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 Chapter 10

1. c
2. a
3. c
4. a
5. d
6. a
7. b
8. c
9. b
10. b

11.
 High strength-to-weight ratio. Steel also has a high stiffness and high ductility
compared to other construction materials.
 Steel is termite- and rot-proof
 Steel is homogenous material and has uniform and predictable material properties
 Steel sections are fabricated at a factory, giving excellent quality control and tighter
construction tolerance
 Steel is a versatile construction material, the speed of erecting a steel structure is much
faster than using other materials

12.
 Properties of steel can drastically degrade at high temperatures or during a fire. Hence,
it is important to take necessary measures to protect steel structural members from fire.
Concrete is often used to encase steel members to protect them from fire damage.
 Steel is also susceptible to corrosion which can lead to loss of its strength, resulting in
serious damage to the structure. A protective coating or paint is applied to prevent
corrosion in steel structures.
 Strength of steel may also have an undesirable brittle failure (abrupt failure without
warning) at low temperatures. A large number of stress reversals can also lead to
reduced strength in steel members.
 Steel structures, due to steel’s high strength-to-weight ratio, are generally slender
compared to timber or concrete structures. Buckling failure can be critical in slender

71
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 steel members subjected to compression and bending. Proper lateral resistance and
bracing needs to be provided to prevent buckling in slender steel beams and columns.
13.
Basic Oxygen Steelmaking (BOS) Process
 In the BOS process pig iron and scrap steel is converted into steel by blowing pure
oxygen at supersonic speed over the molten pig iron produced in a blast furnace. Scrap
metal and molten pig iron from blast furnace is charged into the BOS vessel. The
proportion of charge is controlled precisely to produce quality steel. Oxygen combines
with carbon and other impurities to purify steel.
 Lime-based fluxes are added which removes the impurities in the form of slag. The
BOS converter is then tilted to pour the steel into a steel ladle.
 Due to the simplicity and flexibility of the process, BOS is now the main bulk
production process used around the world for refining iron ore into steel.
 The BOS process also uses 25–35 percent steel scrap (recycled products made of steel)
to make new steel.
Electric Arc Furnace (EAF) Process
 In the EAF process, charged material (consisting of scrap metal and limes) is heated by
means of an electric arc. Steel scrap and lime are poured into the furnace, and the
electrical current is passed through the electrodes, producing an electric arc on the scrap
metal. The scrap is melted with the heat generated from the arc. Other metals, if
necessary, are added at this stage to form special steels with required chemical
compositions.
 Oxygen is blown into the furnace to remove impurities, such as aluminium, silicon,
manganese, phosphorus, and carbon. The metallic oxides thus formed are removed as
slag.
 The use of 100 percent scrap metal in the EAF process reduces the resources and energy
required to produce steel.

14.
 The carbon content in wrought iron is very low (0.02–0.08%) and contains traces of
slag (1–2%), which gives its fibrous look. Tensile strength of wrought iron along the
grain ranges from 310–380 MPa; tensile strength is lower across the grain. The use of
wrought iron is now mostly limited to decorative purpose only.
 Cast iron has relatively high carbon content (2–4%), compared to wrought iron and
steel. Due to its high carbon content, cast iron is hard, brittle, and not malleable. Cast
iron is strong in compression but weak in tension.
 Structural steel used in construction industry fall under the low-carbon (less than
0.25%) and medium-carbon (0.3 to 0.6%) categories. Steel has much better structural
performance due to its ductility and high tensile strength, compared to wrought iron
and cast iron. Structural steel is predominantly produced, using the basic oxygen
steelmaking (BOS) and the electric arc furnace (EAF) processes.

72
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15.
 Concrete is strong in compression while very weak in tension. Hence, concrete
structures need steel reinforcement to take the tensile stresses.
 Steel reinforcement in concrete structures increases its tensile strength, ductility and
improves its resistance to cracking.
 Steel can be used in concrete as a normal reinforcement or as prestressed reinforcement.

16.
 The ductility of a material is its property to sustain large deformation without failure.
 An increase in carbon content in steel decreases its ductility. Low-carbon steel with
carbon content less than 0.25% and medium-carbon steel with 0.3-0.6% carbon content
has good ductility. Most of the structural steel used in construction industry fall under
the low-carbon and medium-carbon categories.
 High-carbon content (0.6 to 0.95%) has high tensile strength but has low ductility.

17.
 Appropriate design detailing needs to be considered to avoid accumulation of moisture
and debris. Proper drainage and ventilation to enable steel to dry out and to minimize
the “time of wetness” needs to be provided.
 Apply appropriate paint coatings after adequate surface preparation. Surface
preparation includes thorough cleaning and abrasive blast cleaning to remove any initial
rusting. After blast cleaning the surface, prefabrication primers are applied on the rust-
free surface. The paint coating is then applied to the members. Brush, roller, air spray
or airless spray can be used for painting steelwork.
 Metallic coating which includes hot-dip galvanizing and thermal spraying can also be
applied on structural steel to prevent corrosion of structural steelwork. Hot-dip
galvanizing consists of immersing steel in molten zinc. Thermal spraying involves
coating the steel surface with molten metal (eg. zinc or aluminum) blown by a
compressed air jet.

