So day by day Alma's violin sounded, and day after day Harvey heard it
with a growing impatience. As is commonly the case with people of
untrained ear, he had never much cared for this instrument; he
preferred the piano. Not long ago he would have thought it impossible
that he could ever come to dislike music, which throughout his life had
been to him a solace and an inspiration; but now he began to shrink
from the sound of it. As Alma practised in the morning, he was driven
at length to alter his habits, and to leave home after breakfast.
Having no other business, he went to Westminster Bridge Road, met Cecil
Morphew at the shop, watched the progress of alterations that seemed
advisable, picked up a little knowledge of photography, talked over
prices, advertisements, and numerous commercial matters of which he had
hitherto been contentedly ignorant. Before long, his loan to Morphew
was converted into an investment; he became a partner in the concern,
which, retaining the name of the old proprietor, they carried on as Den
bow & Co.
The redemption of his debentures kept him still occupied with a furtive
study of the money-market. He did not dare to face risk on a large
scale; the mere thought of a great reduction of income made him tremble
and perspire. So in the end he adopted the simple and straightforward
expedient of seeking an interview with his banker, by whom he was
genially counselled to purchase such-and-such stock, a sound security,
but less productive than that he had previously held. An unfortunate
necessity, seeing that his expenses increased and were likely to do so.
But he tried to hope that Westminster Bridge Road would eventually
reimburse him. With good luck, it might do more.
His days of quietude were over. He, too, was being drawn into the
whirlpool. No more dreaming among his books; no more waking to the
ordinary duties and cares of a reasonable life. As a natural
consequence of the feeling of unsettlement, of instability, he had
recourse more often than he wished to the old convivial habits,
gathering about him once again, at club or restaurant, the kind of
society in which he always felt at ease--good, careless, jovial, and
often impecunious fellows, who, as in days gone by, sometimes made a
demand upon his purse which he could not resist, though he had now such
cause for rigid economy. Was it that he grew old?--he could no longer
take his wine with disregard of consequence. The slightest excess, and
too surely he paid for it on the morrow, not merely with a passing
headache, but with a whole day's miserable discomfort. Oh, degeneracy
of stomach and of brain! Of will, too; for he was sure to repeat the
foolish experience before a week had passed.
It was not till Mrs. Frothingham had left them after a fortnight's
visit that he reminded Alma of her promise to go with him to
Gunnersbury.
'Did I promise?' she said. 'I thought we agreed that you should settle
all that yourself.'
'I had rather you came with me to see Mrs. Abbott. Shall it be
Saturday?'
'Can't,' replied Alma, with a shake of the head and a smile. 'I have to
see Mr. Dymes.'
'Dymes? Who is he?'
'My agent.'
'Oh! very well; then I'll go alone.'
He would not permit himself any further inquiry. Alma had never spoken
to him of Dymes, her 'agent'. Harvey pictured an ill-shaven man in a
small office, and turned from the thought with disgust. Too late to
interpose, to ask questions; anything of that kind would but make him
seem small, ridiculous, fussy. He had chosen his course, and must
pursue it.
Not that Alma behaved in such a way as to suggest estrangement;
anything but so. Her manner was always amiable, frequently
affectionate. When they spent an evening together--it did not often
happen--she talked delightfully; avoiding, as did Harvey himself, the
subjects on which they were not likely to agree. Her gaze had all the
old directness, her smile was sweet as ever, and her laugh as
melodious. If ever he felt uneasy during her long absences in town, one
of these evenings sufficed to reassure him. Alma was Alma still, and
could he but have reconciled himself to the thought of her playing in
public, she would have been yet the wife he chose, frankly self-willed,
gallantly independent.
Until a certain day at the end of March, when something happened of
which Harvey had no suspicion, but which affected Alma in a way he soon
perceived.
That morning he had left home early, and would not return till late.
Alma practised as usual, had luncheon alone, and was thinking of going
out, when the post delivered two letters--one for herself from Dymes,
the other for her husband. A glance showed her that Harvey's
correspondent was Mrs. Abbott, and never till today had one of Mrs
Abbott's letters come into her hand. She regarded it with curiosity,
and the longer she looked the stronger her curiosity became. Harvey
would of course tell her what his friend wrote about--as he always did;
but the epistle itself she would not be asked to read. And did she, as
a matter of fact, always know when Harvey heard from Mrs. Abbott? A
foolish question, probably; for if the correspondence were meant to be
secret, it would be addressed to Harvey at his club, not to the house.
