Missing

by Mrs. Humphry Ward

CHAPTER VI

The following Saturday afternoon, at three o'clock, the Carton motor duly arrived at the Rydal cottage door. It was a hot summer day, the mountains colourless and small under their haze of heat, the woods darkening already towards the August monotony, the streams low and shrunken. Lakeland was at the moment when the artists who haunt her would rather not paint her, remembering the subtleties of spring, and looking forward to the pageantry of autumn. But for the eye that loves her she has beauties enough at any time, and no blanching heat and dust can spoil the lovely or delicate things that lie waiting in the shade of her climbing oak-woods or on her bare fells, or beside her still lakes.

Nelly took her seat in the landaulette, with Bridget beside her. Milly and Mrs. Weston admiringly watched their departure from the doorway of the lodgings, and they were soon speeding towards Grasmere and Dunmail Raise. Nelly's fresh white dress, aided by the blue coat and shady hat which George had thought so ravishing, became her well; and she was girlishly and happily aware of it. Her spirits were high, for there in the little handbag on her wrist lay George's last letter, received that morning, short and hurried, written just to catch the post, on his arrival at the rest camp, thirty miles behind the line. Heart-ache and fear, if every now and then their black wings brushed her, and far within, a nerve quivered, were mostly quite forgotten. Youth, the joy of being loved, the joy of mere living, reclaimed her.

Bridget beside her, in a dark blue cotton, with a very fashionable hat, looked more than her thirty years, and might almost have been taken for Nelly's mother. She sat erect, her thin straight shoulders carrying her powerful head and determined face; and she noticed many things that quite escaped her sister: the luxury of the motor for instance; the details of the Farrell livery worn by the two discharged soldiers who sat in front as chauffeur and footman; and the evident fact that while small folk must go without servants, the rich seemed to have no difficulty in getting as many as they wanted.

'I wonder what this motor cost?' she said presently in a speculative tone, as they sped past the turn to Grasmere church and began to ascend the pass leading to Keswick.

'Well, we know—about—don't we?' said Nelly vaguely. And she guessed a sum, at which Bridget looked contemptuous.

'More than that, my dear! However of course it doesn't matter to them.'

'Don't you think people look at us sometimes, as though we were doing something wrong?' said Nelly uneasily. They had just passed two old labourers—fine patriarchal fellows who had paused a moment to gaze at the motor and the two ladies. 'I suppose it's because—because we look so smart.'

'Well, why shouldn't we?'

'Because it's war-time I suppose,' said Nelly slowly—'and perhaps their sons are fighting—'

'We're not fighting!'

'No—but—.' With a slight frown, Nelly tried to express herself. 'It looks as if we were just living as usual, while—Oh, you know, Bridget, what people think!—how everybody's trying not to spend money on themselves.'

'Are they?' Bridget laughed aloud. 'Look at all the dress advertisements in the papers. Why, yesterday, when I was having tea with those people at Windermere, there was a man there telling lots of interesting things. He said he knew some great merchants in the city, who had spent thousands and thousands on furs—expensive furs—the summer before the war. And they thought they'd all have been left on their hands, that they'd have lost heavily. And instead of that they sold them all, and made a real big profit!'

Bridget turned an almost triumphant look on her sister, as though the coup described had been her own.

'Well, it isn't right!' said Nelly, passionately. 'It isn't—it isn't—Bridget! When the war's costing so much—and people are suffering and dying—'

'Oh, I know!' said Bridget hastily. 'You needn't preach to me my dear child. I only wanted you to look at facts. You're always so incurably sentimental!'

'I'm not!' Nelly protested, helplessly. 'We make the facts. If nobody bought the furs, the facts would be different. George says it's wicked to squander money, and live as if everything were just the same as it used to be. And I agree with him!'

'Of course you do!' laughed Bridget. 'You don't squander money, my dear!'

'Only because I haven't got it to spend, you mean?' said Nelly, flushing.

'No—but you should look at things sensibly. The people who are making money are spending it—oceans of it! And the people who have money, like the Farrells, are spending it too. Wait till you see how they live!'

'But there's the hospital!' cried Nelly.

Bridget shrugged her shoulders.

'That's because they can afford to give the hospital, and have the motor-cars too. If they had to choose between hospitals and motor-cars!'

'Lots of people do!'