18.
Hot-rolled steel:
 In the hot-rolling process, billets or blooms are reheated above the recrystallization
temperature of steel (1200–1300°C) in a reheat furnace, and the red hot metal is pushed
through rollers that squeeze the metal into the desired shape, depending on the profile
of the rollers. Hot steel from a continuous-casting operation can also be rolled by
directly passing it through the rolling mills without the need to reheat. Steel produced
through the hot-rolling process are relatively cheaper than cold-formed steel. Hot
rolling, along with a suitable heat treatment process, enhances mechanical properties of
the steel as well.

73
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  Structural steel members with various sectional shapes, such as wide-flange sections,
I-beams, channel sections, equal or unequal angles, sheet piling, rails, and bars are
produced by the hot-rolling process. These structural steel products are used in
structures as columns, beams, bracing members; as members of trusses; and as bridge
girders.

Cold-formed steel:
 Cold-formed steel is produced by rolling or pressing thin steel sheets through rollers
or press brakes at room temperature to produce lightweight steel sections. More
precise dimension sections can be achieved in cold-formed sections compared to
hot-rolled steel products as the hot-rolled steel members tend to shrink after cooling.
 Cold-formed steels are used as structural framing members or in panels and decks.
Individual structural framing members can be made of channel section (C-section),
Z-sections, angles, Sigma sections, I-sections, T-sections, and tubular members.
Cold-formed steel sections are usually used as primary load-bearing systems for
low-rise, light structures, space frames, or in storage racks.

19.

Stress, f

Ultimate tensile
strength, fu

Fracture
Yield stress, fy

Proportional Limit Plastic Strain hardening Necking

range
E

Elastic 1
range

O y u Strain, 

Typical stress-strain curve for steel subjected to tension

20.
𝑓𝑦 = 𝐸 × 𝜀𝑦

74
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 𝑓𝑦 550
𝜀𝑦 = = = 0.00275
𝐸 200000

Thus, yield strain, 𝜀𝑦 = 0.00275.

𝑇𝑢
𝑓𝑢 = ⁄𝐴
0

𝑓𝑢 = 210000⁄314.16 = 668.5 𝑀𝑃𝑎

Thus, the ultimate tensile strength of steel, 𝑓𝑢 = 668.5 MPa.

21.
Yield load = 𝑇𝑦 = 𝑓𝑦 × 𝐴0 = 50 × 0.6 = 30𝑘𝑖𝑝𝑠

Ultimate load = 𝑇𝑢 = 𝑓𝑢 × 𝐴0 = 70 × 0.6 = 42𝑘𝑖𝑝𝑠

2 2
Stress = 𝑓 = 3 𝑓𝑦 = 3 × 50 = 33.33 𝑘𝑠𝑖
𝑓𝑦 33.33×1000
Strain = 𝜀 = = = 0.0011
𝐸 30×106

Elongation = 𝑒 = 𝜀 × 𝐿0 = 0.0011 × 5 = 0.0055𝑖𝑛

New gauge length = = 𝐿0 + 𝑒 = 5.0055𝑖𝑛 .