All the same, a desire of years concentrated itself in this moment.
Alma wished vehemently to read one of Mary Abbott's letters with her
own eyes.
She turned the envelope. It was of very stout paper, and did not look
quite securely gummed. Would not a touch of the finger--almost----?
Why, there, just as she thought; a mere touch, and the envelope came
open. 'Now, if I ever wrote a dangerous word,' mused Alma--'which I
don't, and never shall--this would be a lesson to me.'
Well, it was open, and, naturally enough, the letter came forth. What
harm? There could be nothing in it that Harvey would wish to hide from
her. So, with hands that trembled, and cheeks that felt warm, she began
to read.
The letter was Mrs. Abbott's acknowledgment of the quarterly cheque she
received from Rolfe. Alma was surprised at the mention of money in the
first line, and read eagerly on. As Mary Abbott and her friend had seen
each other so recently, there was no need of a full report concerning
Minnie Wager (her brother had long since gone to a boarding-school),
but the wording allowed it to be understood that Harvey paid for the
child, and, what was more, that he held himself responsible for her
future. What could this mean? Alma pondered it in astonishment;
gratified by the discovery, but disturbed beyond measure by its
mysterious suggestiveness. The letter contained little more, merely
saying, towards the end, how very glad the writer would be to give her
utmost care to little Hugh when presently he came into her hands. Last
of all--'Please remember me kindly to Mrs. Rolfe.'
At this point of her life Alma had become habitually suspicious of any
relation between man and woman which might suggest, however remotely,
dubious possibilities. Innocence appeared to her the exception,
lawlessness the rule, where man and woman were restrained by no obvious
barriers. It was the natural result of her experience, of her
companionship, of the thoughts she deliberately fostered. Having read
the letter twice, having mused upon it, she leaped to a conclusion
which seemed to explain completely the peculiar intimacy subsisting
between Harvey and Mary Abbott. These two children, known as Albert and
Minnie Wager, were Harvey's offspring, the result of some _liaison_
before his marriage; and Mrs. Abbott, taking charge of them for
payment, had connived at the story of their origin, of their pitiful
desertion. What could be clearer?
She did not go further in luminous conjectures. Even with her present
mind, Alma could not conceive of Mary Abbott as a wanton, of Harvey
Rolfe as a shameless intriguer; but it stung her keenly to think that
for years there had been this secret between them. Probably the matter
was known to Mrs. Abbott's husband, and so, at his death, it had
somehow become possible for Harvey to suggest this arrangement, whereby
he helped the widow in her misfortunes, and provided conscientiously
for his own illegitimate children. Harvey was so very conscientious
about children!
Did they resemble him? She had seen the little girl, but only once, and
without attention. She would take an early opportunity of going over to
Gunnersbury, to observe. But no such evidence was necessary; the facts
stared one in the face.
That Harvey should have kept this secret from her was intelligible
enough; most men, no doubt, would have done the same. But it seemed to
Alma only another proof of her husband's inability to appreciate her.
He had no faith in her as artist; he had no faith in her as woman. Had
she not felt this even from the very beginning of their intimate
acquaintance? Perhaps the first thing that awakened her interest in
Harvey Rolfe was the perception that he did not, like other men, admire
her unreservedly, that he regarded her with something of criticism. She
could attract him; she could play upon his senses; yet he remained
critical. This, together with certain characteristics which
distinguished him from the ordinary drawing-room man, suggestions of
force and individuality, drew her into singular relations with him long
before she dreamt that he would become her husband. And his attitude
towards her was unchanged, spite of passionate love-making, spite of
the tenderness and familiarity of marriage; still he viewed her with
eyes of tolerance, rather than of whole-hearted admiration. He
compared, contrasted her with Mary Abbott, for whose intellect and
character he had a sincere respect. Doubtless he fancied that, if this
secret became known to her, she would sulk or storm, after the manner
of ordinary wives. What made him so blind to her great qualities? Was
it that he had never truly loved her? Had it been owing to mere chance,
mere drift of circumstances, that he offered her marriage, instead of
throwing out a proposal such as that of Cyrus Redgrave at Bregenz?
