exist in a world where goodness is? No, she will not believe it. She strives to shake the doubt from her, feebly she wrestles with it, but it clings to her with the tenacity of truth, and inflicts unspeakable torture upon her.
"If she'd only set down!" muttered the stable-boy. "If she'd only be still a bit! If she'd only drop off asleep!"
But her whole soul is quivering; as her flesh might under the influence of a keen, palpable torture. Pale as she is, a fire is burning within her which almost maddens her, and a thousand feverish pulses in her being are beating in cruel sympathy. Is love left in the world? Is faithfulness? Is manliness? No. The world is filled with shame, and dishonour, and treachery, and she stands there, their living, suffering symbol.
Why the stable-lad is near her no one but himself could explain, and he perhaps would have been puzzled to do so. He was dismissed from his service months ago, when the ponies and basket-carriage were sold; but he refused to leave. He lingers about the house, picks up his food anyhow, sleeps anywhere, and during the daylight hours is always ready to Nelly's call. She has sometimes, from the despair born of loneliness, made a companion of him. She has no other now.
He experiences a feeling of relief when, after more than an hour has passed, he observes a change in her movements. She throws on her hat hurriedly, and passes out of the house. The lad follows her at a distance. She does not know that she has forgotten her cloak, and she heeds not the snow. The fire burning within her warms her with a terrible, dangerous warmth. To all external impressions she seems to be absolutely dead. She walks for a mile into the village, and enters a stationer's shop, where the post-office is kept.
"Have you any letters for me?" she asks.
She is evidently known to the woman behind the counter, who replies with small courtesy, "There is nothing for you."
Nelly holds out her hand with eager imploring. She has not heard the answer.
"I told you there are no letters," says the woman.
"I beg your pardon," sighs Nelly, humbly; and looking round the shop, as though to find some other excuse for having entered, picks up a paper, pays for it, and retraces her steps home. Home! Alas!
The stable-lad follows her and is presently aware that somebody is following him. It is a man, and the lad turns and confronts him. The stranger takes no notice of the lad, and strives to pass.
"Where are you pushing to?" cries the lad, being himself the obstructive party.
"Out of my way, my lad," says the man, adding under his breath, "I must not lose her now."
"What are you following that lady for?" demands the lad.
The question is answered by another.
"You have something to do with her, then?"
"I should think I have."
"I want to know where she lives. I am a friend of hers."
"She wants 'em, I should say-badly."
This remark is made after a keen observance of the stranger's face. It is a well-looking, honest, ruddy face, and the examination appears to satisfy the lad.
"Wants what?" asks the stranger.
"Friends."
"I thought she had-rich ones."
"If she had," answers the lad, "and mind, I don't say she hadn't-if she had, she hasn't got 'em now."
"Ah," says the stranger, drawing a deep breath, "he has left her, then. Poor Nelly!"
The last two words, uttered with feeling, and in a low tone not intended to be heard, reach the lad's sharp ears, and dispose him still more favourably towards the stranger.
"Look here," he blurts out, "are you a gentleman?"
"Does that mean, am I rich?"
The lad looks dubious, not being quite sure.
"Am I a gentleman?" continues the stranger. "That's as it may be. Every true man is a gentleman; every gentleman is not a true man." The lad grins. Some understanding of the aphorism penetrates his uneducated mind. "Best ask me if I'm a true man, my lad."
"Well, then, are you?"
"I think so. So far as regards that lady, I am sure so."
"A true man, and a friend," says the lad. "That's just what she wants. No more gentlemen; she's had enough of them, I should say. I ain't a bit of use to her-was turned off when the ponies was sold, but couldn't go. Thought she might make use of me in some way, you see. She never give me a hard word-never. Not like him; he was as hard as nails-not to her; oh, no; he was always soft to her with his tongue, as far as I could see, and I kept my eyes open, and my ears too!"
By this time they have reached the cottage, and Nelly enters, without turning her head.
"There," says the lad, "that's where she lives, and if she ain't caught her death of cold, coming out without her shawl, I'll stand on my head for a week. But I can't do anything for her. She wants a man to stand by her, not a poor beggar like me."
The stranger looks kindly at the lad.
"My boy," he says, "if you have sisters, look sharp after them, and never let them play the game of lords and ladies. Now come with me, and tell me what I want to know."
It is a few hours later, and the snow is still falling. A candle is alight in the little room in which Nelly restlessly sits or walks. The paper she bought at the post-office lies unfolded on the table. Suddenly a moan escapes her lips; an inward pain has forced it from her. She grasps the table convulsively, and her fingers mechanically clutch the paper. The pain dies away, and she sits exhausted on her chair. Listlessly and without purpose she looks at the paper, seeing at first but a dim confusion of words; but presently something in the column she is gazing at presents itself to her mind in a coherent form. She passes her hands across her eyes, to clear the mist from them, bends eagerly down to the paper, and reads the words that have attracted her attention. Starting to her feet, with the paper in her hand, she is hurrying to the door, when it opens from without, and the stranger who had followed her home appears.
"John!" she cries, with her hand to her heart. "Ah, he has sent you, then! Thank God! He has sent you!"
"No one has sent me," says the gardener's son, who played his part in the Spring and Summer of our Prologue. "I am here of my own accord."
"What for?" she asks, shrinkingly, imploringly. It is remarkable in her that every word she speaks, every movement she makes, implies fear. She bears the appearance of a hunted animal, in dread of an unknown, unseen torture. "Why are you here?"
"I come to ask if I can serve you."
"You! You!"
"I-in truth and sincerity. I will not insult you by telling you that my feelings are unchanged-Good heavens! you are in pain!"
"Don't touch me! Don't come near me!" Two or three minutes pass in silence. Then the lines about her lips relax, and she speaks again, with a strange mingling of timidity and recklessness. "Do you know anything?"
"Much. Enough. Believe me, I wish to know nothing from you."
"And you come to ask me if you can serve me? Meaning it, in truth and sincerity?"
