ter he came, was she
altogether without opportunity of ministering to him. The attack was a
long and severe one, delaying for many weeks their return to London,
where Mr. Redmain declared he must be, at any risk, before the end of
November.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

LYDGATE STEEET.

Letty's whole life was now gathered about her boy, and she thought
little, comparatively, about Tom. And Tom thought so little about her
that he did not perceive the difference. When he came home, he was
always in a hurry to be gone again. He had always something important
to do, but it never showed itself to Letty in the shape of money. He
gave her a little now and then, of course, and she made it go
incredibly far, but it was ever with more of a grudge that he gave it.
The influence over him of Sepia was scarcely less now that she was
gone; but, if she cared for him at all, it was mainly that, being now
not a little stale-hearted, his devotion reminded her pleasurably of a
time when other passions than those of self-preservation were strongest
in her; and her favor even now tended only to the increase of Tom's
growing disappointment, for, like Macbeth, he had begun already to
consider life but a poor affair. Across the cloud of this death
gleamed, certainly, the flashing of Sepia's eyes, or the softly
infolding dawn of her smile, but only, the next hour, nay, the next
moment, to leave all darker than before. Precious is the favor of any
true, good woman, be she what else she may; but what is the favor of
one without heart or faith or self-giving? Yet is there testimony only
too strong and terrible to the demoniacal power, enslaving and
absorbing as the arms of the kraken, of an evil woman over an
imaginative youth. Possibly, did he know beforehand her nature, he
would not love her, but, knowing it only too late, he loves and curses;
calls her the worst of names, yet can not or will not tear himself
free; after a fashion he still calls love, he loves the demon, and
hates her thralldom. Happily Tom had not reached this depth of
perdition; Sepia was prudent for herself, and knew, none better, what
she was about, so far as the near future was concerned, therefore held
him at arm's length, where Tom basked in a light that was of hell--for
what is a hell, or a woman like Sepia, but an inverted creation? His
nature, in consequence, was in all directions dissolving. He drank more
and more strong drink, fitting fuel to such his passion, and Sep