each other
while servants are about and the restraints of common life are around
them. Whether it is the terrible flood of grief which has to be barred
and kept within bounds so that the functions of life may not altogether
be swept away, or the sharper but warmer pang of anxiety, that which
cuts like a serpent's tooth, yet is not altogether beyond the reach of
hope, what poor pretences these are at interest in ordinary subjects;
what miserable gropings after something that can furnish a thread of
conversation just enough to keep the intercourse of life going! These
two were not more successful than others in this dismal pursuit. Mrs.
Dennistoun found a moment when the meal was over before she left John,
poor pretence! to his wine. "Remember that she will not mention his
name; nothing must be said about him," she said. "How can we discuss him
and what he is likely to do without speaking of him?" said John, with a
little scorn. "I don't know," replied the poor lady. "But you will find
that she will not have his name mentioned. You must try and humour her.
Poor Elinor! For I know that you are sorry for her, John."

Sorry for her! He sat over his glass of mild claret in the little
dining-room that had once been so bright; even now it was the cosiest
little room, the curtains all drawn, shutting out the cold wind, which
in January searches out every crevice, the firelight blazing fitfully,
bringing out all the pretty warm decorations, the gleam of silver on the
side-board, the pictures on the wall, the mirror over the mantelpiece.
There was nothing wanted under that roof to make it the very home of
domestic warmth and comfort. And yet--sorry for Elinor! That was not
the word. His heart was sore for her, torn away from all her moorings,
drifting back a wreck to the little youthful home, where all had been so
tranquil and so sweet. John had nothing in him of that petty sentiment
which derives satisfaction from a calamity it has foreseen, nor had he
even an old lover's thrill of almost pleasure in the downfall of the
clay idol that has been preferred to his gold. His pain for Elinor, the
constriction in his heart at thought of her position, were unmixed with
any baser feeling. Sorry for her! He would have given all he possessed
to restore her happiness--not in his way, but in the way she had chosen,
even, last abnegation of all, to make the man worthy of her who had
never been worthy. Even his own indignation and wrath against