the
chimney
,
and
the
never-opened
windows
would
render
it
unendurably
close
.
As
it
is
,
the
atmosphere
,
though
less
stifling
than
that
of
the
interior
of
the
family-coach
,
is
fustier
than
is
altogether
agreeable
.
"
My
dear
,
"
says
Mrs.
Blessington
,
shivering
,
"
pick
up
my
shawl
;
I
really
must
have
sand-bags
to
those
windows
;
there
comes
in
a
wind
at
them
that
positively
nearly
blows
one
out
of
one
's
chair
.
"
Esther
complies
,
and
then
resumes
her
occupation
of
holding
a
skein
of
wool
for
Miss
Blessington
to
wind
.
As
often
as
she
can
do
so
without
positive
rudeness
,
she
takes
long
looks
at
her
companion
's
face
—
immovably
polished
,
like
a
monumental
angel
's
:
looks
at
her
,
half
out
of
that
sheer
love
of
beauty
in
any
form
,
from
a
man
's
to
a
beetle
's
,
which
is
innate
in
some
sensuous
natures
;
partly
,
and
much
more
,
because
each
frosty-fair
feature
of
her
face
,
each
trinket
almost
upon
her
person
,
is
linked
indissolubly
in
her
mind
with
some
look
or
word
of
St.
John
.
Association
,
they
say
,
lies
stronger
in
a
smell
than
in
aught
else
—
stronger
than
in
anything
seen
or
heard
;
and
so
now
the
slight
subtle
scent
floating
from
Constance
's
perfumed
hair
recalls
to
the
sad
young
"
companion
,
"
with
a
thrust
of
sharpest
pain
,
her
one
day
's
betrothal
;
that
one
day
for
whose
sweet
sake
she
does
not
regret
having
endured
the
calamity
of
existence
;
that
day
when
they
sowed
—
"
...
Their
talk
with
little
kisses
,
thick
As
roses
in
rose
harvest
.
"
It
is
odd
how
often
,
when
one
is
musing
dumbly
on
some
unspoken
name
,
the
people
in
whose
company
one
is
give
utterance
to
that
name
,
without
any
former
conversation
having
led
up
to
it
.
"
My
dear
Constance
,
"
says
Mrs.
Blessington
,
her
slow
old
thoughts
having
at
length
travelled
from
draughts
and
sandbags
,
"
do
you
think
St.
John
has
any
fancy
as
to
what
room
he
has
?
Young
men
are
sometimes
faddy
.
I
depend
upon
you
to
tell
me
,
and
I
will
give
Franklin
orders
about
it
.
"
St.
John
's
room
!
He
is
coming
here
,
then
!
The
wool
that
she
is
holding
drops
forgotten
into
Esther
's
lap
;
the
old
delicious
carmine
that
used
to
make
her
so
like
a
dogrose
springs
up
suddenly
lovely
into
her
face
.
Love
is
as
hard
to
kill
as
any
snake
:
"
Now
,
at
the
last
gasp
of
love
's
latest
breath
,
When
,
his
pulse
failing
,
passion
speechless
lies
;
When
faith
is
kneeling
by
his
bed
of
death
,
And
innocence
is
closing
up
his
eyes
:
Now
,
if
thou
wouldst
,
when
all
have
given
him
over
From
death
to
life
,
thou
mightst
him
yet
recover
.
"
"
Unless
you
hold
the
skein
differently
,
Miss
Craven
,
I
'm
afraid
I
really
cannot
wind
it
,
"
says
Constance
,
a
slight
shade
of
contemptuous
displeasure
in
her
voice
.
Esther
jumps
back
to
reality
,
to
find
Miss
Blessington
's
icy
,
unescapable
eyes
riveted
upon
her
.
She
cannot
turn
away
her
head
,
nor
dive
under
the
table
for
an
imaginary
lost
handkerchief
;
she
cannot
lift
her
hands
to
hide
her
face
;
her
occupation
,
which
keeps
both
ruthlessly
employed
,
forbids
it
.
She
can
only
sit
still
,
plainly
crimson
,
and
be
stared
at
.
"
Thanks
,
very
much
,
aunt
,
"
Constance
says
,
in
her
lady-like
,
piano
voice
,
beginning
again
to
turn
the
scarlet
ball
swiftly
through
her
long
pale
fingers
;
"
but
I
do
n't
think
he
has
any
fancies
.
I
could
not
think
of
letting
you
spoil
him
by
supposing
he
has
;
I
'm
sure
he
will
be
very
happy
,
wherever
you
put
him
.
"
"
The
blue
room
,
in
the
west
gallery
,
is
one
of
the
warmest
in
the
house
,
"
rejoins
the
old
lady
,
gathering
her
wraps
closelier
about
her
:
"
it
is
next
but
two
to
Miss
Craven
's
;
it
has
the
same
aspect
.
Yours
is
warm
—
is
n't
it
,
my
dear
—
and
there
is
a
bath-room
opening
out
of
it
.
"
"
Is
Mr.
Gerard
coming
here
"
asks
Esther
,
tremulously
,
resolute
to
show
Miss
Blessington
that
she
can
mention
his
name
.
"
Yes
,
my
dear
—
to-morrow
.
Do
you
know
him
?
