more panes broken or cracked: and besides, a
heavy hail-storm had fallen a few days ago. Madame questioned me very
closely as to what I had seen, but I only described an obscure figure
clothed in black: I took care not to breathe the word "nun," certain
that this word would at once suggest to her mind an idea of romance and
unreality. She charged me to say nothing on the subject to any servant,
pupil, or teacher, and highly commended my discretion in coming to her
private salle-a-manger, instead of carrying the tale of horror to the
school refectory. Thus the subject dropped. I was left secretly and
sadly to wonder, in my own mind, whether that strange thing was of this
world, or of a realm beyond the grave; or whether indeed it was only
the child of malady, and I of that malady the prey.

CHAPTER XXIII.

VASHTI.

To wonder sadly, did I say? No: a new influence began to act upon my
life, and sadness, for a certain space, was held at bay. Conceive a
dell, deep-hollowed in forest secresy; it lies in dimness and mist: its
turf is dank, its herbage pale and humid. A storm or an axe makes a
wide gap amongst the oak-trees; the breeze sweeps in; the sun looks
down; the sad, cold dell becomes a deep cup of lustre; high summer
pours her blue glory and her golden light out of that beauteous sky,
which till now the starved hollow never saw.

A new creed became mine--a belief in happiness.

It was three weeks since the adventure of the garret, and I possessed
in that case, box, drawer up-stairs, casketed with that first letter,
four companions like to it, traced by the same firm pen, sealed with
the same clear seal, full of the same vital comfort. Vital comfort it
seemed to me then: I read them in after years; they were kind letters
enough--pleasing letters, because composed by one well pleased; in the
two last there were three or four closing lines half-gay, half-tender,
"by _feeling_ touched, but not subdued." Time, dear reader, mellowed
them to a beverage of this mild quality; but when I first tasted their
elixir, fresh from the fount so honoured, it seemed juice of a divine
vintage: a draught which Hebe might fill, and the very gods approve.

Does the reader, remembering what was said some pages back, care to ask
how I answered these letters: whether under the dry, stinting check of
Reason, or according to the full, liberal impulse of Feeling?

To speak truth, I compromised matters; I served two masters: I bowed