Having absorbed these words, Juliana’s hand found strength to write, with little difficulty, what she had to say to Rose.  She conceived it to be neither sublime nor generous:  not even good; merely her peculiar duty.  When it was done, she gave a long, low sigh of relief.

Caroline whispered, ‘Dearest child, are you awake?’

‘Yes,’ she answered.

‘Sorrowful, dear?’

‘Very quiet.’

Caroline reached her hand over to her, and felt the paper.  ’What is this?’

‘My good-bye to Rose.  I want it folded now.’

Caroline slipped from the couch to fulfil her wish.  She enclosed the pencilled scrap of paper, sealed it, and asked, ‘Is that right?’

‘Now unlock my desk,’ Juliana uttered, feebly.  ’Put it beside a letter addressed to a law-gentleman.  Post both the morning I am gone.’

Caroline promised to obey, and coming to Juliana to mark her looks, observed a faint pleased smile dying away, and had her hand gently squeezed.  Juliana’s conscience had preceded her contentedly to its last sleep; and she, beneath that round of light on the ceiling, drew on her counted breaths in peace till dawn.

CHAPTER XLIII

ROSE

Have you seen a young audacious spirit smitten to the earth?  It is a singular study; and, in the case of young women, a trap for inexperienced men.  Rose, who had commanded and managed every one surrounding her since infancy, how humble had she now become!—­how much more womanly in appearance, and more child-like at heart!  She was as wax in Lady Elburne’s hands.  A hint of that veiled episode, the Beckley campaign, made Rose pliant, as if she had woven for herself a rod of scorpions.  The high ground she had taken; the perfect trust in one; the scorn of any judgement, save her own; these had vanished from her.  Rose, the tameless heroine who had once put her mother’s philosophy in action, was the easiest filly that turbaned matron ever yet drove into the straight road of the world.  It even surprised Lady Jocelyn to see how wonderfully she had been broken in by her grandmother.  Her ladyship wrote to Drummond to tell him of it, and Drummond congratulated her, saying, however:  ’Changes of this sort don’t come of conviction.  Wait till you see her at home.  I think they have been sticking pins into the sore part.’

Drummond knew Rose well.  In reality there was no change in her.  She was only a suppliant to be spared from ridicule:  spared from the application of the scourge she had woven for herself.

And, ah! to one who deigned to think warmly still of such a disgraced silly creature, with what gratitude she turned!  He might well suppose love alone could pour that profusion of jewels at his feet.