COMFORTLESS.
"But, Mr. Herbert, yer honor, you're wet through and
through--surely," said the butler, as soon as Fitzgerald was well
inside the hall. Herbert muttered something about his being only
damp, and that it did not signify. But it did signify,--very
much,--in the butler's estimation. Whose being wet through could
signify more; for was not Mr. Herbert to be a baronet, and to have
the spending of twelve thousand a year; and would he not be the
future husband of Lady Clara? not signify indeed!
"An' shure, Mr. Herbert, you haven't walked to Desmond Court this
blessed morning. Tare an' ages! Well; there's no knowing what you
young gentlemen won't do. But I'll see and get a pair of trousers of
my Lord's ready for you in two minutes. Faix, and he's nearly as big
as yourself, now, Mr. Herbert."
But Herbert would hardly speak to him, and gave no assent whatever as
to his proposition for borrowing the Earl's clothes. "I'll go in as
I am," said he. And the old man looking into his face saw that there
was something wrong. "Shure an' he ain't going to sthrike off now,"
said this Irish Caleb Balderstone to himself. He also as well as some
others about Desmond Court had feared greatly that Lady Clara would
throw herself away upon a poor lover.
It was now past noon, and Fitzgerald pressed forward into the room
in which Lady Clara usually sat. It was the same in which she had
received Owen's visit, and here of a morning she was usually to be
found alone; but on this occasion when he opened the door he found
that her mother was with her. Since the day on which Clara had
disposed of herself so excellently, the mother had spent more of
her time with her daughter. Looking at Clara now through Herbert
Fitzgerald's eyes, the Countess had began to confess to herself that
her child did possess beauty and charm.
She got up to greet her future son-in-law with a sweet smile and that
charming quiet welcome with which a woman so well knows how to make
her house pleasant to a man that is welcome to it. And Clara, not
rising, but turning her head round and looking at him, greeted him
also. He came forward and took both their hands, and it was not till
he had held Clara's for half a minute in his own that they both saw
that he was more than ordinarily serious. "I hope Sir Thomas is not
worse," said Lady Desmond, with that voice of feigned interest which
is so common. After all, if anything should happen to the poor old
weak gentleman, might it not be as well?
"My father has not been very well these last two days," he said.
"I am so sorry," said Clara. "And your mother, Herbert?"
"But Herbert, how wet you are. You must have walked," said the
Countess.
Herbert, in a few dull words said that he had walked. He had thought
that the walk would be good for him, and he had not expected that it
would be so wet. And then Lady Desmond, looking carefully into his
face, saw that in truth he was very serious;--so much so that she
knew that he had come there on account of his seriousness. But still
his sorrow did not in any degree go to her heart. He was grieving
doubtless for his father,--or his mother. The house at Castle
Richmond was probably sad, because sickness and fear of death were
there;--nay perhaps death itself now hanging over some loved head.
But what was this to her? She had had her own sorrows;--enough of
them perhaps to account for her being selfish. So with a solemn face,
but with nothing amiss about her heart, she again asked for tidings
from Castle Richmond.
"Do tell us," said Clara, getting up. "I am afraid Sir Thomas is very
ill." The old baronet had been kind to her, and she did regard him.
To her it was a sorrow to think that there should be any sorrow at
Castle Richmond.
"Yes; he is ill," said Herbert. "We have had a gentleman from London
with us for the last few days--a friend of my father's. His name is
Mr. Prendergast."
"Is he a doctor?" asked the Countess.
"No, not a doctor," said Herbert. "He is a lawyer."
It was very hard for him to begin his story; and perhaps the more so
in that he was wet through and covered with mud. He now felt cold and
clammy, and began to have an idea that he should not be seated there
in that room in such a guise. Clara, too, had instinctively learned
from his face, and tone, and general bearing that something truly was
the matter. At other times when he had been there, since that day on
which he had been accepted, he had been completely master of himself.
Perhaps it had almost been deemed a fault in him that he had had none
of the timidity or hesitation of a lover. He had seemed to feel, no
doubt, that he, with his fortune and position at his back, need feel
no scruple in accepting as his own the fair hand for which he had
asked. But now--nothing could be more different from this than his
manner was now.
