This time she blamed herself and him, and the world he abused, and destiny into the bargain.  And she cared less about the probation; but she craved for liberty.  With a frigidity that astonished her, she marvelled at the act of kissing, and at the obligation it forced upon an inanimate person to be an accomplice.  Why was she not free?  By what strange right was it that she was treated as a possession?

“I will try to walk off the heaviness,” she said.

“My own girl must not fatigue herself.”

“Oh, no; I shall not.”

“Sit with me.  Your Willoughby is your devoted attendant.”

“I have a desire for the air.”

“Then we will walk out.”

She was horrified to think how far she had drawn away from him, and now placed her hand on his arm to appease her self-accusations and propitiate duty.  He spoke as she had wished, his manner was what she had wished; she was his bride, almost his wife; her conduct was a kind of madness; she could not understand it.

Good sense and duty counselled her to control her wayward spirit.

He fondled her hand, and to that she grew accustomed; her hand was at a distance.  And what is a hand?  Leaving it where it was, she treated it as a link between herself and dutiful goodness.  Two months hence she was a bondwoman for life!  She regretted that she had not gone to her room to strengthen herself with a review of her situation, and meet him thoroughly resigned to her fate.  She fancied she would have come down to him amicably.  It was his present respectfulness and easy conversation that tricked her burning nerves with the fancy.  Five weeks of perfect liberty in the mountains, she thought, would have prepared her for the days of bells.  All that she required was a separation offering new scenes, where she might reflect undisturbed, feel clear again.

He led her about the flower-beds; too much as if he were giving a convalescent an airing.  She chafed at it, and pricked herself with remorse.  In contrition she expatiated on the beauty of the garden.

“All is yours, my Clara.”

An oppressive load it seemed to her!  She passively yielded to the man in his form of attentive courtier; his mansion, estate, and wealth overwhelmed her.  They suggested the price to be paid.  Yet she recollected that on her last departure through the park she had been proud of the rolling green and spreading trees.  Poison of some sort must be operating in her.  She had not come to him to-day with this feeling of sullen antagonism; she had caught it here.

“You have been well, my Clara?”

“Quite.”

“Not a hint of illness?”

“None.”

“My bride must have her health if all the doctors in the kingdom die for it!  My darling!”

“And tell me:  the dogs?”

“Dogs and horses are in very good condition.”

“I am glad.  Do you know, I love those ancient French chateaux and farms in one, where salon windows look on poultry-yard and stalls.  I like that homeliness with beasts and peasants.”