Or when we have set ourselves in motion direct for the doing of the right thing:  have quitted the carriage at the station, and secured the ticket, and entered the train, counting the passage of time for a simple rapid hour before we have eased heart in doing justice to ourself and to another; then likewise the mind is lighted for radiation.  That doing of the right thing, after a term of paralysis, cowardice—­any evil name—­is one of the mighty reliefs, equal to happiness, of longer duration.

Nataly had it.  But her mind was actually radiating, and the comfort to her heart evoked the image of Dartrey Fenellan.  She saw a possible reason for her bluntness to the coming scene with Dudley.

At once she said, No! and closed the curtain; knowing what was behind, counting it nought.  She repeated almost honestly her positive negative.  How we are mixed of the many elements! she thought, as an observer; and self-justifyingly thought on, and with truth, that duty urged her upon this journey; and proudly thought, that she had not a shock of the painful great organ in her breast at the prospect at the end, or any apprehension of its failure to carry her through.

Yet the need of peace or some solace needed to prepare her for her interview turned her imagination burningly on Dartrey.  She would not allow herself to meditate over hopes and schemes:—­Nesta free:  Dartrey free.  She vowed to her soul sacredly—­and she was one of those in whom the Divinity lives, that they may do so—­not to speak a word for the influencing of Dudley save the one fact.  Consequently, for a personal indulgence, she mused; she caressed maternally the object of her musing; of necessity, she excluded Nesta; but in tenderness she gave Dartrey a fair one to love him.

The scene was waved away.  That one so loving him, partly worthy of him, ready to traverse the world now beside him—­who could it be other than she who knew and prized his worth?  Foolish!  It is one of the hatefuller scourges upon women whenever, a little shaken themselves, they muse upon some man’s image, that they cannot put in motion the least bit of drama without letting feminine self play a part; generally to develop into a principal part. . .  The apology makes it a melancholy part.

Dartrey’s temper of the caged lion dominated by his tamer, served as keynote for any amount of saddest colouring.  He controlled the brute:  but he held the contempt of danger, the love of strife, the passion for adventure; he had crossed the desert of human anguish.  He of all men required a devoted mate, merited her.  Of all men living, he was the hardest to match with a woman—­with a woman deserving him.