Oh
no
!
of
course
you
cannot
,
"
replies
the
old
lady
,
looking
a
little
inquisitively
at
the
tender
rose-face
of
the
girl
.
"
Miss
Craven
met
him
at
Felton
,
last
autumn
,
"
Constance
answers
for
her
—
no
faintest
gust
of
feeling
apparently
agitating
the
even
indifference
of
her
voice
.
"
He
was
most
good-natured
to
her
;
riding
and
walking
,
and
altogether
making
a
martyr
of
himself
.
St.
John
makes
himself
very
useful
,
flirting
with
all
the
young
ladies
that
come
to
the
house
:
he
really
is
invaluable
in
that
way
!
"
Esther
stoops
her
head
low
down
,
choked
with
indignation
.
"
Perhaps
I
do
n't
come
under
the
head
of
a
'
young
lady
,
'
"
she
says
,
almost
in
a
whisper
;
"
but
he
certainly
did
not
flirt
with
me
.
"
"
Did
n't
he
?
"
Constance
replies
,
carelessly
.
"
Oh
,
if
I
recollect
right
,
he
amused
himself
a
little
—
he
always
does
.
I
often
take
him
to
task
about
that
manner
of
his
;
it
might
give
rise
to
unlucky
mistakes
;
people
who
do
n't
know
him
do
n't
understand
it
.
"
Esther
bites
her
lips
,
but
has
the
sense
to
allow
,
with
vast
difficulty
,
this
last
observation
to
pass
unquestioned
.
"
His
horses
have
arrived
already
,
"
continues
Constance
,
placidly
;
"
he
has
actually
been
unconscionable
enough
to
send
four
of
them
:
he
is
evidently
going
to
test
uncle
's
and
your
patience
to
the
utmost
by
making
a
perfect
visitation
.
"
"
Felton
is
such
a
good
hunting
country
,
that
I
wonder
Mr.
Gerard
can
bear
to
leave
it
now
,
just
as
the
frost
has
broken
up
,
"
remarks
Esther
,
almost
composedly
;
a
dim
,
exquisite
hope
flashing
up
in
her
mind
that
he
has
heard
of
her
being
at
Blessington
,
and
is
coming
to
ask
her
to
forgive
him
—
to
forgive
her
,
rather
;
to
ask
her
to
kiss
and
make
friends
.
The
story-book
ending
,
"
Lived
happy
ever
after
,
"
is
running
through
her
brain
,
when
her
reverie
is
broken
,
gently
,
but
very
effectually
,
as
reveries
are
apt
to
be
,
by
a
simple
speech
of
Miss
Blessington
's
,
spoken
with
a
little
smile
:
"
It
is
evident
that
Miss
Craven
has
not
heard
our
news
,
is
not
it
,
aunt
?
"
"
What
news
?
"
inquires
the
girl
,
eagerly
.
"
Nothing
of
much
interest
to
any
one
but
ourselves
,
I
suppose
.
It
is
only
"
(
speaking
with
slow
triumph
,
and
narrowly
watching
the
effect
of
her
words
)
"
that
St.
John
and
I
have
made
up
our
minds
to
marry
one
another
!
"
The
knife
cuts
as
clean
and
clear
as
she
could
have
wished
;
the
divine
happy
rose-flush
slips
away
suddenly
out
of
the
poor
blank
face
opposite
her
;
a
grey
ashy-white
takes
its
place
.
She
had
thought
that
pain
and
pleasure
were
buried
with
Jack
on
the
slope
of
Glan-yr-Afon
's
mountain
graveyard
;
but
that
moment
of
raging
agony
undeceives
her
.
For
an
instant
the
table
and
chairs
seem
dancing
round
;
a
humming
buzz
sounds
dully
in
her
ears
;
then
the
faintness
passes
;
the
table
and
chairs
stand
still
again
;
the
buzz
ceases
;
and
she
is
sitting
on
an
old
gilt
chair
:
her
arms
still
moving
mechanically
,
with
the
outstretched
wool
upon
them
,
while
Constance
goes
winding
,
winding
on
—
winding
away
hope
and
pleasure
and
joy
;
while
the
ball
,
growing
larger
under
her
hands
,
seems
to
have
stolen
its
red
colour
from
Esther
's
heart-blood
.
"
Our
friends
have
really
been
very
disagreeable
to
us
about
it
,
"
says
Miss
Blessington
with
a
subdued
laugh
;
"
they
tell
us
that
it
is
the
most
uninteresting
marriage
they
ever
heard
of
,
for
that
they
had
all
foretold
it
,
heaven
knows
how
many
centuries
ago
!
"
"
It
is
very
seldom
,
"
replies
Mrs.
Blessington
,
shaking
her
head
slowly
to
and
fro
,
"
that
a
young
man
shows
the
sense
St.
John
Gerard
has
done
in
coming
into
his
parents
'
views
for
him
:
in
the
present
day
they
are
mostly
so
headstrong
and
resolute
to
pick
and
choose
for
themselves
,
which
generally
ends
in
their
selecting
some
worthless
person
utterly
unsuited
to
their
rank
and
fortune
.
"
"
How
long
have
you
been
engaged
?
"
?
"
asks
Esther
,
presently
,
framing
her
words
with
as
much
difficulty
as
though
they
had
been
spoken
in
some
little-known
foreign