Lady Desmond was now surprised, though probably not as yet
frightened. Why should a lawyer have come from London to visit Sir
Thomas at a period of such illness? and why should Herbert have
walked over to Desmond Court to tell them of this illness? There must
be something in this lawyer's coming which was intended to bear in
some way on her daughter's marriage. "But, Herbert," she said, "you
are quite wet. Will you not put on some of Patrick's things?"
"No, thank you," said he; "I shall not stay long. I shall soon have
said what I have got to say."
"But do, Herbert," said Clara. "I cannot bear to see you so
uncomfortable. And then you will not be in such a hurry to go back."
"Ill as my father is," said he, "I cannot stay long; but I have
thought it my duty to come over and tell you--tell you what has
happened at Castle Richmond."
And now the countess was frightened. There was that in Herbert's tone
of voice and the form of his countenance which was enough to frighten
any woman. What had happened at Castle Richmond? what could have
happened there to make necessary the presence of a lawyer, and at the
same time thus to sadden her future son-in-law? And Clara also was
frightened, though she knew not why. His manner was so different from
that which was usual; he was so cold, and serious, and awe-struck,
that she could not but be unhappy.
"And what is it?" said the Countess.
Herbert then sat for a few minutes silent, thinking how best he
should tell them his story. He had been all the morning resolving to
tell it, but he had in nowise as yet fixed upon any method. It was
all so terribly tragic, so frightful in the extent of its reality,
that he hardly knew how it would be possible for him to get through
his task.
"I hope that no misfortune has come upon any of the family," said
Lady Desmond, now beginning to think that there might be misfortunes
which would affect her own daughter more nearly than the illness
either of the baronet or of his wife.
"Oh, I hope not!" said Clara, getting up and clasping her hands.
"What is it, Herbert? why don't you speak?" And coming round to him,
she took hold of his arm.
"Dearest Clara," he said, looking at her with more tenderness than
had ever been usual with him, "I think that you had better leave us.
I could tell it better to your mother alone."
"Do, Clara, love. Go, dearest, and we will call you by-and-by."
Clara moved away very slowly towards the door, and then she turned
round. "If it is anything that makes you unhappy, Herbert," she said,
"I must know it before you leave me."
"Yes, yes; either I or your mother--. You shall be told, certainly."
"Yes, yes, you shall be told," said the countess. "And now go, my
darling." Thus dismissed, Clara did go, and betook herself to her own
chamber. Had Owen had sorrows to tell her, he would have told them to
herself; of that she was quite sure. "And now, Herbert, for heaven's
sake what is it?" said the countess, pale with terror. She was fully
certain now that something was to be spoken which would be calculated
to interfere with her daughter's prospects.
We all know the story which Herbert had to tell, and we need not
therefore again be present at the telling of it. Sitting there, wet
through, in Lady Desmond's drawing-room, he did contrive to utter it
all--the whole of it from the beginning to the end, making it clearly
to be understood that he was no longer Fitzgerald of Castle Richmond,
but a nameless, pennyless outcast, without the hope of portion or
position, doomed from henceforth to earn his bread in the sweat of
his brow--if only he could be fortunate enough to find the means of
earning it.
Nor did Lady Desmond once interrupt him in his story. She sat
perfectly still, listening to him almost with unmoved face. She was
too wise to let him know what the instant working of her mind might
be before she had made her own fixed resolve; and she had conceived
the truth much before he had completed the telling of it. We
generally use three times the number of words which are necessary
for the purpose which we have in hand; but had he used six times the
number, she would not have interrupted him. It was good in him to
give her this time to determine in what tone and with what words
she would speak, when speaking on her part should become absolutely
necessary. "And now," he concluded by saying--and at this time he
was standing up on the rug--"you know it all, Lady Desmond. It will
perhaps be best that Clara should learn it from you."
He had said not a word of giving up his pretensions to Lady Clara's
hand; but then neither had he in any way hinted that the match
should, in his opinion, be regarded as unbroken. He had not spoken of
his sorrow at bringing down all this poverty on his wife; and surely
he would have so spoken had he thought their engagement was still
valid; but then he had not himself pointed out that the engagement
must necessarily be broken, as, in Lady Desmond's opinion, he
certainly should have done.
"Yes," said she, in a cold, low, meaningless voice--in a voice that
told nothing by its tones--"Lady Clara had better hear it from me."
But in the title which she gave her daughter, Herbert instantly read
his doom. He, however, remained silent. It was for the countess now
to speak.
