‘The great question in life is the suffering we cause; and the utmost ingenuity of metaphysics cannot justify the man who has pierced the heart that loved him.’ — BENJAMlN CONSTANT.

WHEN Denner had gone up to her mistress’s room to dress her for dinner, she had found her seated just as Harold had found her, only with eyelids drooping and trembling over slowly-rolling tears — nay, with a face in which every sensitive feature, every muscle, seemed to be quivering with a silent endurance of some agony.

Denner went and stood by the chair a minute without speaking, only laying her hand gently on Mrs Transome’s. At last she said, beseechingly, ‘Pray speak, madam. What has happened?’

‘The worst, Denner — the worst.’

‘You are ill. Let me undress you, and put you to bed.’

‘No, I am not ill, I am not going to die! I shall live — I shall live!’

‘What may I do?’

‘Go and say I shall not dine. Then you may come back, if you will.’

The patient waiting-woman came back and sat by her mistress in motionless silence. Mrs Transome would not let her dress be touched, and waved away all proffers with a slight movement of her hand. Denner dared not even light a candle without being told. At last, when the evening was far gone, Mrs Transome said —

‘Go down, Denner, and find out where Harold is, and come back and tell me.’

‘Shall I ask him to come to you, madam?’

‘No; don’t dare to do it, if you love me. Come back.’

Denner brought word that Mr Harold was in his study, and that Miss Lyon was with him. He had not dined, but had sent later to ask Miss Lyon to go into his study. ‘Light the candles and leave me.’ ‘Mayn’t I come again?’ ‘No. It may be that my son will come to me.’ ‘Mayn’t I sleep on the little bed in your bedroom?’ ‘No, good Denner; I am not ill. You can’t help me.’ ‘That’s the hardest word of all, madam.’ ‘The time will come — but not now. Kiss me. Now go.’

The small quiet old woman obeyed, as she had always done. She shrank from seeming to claim an equal’s share in her mistress’s sorrow.

For two hours Mrs Transome’s mind hung on what was hardly a hope — hardly more than the listening for a bare possibility. She began to create the sounds that her anguish craved to hear — began to imagine a footfall, and a hand upon the door. Then, checked by continual disappointment, she tried to rouse a truer consciousness by rising from her seat and walking to her window, where she saw streaks of light moving and disappearing on the grass, and the sound of bolts and closing doors. She hurried away and threw herself into her seat again, and buried her head in the deafening down of the cushions. There was no sound of comfort for her.

Then her heart cried out within her against the cruelty of this son. When he turned from her in the first moment, he had not had time to feel anything but the blow that had fallen on himself. But afterwards — was it possible that he should not be touched with a son’s pity — was it possible that he should not have been visited by some thought of the long years through which she had suffered? The memory of those years came back to her now with a protest against the cruelty that had all fallen on her. She started up with a new restlessness from this spirit of resistance. She was not penitent. She had borne too hard a punishment. Always the edge of calamity had fallen on her. Who had felt for her? She was desolate. God had no pity, else her son would not have been so hard. What dreary future was there after this dreary past? She, too, looked out into the dim night; but the black boundary of trees and the long line of the river seemed only part of the loneliness and monotony of her life.

Suddenly she saw a light on the stone balustrades of the balcony that projected in front of Esther’s window, and the flash of a moving candle falling on a shrub below. Esther was still awake and up. What had Harold told her — what had passed between them? Harold was fond of this young creature, who had been always sweet and reverential to her. There was mercy in her young heart; she might be a daughter who had no impulse to punish and to strike her whom fate had stricken. On the dim loneliness before her she seemed to see Esther’s gentle look; it was possible still that the misery of this night might be broken by some comfort. The proud woman yearned for the caressing pity that must dwell in that young bosom. She opened her door gently, but when she had reached Esther’s she hesitated. She had never yet in her life asked for compassion — had never thrown herself in faith on an unproffered love. And she might have gone on pacing the corridor like an uneasy spirit without a goal, if Esther’s thought, leaping towards her, had not saved her from the need to ask admission.

Mrs Transome was walking towards the door when it opened. As Esther saw that image of restless misery, it blent itself by a rapid flash with all that Harold had said in the evening. She divined that the son’s new trouble must be one with the mother’s long sadness. But there was no waiting. In an instant Mrs Transome felt Esther’s arm round her neck, and a voice saying softly —

‘O why didn’t you call me before?’

They turned hand in hand into the room, and sat down togethe............