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Updated: June 26, 2025
You've perhaps forgotten that I am one of the women who don't stir without their maid." Cliffe's expression changed. He thrust his hands into his pockets. "Oh, well, if you must have a maid," he said, dryly, "that settles it. A maid would be the deuce. And yet I think I could find you a Bosnian girl strong and faithful "
Almost immediately after Tom Cliffe's death her little Henry fell ill with scarlatina and remained for many months in a state of health so fragile as to engross all her thought and care. It was with difficulty that she contrived a few times to go for Henry's medicines to the shop where "John Smith" served.
While at Stowbury, she had heard by chance of Tom Cliffe's passing through the town as a Chartist lecturer, or something of the sort, with his pretty, showy London wife, who, when he brought her there, had looked down rather contemptuously upon the street where Tom was born. This was all Elizabeth knew about them.
How far she had provoked her own fate, and how far even now she was delivered from the morbid spell of Cliffe's personality, Ashe would not allow himself to ask. As she neared the end of her story, it was as though the great tempest wave in which she had been struggling died down, and with a merciful rush bore him to a shore of deliverance. She was there beside him; and she was still his own.
A woman had died for love of him, crushed by his jealousy and her own self-scorn. So Kitty had been told; and Cliffe's tortured vanity would not deny it. How could she have cared so much? That was the puzzle. But this vicarious relation had now passed into a relation of her own. Cliffe was to Kitty a problem and a problem which, beyond a certain point, defied her.
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