WHEN does the vain regret find its keenest sting? When is thedoubtful future blackened by its darkest cloud? When is lifeleast worth having. and death oftenest at the bedside? In theterrible morning hours, when the sun is rising in its glory, andthe birds are singing in the stillness of the new-born day.

Anne woke in the strange bed, and looked round her, by the lightof the new morning, at the strange room.

The rain had all fallen in the night. The sun was master in theclear autumn sky. She rose, and opened the window. The freshmorning air, keen and fragrant, filled the room. Far and near,the same bright stillness possessed the view. She stood at thewindow looking out. Her mind was clear again--she could think,she could feel; she could face the one last question which themerciless morning now forced on her--How will it end?

Was there any hope?--hope for instance, in what she might do forherself. What can a married woman do for herself? She can makeher misery public--provided it be misery of a certain kind--andcan reckon single-handed with Society when she has done it.Nothing more.

Was there hope in what others might do for her? Blanche mightwrite to her--might even come and see her--if her husband allowedit; and that was all. Sir Patrick had pressed her hand atparting, and had told her to rely on him. He was the firmest, thetruest of friends. But what could he do? There were outrageswhich her husband was privileged to commit, under the sanction ofmarriage, at the bare thought of which her blood ran cold. CouldSir Patrick protect her? Absurd! Law and Society armed herhusband with his conjugal rights. Law and Society had but oneanswer to give, if she appealed to them--You are his wife.

No hope in herself; no hope in her friends; no hope any where onearth. Nothing to be done but to wait for the end--with faith inthe Divine Mercy; with faith in the better world.

She took out of her trunk a little book of Prayers andMeditations--worn with much use--which had once belonged to hermother. She sat by the window reading it. Now and then she lookedup from it--thinking. The parallel between her mother's positionand her own position was now complete. Both married to husbandswho hated them; to husbands whose interests pointed to mercenaryalliances with other women; to husbands whose one want and onepurpose was to be free from their wives. Strange, what differentways had led mother and daughter both to the same fate! Would theparallel hold to the end? "Shall I die," she wondered, thinkingof her mother's last moments, "in Blanche's arms?"

The time had passed unheeded. The morning movement in the househad failed to catch her ear. She was first called out of herselfto the sense of the present and passing events by the voice ofthe servant-girl outside the door.

"The master wants you, ma'am, down stairs."

She rose instantly and put away the little book.

"Is that all the message?" she asked, opening the door.

"Yes, ma'am."

She followed the girl down stairs; recalling to her memory thestrange words addressed to her by Geoffrey, in the presence ofthe servants, on the evening before. Was she now to know whatthose words really meant? The doubt would soon be set at rest."Be the trial what it may," she thought to herself, "let me bearit as my mother would have borne it."

The servant opened the door of the dining-room. Breakfast was onthe table. Geoffrey was standing at the window. Hester Dethridgewas waiting, posted near the door. He came forward--with thenearest approach to gentleness in his manner which she had everyet seen in it--he came forward, with a set smile on his lips,and offered her his hand!

She had entered the room, prepared (as she believed) for anything that could happen. She was not prepared for this. She stoodspeechless, looking at him.

After one glance at her, when she came in, Hester Dethridgelooked at him, too--and from that moment never looked away again,as long as Anne remained in the room.

He broke the silence--in a voice that was not like his own; witha furtive restraint in his manner which she had never noticed init before.

"Won't you shake hands with your husband," he asked, "when yourhusband asks you?"

She mechanically put her hand in his. He dropped it instantly,with a start. "God! how cold!" he exclaimed. His own hand wasburning hot, and shook incessantly.

He pointed to a chair at the head of the table.

"Will you make the tea?" he asked.

She had given him her hand mechanically; she advanced a stepmechanically--and then stopped.

"Would you prefer breakfasting by yourself?" he said.

"If you please," she answered, faintly.

"Wait a minute. I have something to say before you go."

She waited. He considered with himself; consulting hismemory--visibly, unmistakably, consulting it before he spokeagain.

"I have had the night to think in," he said. "The night has madea new man of me. I beg your pardon for what I said yesterday. Iwas not myself yesterday. I talked nonsense yesterday. Please toforget it, and forgive it. I wish to turn over a new leaf. andmake amends--make amends for my past conduct. It shall be myendeavor to be a good husband. In the presence of Mrs. Dethridge,I request you to give me a chance. I won't force your inclinations. We are married--what's the use of regretting it? Stay here,as you said yesterday, on your own terms. I wish to make it up.In the presence of Mrs. Dethridge, I say I wish to make it up. Iwon't detain you. I request you to think of it. Good-morning."

