A Womans Remorse

(In the interval while a coming event remains in a state of uncertainty,
what is it the inevitable tendency of every Englishman under thirty to
do? His inevitable tendency is to ask somebody to bet on the event.
He can no more resist it than he can resist lifting his stick or his
umbrella, in the absence of a gun, and pretending to shoot if a bird
flies by him while he is out for a walk.) "What will your ladyship bet that this is not Grace?" cried Horace.

Her ladyship took no notice of the proposal; her attention remained
fixed on the library door. The rustling sound stopped for a moment. The
door was softly pushed open. The false Grace Roseberry entered the room.

Horace advanced to meet her, opened his lips to speak, and
stopped--struck dumb by the change in his affianced wife since he had
seen her last. Some terrible oppression seemed to have crushed her. It
was as if she had actually shrunk in height as well as in substance. She
walked more slowly than usual; she spoke more rarely than usual, and in
a lower tone. To those who had seen her before the fatal visit of the
stranger from Mannheim, it was the wreck of the woman that now appeared
instead of the woman herself. And yet there was the old charm still
surviving through it all; the grandeur of the head and eyes, the
delicate symmetry of the features, the unsought grace of every
movement--in a word, the unconquerable beauty which suffering cannot
destroy, and which time itself is powerless to wear out. Lady Janet
advanced, and took her with hearty kindness by both hands.