Though but darkly, confusedly, intermittently conscious of the feeling,
Alma was at heart dissatisfied with the liberty, the independence,
which her husband seemed so willing to allow her. This, again, helped
to confirm the impression that Harvey held her in small esteem. He did
not think it worth while to oppose her; she might go her frivolous way,
and he would watch with careless amusement. At moments, it was true, he
appeared on the point of ill-humour; once or twice she had thought
(perhaps had hoped) that he could lay down the law in masculine
fashion; but no--he laughed, and it was over. When, at the time of her
misery in Wales--her dim jealousy of Mrs. Abbott, and revolt against
the prospect of a second motherhood--she had subdued herself before
him, spoken and behaved like an everyday dutiful wife, Harvey would
have none of it. He wished--was that the reason?--to be left alone, not
to be worried with her dependence upon him. That no doubt of her
fidelity ever seemed to enter his mind, was capable of anything but a
complimentary interpretation; he simply took it for granted that she
would be faithful--in other words, that she had not spirit or
originality enough to defy conventional laws. To himself, perhaps, he
reserved a much larger liberty. How could she tell where, in what
company, his evenings were spent? More than once he had been away from
home all night--missed the last train, he said. Well, it was nothing to
her; but his incuriousness as to her own movements began to affect her
sensibly, now that she imagined so close a community of thoughts and
interests between Harvey and Mary Abbott.
Before his return tonight other letters had arrived for him, and all
lay together, as usual, upon his desk. Alma, trying to wear her
customary face, waited for him to mention that he had heard from
Gunnersbury, but Harvey said nothing. He talked, instead, of a letter
from Basil Morton, who wanted him to go to Greystone in the spring,
with wife and child.
'You mustn't count on me,' said Alma.
'But after your concert--recital--whatever you call it; it would be a
good rest.'
'Oh, I shall be busier than ever. Mr. Dymes hopes to arrange for me at
several of the large towns.'
Harvey smiled, and Alma observed him with irritation she could scarcely
repress. Of course, his smile meant a civil scepticism.
'By-the-bye,' he asked, 'is Dymes the comic opera man?'
'Yes. I rather wondered, Harvey, whether you would awake to that fact.
He will be one of our greatest composers.'
She went on with enthusiasm, purposely exaggerating Dymes's merits, and
professing a warm personal regard for him. In the end, Harvey's eye was
upon her, still smiling, but curiously observant.
'Why hasn't he been here? Doesn't he think it odd that you never ask
him?'
'Oh, you know that I don't care to ask people. They are aware'--she
laughed--'that my husband is not musical.'
Harvey's countenance changed.
'Do you mean that you tell them so?'
'Not in any disagreeable way, of course. It's so natural, now, for
married people to have each their own world.'
'So it is,' he acquiesced.
Alma would have gone to Gunnersbury the very next day, but she feared
to excite some suspicion in her husband's mind. He little imagined her
capable of opening his letters, and to be detected in such a squalid
misdemeanour would have overwhelmed her with shame. In a day or two she
would be going to Mrs. Rayner Mann's, to meet a certain musical critic
'of great influence', and by leaving home early she could contrive to
make a call upon Mrs. Abbott before lunching at Putney. This she did.
She saw little Minnie Wager, scrutinised the child's features, and had
no difficulty whatever in discerning Harvey's eyes, Harvey's mouth. Why
should she have troubled herself to come? It was very hard to control
her indignation. If Mrs. Abbott thought her rather strange, rather
abrupt, what did it matter?
At Mrs. Rayner Mann's she passed into a soothing and delicious
atmosphere. The influential critic proved to be a very young man,
five-and-twenty at most; he stammered with nervousness when first
addressing the stranger, but soon gave her to understand, more or less
humorously, that his weekly article was 'quite' the most important
thing in latter-day musical criticism, and that he panted for the
opportunity of hearing a new violinist of real promise. But Alma had
not brought her violin; lest she should make herself cheap, she never
played now at people's houses. The critic had to be satisfied with
hearing her talk and gazing upon her beauty. Alma was become a very
fluent talker, and her voice had the quality which fixes attention. At
luncheon, whilst half-a-dozen persons lent willing ear, she compared
Sarasate's playing of Beethoven's Concerto with that of Joachim, and
declared that Sarasate's _cadenza_ in the first movement, though
marvellous for technical skill, was not at all in the spirit of the
work. The influential writer applauded, drawing her on to fresh
displays of learning, taste, eloquence. She had a great deal to say
about somebody's 'technique of the left hand', of somebody else's
'tonal effects', of a certain pianist's 'warmth of touch'. It was a
truly musical gathering; each person at table had some exquisite phrase
to contribute. The hostess, who played no instrument, but doted upon
all, was of opinion that an executant should 'aim at mirroring his own
nature in his interpretation of a tone-poem'; whereupon another lady
threw out remarks on 'subjective interpretation', confessing her
preference for a method purely 'objective'. The influential critic
began to talk about Liszt, with whom he declared that he had been on
intimate terms; he grew fervent over the master's rhapsodies, with
their 'clanging rhythm and dithyrambic fury'.
