not a word suggested
tenderness. Had the letter been unsolicited, she could have used it
like the former one; but it was the answer to an appeal. The phrases
she had used were still present in her mind. 'I am anxious . . . it is
more than half a year since you wrote . . . I have been expecting . . .
anything that is of interest to you will interest me. . . .' How could
she imagine that this was reserved and formal? Shame fell upon her; she
locked herself from all companionship, and wept in rebellion against
the laws of life.

A fortnight later, she wrote from Royat to Sylvia Moorhouse. It was a
long epistle, full of sunny descriptions, breathing renewed vigour of
body and mind. The last paragraph ran thus:

'Yesterday was my birthday; I was twenty-eight. At this age, it is
wisdom in a woman to remind herself that youth is over. I don't regret
it; let it go with all its follies! But I am sorry that I have no
serious work in life; it is not cheerful to look forward to perhaps
another eight-and-twenty years of elegant leisure--that is to say, of
wearisome idleness. What can I do? Try and think of some task for me,
something that will last a lifetime.'

Part VII

CHAPTER I

At the close of a sultry day in September, when factory fumes hung low
over the town of St. Helen's, and twilight thickened luridly, and the
air tasted of sulphur, and the noises of the streets, muffled in their
joint effect, had individually an ominous distinctness, Godwin Peak
walked with languid steps to his lodgings and the meal that there
awaited him. His vitality was at low ebb. The routine of his life
disgusted him; the hope of release was a mockery. What was to be the
limit of this effort to redeem his character? How many years before the
past could be forgotten, and his claim to the style of honourable be
deemed secure? Rubbish! It was an idea out of old-fashioned romances.
What he was, he was, and no extent of dogged duration at St. Helen's or
elsewhere, could affect his personality. What, practically, was to be
the end? If Sidwell had no money of her own, and no expectations from
her father, how could she ever become his wife? Women liked this kind
of thing, this indefinite engagement to marry when something should
happen, which in all likelihood never would happen--this fantastic
mutual fidelity with only the airiest reward. Especially women of a
certain age.

A heavy cart seemed to be rumbling in the next street. No, it w