75
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 76
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and was much relieved by the signs of returning vivacity and colour.
“Tarnley, you’ve been a faithful creature and true to me; I hope I
may live to reward you,” said the lady, extending her hand vaguely
towards the old servant.
“I’m true to them as gives me bread, and ever was, and that’s old
Mildred Tarnley’s truth. If she eats their bread, she’ll maintain their
right, and that’s only honest—that’s reason, ma’am.”
“I have no right to cry no; I cry excellent, good, good, very good,
for as you are my husband’s servant, I have all the benefit of your
admirable fidelity. Boo! I am so grateful, and one day or other, old
girl, I’ll reward you—and very good tea, and every care of me. I will
tell Mr. Vairvield when he comes how good you have been—and, tell
me, how is the fire, and the bed, and the bedroom—all quite
comfortable?”
“Comfortable, quite, I hope, ma’am.”
“Do I look quite well now?”
“Yes ’m, pure and hearty. It was only just a turn.”
“Yes, just so, perhaps, although I never felt it, and I could dance
now only for—fifty things, so I won’t mind.” She laughed. “I’m sleepy,
and I’m not sleepy; and I love you, old Mildred Tarnley, and you’ll tell
me some more about Master Harry and his wife when we get
upstairs. Who’d have thought that wild fellow would ever tie himself
to a wife? Who’d have fancied that clever young man that loves
making money so well, would have chosen out a wife without a florin
to her fortune? Everything is so surprising. Come, let’s have a laugh,
you and me together.”
“My laughing days is over, ma’am—not that I see much to laugh at
for any one, and many a thing I thought a laughing matter when I
was young seems o’erlike a crying matter now I’m grown old,” said
old Mildred, and snuffed the kitchen candle with her fingers.
“Well, give me your arm, Mildred; there’s a good old thing—yes.”
And up she got her long length. Mildred took the candle, and took
the tall lady gently by the wrist. The guest, however, placed her great
hand upon Mildred’s shoulder, and thus they proceeded through the
passages. Leaving the back stair that led to Alice’s room, at the right,
they mounted the great staircase and reached a comfortably warm
room with a fire flickering on the hearth, for the air was sharp. In
other respects the apartment had not very much to boast.
“There’s fire here, I feel it; place my chair near it. The bed in the
old place?” said the tall woman, coming to a halt.
“Yes ’m. Little change here, ever, I warrant ye, only the room’s bin
new papered,” answered Mildred.
“New papered, has it? Well, I’ll sit down—thanks—and I’ll get to
my bed, just now.”
“Shall I assist ye, ma’am?”
“By-and-by, thanks; but not till I have eaten a bit. I have grown
hungry, what your master calls peckish. What do you advise?”
“I would advise your eating something,” replied Mildred.
“But what?”
“There’s very little; there’s eggs quite new, there’s a bit o’ bacon,
and there’s about half a cold chicken—roast, and there’s a corner o’
Cheddar cheese, and there’s butter, and there’s bread—’taint much,”
answered Mrs. Tarnley, glibly.
“The chicken will do very nicely, and don’t forget bread and salt,
Mrs. Tarnley, and a glass of beer.”
“Yes ’m.”
Mrs. Tarnley poked the fire and looked about her, and then took
the only candle, marched boldly off with it, shutting the door.
Toward the door the lady turned her face and listened. She heard
old Mildred’s step receding.
This tall woman was not pleasant to look at. Her large features
were pitted with the small-pox and deadly pale with the pallor of
anger, and an unpleasant smile lighted up the whiteness of her face.
“Patience, patience,” she repeated, “what a d——d trick! no
matter, wait a little.”
She did wait a little in silence, screwing her lips and knitting her
brows, and then a new resource struck her, and she groped in her
bag and drew forth a bottle, which she applied to her lips more than
once, and seemed better. It was no febrifuge nor opiate; but though
the flicker of the fire showed no flush on her pallid features, the
odour declared it brandy.
 CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE BELL RINGS.