'I don't know when I enjoyed myself so much,' said Alma gaily, as the
great young man pressed her hand at parting and avowed himself her
devoted admirer.
'My dear Mrs. Rolfe,' said the hostess privately, 'you were simply
brilliant! We are all looking forward so eagerly!'
And as soon as Alma was gone, the amiable lady talked about her to the
one remaining guest.
'_Isn't_ she delightful! I do so hope she will be a success. I'm afraid
so much depends upon it. Of course, you know that she is the daughter
of Bennet Frothingham? Didn't you know? Yes, and left without a
farthing. I suppose it was natural she should catch at an offer of
marriage, poor girl, but it seems to have been _most_ ill-advised. One
never sees her husband, and I'm afraid he is anything but kind to her.
He _may_ have calculated on her chances as a musician. I am told they
have little or nothing to depend upon. Do drum up your friends--will
you? It is to be at Prince's Hall, on May the 16th--I think. I feel,
don't you know, personally responsible; she would never have come out
but for my persuasion, and I'm so anxious for a success!'
The day drew near for Ada Wellington's debut. Alma met this young lady,
but they did not take to each other; Miss Wellington was a trifle
'loud', and, unless Alma mistook, felt fiercely jealous of any one
admired by Felix Dymes. As she could not entertain at their own house
(somewhere not far south of the Thames), Mrs. Wellington borrowed
Dymes's flat for an afternoon, and there, supported by the
distinguished composer, received a strange medley of people who
interested themselves in her daughter's venture. Alma laughed at the
arrangement, and asked Dymes if he expected her congratulations.
'Don't make fun of them,' said Felix. 'Of course, they're not _your_
sort, Alma. But I've known them all my life, and old Wellington did me
more than one good turn when I was a youngster. Ada won't make much of
it, but she'll squeeze in among the provincial pros after this send
off.'
'You really are capable of generosity?' asked Alma.
'I swear there's nothing between us. There's only one woman living that
I have eyes for--and I'm afraid she doesn't care a rap about me; at all
events, she treats me rather badly.'
This dialogue took place in a drawing-room the evening before Miss
Wellington's day. Alma had declined to meet her agent a second time at
the Apollo Theatre; they saw each other, by arrangement, at this and
that house of common friends, and corresponded freely by post, Dymes's
letters always being couched in irreproachable phrase. Whenever the
thing was possible, he undisguisedly made love, and Alma bore with it
for the sake of his services. He had obtained promises from four
musicians of repute to take part in Alma's concert, and declared that
the terms they asked were lower than usual, owing to their regard for
him. The expenses of the recital, without allowing for advertisements,
would amount to seventy or eighty pounds; and Dymes guaranteed that the
hall should produce at least that. Alma, ashamed to appear uneasy about
such paltry sums, always talked as though outlay mattered nothing.
'Don't stint on advertisements,' she said.
'No fear! Leave that to me,' answered Felix, with a smile of infinite
meaning.
Ada Wellington could not afford to risk much money, and Alma thought
her announcements in the papers worth nothing at all. However, the
pianist was fairly successful; a tolerable audience was scraped
together (at Steinway Hall), and press notices of a complimentary
flavour, though brief, appeared in several quarters. With keen anxiety
Alma followed every detail. She said to herself that if _her_
appearance in public made no more noise than this, she would be ready
to die of mortification. There remained a fortnight before the ordeal;
had they not better begin to advertise at once? Thus she wrote to
Dymes, who replied by sending her three newspapers, in each of which a
paragraph of musical gossip informed the world that Mrs. Harvey Rolfe
was about to give her first public violin recital at Prince's Hall.
Mrs. Rolfe, added the journalists in varying phrase, was already well
known to the best musical circles as an amateur violinist, and great
interest attached to her appearance in public, a step on which she had
decided only after much persuasion of friends and admirers. Already
there was considerable demand for tickets, and the audience would most
certainly be both large and distinguished. Alma laughed with delight.