"But it is possible it may not be true," she said, speaking almost in
a whisper, looking, not into his face, but by him, at the fire.
"It is possible; but so barely possible, that I did not think it
right to keep the matter from you any longer."
"It would have been very wrong--very wicked, I may say," said the
countess.
"It is only two days since I knew anything of it myself," said he,
vindicating himself.
"You were of course bound to let me know immediately," she said,
harshly.
"And I have let you know immediately, Lady Desmond." And then they
were both again silent for a while.
"And Mr. Prendergast thinks there is no doubt?" she asked.
"None," said Herbert, very decidedly.
"And he has told your cousin Owen?"
"He did so yesterday; and by this time my poor mother knows it also."
And then there was another period of silence.
During the whole time Lady Desmond had uttered no one word of
condolence--not a syllable of commiseration for all the sufferings
that had come upon Herbert and his family; and he was beginning to
hate her for her harshness. The tenor of her countenance had become
hard; and she received all his words as a judge might have taken
them, merely wanting evidence before he pronounced his verdict. The
evidence she was beginning to think sufficient, and there could be no
doubt as to her verdict. After what she had heard, a match between
Herbert Fitzgerald and her daughter would be out of the question.
"It is very dreadful," she said, thinking only of her own child, and
absolutely shivering at the danger which had been incurred.
"It is very dreadful," said Herbert, shivering also. It was almost
incredible to him that his great sorrow should be received in such a
way by one who had professed to be so dear a friend to him.
"And what do you propose to do, Mr. Fitzgerald?" said the countess.
"What do I propose?" he said, repeating her words. "Hitherto I have
had neither time nor heart to propose anything. Such a misfortune
as that which I have told you does not break upon a man without
disturbing for a while his power of resolving. I have thought so much
of my mother, and of Clara, since Mr. Prendergast told me all this,
that--that--that--" And then a slight gurgling struggle fell upon his
throat and hindered him from speaking. He did not quite sob out, and
he determined that he would not do so. If she could be so harsh and
strong, he would be harsh and strong also.
And again Lady Desmond sat silent, still thinking how she had better
speak and act. After all she was not so cruel nor so bad as Herbert
Fitzgerald thought her. What had the Fitzgeralds done for her that
she should sorrow for their sorrows? She had lived there, in that old
ugly barrack, long desolate, full of dreary wretchedness and poverty,
and Lady Fitzgerald in her prosperity had never come to her to soften
the hardness of her life. She had come over to Ireland a countess,
and a countess she had been, proud enough at first in her little
glory--too proud, no doubt; and proud enough afterwards in her
loneliness and poverty; and there she had lived--alone. Whether the
fault had been her own or no, she owed little to the kindness of any
one; for no one had done aught to relieve her bitterness. And then
her weak puny child had grown up in the same shade, and was now a
lovely woman, gifted with high birth, and that special priceless
beauty which high blood so often gives. There was a prize now within
the walls of that old barrack--something to be won--something for
which a man would strive, and a mother smile that her son might win
it. And now Lady Fitzgerald had come to her. She had never complained
of this, she said to herself. The bargain between Clara Desmond and
Herbert Fitzgerald had been good for both of them, and let it be
made and settled as a bargain. Young Herbert Fitzgerald had money
and position; her daughter had beauty and high blood. Let it be a
bargain. But in all this there was nothing to make her love that rich
prosperous family at Castle Richmond. There are those whose nature
it is to love new-found friends at a few hours' warning, but the
Countess of Desmond was not one of them. The bargain had been made,
and her daughter would have been able to perform her part of it. She
was still able to give that which she had stipulated to give. But
Herbert Fitzgerald was now a bankrupt, and could give nothing! Would
it not have been madness to suppose that the bargain should still
hold good?
One person and one only had come to her at Desmond Court, whose
coming had been a solace to her weariness. Of all those among whom
she had lived in cold desolateness for so many years, one only had
got near her heart. There had been but one Irish voice that she
had cared to hear; and the owner of that voice had loved her child
instead of loving her.
And she had borne that wretchedness too, if not well, at least
bravely. True she had separated that lover from her daughter; but the
circumstances of both had made it right for her, as a mother, to do
so. What mother, circumstanced as she had been, would have given her
girl to Owen Fitzgerald? So she had banished from the house the only
voice that sounded sweetly in her ears, and again she had been alone.
