‘Admirable! She feels weak, and therefore she should be set to hard labour—“clair comme le jour”—as Moore—confound Moore! You shall go to Cliff Bridge; and there are two guineas to buy a new frock. Come, Cary, never fear; we’ll fine balm in Gilead.’

‘Uncle, I wish you were less generous, and more—’

‘More what?’

Sympathizing was the word on Caroline’s lips, but it was not uttered; she checked herself in time. Her uncle would indeed have laughed if that namby-pamby word had escaped her. Finding her silent, he said:

‘The fact is, you don’t know precisely what you want.’

‘Only to be a governess.’

‘Pooh! mere nonsense! I’ll not hear of governessing. Don’t mention it again. It is rather too feminine a fancy. I have finished breakfast, ring the bell; put all crotchets out of your head, and run away and amuse yourself.’

‘What with? My doll?’ asked Caroline to herself as she quitted the room.

A week or two passed; her bodily and mental health grew neither worse nor better. She was now precisely in that state when, if her constitution had contained the seeds of consumption, decline, or slow fever, those diseases would have been rapidly developed, and would soon have carried her quietly from the world. People never die of love or grief alone; though some die of inherent maladies, which the tortures of those passions prematurely force into destructive action. The sound by nature undergo these tortures, and are racked, shaken, shattered; their beauty and bloom perish, but life remains untouched. They are brought to a certain point of dilapidation; they are reduced to pallor, debility, and emaciation. People think, as they see them gliding languidly about, that they will soon withdraw to sick-beds, perish there, and cease from among the healthy and happy. This does not happen: they live on; and though they cannot regain youth and gaiety, they may regain strength and serenity. The blossom which the March wind nips, but fails to sweep away, may survive to hang a withered apple on the tree late into autumn; having braved the last frosts of spring, it may also brave the first of winter.

Everyone noticed the change in Miss Helstone’s appearance, and most people said she was going to die. She never thought so herself; she felt in no dying case; she had neither pain nor sickness. Her appetite was diminished; she knew the reason; it was because she wept so much at night. Her strength was lessened; she could account for it; sleep was coy and hard to be won; dreams were distressing and baleful. In the far future she still seemed to anticipate a time when this passage of misery should be got over, and when she should once more be calm, though perhaps never again happy.

Meanwhile her uncle urged her to visit; to comply with the frequent invitations of their acquaintance: this she evaded doing; she could not be cheerful in company; she felt she was observed there with more curiosity than sympathy. Old ladies were always offering her their advice, recommending this or that nostrum; young ladies looked at her in a way she understood, and from which she shrank. Their eyes said they knew she had been ‘disappointed,’ as custom phrases it; by whom they were not certain.

Commonplace young ladies can be quite as hard as commonplace young gentlemen—quite as worldly and selfish. Those who suffer should always avoid them; grief and calamity they despise; they seem to regard them as the judgments of God on the lowly. With them, to ‘love’ is merely to contrive a scheme for achieving a good match; to be ‘disappointed’ is to have their scheme seen through and frustrated. They think the feelings and projects of others on the subject of love similar to their own, and judge them accordingly.