“Will that beast never go to bed—even there, I mind, she used to

sleep with an eye open and an ear cocked—and nowhere safe from
her never—here and there, up and down, without a stir or a breath,
like a ghost or a devil?”—thought Mrs. Tarnley. “Thank God, she’s
blind now, that will quiet her.”
Mildred was afraid of that woman. It was not only that she was
cold and hard, but she was so awfully violent and wicked.
“Satan’s her name. Lord help us, in what hell did he pick her up?”
Mildred would say to herself, in old times, as with the important fury
of fear, she used to knock about the kitchen utensils, and deal
violently with every chair, table, spoon, or “cannikin” that came in her
way.
The woman had fits, and bad fits too, in old times, when she knew
her well.
“And she drank like a fish cognac neat—and she was alive still,
and millions of people, younger and better, that never had a fit, and
kept their bodies in soberness and temperance, was gone dead and
buried since; and that drunken, shattered, battered creature, wi’ her
fallin’ sickness and her sins and her years, was here alive and strong
to plague and frighten better folk. Well, she’s ’ad small-pox, thank
God, and well mauled she is, and them spyin’, glarin’ eyes o’ hers,
the wild beast.”
By this time Mrs. Tarnley was again in the kitchen. She did not
take down the fire yet. She did not know, for certain, whether Charles
Fairfield might not arrive. The London mail that passed by the town
of Darwynd, beyond Cressley Common, came later than that
divergent stage coach, that changed on the line of road that passes
the Pied Horse.
What a situation it would have been if Charles Fairfield and the
Vrau had found themselves vis-à-vis as inside passengers in the
coach that night. Would the matter have been much mended if the
Dutch woman had loitered long enough in the kitchen for Charles to
step in and surprise her? It was a thought that occurred more than
once to Mildred with a qualm of panic. But she was afraid to hasten
the stranger’s departure to her room, for that lady’s mind swarmed
with suspicion which a stir would set in motion.
“The Lord gave us dominion over the beast o’ the field, Parson
Winyard said in his sermon last Sunday; but we ain’t allowed to kill
nor hurt, but for food or for defence; and good old Parson Buckles,
that was as good as two of he, said, I mind, the very same words. I
often thought o’ them of late—merciful to them brutes, for they was
made by the one Creator as made ourselves. So the merciful man is
merciful to his beast—will ye?”
Mrs. Tarnley interrupted herself sharply, dealing on the lean ribs of
the cat, who had got its head into a saucepan, a thump with a
wooden spoon, which emitted a hollow sound and doubled the thief
into a curve.
“Merciful, of course, except when they’re arter mischief; but them
that’s noxious, and hurtful, and dangerous, we’re free to kill; and
where’s the beast so dangerous as a real bad man or woman? God
forbid I should do wrong. I’m an old woman, nigh-hand the grave,
and murder’s murder!—I do suppose and allow that’s it. Thou shalt
do no murder. No more I would—no, not if an angel said do it; no, I
wouldn’t for untold goold. But I often wondered why if ye may, wi’ a
good conscience, knock a snake on the head wi’ a stone, and chop a
shovel down smack on a toad, ye should stay your hand, and let a
devil incarnate go her murdering way through the world, blastin’ that
one wi’ lies, robbin’ this one wi’ craft, and murderin’ t’other, if it make
for her interest, wi’ poison or perjury. Lord help my poor head, and
forgive me if it be sin, but I can find neither right nor reason in that,
nor see, nohow, why she shouldn’t be killed off-hand like a rat or a
sarpent.”
At this point the bell rang loud and sudden, and Mrs. Tarnley
bounced and blessed herself. There was no great difficulty in settling
from what quarter the summons came, for, except the hall door bell,
which was a deep-toned sonorous one, there was but one in the
house in ringing order, and that was of the bedroom where her
young mistress lay.
 “Well, here’s a go! Who’d a’ thought o’ her awake at these hours,
and out o’ her bed, and a pluckin’ at her bell. I doubt it is her. The like
was never before. ’Tis enough to frighten a body. The Lord help us.”
Mrs. Tarnley stood straight as a grenadier on drill with her back to
the fire, the poker with which, during her homily, she had been raking
the bars, still in her hand.
“This night ’ll be the death o’ me. Everything’s gone cross and
contrary. Here’s that young silly lass awake and out o’ her bed, that
never had an eye open at these hours, since she came to the
Grange, before; and there’s that other one in the state-room, not that
far from her, as wide awake as she; and here’s Master Charles a
comin’, mayhap, this minute wi’ his drummin’ and bellin’ at the hall
door. ’Tis enough to make a body swear; ’t has given me the narves
and the tremblins, and I don’t know how it’s to end.”
And Mrs. Tarnley unconsciously shouldered her poker as if
awaiting the assault of burglars, and vaguely thought if Charles
arrived as she had described, what power on earth could keep the
peace?
Again the bell rang.
“Well, there’s patience for ye!”
She halted at the kitchen door, with the candle in her hand,
