Had they been cognisant of the life that was hidden from them, they might have declared her to be mad. This silent, reserved, and strangely-kind woman was subject to emotions and passions which no human eye witnessed, which no human breast shared. In the solitude of her poorly-furnished attic, she would stand motionless for hours, looking out upon the darkness of the night. At these times, not a sound, not a movement escaped her; she was as one in a trance, incapable of motion. And not unlikely, as is recorded of those who lie in that death-like sleep, there was in her mind a chaos of thought, terrible and overwhelming. It was always in the night that these moods took possession of her. It was a peculiar phase of her condition that darkness had no terrors for her. When dark shadows only were visible, she was outwardly calm and peaceful; but moonlight stirred her to startling extravagances. She trembled, she shuddered, her white lips moved convulsively, she sank upon her knees, and strove, with wildly-waving hands, to beat away the light. But she was dominated by a resistless force which compelled her to face the light, and draw from it memories which agonised her. The brighter and more beautiful was the night, the keener was her pain, and she had no power to fly from it. If she awoke from sleep, and saw the moon shining through the window, she would hide her eyes in the bedclothes, with tears and sobs that came from a broken heart, and the next moment her feeble hands would pluck the clothes aside, so that she might gaze upon the peaceful light which stabbed her like a knife. She was ruled by other influences, scarcely less powerful. Moonlight shining on still waters; certain flowers; falling snow--all these terribly disturbed her, and aroused in full force the memories which tortured her. Had her neighbours witnessed her paroxysms on on these occasions, they would have had the fairest reason for declaring that Mrs. Lenoir was mad.
She lived entirely out of the world; read no newspapers; played a part in no scandals; and the throbs of great ambitions which shook thrones and nations never reached the heart, never touched the soul of this lonely woman, who might have been supposed to be waiting for death to put an end to her sorrows.
A few weeks after she had made Lizzie's dress, Mrs. Lenoir was sitting as usual alone in her room. She was not at work; with her hand supporting her face, she was gazing with tearful eyes upon three pictures, which she had taken from a desk which stood open on the table. This desk was in itself a remarkable possession for a woman in her position in life. It was inlaid with many kinds of curious woods, and slender devices in silver; it was old, and had seen service, but it had been carefully used. The three pictures represented sketches of a beautiful face, the first of a child a year old, the second the child grown to girlhood, the third the girl grown to womanhood. The pictures were painted in water-colours, and the third had been but recently sketched. Over the mantelshelf hung a copy of this last picture, which--as was the case with all of them--though the hand of the amateur was apparent, evidenced a loving care in its execution. Long and with yearning eyes did Mrs. Lenoir gaze upon the beautiful face; had it been warm and living by her side, a more intense and worshipping love could not have been expressed by the lonely woman. The striking of eight o'clock from an adjacent church roused her; with a sigh that was like a sob, she placed the pictures in her desk, and setting it aside, resumed the needlework which she had allowed to fall into her lap.
Winter had come somewhat suddenly upon the city, and snow had fallen earlier than usual. One candle supplied the room with light, and a very small fire with warmth. For an hour Mrs. Lenoir worked with the monotony of a machine, and then she was disturbed by a knock at the door. She turned her head, but did not speak. The knock was repeated, and a voice from without called to her.
"Are you at home, Mrs. Lenoir?"
"Yes, Lizzie."
"Let me in."
"I will come to you."
Mrs. Lenoir went to the door, which was locked, and, turning the key, stepped into the passage.
"Well, Lizzie?"