noise.  By and by she fancied she heard a movement in the house; then it seemed to her that the house-door opened.  She cocked her ears, and could almost make out voices in the midnight stillness.  She slipped from the bed, locked and bolted the door of the room, assured herself of Lucy’s unconsciousness, and went on tiptoe to the window.  The trees all stood white to the north; the ground glittered; the cold was keen.  Berry wrapped her fat arms across her bosom, and peeped as close over into the garden as the situation of the window permitted.  Berry was a soft, not a timid, woman:  and it happened this night that her thoughts were above the fears of the dark.  She was sure of the voices; curiosity without a shade of alarm held her on the watch; and gathering bundles of her day-apparel round her neck and shoulders, she silenced the chattering of her teeth as well as she could, and remained stationary.  The low hum of the voices came to a break; something was said in a louder tone; the house-door quietly shut; a man walked out of the garden into the road.  He paused opposite her window, and Berry let the blind go back to its place, and peeped from behind an edge of it.  He was in the shadow of the house, so that it was impossible to discern much of his figure.  After some minutes he walked rapidly away, and Berry returned to the bed an icicle, from which Lucy’s limbs sensitively shrank.

Next morning Mrs. Berry asked Tom Bakewell if he had been disturbed in the night.  Tom, the mysterious, said he had slept like a top.  Mrs. Berry went into the garden.  The snow was partially melted; all save one spot, just under the portal, and there she saw the print of a man’s foot.  By some strange guidance it occurred to her to go and find one of Richard’s boots.  She did so, and, unperceived, she measured the sole of the boot in that solitary footmark.  There could be no doubt that it fitted.  She tried it from heel to toe a dozen times.

CHAPTER XL

Sir Austin Feverel had come to town with the serenity of a philosopher who says, ’Tis now time; and the satisfaction of a man who has not arrived thereat without a struggle.  He had almost forgiven his son.  His deep love for him had well-nigh shaken loose from wounded pride and more tenacious vanity.  Stirrings of a remote sympathy for the creature who had robbed him of his son and hewed at his System, were in his heart of hearts.  This he knew; and in his own mind he took credit for his softness.  But the world must not suppose him soft; the world must think he was still acting on his System.  Otherwise what would his long absence signify?—­Something highly unphilosophical.  So, though love was strong, and was moving him to a straightforward course, the last tug of vanity drew him still aslant.

The Aphorist read himself so well, that to juggle with himself was a necessity.  As he wished the world to see him, he beheld himself:  one who entirely put aside mere personal feelings:  one in whom parental duty, based on the science of life, was paramount:  a Scientific Humanist, in short.