a shooting-party in the neighbouring
squire's woods had generally meant for her a sleepless night, at the
thought of wounded birds and beasts suffering and bleeding the long
hours through, couched in the fern, faint with pain, and wondering
patiently what hard thing had befallen them. She had been a woman of
strong preferences and prejudices, marked likes and dislikes; intensely
critical of others, even of those she loved best. Her talk was lively,
epigrammatic, and pungent; she was the daughter of a famous Whig house,
and had the strong aristocratical prejudices, coupled with a
theoretical belief in popular equality, so often found in old Whig
families. But this superiority betrayed itself not in any obvious
arrogance or disdain, but in a high and distinguished personal
courtesy, that penetrated, as if by a subtle aroma, all that she said
or did. Though careless of personal appearance, with no grace of
beauty, and wearing habitually the oldest clothes, she was yet
indisputably the first person in any society in which she found
herself. She was intensely reserved about herself, her family, her
possessions, and her past; but Hugh had an inkling that there had been
some deep disappointment in the background, which had turned a
passionately affectionate nature into a fastidious and critical
temperament. She had a wonderful contralto voice, and a real genius
for music; she could rarely be persuaded to touch an instrument; but
occasionally, with a small and familiar party, she would sing a few old
songs with a passion and a depth of melancholy feeling that produced an
almost physical thrill in her audience. She was of an indolent
temperament, read little, never worked, had few philanthropic or social
instincts; she was always ready to talk, but was equally content to
spend long afternoons sitting alone before a fire, just shielding her
eyes from the blaze, meditating with an intentness that seemed as
though she were revolving over and over again some particular memory,
some old and sad problem for which she could find no solution. Hugh
used to think that she blamed herself for something irreparable.

But her gift of humour, of incisive penetration, of serious enthusiasm,
made it always refreshing to be with her; and Hugh found himself
reflecting that though it had been in many ways so inarticulate and
inactive a life, it yet seemed, by virtue of a certain vivid quality, a
certain subdued fire, a life of imperishable