And then, perhaps, thoughts had come to her, when Herbert Fitzgerald
was frequent about the place, a rich and thriving wooer, that Owen
might come again to Desmond Court, when Clara had gone to Castle
Richmond. Years were stealing over her. Ah, yes. She knew that full
well. All her youth and the pride of her days she had given up for
that countess-ship which she now wore so gloomily--given up for
pieces of gold which had turned to stone and slate and dirt within
her grasp. Years, alas, were fast stealing over her! But nevertheless
she had something to give. Her woman's beauty was not all faded; and
she had a heart which was as yet virgin--which had hitherto loved
no other man. Might not that suffice to cover a few years, seeing
that in return she wanted nothing but love? And so she had thought,
lingering over her hopes, while Herbert was there at his wooing.
It may be imagined with what feelings at her heart she had seen and
listened to the frantic attempt made by Owen to get back his childish
love. But that too she had borne, bravely, if not well. It had not
angered her that her child was loved by the only man she had ever
loved herself. She had stroked her daughter's hair that day, and
kissed her cheek, and bade her be happy with her better, richer
lover. And had she not been right in this? Nor had she been angry
even with Owen. She could forgive him all, because she loved him. But
might there not even yet be a chance for her when Clara should in
very truth have gone to Castle Richmond?
But now! How was she to think about all this now? And thinking of
these things, how was it possible that she should have heart left to
feel for the miseries of Lady Fitzgerald? With all her miseries would
not Lady Fitzgerald still be more fortunate than she? Let come what
might, Lady Fitzgerald had had a life of prosperity and love. No; she
could not think of Lady Fitzgerald, nor of Herbert: she could only
think of Owen Fitzgerald, of her daughter, and of herself.
He, Owen, was now the heir to Castle Richmond, and would, as far
as she could learn, soon become the actual possessor. He, who had
been cast forth from Desmond Court as too poor and contemptible in
the world's eye to be her daughter's suitor, would become the rich
inheritor of all those broad acres, and that old coveted family
honour. And this Owen still loved her daughter--loved her not as
Herbert did, with a quiet, gentleman-like, every-day attachment, but
with the old, true, passionate love of which she had read in books,
and dreamed herself, before she had sold herself to be a countess.
That Owen did so love her daughter, she was very sure. And then, as
to her daughter; that she did not still love this new heir in her
heart of hearts--of that the mother was by no means sure. That her
child had chosen the better part in choosing money and a title, she
had not doubted; and that having so chosen Clara would be happy,--of
that also she did not doubt. Clara was young, she would say, and her
heart in a few months would follow her hand.
But now! How was she to decide, sitting there with Herbert Fitzgerald
before her, gloomy as death, cold, shivering, and muddy, telling of
his own disasters with no more courage than a whipped dog? As she
looked at him she declared to herself twenty times in half a second
that he had not about him a tithe of the manhood of his cousin Owen.
Women love a bold front, and a voice that will never own its master
to have been beaten in the world's fight. Had Owen came there with
such a story, he would have claimed his right boldly to the lady's
hand, in spite of all that the world had done to him.
"Let her have him," said Lady Desmond to herself; and the struggle
within her bosom was made and over. No wonder that Herbert, looking
into her face for pity, should find that she was harsh and cruel. She
had been sacrificing herself, and had completed the sacrifice. Owen
Fitzgerald, the heir to Castle Richmond, Sir Owen as he would soon
be, should have her daughter. They two, at any rate, should be happy.
And she--she would live there at Desmond Court, lonely as she had
ever lived. While all this was passing through her mind, she hardly
thought of Herbert and his sorrows. That he must be given up and
abandoned, and left to make what best fight he could by himself; as
to that how was it possible that she as a mother should have any
doubt?
And yet it was a pity--a thousand pities. Herbert Fitzgerald, with
his domestic virtues, his industry and thorough respectability, would
so exactly have suited Clara's taste and mode of life--had he only
continued to be the heir of Castle Richmond. She and Owen would not
enter upon the world together with nearly the same fair chance of
happiness. Who could prophecy to what Owen might be led with his
passionate impulses, his strong will, his unbridled temper, and his
love of pleasure? That he was noble-hearted, affectionate, brave, and
tender in his inmost spirit, Lady Desmond was very sure; but were
such the qualities which would make her daughter happy? When Clara
should come to know her future lord as Clara's mother knew him, would
Clara love him and worship him as her mother did? The mother believed
that Clara had not in her bosom heart enough for such a love. But
then, as I have said before, the mother did not know the daughter.
