With wrinkled brows, the vexed pathologist set forth for Hammersmith.

CHAPTER XII

A semi-detached dwelling in a part of Hammersmith just being invaded by the social class below that for which it was built; where, in consequence, rents had slightly fallen, and notices of “apartments” were beginning to rise; where itinerant vendors, finding a new market, strained their voices with special discord; where hired pianos vied with each other through party walls; where the earth was always very dusty or very muddy, and the sky above in all seasons had a discouraging hue.  The house itself furnished half-heartedly, as if it was felt to be a mere encampment; no comfort in any chamber, no air of home.  Hannaford had not cared to distribute his mementoes of battle and death in the room called his own; they remained in packing-cases.  Each member of the family, unhappy trio, knew that their state was transitional, and waited rather than lived.

With the surprise of a woman long bitter against destiny, Mrs. Hannaford learnt that something had happened, and that it was a piece of good, not ill, fortune.  When her brother left the house (having waited two hours in vain for Olga’s return), she made a change of garb, arranged her hair with something of the old grace, and moved restlessly from room to room.  A light had touched her countenance, dispelling years of premature age; she was still a handsome woman; she could still find in her heart the courage for a strong decision.

There was no maid—­Mrs. Hannaford herself laid upon the table what was to serve for an evening meal; and she had just done so when her daughter came in.  Olga had changed considerably in the past three years; at one-and-twenty she would have passed for several years older; her complexion was fatigued, her mouth had a nervous mobility which told of suppressed suffering, her movements were impatient, irritable.  But at this moment she did not wear a look of unhappiness; there was a glow in her fine eyes, a tremour of resolve on all her features.  On entering the room where her mother stood, she at once noticed a change.  Their looks met:  they gazed excitedly at each other.

“What is it?  Why have you dressed?”

“Because I am a free woman.  My sister is dead, and has left me a lot of money.”

They rushed into each other’s arms; they caressed with tears and sobs; it was minutes before they could utter more than broken phrases and exclamations.

“What shall you do?” the girl asked at length, holding her mother’s hand against her heart.  Of late there had been unwonted conflict between them, and in the reaction of joy they became all tenderness.

“What I ought to have done long ago—­go and live away——­”

“Will it be possible, dear?”

“It shall be!” exclaimed the mother vehemently.  “I am not a slave—­ I am not a wife!  I ought to have had courage to go away years since.  It was wrong, wrong to live as I have done.  The money is my own, and I will be free.  He shall have a third of it every year, if he leaves me free.  One-third is yours, one mine.”