listening, with a stern, frightened face. She was thinking whether
Alice might not have been frightened by some fantastic terror in her
room.
“She has that old fat fool, Dulcibella Crane, only a room off—why
don’t she call up her?”
But Mrs. Tarnley at length did go on, and up the stairs, and heard
Alice’s voice call along the passage, in a loud tone—
“Mrs. Tarnley! is that you, Mrs. Tarnley?”
“Me, ma’am? Yes ’m. I thought I heard your bell ring, and I had
scant time to hustle my clothes on. Is there anything uncommon a-
happenin’, ma’am, or what’s expected just now from an old woman
like me?”
“Oh, Mrs. Tarnley, I beg your pardon, I’m so sorry, and I would not
disturb you, only that I heard a noise, and I thought Mr. Charles
might have arrived.”
 “No, ma’am, he’s not come, nor no sign o’ him. You told me,
ma’am, his letter said there was but small chance o’t.”
“So I did, Mildred—so it did. Still a chance—just a chance—and I
thought, perhaps——”
“There’s no perhaps in it, ma’am; he baint come.”
“Dulcibella tells me she thought some time ago she heard some
one arrive.”
“So she did, mayhap, for there did come a message for Master
Harry from the farmer beyond Gryce’s mill; but he went his way
again.”
Mildred was fibbing with a fluency that almost surprised herself.
“I dessay you’ve done wi’ me now, ma’am?” said Mildred. “Lugged
out o’ my bed, ma’am, at these hours—my achin’ old bones—’taint
what I’m used to, asking your pardon for making so free.”
“I’m really very sorry—you won’t be vexed with me. Good night,
Mildred.”
“Your servant, ma’am.”
And Mrs. Tarnley withdrew from the door where Alice stood before
her with her dressing-gown about her shoulders, looking so pale and
deprecatory and anxious, that I wonder even Mildred Tarnley did not
pity her.
“I’m tellin’ lies enough to break a bridge, and me that’s vowed
against lying so stiff and strong over again only Monday last.”
She shook her head slowly, and with a sudden qualm of
conscience.
“Well, in for a penny in for a pound. It’s only for to-night; mayhap,
and I can’t help it, and if that old witch was once over the door-stone
I’d speak truth the rest o’ my days, as I ha’ done, by the grace o’
God, for more than a month, and here’s a nice merry-go-round for
my poor old head. Who’s to keep all straight and smooth wi’ them
that’s in the house, and, mayhap comin’? And that ghost upstairs—
she’ll be gropin’ and screechin’ through the house, and then there’ll
be the devil to pay wi’ her and the poor lass up there—if I don’t gi’e
her her supper quick. Come, bustle, bustle, be alive,” she muttered,
as this thought struck her with new force; and so to the little “safe”
which served that miniature household for larder she repaired. Plates
clattered, and knives and forks, and the dishes in the safe slid forth,
and how near she was forgetting the salt! and “the bread, all right,”
so here was a tray very comfortably furnished, and setting the
candlestick upon it also, she contemplated the supper, with a fierce
sneer, and a wag of her head.
“How sick and weak we be! Tea and toast and eggs down here,
and this little bit in her bed-room—heaven bless her—la’ love it, poor
little darling, don’t I hope it may do her good?—I wish the first
mouthful may choke her—keeping me on the trot to these hours, old
beast.”
Passing the stairs, Mrs. Tarnley crept softly, and took pains to
prevent her burden from rattling on the tray, while there rose in her
brain the furious reflection—
“Pretty rubbish that I should be this way among ’em!”
And she would have liked to dash the tray on the floor at the foot
of the stairs, and to leave the startled inhabitants to their own
courses.
This, of course, was but an emotion. The old woman completed
her long march cautiously, and knocked at the Vrau’s door.
“Come in, dear,” said the inmate, and Mildred Tarnley, with her tray
in her hands, marched into the room, and looked round peevishly for
a table to set it down on.
“You’ll find all you said, ’m,” said old Tarnley. “Shall I set it before
you, or will you move this way, please ’m?”
“Before me, dear.”
So Mildred carried the table and supper over, and placed it before
the lady, who sat up and said—
“Good Mildred, how good you are; give me now the knife and fork,
in my fingers, and put some salt just there. Very good. How good of
you to take so much trouble for poor me, you kind old Mildred?”
How wondrous sweet she had grown in a minute. The old servant,
who knew her, was not conciliated, but disgusted, and looked hard at
the benevolent lady, wondering what could be in her mind.
“If everything’s right, I’ll wish you good night, ’m, and I’ll go down
to my bed, ma’am, please.”
“Wait a while with me. Do, there’s a good soul. I’ll not detain you
long, you dear old lass.”
 “Well, ma’am, I must go down and take down the fire, and shut-to
the door, or the rats will be in from the scullery; and I’ll come up
again, ma’am, in a few minutes.”
And not waiting for permission, Mildred Tarnley, who had an
anxiety of another sort in her head, took the candle in her hand and
left the guest at her supper by the light of the fire.
She shut the door quickly lest her departure should be
countermanded, and trotted away and downstairs, but not to the
kitchen.
 CHAPTER XXIX.
TOM IS ORDERED UP.