'You think Sir William Farrell looks like doing without things?' said
Bridget, provokingly. Then she checked herself. 'Of course I like Sir
William very much. But then I don't see why he shouldn't have
motor-cars or any other nice thing he wants.'

'That's because—you don't think enough—you never think enough—about the war!' said Nelly, insistently.

Bridget's look darkened.

'I would stop the war to-morrow—I would make peace to-morrow—if I could—you know I would. It will destroy us all—ruin us all. It's sheer, stark lunacy. There, you know what I think!'

'I don't see what it's ever cost you, Bridget!' said Nelly, breathing fast.

'Oh, well, it's very easy to say that—but it isn't argument.'

Bridget's deep-set penetrating eyes glittered as she turned them on her sister. 'However, for goodness' sake, don't let's quarrel about it. It's a lovely day, and we don't often have a motor like this to drive in!'

The speaker leant back, giving herself up to the sensuous pleasure of the perfectly hung car, and the rapid movement through the summer air. Wythburn and Thirlmere were soon passed; leaving them just time to notice the wrack and ruin which Manchester has made of the once lovely shore of Thirlmere, where hideous stretches of brown mud, and the ruins of long submerged walls and dwellings, reappear with every dry summer to fling reproach in the face of the destroyer.

Now they were on the high ground above Keswick; and to the west and north rose a superb confusion of mountain-forms, peaked and rounded and cragged, with water shining among them, and the silver cloud wreaths looped and threaded through the valleys, leaving the blue or purple tops suspended, high in air, unearthly and alone, to parley with the setting sun. Not yet setting indeed—but already flooding the west with a glory in which the further peaks had disappeared—burnt away; a shining holocaust to the Gods of Light and Fire.

Then a sharp descent, a run through Keswick, another and a tamer lake, a sinking of the mountain-forms, and they were nearing the woods of Carton. Both sisters had been silent for some time. Nelly was wrapt in thoughts of George. Would he get leave before Christmas? Suppose he were wounded slightly—just a wound that would send him home, and let her nurse him?—a wound from which he would be sure to get well—not too quickly! She could not make up her mind to wish it—to pray for it—it seemed like tempting Providence. But how she had envied a young couple whom she sometimes met walking on the Ambleside road!—a young private of one of the Border regiments, with a bandaged arm, and his sweetheart. Once—with that new free-masonry which the war has brought about, she had stopped to speak to them. The boy had been quite ready to talk about his wound. It had seemed nothing at first—just a fragment of shrapnel—he had scarcely known he was hit. But abscess after abscess had formed—a leading nerve had been injured—it might be months before he could use it again. And meanwhile the plain but bright-faced girl beside him was watching over him; he lodged with her parents as his own were dead; and they were to be married soon. No chance of his going out again! The girl's father would give him work in his garage. They had the air of persons escaped from shipwreck and ashamed almost of their own secret happiness, while others were still battling with and sinking in the waves.

* * * * *

A flowery lodge, a long drive through green stretches of park, with a heather fell for background—and then the motor, leaving to one side a huge domed pile with the Union Jack floating above it, ran through a wood, and drew up in front of Carton Cottage, a low building on the steps of which stood Sir William Farrell.

'Delighted to see you! Come in, and let Cicely give you some tea.
They'll see to your luggage!'

He led in Nelly, and Bridget followed, glancing from side to side, with an eye shrewdly eager, an eye that took in and appraised all it saw. A cottage indeed! It had been built by Sir William's father, for his only sister, a maiden lady, to whom he was much attached. 'Aunt Sophy' had insisted on a house to herself, being a person of some ruggedness and eccentricity of character and averse to any sort of dependence on other people's ways and habits. But she had allowed her brother to build and furnish the cottage for her as lavishly as he pleased, and during his long widowhood she had been of much help to him in the management of the huge household at Carton Hall, and in the bringing up of his two children. After her death, the house had remained empty for some time, till, six months after the outbreak of war, Farrell had handed over the Hall to the War Office, and he and his sister had migrated to the smaller house.

Bridget was aware, as she followed her sister, of rooms small but numerous opening out on many sides, of long corridors with glistening teak floors, of windows open to a garden ablaze with roses. Sir William led them to what seemed a buzz of voices, and opened a door.

