of Portray Castle were not
alluring. The place was sombre, exposed, and, in winter, very cold;
and, except that the expanse of sea beneath the hill on which stood
the castle was fine and open, it had no great claim to praise on
the score of scenery. Behind the castle, and away from the sea,
the low mountains belonging to the estate stretched for some eight
or ten miles; and towards the further end of them, where stood a
shooting-lodge, called always The Cottage, the landscape became rough
and grand. It was in this cottage that Frank Greystock was to be
sheltered with his friend, when he came down to shoot what Lady
Eustace had called her three annual grouse.

She ought to have been happy and comfortable. There will, of
course, be some to say that a young widow should not be happy and
comfortable,--that she should be weeping her lost lord, and subject
to the desolation of bereavement. But as the world goes now, young
widows are not miserable; and there is, perhaps, a growing tendency
in society to claim from them year by year still less of any misery
that may be avoidable. Suttee propensities of all sorts, from burning
alive down to bombazine and hideous forms of clothing, are becoming
less and less popular among the nations, and women are beginning to
learn that, let what misfortunes will come upon them, it is well for
them to be as happy as their nature will allow them to be. A woman
may thoroughly respect her husband, and mourn him truly, honestly,
with her whole heart, and yet enjoy thoroughly the good things which
he has left behind for her use. It was not, at any rate, sorrow for
the lost Sir Florian that made Lady Eustace uncomfortable. She had
her child. She had her income. She had her youth and beauty. She
had Portray Castle. She had a new lover,--and, if she chose to be
quit of him, not liking him well enough for the purpose, she might
undoubtedly have another whom she would like better. She had hitherto
been thoroughly successful in her life. And yet she was unhappy. What
was it that she wanted?

She had been a very clever child,--a clever, crafty child; and now
she was becoming a clever woman. Her craft remained with her; but
so keen was her outlook upon the world, that she was beginning to
perceive that craft, let it be never so crafty, will in the long
run miss its own object. She actually envied the simplicity of Lucy
Morris, for whom she delighted to find evil names, calling her
demure, a prig, a sly