in a high fever and delirious on her wedding night, and a week
later at death's door. When she came out of her illness, reconciled to
her family, meekly obedient to her husband, she was a wreck of
herself--a prisoner for life, bound hand and foot, more pitiable than
she would have been as a dead body fished out of the dam.

The tragic disproportion between crimes and punishments in this world!

CHAPTER XII.

Mrs Goldsworthy was reconciled to her relations through her
illness--the greatest peacemaker in families, save death; and for her
sake they made a show of tolerating her husband, after they had given
him some bad hours behind her back. But the whole affair was like a
blight on Redford, which was never the same place again. Mr Pennycuick
had a slight "stroke" on hearing all the bad news at once. It was light
enough to be passed over and hushed up, but his vigour and faculties
declined from that hour with a rapidity that could be marked from day
to day. "A changed man," observed his neighbours, one to another. At
the same time, they hinted that other things were not as they used to
be--that the old man had had losses--that Redford was heavily
burdened--that the proud Pennycuicks, already humbled, were likely to
experience a further fall. Certainly, the governess was dispensed with,
and the dashing four-in-hand withdrawn from the local racecourses and
agricultural show-grounds, of which it had long been the constant and
conspicuous ornament, to be sold at public auction, without reason
given. The great, hospitable house got a character for dullness for the
first time in its history. No lights or laughter flowed from the
windows of the big drawing-room of an evening; the lawns lay dark and
still, while downstairs a rubber of whist or a hand at cribbage with
Jim Urquhart or Mr Thornycroft represented what was left of the
gaieties of the past. These men--these old fogies, as fretful Frances
styled them both--were not of those who shunned Redford because it had
grown dull; on the contrary, they now--according to Frances
again--virtually lived there. And it was the absent pleasure-seekers,
her true kindred, for whom her soul longed.

He who most openly resented the change, having (next to Mary) been most
instrumental in causing it, was Deborah's lover, Claud Dalzell.

He had been none too gracious a lover--although graceful enough, when
all was well--seeing that he had continued his bachelor life, with all
its