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In
that
hour
she
repeated
what
the
merciful
eyes
of
solitude
have
looked
on
for
ages
in
the
spiritual
struggles
of
man
—
she
besought
hardness
and
coldness
and
aching
weariness
to
bring
her
relief
from
the
mysterious
incorporeal
might
of
her
anguish
:
she
lay
on
the
bare
floor
and
let
the
night
grow
cold
around
her
;
while
her
grand
woman
’
s
frame
was
shaken
by
sobs
as
if
she
had
been
a
despairing
child
.
There
were
two
images
—
two
living
forms
that
tore
her
heart
in
two
,
as
if
it
had
been
the
heart
of
a
mother
who
seems
to
see
her
child
divided
by
the
sword
,
and
presses
one
bleeding
half
to
her
breast
while
her
gaze
goes
forth
in
agony
towards
the
half
which
is
carried
away
by
the
lying
woman
that
has
never
known
the
mother
’
s
pang
.
Here
,
with
the
nearness
of
an
answering
smile
,
here
within
the
vibrating
bond
of
mutual
speech
,
was
the
bright
creature
whom
she
had
trusted
—
who
had
come
to
her
like
the
spirit
of
morning
visiting
the
dim
vault
where
she
sat
as
the
bride
of
a
worn
-
out
life
;
and
now
,
with
a
full
consciousness
which
had
never
awakened
before
,
she
stretched
out
her
arms
towards
him
and
cried
with
bitter
cries
that
their
nearness
was
a
parting
vision
:
she
discovered
her
passion
to
herself
in
the
unshrinking
utterance
of
despair
.
And
there
,
aloof
,
yet
persistently
with
her
,
moving
wherever
she
moved
,
was
the
Will
Ladislaw
’
who
was
a
changed
belief
exhausted
of
hope
,
a
detected
illusion
—
no
,
a
living
man
towards
whom
there
could
not
yet
struggle
any
wail
of
regretful
pity
,
from
the
midst
of
scorn
and
indignation
and
jealous
offended
pride
.
The
fire
of
Dorothea
’
s
anger
was
not
easily
spent
,
and
it
flamed
out
in
fitful
returns
of
spurning
reproach
.
Why
had
he
come
obtruding
his
life
into
hers
,
hers
that
might
have
been
whole
enough
without
him
?
Why
had
he
brought
his
cheap
regard
and
his
lip
-
born
words
to
her
who
had
nothing
paltry
to
give
in
exchange
?
He
knew
that
he
was
deluding
her
—
wished
,
in
the
very
moment
of
farewell
,
to
make
her
believe
that
he
gave
her
the
whole
price
of
her
heart
,
and
knew
that
he
had
spent
it
half
before
.
Why
had
he
not
stayed
among
the
crowd
of
whom
she
asked
nothing
—
but
only
prayed
that
they
might
be
less
contemptible
?
But
she
lost
energy
at
last
even
for
her
loud
-
whispered
cries
and
moans
:
she
subsided
into
helpless
sobs
,
and
on
the
cold
floor
she
sobbed
herself
to
sleep
.
In
the
chill
hours
of
the
morning
twilight
,
when
all
was
dim
around
her
,
she
awoke
—
not
with
any
amazed
wondering
where
she
was
or
what
had
happened
,
but
with
the
clearest
consciousness
that
she
was
looking
into
the
eyes
of
sorrow
.
She
rose
,
and
wrapped
warm
things
around
her
,
and
seated
herself
in
a
great
chair
where
she
had
often
watched
before
.
She
was
vigorous
enough
to
have
borne
that
hard
night
without
feeling
ill
in
body
,
beyond
some
aching
and
fatigue
;
but
she
had
waked
to
a
new
condition
:
she
felt
as
if
her
soul
had
been
liberated
from
its
terrible
conflict
;
she
was
no
longer
wrestling
with
her
grief
,
but
could
sit
down
with
it
as
a
lasting
companion
and
make
it
a
sharer
in
her
thoughts
.
For
now
the
thoughts
came
thickly
.
It
was
not
in
Dorothea
’
s
nature
,
for
longer
than
the
duration
of
a
paroxysm
,
to
sit
in
the
narrow
cell
of
her
calamity
,
in
the
besotted
misery
of
a
consciousness
that
only
sees
another
’
s
lot
as
an
accident
of
its
own
.
She
began
now
to
live
through
that
yesterday
morning
deliberately
again
,
forcing
herself
to
dwell
on
every
detail
and
its
possible
meaning
.
Was
she
alone
in
that
scene
?
Was
it
her
event
only
?
She
forced
herself
to
think
of
it
as
bound
up
with
another
woman
’
s
life
—
a
woman
towards
whom
she
had
set
out
with
a
longing
to
carry
some
clearness
and
comfort
into
her
beclouded
youth
.
In
her
first
outleap
of
jealous
indignation
and
disgust
,
when
quitting
the
hateful
room
,
she
had
flung
away
all
the
mercy
with
which
she
had
undertaken
that
visit
.
She
had
enveloped
both
Will
and
Rosamond
in
her
burning
scorn
,
and
it
seemed
to
her
as
if
Rosamond
were
burned
out
of
her
sight
forever
.
But
that
base
prompting
which
makes
a
women
more
cruel
to
a
rival
than
to
a
faithless
lover
,
could
have
no
strength
of
recurrence
in
Dorothea
when
the
dominant
spirit
of
justice
within
her
had
once
overcome
the
tumult
and
had
once
shown
her
the
truer
measure
of
things
.
All
the
active
thought
with
which
she
had
before
been
representing
to
herself
the
trials
of
Lydgate
’
s
lot
,
and
this
young
marriage
union
which
,
like
her
own
,
seemed
to
have
its
hidden
as
well
as
evident
troubles
—
all
this
vivid
sympathetic
experience
returned
to
her
now
as
a
power
:
it
asserted
itself
as
acquired
knowledge
asserts
itself
and
will
not
let
us
see
as
we
saw
in
the
day
of
our
ignorance
.
She
said
to
her
own
irremediable
grief
,
that
it
should
make
her
more
helpful
,
instead
of
driving
her
back
from
effort
.
