Hilda Lessways

t Or

to Brunt,” said Arthur Dayson, emergi

ed coldly, though she had no

sappeared

very character; she wrote with the whole of her faculties fully applied. Even in the smallest task she could not economize herself; she had to give all or nothing. When she came to the figures—4000—she intensified her ardour, lavishing enormous unnecessary force: it was like a steamhammer cracking a nut. Her conscience had instantly and finally decided against her. Bu

lave. Mr. Cannon read it over, and then Arthur Dayson borrowed the old clerk’s vile pen and with

h she heard a knoc

still unconsciously in the defiant mood in which

l young woman, of about the same age as Hilda, ope

two gazed at each

ilda, of

an

hill, Bursley, and Hanbridge) at the same time as Hilda. She was known, she was almost notorious, as a universal favourite. By instinct, without taking thought, she pleased everybody, great and small. Nature had spoiled her, endowing her with some beauty, and undeniable ele

nds, as women

ly on her guard, with a nervous girlish movement of the leg t

d!” excla

m! I’m eng

no suggestion whatever in her tone that Hilda’s situation

uished from the unusual, woman, brought to perfection. She represented no revolt against established custom. Doubts and longings did not beset her. She was content within her sphere: a destined queen of the home. And yet she could not be accused of being old-fashioned. None would dare to despise her. She was what Hilda could never be, had never long desired to be. She was what Hilda had definitely renounced being. And there stood Hilda, immature, graceless, harsh, inelegant, dowdy, holding the letter between her inky fingers, in the midst of

i

Janet. “The housekeeper downstair

ow voice, with the devotee’s instinct

ured Janet

ly what she could be w

It’s really about Mi

s—w

peaking in a tone still

ccordingly: “She’s Mr. Ca

f-si

ard by accident. So I came over with father. He had to come to a meeting

, you see, she quarrels with every one

she does,

relled wi

when wa

know when. I was always surprise

your mother,” said

ouble?” Hilda

fraid

ha

esture of intimacy. “I

da repeated in

ody there was to quarrel with. She suffers fearfully with rheumatism. She never goes out—or scarcely

rstood she was very g

rs now. There she is, all

da protested. At intervals she g

is,” Janet persisted

t’s to b

heard.... But I had to pretend all sorts of things to make an excuse f

e fine, they were touching—but they were also rather deliciously amusing—as they concentrated all their resources of solemnity and of worldly experience on the tragic case of the woman whom life had defeated. Hilda’s memory rushed strangely to Victor Hugo. She was experiencing the same utter desolation—but somehow less noble—as had gripped her when she first realized the eternal picture, in O

nnon can do anythi

saying to herself: “This man made me write a lie, and now I hear that his sister is starving—in the

’s why I came.... Somebody had to give him a

g her. Seen afresh, through the eyes of this charming, sympathetic acquainta

u couldn’t gi

rse!” In spite of herself she was assumin

anet replied. “I

ught: “Should I, out of simple kindliness and charity, have deliberately

ee after it!” sa

clinching the affair, in an

ell him t

a no

as glad that chance had brought about the meeting between them. Then they lifted away their apprehensive solicitude for

ater. “I’ve broken the spring of my watch, and I

ion!” said Hilda

isn’t ten

hour, for aught she knew, was nine, eleven,

me I write to him. I’m sure he’ll be glad. And you must come to see us. You really mu

k her head

never would accept it. Before departing, Janet lifted her veil, with a beautiful gesture, and offered her lips to kiss. They embraced affectionately.