For a long time she had been absorbed, or nearly so, in studying and observing; but Mallard’s inquiry whether she found this sufficient touched the source whence trouble was again arising for her.  Three years ago it did not cost her much to subdue a desire which had hopelessness for its birthright; the revival of this desire now united itself with disquietudes of the maturing intellect, and she looked forward in dread to a continuation of her loneliness.  Some change in her life there must be.  Sudden hope had in a day or two brought to full growth the causes of unrest which would otherwise have developed slowly.

It seemed to be her fate to live in pretences.  As the mistress of Redbeck House, and the light of dissenting piety in Bartles, she knew herself for less than she wished to appear to others; not a hypocrite, indeed, but a pretender to extraordinary zeal, and at the same time a flagrant instance of spiritual pride.  Now she was guilty of like simulation directed to a contrary end.  In truth neither bond nor free, she could not suffer herself to seem less liberal-minded than those with whom she associated.  And yet her soul was weary of untruth.  The one need of her life was to taste the happiness of submission to a stronger than herself.  Religious devotion is the resource of women in general who suffer thus and are denied the natural solace; but for Miriam it was impossible.  Her temperament was not devout, and, however persistent the visitings of uneasy conscience, she had no longer the power of making her old beliefs a reality.  The abstract would not avail her; philosophic comforts had as little to say to her as the Churches’ creeds.  Only by a strong human band could she be raised from her unworthy position and led into the way of sincerity.

She had counted on having another morning with Mallard before Cecily’s arrival.  Disappointed in this hope, she invented a variety of tormenting reasons for Mallard’s behaviour.  As there was a chance of his calling at the hotel, she stayed in all day.  But he did not come.  The next afternoon Mrs. Lessingham and her companion reached Rome.

It was known that Cecily’s health had suffered from her watchings by the sick child, and from her grief at its death; so no one was surprised at finding her rather thin-faced.  She had a warm greeting for her friends, and seemed happy to be with them again; but the brightness of the first hour was not sustained.  Conversation cost her a perceptible effort; she seldom talked freely of anything, and generally with an unnatural weighing of her words, an artificiality of thought and phrase, which was a great contrast to the spontaneousness of former times.  When Eleanor wanted her to speak about herself, she preferred to tell of what she had lately read or heard or seen.  That the simple grace of the girl should be modified in the wife and mother was of course to be expected, but Cecily looked older than she ought to have done, and occasionally bore herself with a little too much consciousness, as if she felt the observation even of intimate friends something of a restraint.