Cicely Farrell rose languidly from a table surrounded by laughing young men, and advanced to meet the newcomers. Nelly found herself shaking hands with the Captain Marsworth she had seen at Loughrigg Tarn, and being introduced by Sir William to various young officers, some in khaki, visitants from a neighbouring camp, and some from the Hall, in various forms of convalescent undress, grey flannel suits, khaki tunics with flannel 'slacks,' or full khaki, as the wearers pleased. The little lady in white had drawn all the male eyes upon her as she came in, and those who rapidly resumed their talk with Miss Farrell or each other, interrupted by the entrance of the newcomers, were no less aware of her than those who, with Farrell, devoted themselves to supply the two sisters with tea.

Nelly herself, extremely shy, but sustained somehow by the thought that she must hold her own in this new world, was soon deep in conversation with a charming youth, who owned a long, slightly lantern-jawed face and fair hair, moved on crutches with a slung knee, and took everything including his wound as 'funny.'

'Where is your husband?' he asked her. 'Sir William thinks he is somewhere near Festubert? My hat, the Lanchesters have been having a hot time there!—funny, isn't it? But they'll be moved to an easier job soon. They're always in luck—the Lanchesters—funny, I call it?—what? I wouldn't worry if I were you. Your husband's got through this all right—mightn't have another such show for ages. These things are awful chancey—funny, isn't it? Oh, my wound?—well, it was just when I was getting over the parados to move back to billets—that the brute got me. Funny, wasn't it? Hullo!—here's a swell! My hat!—it's General Torr!'

Nelly looked up bewildered to see a group of officers enter the room, headed by a magnificent soldier, with light brown hair, handsome features, and a broad be-ribboned chest. Miss Farrell greeted him and his comrades with her best smiles; and Nelly observed her closely, as she stood laughing and talking among them. Sir William's sister was in uniform, if it could be called a uniform. She wore a nurse's cap and apron over a pale blue dress of some soft crapey material. The cap was a square of fine lawn, two corners of which were fastened under the chin with a brooch consisting of one large pearl. The open throat showed a single string of fine pearls, and diamonds sparkled in the small ears. Edging the cap on the temples and cheeks were little curls—a la Henrietta Maria—and the apron, also of the finest possible lawn, had a delicately embroidered edge. The lips of the wearer had been artificially reddened, her eyebrows and eyelids had been skilfully pencilled, her cheeks rouged. A more extraordinary specimen of the nursing sisterhood it would have been impossible to find. Nevertheless the result was, beyond gainsaying, both amusing and picturesque. The lad beside Nelly watched Miss Farrell with a broad grin. On the other hand, a lady in a thin black dress and widow's veil, who was sitting near Bridget, turned away after a few minutes' observation of the hostess, and with a curling lip began to turn over a book lying on a table near her. But whether the onlookers admired or disapproved, there could be no question that Miss Farrell held the field.

'I am very glad to hear that Mrs. Sarratt has good news of her husband!' said Captain Marsworth courteously to Bridget, hardly able to make himself heard however amid the din and laughter of the central group. He too had been watching Cicely Farrell—but with a wholly impassive countenance. Bridget made some indifferent answer, and then eagerly asked who the visitors were. She was told that they were officers from a neighbouring camp, including the general commanding the camp. Sir William, said Captain Marsworth, had built the whole camp at his own expense, and on his own land, without waiting for any government contractor.

'I suppose he is so enormously rich—he can do anything he wants!' said Bridget, her face kindling. 'It must be grand never to think what you spend.'

Captain Marsworth was a trifle taken aback by the remark, as Sir William was barely a couple of yards away.

'Yes, I daresay it's convenient,' he said, lightly. 'And what do you find to do with yourself at Rydal?'

Bridget informed him briefly that she was correcting some proof-sheets for a friend, and would then have an index to make.

Captain Marsworth looked at her curiously.

'May one ask what the book is?'

'It's something new about psychology,' said Bridget, calmly. 'It's going to be a great deal talked about. My friend's awfully clever.'

'Ah! Doesn't she find it a little difficult to think about psychology just now?'

'Why should she? Somebody's got to think about psychology,' was the sharp reply. 'You can't let everything go, because there's a war.'

'I see! You remind me of a man I know, who's translating Dante. He's just over military age, and there he sits in a Devonshire valley, with a pile of books. I happen to know a particular department in a public office that's a bit hustled for want of men, and I suggested that he should lend a hand. He said it was his business to keep culture going!'