"You say that you will break all this to Clara," said Herbert, having
during this silence turned over some of his thoughts also in his
mind. "If so I may as well leave you now. You can imagine that I am
anxious to get back to my mother."
"Yes, it will be better that I should tell her. It is very sad, very
sad, very sad indeed."
"Yes; it is a hard load for a man to bear," he answered, speaking
very, very slowly. "But for myself I think I can bear it, if--"
"If what?" asked the countess.
"If Clara can bear it."
And now it was necessary that Lady Desmond should speak out. She did
not mean to be unnecessarily harsh; but she did mean to be decided,
and as she spoke her face became stern and ill-favoured. "That
Clara will be terribly distressed," she said, "terribly, terribly
distressed," repeating her words with great emphasis, "of that I am
quite sure. She is very young, and will, I hope, in time get over it.
And then too I think she is one whose feelings, young as she is, have
never conquered her judgment. Therefore I do believe that, with God's
mercy, she will be able to bear it. But, Mr. Fitzgerald--"
"Well?"
"Of course you feel with me--and I am sure that with your excellent
judgment it is a thing of course--that everything must be over
between you and Lady Clara." And then she came to a full stop as
though all had been said that could be considered necessary.
Herbert did not answer at once, but stood there shivering and shaking
in his misery. He was all but overcome by the chill of his wet
garments; and though he struggled to throw off the dead feeling of
utter cold which struck him to the heart, he was quite unable to
master it. He could hardly forgive himself that on such an occasion
he should have been so conquered by his own outer feelings, but now
he could not help himself. He was weak with hunger too--though he did
not know it, for he had hardly eaten food that day, and was nearly
exhausted with the unaccustomed amount of hard exercise which he had
taken. He was moreover thoroughly wet through, and heavy laden with
the mud of the road. It was no wonder that Lady Desmond had said to
herself that he looked like a whipped dog.
"That must be as Lady Clara shall decide," he said at last, barely
uttering the words through his chattering teeth.
"It must be as I say," said the countess firmly; "whether by her
decision or by yours--or if necessary by mine. But if your feelings
are, as I take them to be, those of a man of honour, you will not
leave it to me or to her. What! now that you have the world to
struggle with, would you seek to drag her down into the struggle?"
"Our union was to be for better or worse. I would have given her all
the better, and--"
"Yes; and had there been a union she would have bravely borne her
part in sharing the worst. But who ought to be so thankful as you
that this truth has broken upon you before you had clogged yourself
with a wife of high birth but without fortune? Alone, a man educated
as you are, with your talents, may face the world without fearing
anything. But how could you make your way now if my daughter were
your wife? When you think of it, Mr. Fitzgerald, you will cease to
wish for it."
"Never; I have given my heart to your daughter, and I cannot take
back the gift. She has accepted it, and she cannot return it."
"And what would you have her do?" Lady Desmond asked, with anger and
almost passion in her voice.
"Wait--as I must wait," said Herbert. "That will be her duty, as I
believe it will also be her wish."
"Yes, and wear out her young heart here in solitude for the next
ten years, and then learn when her beauty and her youth are gone--.
But no, Mr. Fitzgerald; I will not allow myself to contemplate
such a prospect either for her or for you. Under the lamentable
circumstances which you have now told me it is imperative that this
match should be broken off. Ask your own mother and hear what she
will say. And if you are a man you will not throw upon my poor child
the hard task of declaring that it must be so. You, by your calamity,
are unable to perform your contract with her; and it is for you to
announce that that contract is therefore over."
Herbert in his present state was unable to argue with Lady Desmond.
He had in his brain, and mind, and heart, and soul--at least so he
said to himself afterwards, having perhaps but a loose idea of the
different functions of these four different properties--a thorough
conviction that as he and Clara had sworn to each other that for life
they would live together and love each other, no misfortune to either
of them could justify the other in breaking that oath;--could even
justify him in breaking it, though he was the one on whom misfortune
had fallen. He, no doubt, had first loved Clara for her beauty; but
would he have ceased to love her, or have cast her from him, if,
by God's will, her beauty had perished and gone from her? Would he
not have held her closer to his heart, and told her, with strong
comforting vows, that his love had now gone deeper than that; that
they were already of the same bone, of the same flesh, of the same
family and hearthstone? He knew himself in this, and knew that he
would have been proud so to do, and so to feel,--that he would have
cast from him with utter indignation any who would have counselled
him to do or to feel differently. And why should Clara's heart be
different from his?
