“Thank you, miss; I am sure it would,” whispered Amy. “He is frightened of you.”

“Frightened of me!” said Hester to herself, when Amy had gone in. “I thought he only disliked me. I wonder if he would have loved me a little if he had not been afraid of me! Perhaps I could have made him love me if I had tried. It is easier to arouse fear than love.”

It may be very well for a nature like Corney’s to fear a father. Fear does come in for some good where love is in short supply, but I doubt if fear of a sister can do any good.

Then first it began to dawn upon Hester that there was in her a certain hardness of character distinct in its nature from that unbending devotion to the right, which is imperative—belonging, in truth, to the region of her weakness—that self which fears for itself, and is of death, not of life. But she was one of those who, when they discover a thing in them that is wrong, take refuge in the immediate attempt to set it right—with the conviction that God is on their side to help them.

She went down to the house to get everything she could think of to make the place more comfortable. It would be a long time before the patient could be moved. Poor Amy! She was but the shadow of her former self, but a shadow very pretty and pleasant to look at. Hester’s heart was sore to think of such a bright, good, honest creature married to a man like her brother. She was sure Amy could have done nothing to be ashamed of. Where there was blame, it must be Corney’s.

It was with feelings still strangely mingled of hope and dismay that, having carried everything she could for the time up to Amy, she gave herself to the comfort of her other guests.

Left alone in London, Corney had gone idly roaming about the house when another man would have been reading or doing something with his hands. Eventually he discovered the door in the wainscot of the low room and the room to which it led. Contriving often to meet Amy, he had grown rapidly more and more fond of her—became indeed as much in love with her as was possible to him. Without a notion of denying himself anything he desired and could possibly have, he determined she should be his, but from fear as well as the deceit so natural to his being, he avoided the direct way of winning her. He judged that the straight line would not be the shortest: his father would never consent to his marriage with a girl like Amy. Ultimately he contrived to persuade her to a private marriage—contrived also to prevent her from communicating with his sister.

His desire to please her, and his passion for showing off, soon brought him into straits for money. He could not ask his father for any; he would have insisted on knowing how it was that he suddenly found his salary so insufficient. He went on and on, changing nothing of his habits, until he was positively without a shilling. Then he borrowed, and went on borrowing small sums from those about him, till he was ashamed to borrow more. The next thing was to borrow a trifle of what was passing through his hands in the bank. He was only borrowing, and from his own uncle. After all, his uncle had so much, and he was in such straits! It was the height of injustice! Of course he would replace it long before anyone knew!