ure
might wholly forsake her before night came. She tried to picture her
father returning as usual; human pity might have spoken even in
Dagworthy's heart; or if not so, then he might have been induced to
forbear by a hope of winning her gratitude. Very agony made her feel
almost capable of rewarding such mercy. For Wilfrid seemed now very far
away, and her love had fallen to the background; it was not the supreme
motive of her being as hitherto. Would she suffer thus for Wilfrid? The
question forced itself upon her, and for reply she shuddered; such bonds
seemed artificial compared with those which linked her to her father,
the love which was coeval with her life. All feeling is so relative to
circumstances, and what makes so stable as the cement of habit?

In the early hours of the afternoon a lull of utter weariness relieved
her; she lay upon the couch and all but slept; it was something between
sleep and loss of consciousness following on excessive pain. She awoke
to find the doctor bending over her; Mrs. Hood had become so alarmed
that she had despatched a neighbour secretly on the errand. Emily was
passive, and by her way of speaking half disguised the worst features of
her state. Nevertheless, the order was given that she should go to bed.
She promised to obey.

'As soon as father comes,' she said, when alone again with her mother.
'It cannot be long till his time.'

She would not yield beyond this. But the hour of return came, and her
father delayed. Then was every minute an eternity. No longer able to
keep her reclining position, she stood again by the window, and her eyes
lost their vision from straining upon one spot, that at which Hood would
first appear. She leaned her head upon the window-sill, and let her ears
take their turn of watching; the first touch of a hand at the gate would
reach her. But there came none.

Can hours thus be lived through? Ah, which of us to whom time has not
been a torment of hell? Is there no nether Circle, where dread
anticipation eternally prolongs itself, eternally varied with hope in
vain for ever?

Mrs. Hood had abandoned her useless protests; she came and sat by the
girl.

'I've no doubt he's gone to the Walkers',' she kept saying, naming
acquaintances with whom Hood occasionally spent an evening. Then, 'And
why need you wait for him, my dear? Can't he go up and see you as soon
as he gets in?'

'Mother,' Emily said at last, 'will you go to the Walkers' and ask? It