When she reached the foot of the stairs that leads to the gallery on
which the room occupied by Alice opens, instead of pursuing her
way to the kitchen she turned into a narrow and dark passage that is
hemmed in on the side opposite to the wall by the ascending
staircase.
The shadows of the banisters on the panelled oak flew after one
another in sudden chase as the old woman glided by, and looking up
and back she stopped at the door of a small room, constructed as
we see in similar old houses, under the stairs. On the panel of this
she struck a muffled summons with her fist and on the third or fourth
the startled voice of Tom demanded roughly from within—
“What’s that?”
“Hish!” said the old woman, through a bit of the open door.
“’Tis Mrs. Tarnley—only me.”
“Lauk, woman, ye did take a rise out o’ me. I thought ye was—I
don’t know what—I was a-dreaming, I think.”
“Never mind, you must be awake for an hour or so,” said Mrs.
Tarnley, entering the den without more ceremony.
Tom didn’t mind Mrs. Tarnley, nor Mrs. Tarnley Tom, a rush. She
set the candle on the tiled floor. Tom was sitting in his shirt on the
side of his “settlebed,” with his hands on his knees.
“Ye must get on your things, Tom, and if ever you stirred yourself,
be alive now. The master’s a-comin’, and may be here, across
Cressley Common in half an hour, or might be in five minutes, and
ye must go out a bit and meet him, and—are ye awake?”
“Starin’. Go on.”
“Ye’ll tell him just this, the big woman as lives at Hoxton——”
“Hoxton! Well?”
“That Master Harry has all the trouble wi’, has come here, angry, in
search of Master Harry, mind, and is in the bedroom over the hall-
door. Will ye mind all that now?”
 “Ay,” said Tom, and repeated it.
“Well, he’ll know better whether it’s best for him to come on or turn
back. But if come on he will, let him come in at the kitchen door,
mind, and you go that way, too, and he’ll find neither bolt nor bar, but
open doors, and nothing but the latch between him and the kitchen,
and me sitting by the fire; but don’t you clap a door, nor tread heavy,
but remember there’s a sharp pair of ears that ’d hear a cricket
through the three walls of Carwell Grange.”
She took up the candle, and herself listened for a moment at the
door, and again turned her earnest and sinister face on Tom.
“And again, I say, Tom, if ever ye was quick, be quick now,” and
she clapped her lean hand down on his shoulder with a sort of fierce
shake; “and if ever ye trod soft, go softly now, mind.”
Tom, who was scratching his head, and staring in her face,
nodded.
“And mind you, the kitchen way, and afraid o’ slips, say ye the
message over again to me?”
This he did, glibly enough.
“Here, light your candle from this, and if ye fail your master now,
never call yourself man again.”
Having thus charged him, she went softly from this nook with its
slanting roof, and thinking of the thankless world, and all the trouble
her old bones and brain were put to, she lost her temper, at the foot
of the great staircase, and was near turning back again to the
kitchen, or perhaps whisking out of the door herself, and marching
off to Cressley Common to meet her master, and shock and scare
him all she could, and place her resignation, as more distinguished
functionaries sometimes do theirs, in the hands of her employer, to
prove his helplessness and her own importance, and so assert
herself for time past and to come.
Her interview with Tom had not occupied much time. She knocked
at the Vrau’s door, and entering, found that person at the close of a
greedy repast.
Emotions of fear, I suppose, disturb the appetite, much more than
others. Not caring one farthing about Charles, she did not grieve at
his infidelity; taking profligacy for granted as the rule of life, it did not
even shock her. But she was stung with a furious pang of jealousy,
for that needs no love, being in its essence the sense of property
invaded, supremacy insulted, and self despised. In this sort of
jealousy there is neither the sublimity of despair nor the pathos of
sorrow, but simply the malice, fury, and revenge of outraged egotism.
There she sat, unconscious of the glimmer of the firelight, feeding
as a beast will bleeding after a blow. Beast she was, with the bestial
faculty of cherishing a long revenge, with bestial treachery and
seeming unconcern.
“Ho oh! you’ve come back,” she cried, with playful reproach, “cruel
old girl! you leave your poor vrau alone, alone among the ghosts—
now, sit down, are you sitting? and tell me everything, and all the
news—did you bring a little brandy or what?”
Her open hand was extended, and gently moving over the tray at
about the level of the top of a bottle.
“No, ma’am, I haven’t none in my charge, but there’s a smell o’
brandy about,” said Mildred, who liked saying a disagreeable thing.