'Well?' said Bridget.

The challenging obstinacy of her look daunted him. He laughed.

'You think it natural—and right—to take the war like that?'

'Well, I don't see who's got a right to interfere with you if you do,' she said, stiffly. Then, however, it occurred even to her obtuse and self-centred perception, that she was saying something unexpected and distasteful to a man who was clearly a great friend of the Farrells, and therefore a member of the world she envied. So she changed the subject.

'Does Miss Farrell ever do any real nursing?' she asked abruptly.

Captain Marsworth's look became, in a moment, reserved and cold. 'She's always ready to do anything for any of us!'

Then the speaker rose. 'I see Sir William's preparing to take your sister into the gardens. You certainly ought to see them. They're very famous.'

* * * * *

The party streamed out into the paths leading through a wood, and past a series of water-lily pools to the walled gardens. Sir William walked in front with Nelly.

'My brother's new craze!' said Cicely in the ear of the General beside her, who being of heroic proportions had to stoop some way to hear the remark. He followed the direction of her eyes.

'What, that little woman? A vision! Is it only looks, or is there something besides?'

Cicely shrugged her shoulders.

'I don't know. I haven't found out. The sister's plain, disagreeable, stupid.'

'She looks rather clever.'

'Doesn't that show she's stupid? Nobody ought to look clever. Do you admire Mrs. Sarratt?'

'Can one help it? Or are you going also to maintain,' laughed the general, 'that no one can be beautiful who looks it?'

'One could maintain it—easily. The best kind of beauty has always to be discovered. What do you think, Captain Marsworth?'

She turned—provokingly—to the soldier on her left hand.

'About beauty?' He looked up listlessly. 'I've no idea. The day's too hot.'

Cicely eyed him.

'You're tired!' she said peremptorily. 'You've been doing too much. You ought to go and rest.'

He smiled, and standing back he let them pass him. Turning into a side path he disappeared towards the hospital.

'Poor old fellow!—he still looks very delicate,' said the General. 'How is he really getting on?'

'The arm's improving. He's having massage and electricity. Sometimes he seems perfectly well,' said Cicely. An oddly defiant note had crept into the last sentence.

'He looks down—out of spirits. Didn't he lose nearly all his friends at
Neuve Chapelle?'

'Yes, some of his best friends.'

'And half the battalion! He always cared enormously about his men. He and I, you know, fought in South Africa together. Of course then he was just a young subaltern. He's a splendid chap! I'm afraid he won't get to the front again. But of course they'll find him something at home. He ought to marry—get a wife to look after him. By the way, somebody told me there was some talk about him and the daughter of the rector here. A nice little girl. Do you know her?'

'Miss Stewart? Yes.'

'What do you think of her?'

'A little nincompoop. Quite harmless!'

The handsome hero smiled—unseen by his companion.

Meanwhile Farrell was walking with Nelly through the stately series of walled gardens, which his grandfather had planned and carried out, mainly it seemed for the boredom of the grandson.

'What do we want with all these things now?' he said, waving an impatient hand, as he and Nelly stood at the top flight of steps looking down upon the three gardens sloping to the south, with their fragments of statuary, and old leaden statuettes, ranged along the central walks. 'They're all out of date. They were before the war; and the war has given them the coup de grâce. No more big estates—no more huge country houses! My grandfather built and built, for the sake of building, and I pay for his folly. After the war!—what sort of a world shall we tumble into!'

'I don't want these gardens destroyed!' said Nelly, looking up at him.
'No one ought to spoil them. They're far too beautiful!'

She was beginning to speak with more freedom, to be less afraid of him. The gap between her small provincial experience and modes of thought, and his, was narrowing. Each was beginning to discover the inner personality of the other. And the more Farrell explored her the more charmed he was. She was curiously ignorant, whether of books or life. Even the busy commercial life amid which she had been brought up, as it seemed to him, she had observed but little. When he asked her questions about Manchester, she was generally vague or puzzled. He saw that she was naturally romantic; and her passion for the absent Sarratt, together with her gnawing anxiety about him which could not be concealed, made her, again, very touching in the eyes of a man of imagination whose feelings were quick and soft. He walked about with her for more than an hour, discoursing ironically on the Grecian temples, the rustic bridges and pools and fountains, now in imitation of the older Versailles and now of the Trianon, with which his grandfather had burdened his descendants; so that the glorious evening, as it descended, presently became a merry duel between him and her, she defending and admiring his own possessions, and he attacking them. Her eyes sparkled, and a bright red—a natural red—came back into her pale cheeks. She spoke and moved with an evident exhilaration, as though she realised her own developing powers, and was astonished by her own readiness of speech, and the sheer pleasure of talk. And something, no doubt, entered in of the new scene; its scale and magnificence, so different from anything she had yet known; its suggestion of a tradition reaching back through many generations, and of a series of lives relieved from all vulgar necessities, playing as they pleased with art and money, with water and wood.

