as
made evident to himself by the hot clammy drops of sweat which came
out upon his brow, by his wakefulness throughout the livelong night,
by the carefulness with which his ears watched for the sound of the
young man's coming, as though it were necessary that he should be
made assured that the murder had in truth not been done. Before that
hour had come he found himself to be shaking even in his bed; to be
drawing the clothes around him to dispel the icy cold, though the
sweat still stood upon his brow; to be hiding his eyes under the
bed-clothes in order that he might not see something which seemed to
be visible to him through the utmost darkness of the chamber. At any
rate he had done nothing! Let his thoughts have been what they might,
he had soiled neither his hands nor his conscience. Though everything
that he had ever done or ever thought were known, he was free from
all actual crime. She had talked of death and thought of murder. He
had only echoed her words and her thoughts, meaning nothing,--as
a man is bound to do to a woman. Why then could he not sleep? Why
should he be hot and shiver with cold by turns? Why should horrid
phantoms perplex him in the dark? He was sure he had never meant it.
What must be the agony of those who do mean, of those who do execute,
if such punishment as this were awarded to one who had done no
more than build a horrid castle in the air? Did she sleep;--he
wondered,--she who had certainly done more than build a castle in the
air; she who had wished and longed, and had a reason for her wishing
and her longing?

At last he heard a footfall on the road, which passed but some few
yards distant from his window, a quick, cheery, almost running
footfall, a step full of youth and life, sounding crisp on the hard
frozen ground; and he knew that the young man whom he hated had
come. Though he had never thought of murdering him,--as he told
himself,--yet he hated him. And then his thoughts, although in
opposition to his own wishes,--which were intent upon sleep, if sleep
would only come to him,--ran away to the building of other castles.
How would it have been now, now at this moment, if that plan, which
he had never really intended to carry out, which had only been a
speculation, had been a true plan and been truly executed? How would
it have been with them all now at Trafford Park? The Marchioness
would have been at any rate altogether satisfied;--but what comfort
would there have been in