sympathies, which had been crushed down past rousing to self-assertion, past ever seeing the light. There, in that mild, wan face of hers—in those painful startings and hurryings when she moved; in that tremulous, faint utterance when she spoke— there , I could see one of those ghastly heart-tragedies laid open before me, which are acted and reacted, scene by scene, and year by year, in the secret theatre of home; tragedies which are ever shadowed by the slow falling of the black curtain that drops lower and lower every day—that drops, to hide all at last, from the hand of death.
“We have had very beautiful weather lately, Sir,” said Mrs. Sherwin, almost inaudibly; looking as she spoke, with anxious eyes towards her husband, to see if she was justified in uttering even those piteously commonplace words. “Very beautiful weather to be sure,” continued the poor woman, as timidly as if she had become a little child again, and had been ordered to say her first lesson in a stranger’s presence.
“Delightful weather, Mrs. Sherwin. I have been enjoying it for the last two days in the country—in a part of Surrey (the neighbourhood of Ewell) that I had not seen before.”
There was a pause. Mr. Sherwin coughed; it was evidently a warning matrimonial peal that he had often rung before—for Mrs. Sherwin started, and looked up at him directly.
“As the lady of the house, Mrs. S. , it strikes me that you might offer a visitor, like this gentleman, some cake and wine, without making any particular hole in your manners!”
“Oh dear me! I beg your pardon! I’m very sorry, I’m sure”—and she poured out a glass of wine, with such a trembling hand that the decanter tinkled all the while against the glass. Though I wanted nothing, I ate and drank something immediately, in common consideration for Mrs. Sherwin’s embarrassment.