STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN.
By Mrs. Edwards,
Author of "Archie Lovell."
CHAPTER XXXIL
WITHIN AND WITHOUT.
"LOVE, they say, cannot exist without jealousy. Can jealousy exist, I wonder, without love?" This Dora Lawrence asked herself one drizzling December evening as she stood by the parlor window of Ashcot, playing dreary tunes, her usual occupation, on the glass, and looking out across the wet, leafless garden for Steven's return from hunting.
Can jealously exist without love? Dora's was not a mind given in a general way to the solution of nice psychological difficulties, but this question was one which, during the past fortnight—the fortnight that had elapsed since Katharine's return—she had put to herself pretty frequently. "The fact is, I suppose, there are different sorts of jealousy;" she went on in her thoughts, after crossing to stir the fire and look at herself in the unflattering, dull old glass over the mantel-shelf; then returning more drearily than before to her watch beside the window; "and what I feel is a remote variety, not following the general laws of the species. A woman who was jealous in the good orthodox fashion would be jealous under any circumstances. I should not. If I had amusements, if I had friends, I should be grateful to any one who would keep Steven away five or six hours a day and then send him back in a better temper in the evening! I'm jealous—if it is jealousy—just because I hate other people to be amused and me not. La—la—am I bad? Am I wicked at heart? Is it much to want my little bit of distraction, my little bit of pleasure when all the rest of the world are amusing themselves without me?" And as Dot leaned her head against the window, heavy tears—for she was not en toilette—had no complexion this afternoon—began to roll slowly down her miserable face.
Five o'clock came but no Steven; and about ten minutes after the usual time old Barbara, unbidden, brought in candles and tea. Dot was seated by the fire now; her little figure curled up in the solitary arm-chair the room possessed—a huge structure, affording no available rest either for the back or head—with her face buried down in her hands. She looked up, white as a ghost, and with her dark eyes looking darker and bigger than usual, at the old servant.