All this, I say, was his strong conviction. But, nevertheless, her
heart might be different. She might look on that engagement of theirs
with altogether other thoughts and other ideas; and if so his voice
should never reproach her;--not his voice, however his heart might
do so. Such might be the case with her, but he did not think it; and
therefore he would not pronounce that decision which Clara's mother
expected from him.
"When you have told her of this, I suppose I may be allowed to see
her," he said, avoiding the direct proposition which Lady Desmond had
made to him.
"Allowed to see her?" said Lady Desmond, now also in her turn
speaking very slowly. "I cannot answer that question as yet; not
quite immediately, I should say. But if you will leave the matter in
my hands, I will write to you, if not to-morrow, then the next day."
"I would sooner that she should write."
"I cannot promise that--I do not know how far her good sense and
strength may support her under this affliction. That she will suffer
terribly, on your account as well as on her own, you may be quite
sure." And then, again, there was a pause of some moments.
"I at any rate shall write to her," he then said, "and shall tell
her that I expect her to see me. Her will in this matter shall be my
will. If she thinks that her misery will be greater in being engaged
to a poor man, than,--than in relinquishing her love, she shall hear
no word from me to overpersuade her. But, Lady Desmond, I will say
nothing that shall authorize her to think that she is given up by me,
till I have in some way learned from herself, what her own feelings
are. And now I will say good-bye to you."
"Good-bye," said the countess, thinking that it might be as well that
the interview should be ended. "But, Mr. Fitzgerald, you are very
wet; and I fear that you are very cold. You had better take something
before you go." Countess as she was she had no carriage in which she
could send him home; no horse even on which he could ride. "Nothing,
thank you, Lady Desmond," he said; and so, without offering her the
courtesy of his hand he walked out of the room.
He was very angry with her, as he tried to make the blood run
quicker in his veins by hurrying down the avenue into the road at
his quickest pace. So angry with her, that for a while, in his
indignation, he almost forgot his father and his mother and his own
family tragedy. That she should have wished to save her daughter
from such a marriage might have been natural; but that she should
have treated him so coldly, so harshly--without one spark of love
or pity,--him, who to her had been so loyal during his courtship of
her daughter! It was almost incredible to him. Was not his story one
that would have melted the heart of a stranger--at which men would
weep? He himself had seen tears in the eyes of that dry time-worn
world-used London lawyer, as the full depth of the calamity had
forced itself upon his heart. Yes, Mr. Prendergast had not been able
to repress his tears when he told the tale; but Lady Desmond had shed
no tears when the tale had been told to her. No soft woman's message
had been sent to the afflicted mother on whom it had pleased God to
allow so heavy a hand to fall. No word of tenderness had been uttered
for the sinking father. There had been no feeling for the household
which was to have been so nearly linked with her own. No. Looking
round with greedy eyes for wealth for her daughter, Lady Desmond
had found a match that suited her. Now that match no longer suited
her greed, and she could throw from her without a struggle to her
feelings the suitor that was now poor, and the family of the suitor
that was now neither grand nor powerful.
And then too he felt angry with Clara, though he knew that as yet, at
any rate, he had no cause. In spite of what he had said and felt, he
would imagine to himself that she also would be cold and untrue. "Let
her go," he said to himself. "Love is worth nothing--nothing if it
does not believe itself to be of more worth than everything beside.
If she does not love me now in my misery--if she would not choose me
now for her husband--her love has never been worthy the name. Love
that has no faith in itself, that does not value itself above all
worldly things, is nothing. If it be not so with her, let her go back
to him."
It may easily be understood who was the him. And then Herbert walked
on so rapidly that at length his strength almost failed him, and in
his exhaustion he had more than once to lean against a gate on the
road-side. With difficulty at last he got home, and dragged himself
up the long avenue to the front door. Even yet he was not warm
through to his heart, and he felt as he entered the house that he was
quite unfitted for the work which he might yet have to do before he
could go to his bed.