At the same time she was never merely dazzled; and never, for one moment, covetous or envious. He was struck with her simple dignity and independence; and he perfectly understood that a being so profoundly in love, and so overshadowed by a great fear, could only lend, so to speak, her outer mind to Carton or the persons in it. He gathered roses for her, and did his utmost to please her. But she seemed to him all the time like a little hovering elf—smiling and gay—but quite intangible.

* * * * *

Dinner in the 'cottage' was short, but in Bridget's eyes perfect. Personally, she was not enjoying herself very much, for she had made up her mind that she did not get on with military men, and that it was their fault, not hers; so that she sat often silent, a fact however unnoticed in the general clatter of the table. She took it quite calmly, and was more than compensated for the lack of conversation by the whole spectacle of the Farrell wealth; the flowers, the silver, the costly accessories of all kinds, which even in war-time, and in a 'cottage,' seemed to be indispensable. It would have been more amusing, no doubt, if it had been the big house and not the cottage. Sometimes through the open windows and the trees, she caught sight of the great lighted pile a little way off, and found herself dreaming of what it would be to live there, and to command all that these people commanded. She saw herself sweeping through the magnificent rooms, giving orders, inviting guests, entertaining royalty, driving about the country in splendid motors. It was a waking dream, and though she never uttered a word, the animation of her thoughts infused a similar animation into her aspect, and made her almost unconscious of her neighbours. Captain Marsworth made several attempts to win her attention before she heard him.

'Yes.'

She turned at last an absent glance upon him.

'Miss Farrell talks of our all going over to the hospital after dinner.
She and Sir William often spend the evening there,' said Captain
Marsworth, quite aware from Miss Farrell's frequent glances in his
direction that he was not in her opinion doing his duty with Miss
Cookson.

'Will it take us long?' said Bridget, the vivacity of her look dying out.

'As long as you please to stay!' laughed the Captain, drily.

* * * * *

That passage after dinner through the convalescent wards of the finely equipped hospital was to Nelly Sarratt an almost intolerable experience. She went bravely through it, leaving, wherever she talked to a convalescent, an impression of shy sweetness behind her, which made a good many eyes follow her as Farrell led her through the rooms. But she was thankful when it was over; and when, at last, she was alone in her room for the night, she flew—for consolation—to the drawer in which she had locked her writing-desk, and the letters she had received that morning. The post had just arrived as they were leaving Rydal, and she had hastily torn open a letter from George, and thrust the others into a large empty envelope. And now she discovered among them to her delight a second letter from George, unopened. What unexpected joy!

It too was dated—'Somewhere in France'—and had been written two days after the letter she had opened in the morning.

'My darling—we're having a real jolly time here—in an old village, far behind the line, and it is said we shall be here for three whole weeks. Well, some of us really wanted it, for the battalion has been in some very hot fighting lately, and has had a nasty bit of the line to look after for a long time—with nothing very much to show for it. My platoon has lost some of its best men, and I've been pretty badly hit, as some of them were real chums of mine—the bravest and dearest fellows. And I don't know why, but for the first time, I've been feeling rather jumpy and run down. So I went to a doctor, and he told me I'd better go off duty for a fortnight. But just then, luckily, the whole battalion was ordered, as I told you a week ago, into what's called "divisional rest," so here we are—for three weeks! Quite good billets—an old French farm—with two good barns and lots of straw for the men, and an actual bedroom for me—and a real bed—with sheets! Think of that! I am as comfortable as possible. Just at first I'm going to stay in bed for a couple of days to please the doctor—but then I shall be all right, and shall probably take a course of gymnastics they're starting here—odd, isn't it?—like putting us to school again!—so that I may be quite fit before going back to the front.

