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One of the stories Maulevrier spoke of the other day was of a
wicked woman's influence upon the governor--a much more likely story
than that of any traffic in British interests or British honour, which
would have been almost impossible for a man in Lord Maulevrier's
position. If the scandal was of a darker kind--a guilty wife--the
mysterious disappearance of a husband--the horror of the thing may have
made a deeper impression on Lady Maulevrier than even her nearest and
dearest dream of: and that superb calm which she wears like a royal
mantle may be maintained at the cost of struggles which tear her
heart-strings. And then at night, when the will is dormant, when the
nervous system is no longer ruled by the power of waking intelligence,
the old familiar agony returns, the hated images flash back upon the
brain, and in proportion to the fineness of the temperament is the
intensity of the dreamer's pain.'
And then he went on to reflect upon the long monotonous years spent in
that lonely house, shut in from the world by those everlasting hills.


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