“So there ought,” said the gaunt woman placidly, and lifted a big
black bottle that lay in her lap, like a baby, folded in a grey shawl.
“But I’ll want this, don’t you see, when I’m on my rambles again—get
a little, there’s a good girl, or if you can’t get that, there’s rum or gin,
there never was a country-house without something in it; you know
very well where Harry Vairvield is there will be liquor—I know him
well.”
“But he baint here now, as is well known to you, ma’am,” said
Mildred, dryly.
“I’m not going to waste my drink, while I think there’s drink in the
house. Who has a right before me, old girl?” said the stranger,
grimly.
“Tut, ma’am, ’tis childish talkin’ so, there’s none in my charge,
never a drop. Master Harry, I dare say, has summat under lock and
key, but not me, and why should I tell you a lie about the like?”
“You never tell lies, old Mildred, I forgot that—but young as she is,
I lay my life the woman, Mrs. Harry Vairvield, upstairs, likes a nip
now and then, hey? and she has a boddle, I’ll be bound, in her
wardrobe, or if she’s shy, ’twixt her bed and her mattress, ole rogue!
you know very well, I think, does she? and if she likes it she sleeps
sound, and go you, and while she snores, borrow you the bottle.”
 “She’s nothing of the sort, she drinks nothing nowhere, much less
in her bed-room, she’s a perfect lady,” said Mrs. Tarnley, in no mood
to flatter her companion.
“Oh, ho! that’s so like old Mildred Tarnley! Dear old cat, I’m so
amused, I could stroke her thin ribs, and pet her for making me laugh
so by her frisks and capers instead of throwing you by the neck out
of the window for scratching and spitting—I’m so good-natured. Do
you tell lies, Mildred?”
“I ’a told a shameful lot in my day, ma’am, but not more mayhap
than many a one that hasn’t grace to say so.”
“You read your Bible, Mildred,” said the lady, who with a knife and
fork was securing on her plate the morsels to which old Mildred
helped her.
“Ay, ma’am, a bit now, and a bit again, never too late to repent,
ma’am.”
“Repentance and grace, you’ll do, Mrs. Tarnley. It’s a pleasure to
hear you,” said the lady, with her mouth rather full; “and you never
see my husband?”
“Now and again, now and again, once and away he looks in.”
“Never stays a week or a month at a time?”
“Week or a month!” echoed Mrs. Tarnley, looking quickly in the
serene face of the lady, and then laughing off the suggestion
scornfully. “You’re thinking of old times, ma’am.”
“Thinking, thinking, I don’t think I was thinking at all,” said the lady,
answering Mildred’s laugh with one more careless; “old times when
he had a wife here, eh? old times! How old are they? Eh—that’s
eighteen years ago—you hardly knew me when I called here?”
“There was a change surely. I’d like to know who wouldn’t in
eighteen years, there’s a change in me since then.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said the lady, quietly. “Did he ever tell you
how we quarrelled?”
“Not he,” answered Mildred.
“He’s very close,” said the stranger.
“A deal closer than Mr. Harry,” acquiesced Mildred.
“Not like you and me, Mrs. Tarnley, that can’t keep a secret—
never. That tell truth, and shame the devil. I, because I don’t care a
snap of my fingers for you, or him, or the Archbishop of Canterbury;
and you, because you’re all for grace and repentance. How am I
looking to-night—tired?”
“Tired, to be sure; you ought to be in your bed, ma’am, an hour
ago; you’re as white as that plate, ma’am.”
“White are they?—so they used to be long ago,” said the visitor.
“The same set, ma’am. ’Twas a long set in my mother’s time,
though ’tis little better than a short set now; but I don’t think there’s
more than three plates, and the cracked butter-boat, that had a stitch
in it. You’ll mind, although ye may ’a forgot, for I usen’t to send it up
to table—only them three, and the butter-boat broke since; and that
butter-boat, ’twouldn’t a brought three ha’pence by auction, and
’twas that little slut downstairs, that doesn’t never do nothing right,
that knocked it off the shelf, with her smashing.”
“And I’m not looking well to-night?” said this pallid woman.
“You’d be the better of a little blood to your cheeks; you’re as white
as paper, ma’am,” answered Mildred.
“I never have any colour now, they tell me—always pale, pale,
pale; but it isn’t muddy; ’taint what you call putty?”
“Well, no.”
“Ha! no; I knew that—no, and I’d rather be a little pale. I don’t like
your great, coarse peony-faced women; it’s seven years in May last
since I lost my sight. Some people are persecuted; one curse after
another—rank injustice! Why should I lose my sight, that never did
anything to signify—not half what others have, who enjoy health,
wealth, rank—everything. Things are topsy-turvey a bit just now, but
we’ll see them righted yet.”
 CHAPTER XXX.
THE OLD SOLDIER GROWS MORE FRIENDLY, AND FRIGHTENS MRS.
TARNLEY.

