If Christabel Sales had a daughter, what
would be her fierce young thoughts about this thief, sitting by the
fire in a joy which was half misery? Yet she was no thief: she was
only picking up what would otherwise be wasted. It seemed to her that
life was hardly more than a perpetual and painful choice. Some one had
to be hurt, and why should it not be Christabel? Or was she hurt
enough already? And again, what good would she get from Henrietta's
sacrifice? No one would gain except Henrietta herself, she could see
that plainly, and she was prepared to suffer; she was anxious to
suffer and be justified.
The coals in the grate began to fade, the room was cold and she was
tired. Slowly she continued her undressing, throwing down her dainty
garments with the indifference of her fatigue. She feared her thoughts
would stand between her and sleep, but, when she lay down, warmth
gradually stole over her and soothed her into forgetfulness. She
slept, but she waked to unusual sounds in the house: a door opened,
there were footsteps on the landing and then a voice, shrill and
frightened. She jumped out of bed. Sophia was on the landing; Rose was
just opening her door; Susan, decently covered by a puritanical
dressing-gown, had been roused by the noise. Caroline was in pain,
Sophia said. She was breathing with great difficulty. 'I told her she
ought to take a shawl,' Sophia sobbed.
Fires had to be lighted, water boiled and flannels warmed, and the
voice of Caroline was heard in gasping expostulation.
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