CHAPTER VIII.

“But what is it, Miss, what is it?  Are you ill?  Why, Miss, you haven’t taken your things off; you haven’t been to bed.”

“No, I lay down....  I have had frightful dreams—­that is all.”

“But you must be ill, Miss; you look dreadful, Miss.  Shall I tell Mr Hare?  Perhaps the doctor had better be sent for.”

“No, no; pray say nothing about me.  Tell my father that I did not sleep, that I am going to lie down for a little while, that he is not to expect me down for breakfast.”

“I really think, Miss, that it would be as well for you to see the doctor.”

“No, no, no.  I am going to lie down, and I am not to be disturbed.”

“Shall I fill the bath, Miss?  Shall I leave hot water here, Miss?”

“Bath....  Hot water....”  Kitty repeated the words over as if she were striving to grasp a meaning which was suggested, but which eluded her.  Then her face relaxed, the expression was one of pitiful despair, and that expression gave way to a sense of nausea, expressed by a quick contraction of the eyes.

She listened to the splashing of the water, and its echoes were repeated indefinably through her soul.

The maid left the room.  Kitty’s attention was attracted to her dress.  It was torn, it was muddy, there were bits of furze sticking to it.  She picked these off, and slowly she commenced settling it:  but as she did so, remembrance, accurate and simple recollection of facts, returned to her, and the succession was so complete that the effect was equivalent to a re-enduring of the crime, and with a foreknowledge of it, as if to sharpen its horror and increase the sense of the pollution.  The lovely hills, the engirdling sea, the sweet glow of evening—­she saw it all again.  And as if afraid that her brain, now strained like a body on the rack, would suddenly snap, she threw up her arms, and began to take off her dress, as violently as if she would hush thought in abrupt movements.  In a moment she was in stays and petticoat.  The delicate and almost girlish arms were disfigured by great bruises.  Great black and blue stains were spreading through the skin.

Kitty lifted up her arm:  she looked at it in surprise; then in horror she rushed to the door where her dressing gown was hanging, and wrapped herself in it tightly, hid herself in it so that no bit of her flesh could be seen.

She threw herself madly on the bed.  She moved, pressing herself against the mattress as if she would rub away, free herself from her loathed self.  The sight of her hand was horrible to her, and she covered it over hurriedly.

The maid came up with a tray.  The trivial jingle of the cups and plates was another suffering added to the ever increasing stress of mind, and now each memory was accompanied by sensations of physical sickness, of nausea.

She slipped from the bed and locked the door.  Again she was alone.  An hour passed.