she faced
it, she throbbed to its authenticity, and was free. It solved every
difficulty, and loosed the load that for months past had wearied her
back. "There's no virtue in believing." It was fundamental. It was the
gift of life and of peace. Her soul shouted, as she realized that just
there, in that instant, at that table, a new epoch had dawned for her.
Never would she forget the instant and the scene--scene of her re-birth!

Mrs. Orgreave remonstrated with mild sadness:

"No virtue in believing! Eh, Mr. Edwin!" And Hilda, under the ageing
lady's grieved glance, tried to quench the exultation on her face,
somewhat like a child trapped. But she could not. Tom again cried
"Hooray!" His tone, however, grated on her sensibility. It lacked
emotion. It was the tone of a pugilist's backer. And Janet permitted
herself some pleasantry. And Charlie became frankly facetious. Was it
conceivable that Charlie could be interested in religion? She liked him
very much, partly because he and she had learnt to understand each other
at the dancing-classes, and partly because his curly hair and his candid
smile compelled sympathy. But her esteem for him had limits. It was
astonishing that a family otherwise simply perfect should be content
with jocosity when jocosity was so obviously out of place. Were they,
then, afraid of being serious?... Edwin Clayhanger was not laughing; he
had blushed. Her eyes were fixed on him with the extremest intensity,
studying him, careless of the danger that his gaze might catch hers. She
was lost in him. And then, he caught her; and, burning with honest
shame, she looked downwards.

CHAPTER VI
IN THE GARDEN

I

That evening Janet did not stay long in Hilda's bedroom, having
perceived that Hilda was in one of her dark, dreamy moods.

As soon as she was gone, Hilda lowered the gas a little, and then went
to the window, and opened it wider, and, drawing aside the blind, looked
forth. The night was obscure and warm; and a wet wind moved furtively
about in the elm-trees of the garden. The window was at the side of the
house; it gave on the west, and commanded the new house just finished by
Mr. Orgreave for the Clayhanger family. The block of this generously
planned dwelling rose massively at a distance of perhaps forty feet,
dwarfing a whole row of cottages in the small street behind Lane End
House; its various chimneypots stood out a deeper black against the
enigmatic sky. Beyond the Clayhange