Chapter IV

           OnthedayofthemarriageAgnesLockwoodsataloneinthelittledrawing-roomofherLondonlodgings,burningtheletterswhichhadbeenwrittentoherbyMontbarryinthebygonetime.

           TheCountess’smaliciouslysmartdescriptionofher,addressedtoDoctorWybrow,hadnotevenhintedatthecharmthatmostdistinguishedAgnes—theartlessexpressionofgoodnessandpuritywhichinstantlyattractedeveryonewhoapproachedher.Shelookedbymanyyearsyoungerthanshereallywas.Withherfaircomplexionandhershymanner,itseemedonlynaturaltospeakofheras’agirl,’althoughshewasnowreallyadvancingtowardsthirtyyearsofage.Shelivedalonewithanoldnursedevotedtoher,onamodestlittleincomewhichwasjustenoughtosupportthetwo.Therewerenoneoftheordinarysignsofgriefinherface,assheslowlytorethelettersofherfalseloverintwo,andthrewthepiecesintothesmallfirewhichhadbeenlittoconsumethem.Unhappilyforherself,shewasoneofthosewomenwhofeeltoodeeplytofindreliefintears.Paleandquiet,withcoldtremblingfingers,shedestroyedthelettersonebyonewithoutdaringtoreadthemagain.Shehadtornthelastoftheseries,andwasstillshrinkingfromthrowingitaftertherestintotheswiftlydestroyingflame,whentheoldnursecamein,andaskedifshewouldsee’MasterHenry,’—meaningthatyoungestmemberoftheWestwickfamily,whohadpubliclydeclaredhiscontemptforhisbrotherinthesmoking-roomoftheclub.

           Agneshesitated.Afainttingeofcolourstoleoverherface.