at, what with her
public and private duties, Angelica was overwhelmed with work, and
might well have overlooked the fact that she had not answered Beth's
letter, so Beth determined to write again. Time passed, however, and
she got into such a groove of daily duties that anything outside the
regular routine required a special effort which she always postponed,
and letters were quite outside the regular routine. After the first no
one wrote to her except the old lawyer who sent her half-yearly
dividend; and she had written to no one. She had dropped altogether
out of her own world, yet, because of her work and of her power to
interest herself in every one about her, and to appreciate the
goodness of her humblest friends, her life was full, and she had not
known a moment's discontent. Little things were great pleasures now.
To be able to get on the top of an omnibus at Piccadilly Circus when
the sun was setting, and ride to Hammersmith Broadway, engrossed in
watching the wonderful narrow cloudscape above the streets, changing
from moment to moment in form and colour; the mystery of the hazy
distances, the impression of the great buildings and tall irregular
blocks of houses appearing all massed together among the trees from
different points of view, and taking on fine architectural effects,
now transformed into huge grey palaces, large and distinct, now
looming in the mist, sketchily, with uncertain outlines, and all the
fascination of the fabrics, innocent of detail, that confront the
dreamer in enchanted woods, or lure him to the edge of fairy lakes
with twinkling lights all multiplied by their own reflection in the
water. Beth had rolled in that direction in luxurious carriages often,
and never joyed in the scene, her mind being set on other
things--things prosaic, such as what she should wear, or whether she
was late, scraps of society gossip, conversations which had satiated
without satisfying her, and remained in her mind to be items of
weariness if not of actual irritation. She had noticed in those days
how very seldom she saw a happy face in a carriage, unless it was a
very young face, full of expectation. Even the very coachmen and
footmen in the Park looked enervated, as the long lines of carriages
passed in wearisome procession. And in everything there had been that
excess which leaves no room for healthy desire. At first, the shop
windows, set out with tasteless profusion, no article in the
heterogeneous masses