The same day, by a later post, she received a copy of a 'society'
journal, addressed in a hand unknown to her. Guided by a red pencil
mark, she became aware of no less than a quarter of a column devoted to
herself. From this she might learn (if she did not already know it)
that Mrs. Harvey Rolfe was a lady of the utmost personal and social
charm; that her beauty was not easily described without the use of
terms that would sound extravagant; that as a violinist she had stood
for a year or two _facile princeps_ amid lady amateurs; that she had
till of late lived in romantic seclusion 'amid the noblest scenery of
North Wales', for the sole purpose of devoting herself to music; and
that only with the greatest reluctance had she consented to make known
to the public a talent--nay, a genius--which assuredly was 'meant for
mankind'. She was the favourite pupil of that admirable virtuoso, Herr
Wilenski. At Prince's Hall, on the sixteenth of May, all lovers of
music would have, &c, &c.
This batch of newspapers Alma laid before dinner on Harvey's desk, and
about an hour after the meal she entered the library. Her husband,
smoking and meditating, looked up constrainedly.
'I have read them,' he remarked, in a dry tone.
Alma's coldness during the last few weeks he had explained to himself
as the result of his failure to take interest in her proceedings. He
knew that this behaviour on his part was quite illogical; Alma acted
with full permission, and he had no right whatever to 'turn grumpy'
just because he disliked what she was doing. Only today he had rebuked
himself, and meant to make an effort to restore goodwill between them;
but these newspaper paragraphs disgusted him. He could not speak as he
wished.
'This is your agent's doing, I suppose?'
'Of course. That is his business.'
'Well, I won't say anything about it. If _you_ are satisfied, I have no
right to complain.'
'Indeed, I don't think you have,' replied Alma, putting severe
restraint upon herself to speak calmly. Thereupon she left the room.
Harvey rose to follow her. He took a step forward--stood
still--returned to his chair. And they did not see each other again
that night.
In the morning came a letter from Dymes. He wrote that a certain
newspaper wished for an 'interview' with Mrs. Rolfe, to be published
next week. Should the interviewer call upon her, and, if so, when?
Moreover, an illustrated paper wanted her portrait with the least
possible delay. Were her new photographs ready? If so, would she send
him a dozen? Better still if he could see her today, for he had
important things to speak of. Might he look for her at Mrs.
Littlestone's at about four o'clock?
At breakfast Alma was chatty, but she directed her talk almost
exclusively to Pauline Smith and to little Hugh, who now had his place
at table--a merry, sunny-haired little fellow, dressed in a sailor
suit. Harvey also talked a good deal--he, too, with Pauline and the
child. When Alma rose he followed her, and asked her to come into the
library for a moment.
'I'm a curmudgeon,' he began, facing her with nervous abruptness.
'Forgive me for that foolery last night, will you?'
'Of course,' Alma replied distantly.
'No, but in the same spirit, Alma. I'm an ass! I know that if you do
this thing at all, you must do it in the usual way. I wish you success
heartily, and I'll read with pleasure every scrap of print that praises
you.'
'I'm hurrying to town, Harvey. I have to go to the photographer, and
see Mr. Dymes, and all sorts of things.'
'The photographer? I hope they'll be tolerable; I know they won't do
you justice. Will you sit to a painter if I arrange it? Unfortunately,
I can't afford Millais, you know; but I want a good picture of you.'
'We'll talk about it,' she replied, smiling more pleasantly than of
late. 'But I really haven't time now.'
'And you forgive me my idiotics?'
She nodded and was gone.
In the afternoon she met Dymes at Mrs. Littlestone's, a house of much
society, for the most part theatrical. When they had moved aside for
private talk, he began by asking a brusque question.
'Who got that notice for you into the _West End_?'
'Why, didn't you?'
'Know nothing about it. Come, who was it?'
'I have no idea. I took it for granted----'
'Look here, Alma, I think I'm not doing badly for you, and the least
you can do is to be straight with me.'
Alma raised her head with a quick, circuitous glance, then fixed her
eyes on the man's heated face, and spoke in an undertone: 'Please,
behave yourself, or I shall have to go away.
'Then you won't tell me? Very well. I chuck up the job. You can run the
show yourself.'
Alma had never looked for delicacy in Felix Dymes, and his motives had
from the first been legible to her, but this revelation of brutality
went beyond anything for which she was prepared. As she saw the man
move away, a feeling of helplessness and of dread overcame her anger.