He said those extraordinary words like a slow boy saying a hardlesson--his eyes on the ground, his fingers restlessly fasteningand unfastening a button on his waistcoat.

Anne left the room. In the passage she was obliged to wait, andsupport herself against the wall. His unnatural politeness washorrible; his carefully asserted repentance chilled her to thesoul with dread. She had never felt--in the time of his fiercestanger and his foulest language--the unutterable horror of himthat she felt now.

Hester Dethridge came out, closing the door behind her. Shelooked attentively at Anne--then wrote on her slate, and held itout, with these words on it:

"Do you believe him?"

Anne pushed the slate away, and ran up stairs. She fastened thedoor--and sank into a chair.

"He is plotting something against me," she said to herself."What?"

A sickening, physical sense of dread--entirely new in herexperience of herself--made her shrink from pursuing thequestion. The sinking at her heart turned her faint. She went toget the air at the open window.

At the same moment there was a ring at the gate bell. Suspiciousof any thing and every thing. she felt a sudden distrust ofletting herself be seen. She drew back behind the curtain andlooked out.

A man-servant, in livery, was let in. He had a letter in hishand. He said to the girl as he passed Anne's window, "I comefrom Lady Holchester; I must see Mr. Delamayn instantly."

They went in. There was an interval. The footman reappeared,leaving the place. There was another interval. Then there came aknock at the door. Anne hesitated. The knock was repeated, andthe dumb murmuring of Hester Dethridge was heard outside. Anneopened the door.

Hester came in with the breakfast. She pointed to a letter amongother things on the tray. It was addressed to Anne, in Geoffrey'shandwriting, and it contained these words:

"My father died yesterday. Write your orders for your mourning.The boy will take them. You are not to trouble yourself to go toLondon. Somebody is to come here to you from the shop."

Anne dropped the paper on her lap without looking up. At the samemoment Hester Dethridge's slate was passed stealthily between hereyes and the note--with these words traced on it. "His mother iscoming to-day. His brother has been telegraphed from Scotland. Hewas drunk last night. He's drinking again. I know what thatmeans. Look out, missus--look out."

Anne signed to her to leave the room. She went out, pulling thedoor to, but not closing it behind her.

There was another ring at the gate bell. Once more Anne went tothe window. Only the lad, this time; arriving to take his ordersfor the day. He had barely entered the garden when he wasfollowed by the postman with letters. In a minute more Geoffrey'svoice was heard in the passage, and Geoffrey's heavy stepascended the wooden stairs. Anne hurried across the room to drawthe bolts. Geoffrey met her before she could close the door.

"A letter for you," he said, keeping scrupulously out of theroom. "I don't wish to force your inclinations--I only requestyou to tell me who it's from."

His manner was as carefully subdued as ever. But theunacknowledged distrust in him (when he looked at her) betrayeditself in his eye.

She glanced at the handwriting on the address.

"From Blanche," she answered.

He softly put his foot between the door and the post--and waiteduntil she had opened and read Blanche's letter.

"May I see it?" he asked--and put in his hand for it through thedoor.

The spirit in Anne which would once have resisted him was dead inher now. She handed him the open letter.

It was very short. Excepting some brief expressions of fondness,it was studiously confined to stating the purpose for which ithad been written. Blanche proposed to visit Anne that afternoon,accompanied by her uncle, she sent word beforehand, to make sureof finding Anne at home. That was all. The letter had evidentlybeen written under Sir Patrick's advice.

Geoffrey handed it back, after first waiting a moment to think.

"My father died yesterday," he said. "My wife can't receivevisitors before he is buried. I don't wish to force yourinclinations. I only say I can't let visitors in here before thefuneral--except my own family. Send a note down stairs. The ladwill take it to your friend when he goes to London." With thosewords he left

An appeal to the proprieties of life, in the mouth of GeoffreyDelamayn, could only mean one of two things. Either he had spokenin brutal mockery--or he had spoken with some ulterior object inview. Had he seized on the event of his father's death as apretext for isolating his wife from all communication with theouter world? Were there reasons, which had not yet assertedthemselves, for his dreading the result, if he allowed Anne tocommunicate with her friends?

The hour wore on, and Hester Dethridge appeared again. The ladwas waiting for Anne's orders for her mourning, and for her noteto Mrs. Arnold Brinkworth.

