X.

Lady Arthur Eildon made up her mind.  “I am supposed,” she said to herself, “to be eccentric:  why not get the good of such a character?” She enclosed her dying letter to her nephew, which was nothing less than an appeal to him on behalf of Alice, assuring him of her belief that Alice bitterly regretted the answer she had given his letter, and that if she had it to do over again it would be very different.  When Lady Arthur did this she felt that she was not doing as she would be done by, but the stake was too great not to try a last throw for it.  In an accompanying note she said, “I believe that the statements in this letter still hold true.  I blamed myself afterward for having influenced Alice when she wrote to you, and now I have absolved my conscience.” (Lady Arthur put it thus, but she hardly succeeded in making herself believe it was a case of conscience:  she was too sharp-witted.  It is self-complacent stupidity that is morally small.) “If this letter is of no interest to you, I am sure I am trusting it to honorable hands.”

She got an answer immediately.  “I thank you,” Mr. Eildon said, “for your letters, ancient and modern:  they are both in the fire, and so far as I am concerned shall be as if they had never been.”

It was in vain, then, all in vain, that she had humbled herself before George Eildon.  Not only had her scheme failed, but her pride suffered, as your finger suffers when the point of it is shut by accident in the hinge of a door.  The pain was terrible.  She forgot her conscience, how she had dealt treacherously—­for her good, as she believed, but still treacherously—­with Alice Garscube:  she forgot everything but her own pain, and those about her thought that decidedly she was very eccentric at this time.  She snubbed her people, she gave orders and countermanded them, so that her servants did not know what to do or leave undone, and they shook their heads among themselves and remarked that the moon was at the full.

But of course the moon waned, and things calmed down a little.  In the next note she received from her sister-in-law, among other items of news she was told that her nephew meant to visit her shortly—­“Probably,” said his mother, “this week, but I think it will only be a call.  He says Lord Eildon is rather better, which has put us all in good spirits,” etc.

Now, Lady Arthur did not wish to see George Eildon at this time—­not that she could not keep a perfect and dignified composure in any circumstances, but her pride was still in the hinge of the door—­and she went from home every day.  Three days she had business in town:  the other days she drove to call on people living in the next county.  As she did not care for going about alone, she took Miss Adamson always with her, but Alice only once or twice:  she was hardly able for extra fatigue every day.  But Miss Garscube was recovering health and spirits, and looks also, and when Lady Arthur left her behind she thought, “Well, if George calls to-day, he’ll see that he is not a necessary of life at least.”  She felt very grateful that it was so, and had no objections that George should see it.