She could not do without him. The only other man active on her behalf
was Cyrus Redgrave, and to seek Redgrave's help at such a juncture,
with the explanation that must necessarily be given, would mean
abandonment of her last scruple. Of course, the paragraph in the _West
End_ originated with him; since Dymes knew nothing about it, it could
have no other source. Slowly, but very completely, the man of wealth
and social influence had drawn his nets about her; at each meeting with
him she felt more perilously compromised; her airs of command served
merely to disguise defeat in the contest she had recklessly challenged.
Thrown upon herself, she feared Redgrave, shrank from the thought of
seeing him. Not that he had touched her heart or beguiled her senses;
she hated him for his success in the calculated scheme to which she had
consciously yielded step by step; but she was brought to the point of
regarding him as inseparable from her ambitious hopes. Till quite
recently her thought had been that, after using him to secure a
successful debut, she could wave him off, perhaps tell him in plain
words, with a smile of scorn, that they were quits. She now distrusted
her power to stand alone. To the hostility of such a man as
Dymes--certain, save at intolerable cost--she must be able to oppose a
higher influence. Between Dymes and Redgrave there was no hesitating on
whatever score. This advertisement in the fashionable and authoritative
weekly paper surpassed Dymes's scope; his savage jealousy was
sufficient proof of that. All she could do for the moment was to
temporise with her ignobler master, and the humiliation of such a
necessity seemed to poison her blood.
She rose, talked a little of she knew not what with she knew not whom,
and moved towards the hostess, by whom her enemy was sitting. A glance
sufficed. As soon as she had taken leave, Dymes followed her. He came
up to her side at a few yards from the house, and they walked together,
without speaking, until Alma turned into the first quiet street.
'I give you my word,' she began, 'that I know nothing whatever about
that paper.'
'I believe you, and I'm sorry I made a row,' Dymes replied. 'There's no
harm done. I dare say I shall be hearing more about it.'
'I have some photographs here,' said Alma, touching her sealskin bag.
'Will you take them?'
'Thanks. But there's a whole lot of things to be arranged. We can't
talk here. Let's go to my rooms.'
He spoke as though nothing were more natural. Alma, the blood throbbing
at her temples, saw him beckon a crawling hansom.
'I can't come--now. I have a dreadful headache.'
'You only want to be quiet. Come along.'
The hansom had pulled up. Alma, ashamed to resist under the eyes of the
driver, stepped in, and her companion placed himself at her side. As
soon as they drove away he caught her hand and held it tightly.
'I can't go to your rooms,' said Alma, after a useless resistance. 'My
head is terrible. Tell me whatever you have to say, and then take me to
Baker Street Station. I'll see you again in a day or two.'
She did not feign the headache. It had been coming on since she left
home, and was now so severe that her eyes closed under the torture of
the daylight.
'A little rest and you'll be all right,' said Dymes.
Five minutes more would bring them to their destination. Alma pulled
away her hand violently.
'If you don't stop him, I shall.'
'You mean it? As you please. You know what I----'
Alma raised herself, drew the cabman's attention, and bade him drive to
Baker Street. There was a short silence, Dymes glaring and muttering
inarticulately.
'Of course, if you really have a bad headache,' he growled at length.
'Indeed I have--and you treat me very unkindly.'
'Hang it, Alma, don't speak like that! As if I _could_ be unkind to
you!'
He secured her hand again, and she did not resist. Then they talked of
business, settled one or two matters, appointed another meeting. As
they drew near to the station, Alma spoke impulsively, with a
bewildered look.
'I shouldn't wonder if I give it up, after all.'
'Rot!' was her companion's amazed exclamation.
'I might. I won't answer for it. And it would be your fault.'
Stricken with alarm, Dymes poured forth assurances of his good
behaviour. He followed her down to the platform, and for a quarter of
an hour she had to listen, in torment of mind and body, to
remonstrances, flatteries, amorous blandishments, accompanied by the
hiss of steam and the roar of trains.
On reaching home she could do nothing but lie down in the dark. Her
head ached intolerably; and hour after hour, as often happens when the
brain is over-wearied, a strain of music hummed incessantly on her ear,
till inability to dismiss it made her cry in half-frenzied wretchedness.
With sleep she recovered; but through the next day, dull and idle, her
thoughts kept such a gloomy colour that she well-nigh brought herself
to the resolve with which she had threatened Felix Dymes. But for the
anticipation of Harvey's triumph, she might perhaps have done so.