Anne wrote the orders and the note. Once more the horrible slateappeared when she had done, between the writing paper and hereyes, with the hard lines of warning pitilessly traced on it. "He has locked the gate. When there's a ring we are to come to himfor the key. He has written to a woman. Name outside the letter,Mrs. Glenarm. He has had more brandy. Like my husband. Mindyourself."

The one way out of the high walls all round the cottage locked.Friends forbidden to see her. Solitary imprisonment, with herhusband for a jailer. Before she had been four-and-twenty hoursin the cottage it had come to that. And what was to follow?

She went back mechanically to the window. The sight of the outerworld, the occasional view of a passing vehicle, helped tosustain her.

The lad appeared in the front garden departing to perform hiserrand to London. Geoffrey went with him to open the gate, andcalled after him, as he passed through it, "Don't forget thebooks!"

The "books?" What "books?" Who wanted them? The slightest thingnow roused Anne's suspicion. For hours afterward the bookshaunted her mind.

He secured the gate and came back again. He stopped under Anne'swindow and called to her. She showed herself. "When you want airand exercise," he said, "the back garden is at your owndisposal." He put the key of the gate in his pocket and returnedto the house.

After some hesitation Anne decided on taking him at his word. Inher state of suspense, to remain within the four walls of thebedroom was unendurable. If some lurking snare lay hid under thefair-sounding proposal which Geoffrey had made, it was lessrepellent to her boldly to prove what it might be than to waitpondering over it with her mind in the dark. She put on her hatand went down into the garden. Nothing happened out of thecommon. Wherever he was he never showed himself. She wandered upand down, keeping on the side of the garden which was farthestfrom the dining-room window. To a woman, escape from the placewas simply impossible. Setting out of the question the height ofthe walls, they were armed at the top with a thick setting ofjagged broken glass. A small back-door in the end wall (intendedprobably for the gardener's use) was bolted and locked--the keyhaving been taken out. There was not a house near. The lands ofthe local growers of vegetables surrounded the garden on allsides. In the nineteenth century, and in the immediateneighborhood of a great metropolis, Anne was as absolutelyisolated from all contact with the humanity around her as if shelay in her grave.

After the lapse of half an hour the silence was broken by a noiseof carriage wheels on the public road in front, and a ring at thebell. Anne kept close to the cottage, at the back; determined, ifa chance offered, on speaking to the visitor, whoever the visitormight be.

She heard voices in the dining-room th rough the openwindow--Geoffrey's voice and the voice of a woman. Who was thewoman? Not Mrs. Glenarm, surely? After a while the visitor'svoice was suddenly raised. "Where is she?" it said. "I wish tosee her." Anne instantly advanced to the back-door of thehouse--and found herself face to face with a lady who was a totalstranger to her.

"Are you my son's wife?" asked the lady.

"I am your son's prisoner," Anne answered.

Lady Holchester's pale face turned paler still. It was plain thatAnne's reply had confirmed some doubt in the mother s mind whichhad been already suggested to it by the son.

"What do you mean?" she asked, in a whisper.

Geoffrey's heavy footsteps crossed the dining-room. There was notime to explain. Anne whispered back,

"Tell my friends what I have told you."

Geoffrey appeared at the dining-room door.

"Name one of your friends," said Lady Holchester.

"Sir Patrick Lundie."

Geoffrey heard the answer. "What about Sir Patrick Lundie?" heasked.

"I wish to see Sir Patrick Lundie," said his mother. "And yourwife can tell me where to find him."

Anne instantly understood that Lady Holchester would communicatewith Sir Patrick. She mentioned his London address. LadyHolchester turned to leave the cottage. Her son stopped her.

"Let's set things straight," he said, "before you go. My mother,"he went on, addressing himself to Anne, "don't think there's muchchance for us two of living comfortably together. Bear witness tothe truth--will you? What did I tell you at breakfast-time?Didn't I say it should be my endeavor to make you a good husband?Didn't I say--in Mrs. Dethridge's presence--I wanted to make itup?" He waited until Anne had answered in the affirmative, andthen appealed to his mother. "Well? what do you think now?"

Lady Holchester declined to reveal what she thought. "You shallsee me, or hear from me, this evening," she said to Anne.Geoffrey attempted to repeat his unanswered question. His motherlooked at him. His eyes instantly dropped before hers. Shegravely bent her head to Anne, and drew her veil. Her sonfollowed her out in silence to the gate.

Anne returned to her room, sustained by the first sense of reliefwhich she had felt since the morning. "His mother is alarmed,"she said to herself. "A change will come."

A change _was_ to come--with the coming night.