With vague half-purpose he left the house and walked westward.  The stream of traffic in Edgware Road brought him to a pause; he stood for five minutes in miserable indecision, all but resolving to go on as far as Euston and look for the next northward train.  But the vice in his will prevailed; automaton-like he turned in another direction, and presently came out into Sussex Square.  Here was the house to which his thoughts had perpetually gone forth ever since that day when Constance gave her hand to a thriving City man, and became Mrs. Palmer.  At present, he knew, it was inhabited only by domestics:  Mr. Palmer, recovering from illness that threatened to be fatal, had gone to Bournemouth, where Constance of course tended him.  But he would walk past and look up at the windows.

All the blinds were down—­naturally.  Thrice he went by and retraced his steps.  Then, still automaton-like, he approached the door, rang the bell.  The appearance of the servant choked his voice for an instant, but he succeeded in shaping an inquiry after Mr Palmer’s health.

‘I’m sorry to say, sir,’ was the reply, ’that Mr. Palmer died last night.  We received the news only an hour or two ago.’

Christian tottered on his feet and turned so pale that the servant regarded him with anxiety.  For a minute or two he stared vacantly into the gloomy hall; then, without a word, he turned abruptly and walked away.

Unconscious of the intervening distance, he found himself at home, in his library.  The parlour-maid was asking him whether he would have luncheon.  Scarcely understanding the question, he muttered a refusal and sat down.

So, it had come at last.  Constance was a widow.  In a year or so she might think of marrying again.

He remained in the library for three or four hours.  At first incapable of rejoicing, then ashamed to do so, he at length suffered from such a throbbing of the heart that apprehension of illness recalled him to a normal state of mind.  The favourite decanter was within reach, and it gave him the wonted support.  Then at length did heart and brain glow with exulting fervour.

Poor Constance!  Noble woman!  Most patient of martyrs!  The hour of her redemption had struck.  The fetters had fallen from her tender, suffering body.  Of him she could not yet think.  He did not wish it.  The womanhood must pay its debt to nature before she could gladden in the prospect of a new life.  Months must go by before he could approach her, or even remind her of his existence.  But at last his reward was sure.

And he had thought of Twybridge, of his cousin Janet!  O unworthy lapse!