14 TALES OF THE TURF AND THE CHASE. 



with the uppermost skirt of her parti-coloured garments raised 

 to her face. She does not see Jess's face as she says gently, 



' You may go.' 



Jess knows now that she must anticipate the worst. She 

 does not ev^en know where he has gone, and it would be hope- 

 less to search the many public-houses or betting haunts of 

 notoriety. She does not sigh or weep like any ordinary woman, 

 but, having stirred the fire and lighted two candles on the 

 mantelshelf, she sits down to endure another martyrdom. 

 She has promised what she is not able to perform, and her 

 brain is dizzy with the poignant anguish of her mind. He 

 will think that Joe's breach of faith is of her instigation — that 

 she has betrayed him. Her eyes travel to the clock — only a 

 little past nine. For a whole hour she sits with fingers inter- 

 laced, staring into the fire, only the gleam of her eyes giving 

 evidence of quickly working thoughts. Ten o'clock. She rises, 

 blows out the candles, and softly opens the window before 

 returning to her seat. Eleven o'clock strikes outside. Once 

 more she moves from her seat to take up her position on the 

 window-ledge. The deep blue vault above is spangled with 

 myriads of golden stars, shining cold and indifferent above the 

 sound of human voices, wailing out prayers for help, sobbing out 

 hopeless woe. 



Two or three cabs rattle recklessly down the streets, taking 

 home gentlemen from convivial gatherings or betting-rooms and 

 the Club. Many roughs loiter about street-corners, while the 

 policemen pace the pavement with extra nocturnal vigilance. 

 As the hours wear on, and Jess sits at the open window, uncon- 

 scious of the chill air, each striking of the clocks appears to 

 make a more acute vibration than the last. One o'clock. Some 

 noisy revellers singing loudly as they pass down the street. The 

 lights in most of the houses are extinguished now. The fire in 

 the room has gone out, and Jess does not notice it. The gas- 

 lamp in the street below flickers before her gaze, and strange 

 shapes seem to hover about it. Mechanically she counts the 

 footsteps of the policeman as he passes every now and again 

 down the street. Two o'clock. A foot-passenger of a ruffianly 

 order kicks his dog, which slinks behind him, and the night is 

 momentarily hideous with the howls of the suffering brute. He 

 stoops over it as it lies in the gutter, and Jess hears a muttered 

 expletive as he passes on alone ; her eyes rest pitifully on the 

 dim form of the moaning dog. After a few minutes it drags 



