convictedly unjust to her in the confounding of her with the shameless.  Her mind had taken the brand of that thought:—­And Nesta had brought her to it:—­And Dudley Sowerby, a generous representative of the world, had kindly, having the deputed power to do so, sustained her, only partially blaming Nesta, not casting them off; as the world, with which Nataly felt, under a sense of the protection calling up all her gratitude to young Dudley, would have approved his doing.

She was passing through a fit of the cowardice peculiar to the tediously strained, who are being more than commonly tried—­persecuted, as they say when they are not supplicating their tyrannical Authority for aid.  The world will continue to be indifferent to their view of it and behaviour toward it until it ceases to encourage the growth of hypocrites.

These are moments when the faces we are observing drop their charm, showing us our perversion internal, if we could but reflect, to see it.  Very many thousand times above Dudley Sowerby, Nataly ranked Dartrey Fenellan; and still she looked at him, where he sat beside Nesta, ungenially, critical of the very features, jealously in the interests of Dudley; and recollecting, too, that she had once prayed for one exactly resembling Dartrey Fenellan to be her Nesta’s husband.  But, as she would have said, that was before the indiscretion of her girl had shown her to require for her husband a man whose character and station guaranteed protection instead of inciting to rebellion.  And Dartrey, the loved and prized, was often in the rebel ranks; he was dissatisfied with matters as they are; was restless for action, angry with a country denying it to him; he made enemies, he would surely bring down inquiries about Nesta’s head, and cause the forgotten or quiescent to be stirred; he would scarcely be the needed hand for such a quiver of the lightnings as Nesta was.

Dartrey read Nataly’s brows.  This unwonted uncomeliness of hers was an indication to one or other of our dusky pits, not a revealing.

CHAPTER XXXIX

A CHAPTER IN THE SHADOW OF MRS. MARSETT

He read her more closely when Arlington brought in the brown paper envelope of the wires—­to which the mate of Victor ought to have become accustomed.  She took it; her eyelids closed, and her features were driven to whiteness.  ‘Only these telegrams,’ she said, in apology.

‘Lakelands on fire?’ Dartrey murmured to Nesta; and she answered:  ’I should not be sorry.’

Nataly coldly asked her why she would not be sorry.

Dartrey interposed:  ‘I’m sure she thinks Lakelands worries her mother.’

‘That ranks low among the worries,’ Nataly sighed, opening the envelope.

Nesta touched her arm:  ’Mother! even before Captain Dartrey, if you will let me!’—­she turned to him:  ‘before . . .’ at the end of her breath she said:  ‘Dartrey Fenellan.  You shall see my whole heart, mother.’