The servant is but a slave, subject to her owner's will; she dare
not approach him while in such an uncertain condition. Franconia
cannot intercede, lest his companions, strangers to her, and having
the appearance of low-bred men, taking advantage of M'Carstrow's
besotted condition, make rude advances. M'Carstrow, snoring high
above his cares, will take his comfort upon the tiles.
The servant is supplied with another candle, which, at Franconia's
bidding, she places in a niche of the hall. It will supply light to
the grotesque sleepers, whose lamp has gone out.
Franconia has not forgotten that M'Carstrow is her husband; she has
not forgotten that she owes him a wife's debt of kindness. She
descends the stairs gently, leans over his besotted body, smooths
his feverish brow with her hand, and orders the servant to bring a
soft cushion; which done, she raises his head and places it
beneath-so gently, so carefully. Her loving heart seems swelling
with grief, as compassionately she gazes upon him; then, drawing a
cambric handkerchief from her bosom, spreads it so kindly over his
face. Woman! there is worth in that last little act. She leaves him
to enjoy his follies, but regrets their existence. Retiring to the
drawing-room, agitated and sleepless, she reclines on a lounge to
await the light of morning. Again the faithful servant, endeavouring
to appease her mistress's agitation, crouches upon the carpet,
resting her head on the ottoman at Franconia's feet.
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