'One might almost forget the war here, if it weren't for the rumble of the guns which hardly ever ceases. They are about thirty-five miles away. The whole country is quite peaceful, and the crops coming on splendidly. The farm produces delicious brown eggs—and you should see—and taste—the omelets the farmer's wife makes! Coffee too—first-rate! How these French women work! Our men are always helping them, and the children hang round our Tommies like flies.

'These two days in bed are a godsend, for I can read all your letters through again. There they are—spread out on my sheet! By Jove, little woman, you've treated me jolly well! And now I can pay you back a little. But perhaps you won't mind, dearest, if I don't write anything very long, for I expect I ought to take it easy—for a bit—I can't think why I should have felt so slack. I never knew anything about nerves before. But the doctor has been very nice and understanding—a real, decent fellow. He declares I shall be as fit as a fiddle, long before the three weeks are done.

'My bedroom door is open, and some jolly yellow chickens are wandering in and out. And sometimes the farmer's youngest—a nice little chap of eight—comes to look at me. I teach him English—or I try—but when I say the English words, he just doubles up with laughing and runs away. Nelly, my precious—if I shut my eyes—I can fancy your little head there—just inside the door—and your eyes looking at me!…May the Lord give us good luck—and may we all be home by Christmas!—Mind you finish that sketch!'

She put the letter down with a rather tremulous hand. It had depressed her, and made her anxious. She read in it that George had been through horrible things—and had suffered.

Then all that she had seen in the hospital came back upon her, and rising restlessly she threw herself, without undressing, face downwards on her bed. That officer, blanched to the colour of white wax, who had lost a leg after frightful haemorrhage; that other, the merest boy, whose right eye had been excised—she could not get them out of her mind, nor the stories they had told her of the actions in which they had been wounded.

'George—George!' It was a moan of misery, stifled in the darkness.

Then, suddenly, she remembered she had not said good-night to Bridget. She had forgotten Bridget. She had been unkind. She got up, and sped along the passage to Bridget's room.

'Bridget!' She just opened the door. 'May I come in?'

'Come in.'

Bridget was already in bed. In her hands was a cup of steaming chocolate which a maid had just brought her, and she was lingering over it with a face of content.

Nelly opened her eyes in astonishment.

'Did you ask for it, Bridget?'

'I did—or rather the housemaid asked what I would have. She said—"ladies have just what they like in their rooms." So I asked for chocolate.'

Nelly sat down on the bed.

'Is it good?'

'Excellent,' said Bridget calmly. 'Whatever did you expect?'

'We seem to have been eating ever since we came!' said Nelly frowning,—'and they call it economising!'

Bridget threw back her head with a quiet laugh.

'Didn't I tell you so?'

'I wondered how you got on at dinner?' said Nelly hesitating. 'Captain
Marsworth didn't seem to be taking much trouble?'

'It didn't matter to me,' said Bridget. 'That kind of man always behaves like that,'

Nelly flushed.

'You mean soldiers behave like that?'

'Well, I don't like soldiers—brothers-in-law excepted, of course.' And
Bridget gave her short, rather harsh laugh.

Nelly got up.

'Well, I shall be ready to go as early as you like on Monday, Bridget.
It was awfully good of you to pack all my things so nicely!'

'Don't I always?' Bridget laughed.

'You do—you do indeed. Good-night.'

She touched Bridget's cheek with her lips and stole away.

Bridget was left to think. There was a dim light in the room showing the fine inlaid furniture, the flowery paper, the chintz-covered arm-chairs and sofa, and, through an open door, part of the tiled wall of the bathroom.

Miss Cookson had never slept in such a room before, and every item in it pleased a starved sense in her. Poverty was hateful! Could one never escape it?

Then she closed her eyes, and seemed to be watching Sir William and
Nelly in the gardens, his protecting eager air—her face looking up. Of
course she might have married him—with the greatest ease!—if only
George Sarratt had not been in the way.

But supposing—

All the talk that evening had been of a new 'push'—a new and steady offensive, as soon as the shell supply was better. George would be in that 'push.' Nobody expected it for another month. By that time he would be back at the front. She lay and thought, her eyes closed, her harsh face growing a little white and pinched under the electric lamp beside her. Potentially, her thoughts were murderous. The wish that George might not return formed itself clearly, for the first time, in her mind. Dreams followed, as to consequences both for Nelly and herself, supposing he did not return. And in the midst of them she fell asleep.