shoulders. A woman, she thought, if she were unfortunate enough to be
a lady without wealth of her own, must give up everything, her body,
her heart,--her very soul if she were that way troubled,--to the
procuring of a fitting maintenance for herself. Why should Hetta hope
to be more fortunate than others? And then the position which chance
now offered to her was fortunate. This cousin of hers, who was so
devoted to her, was in all respects good. He would not torture her by
harsh restraint and cruel temper. He would not drink. He would not
spend his money foolishly. He would allow her all the belongings of a
fair, free life. Lady Carbury reiterated to herself the assertion that
she was manifestly doing a mother's duty by her endeavours to constrain
her girl to marry such a man. With a settled purpose she was severe and
hard. But when she found how harsh her daughter could be in response
to this,--how gloomy, how silent, and how severe in retaliation,--she
was almost frightened at what she herself was doing. She had not known
how stern and how enduring her daughter could be. 'Hetta,' she said,
'why don't you speak to me?' On this very day it was Hetta's purpose to
visit Mrs Hurtle at Islington. She had said no word of her intention
to any one. She had chosen the Friday because on that day she knew her
mother would go in the afternoon to her publisher. There should be no
deceit. Immediately on her return she would tell her mother what she
had done. But she considered herself to be emancipated from control.
Among them they had robbed her of her lover. She had submitted to the
robbery, but she would submit to nothing else. 'Hetta, why don't you
speak to me?' said Lady Carbury.

'Because, mamma, there is nothing we can talk about without making
each other unhappy.'

'What a dreadful thing to say! Is there no subject in the world to
interest you except that wretched young man?'

'None other at all,' said Hetta obstinately.

'What folly it is,--I will not say only to speak like that, but to
allow yourself to entertain such thoughts!'

'How am I to control my thoughts? Do you think, mamma, that after I
had owned to you that I loved a man,--after I had owned it to him and,
worst of all, to myself,--I could have myself separated from him, and
then not think about it? It is a cloud upon everything. It is as
though I had lost my eyesight and my speech. It is as it would be to
you if Felix were to die. It crushes me.'

Ther