The “Dutchwoman” resumed in a minute, and observed—

“Well, old Tarnley, there’s no good in talking where you can’t right
yourself, and where you can revenge, there’s no good in talk either;
but gone it is, and the doctors say no cutting, nothing safe in my
case; no cure, so let it be. I liked dress once; I dressed pretty well.”
“Beautiful!” exclaimed old Mildred, kindling for a moment into her
earlier admiration of the French and London finery, with which once
this tall and faded beauty had amazed the solitudes of Carwell.
The bleached, big woman smiled—almost laughed with gratified
vanity.
“Yes, I was well dressed—something better than the young
dowdies and old fromps, in this part of the world. How I used to
laugh at them! I went to church, and to the races, to see them. Well,
we’ll have better times yet at Wyvern; the old man there can’t live for
ever; he’s not the Wandering Jew, and he can’t be far from a
hundred; and so sure as Charles is my husband, I’ll have you there,
if you like it, or give you a snug house, and a bit of ground, and a
garden, and a snug allowance monthly, if you like this place best. I
love my own, and you’ve been true to me, and I never failed a
friend.”
“I’m growing old and silly, ma’am—never so strong as I was took
for. The will was ever stronger with Mildred than the body, bless ye—
no, no; two or three quiet years to live as I should a lived always, wi’
an eye on my Bible and an eye on my ways—not that I ever did
aught I need be one bit ashamed on—no, not I; honest and sober,
and most respectable, thank God, as the family will testify, and the
neighbours; but I’ll not deny, ’twould be something not that bad, if my
old bones could rest a bit,” said old Mildred.
“Ha, girl, they shall; your old bones shall rest, my child,” said the
lady.
 “They’ll rest some day in the old churchyard o’ Carwell, but not
much sooner, I’m thinking,” said Mrs. Tarnley.
“Folly, folly! ole girl! you’ve many a year to go before that journey;
you’ll live to see me, Mrs. Vairvield of Wyvern, and it won’t be a bad
day for you, old Mildred.”
The “Dutchwoman,” or the old soldier, as they used to call her long
ago in this sequestered nook, drawled this languidly, and yawned a
long, listless yawn.
“Well, ma’am, if you’re tired, so am I,” said Mildred, a little tartly;
“and as for dreamin’ o’ quiet in this world, I ha’ cleared my head o’
that nonsense many a year ago. There’s little good can happen old
Mildred now, and less I look for, and none I’ll seek, ma’am; and as
for a roof over my head for nothing, and that bit o’ ground ye spoke
of, and wages to live on without no work, I don’t believe there’s no
such luck going for no one.”
“Listen to me, Mildred,” said the stranger, more sternly than
before; “is it because I don’t swear you won’t believe? Hear, now,
once for all, and understand: I’ll make that a good day for you that
makes me the lady of Wyvern. Sharp and hard I’ve been with those I
owed a knock to, but I never yet forgot a friend; you may do me a
service to-morrow or next day, mind, and if you stand by me, I’ll
stand by you; you need but ask and have, ask what you will.”
“Well, now, ma’am—bah! what talk it is! Lawk, ma’am; don’t I know
the world, ma’am, and what sort o’ place it is? I a’ bin promised
many a fine thing in my day, and here I am still—old and weary—
among the pots and pans every night and mornin’, and up to my
elbows in suds every Saturday; that’s all that ever came o’ fine
promises to Mildred Tarnley.”
“Well, you used to say, it’s a long lane that has no turn. You’ll have
a glass of this?” and she popped the brandy-bottle on the table
beside her, with her hand fast on its neck.
“No brandy—no nothing, ma’am, I thank ye.”
“What! no brandy? Pish, girl, nonsense.”
“No, ma’am, I thank ye, I never drinks nothing o’ the sort—a mug
o’ beer after washing or the like—but my headache never would
abear brandy.”
“Once and away—come,” solicited the old soldier.
 “No, I thank ye, ma’am; I’ll swallow nothing o’ the kind, please.”
“What a mule! You won’t have a nip with an old friend, after so
long an absence—come, Mildred, come; where’s the glass?”
“Here’s the glass, ’m, but not a drop for me, ma’am; I won’t drink
nothing o’ the sort, please.”
“Not from me, I suppose; but if you mean to say you never do, I
don’t believe you,” said the Dutchwoman, more nettled, it seemed,
than such a failure of good fellowship in Mrs. Tarnley would naturally
have warranted. Perhaps she had particularly strong reasons for
making old Mildred frank, genial, and intimate that night.
“I don’t tell lies,” said Mildred.
“Don’t you?” said the “old soldier,” and elevated the brows of her
sightless eyes, and screwed her lips with ugly ridicule.
Mrs. Tarnley looked with a dark shrewdness upon this meaning
mask, trying to discover the exact force of its significance. She felt
very uncomfortable.
The blind woman’s face expanded into a broad smile. She
shrugged, shook her head, and laughed. How odiously wide her face
looked as she laughed! Mildred did not know exactly what to make of
her.
“But if you did tell lies,” drawled the lady, “even to me, what does it
matter, if you promised to tell no more? So let us shake hands—
where’s your hand?”
And she kept shuffling her big hand upon the table, palm upward,
with its fingers groping in the air like the claws of a crab upon its
back.
“Give me—give me—give me your hand, I say,” said she.
“’Tain’t for the like o’ me,” replied Mildred, with grim formality.
“You’d better be friendly. Come, give me your hand.”
“Well, ma’am, ’tain’t for me to dispute your pleasure,” answered
the old servant, and she slipped her hard fingers upon the upturned
palm of the Dutchwoman, who clutched them with a strenuous
friendship, and held them fast.
“I like you, Tarnley; we’ve had rough words, sometimes, but no ill
blood, and I’ll do what I said. I never failed a friend, as you will see, if
only you be my friend; and why or for whom should you not? Tut,
we’re not fools!”
 “The time is past for me to quarrel, being to the wrong side o’ sixty
more than you’d suppose, and quiet all I wants—quiet, ma’am.”
“Yes, quiet and comfort, too, and both you shall have, Mildred
Tarnley, if you don’t choose to quarrel with those who would be kind
to you, if you’d let them. Yes, indeed, who would be kind, and very
kind, if you’d only let them. No, leave your hand where it is, I can’t
see you, and it’s sometimes dull work talking only to a voice. If I can’t
see you I’ll feel you, and hold you, old girl—hold you fast till I know
what terms we’re on.”
All this time she had Mildred Tarnley’s hand between hers, and
was fondling and kneading it as a rustic lover in the agonies of the
momentous question might have done fifty years ago.
“I don’t know what you want me to say, ma’am, no more than the
plate there. Little good left in Mildred Tarnley now, and small power
to help or hurt any one, great or small, at these years.”
“I want you to be friendly with me, that’s all; I ask no more, and it
ain’t a great deal, all things considered. Friendly talk, of course, ain’t
all I mean, that’s civility, and civility’s very well, very pleasant, like a
lady’s fan, or her lap-dog, but nothing at a real pinch, nothing to fight
a wolf with. Come, old Mildred, Mildred Tarnley, good Mildred, can I
be sure of you, quite sure?”
“Sure and certain, ma’am, in all honest service.”
“Honest service! Yes, of course; what else could we think of? You
used to like, I remember, Mildred, a nice ribbon in your bonnet. I
have two pieces quite new. I brought them from London. Satin ribbon
—purple one is—I know you’ll like it, and you’ll drink a glass of this to
please me.”
“Thanks for the ribbons, ma’am, I’ll not refuse ’em; but I won’t drink
nothing, ma’am, I thank you.”
“Well, please yourself in that. Pour out a little for me, there’s a
glass, ain’t there?”
“Yes, ’m. How much will you have, ma’am?”
“Half a glass. There’s a dear. Stingy half glass,” she continued,
putting her finger in to gauge the quantity. “Go on, go on, remember
my long journey to-day. Do you smoke, Mildred?”
“Smoke, ’m? No, ’m! Dear me, there’s no smell o’ tobacco, is
there?” said Mildred, who was always suspecting Tom of smoking
slily in his crib under the stairs.
“Smell, no; but I smoke a pinch of tobacco now and again myself,
the doctor says I must, and a breath just of opium when I want it. You
can have a pipe of tobacco if you like, child, and you needn’t be shy.
Well?”
“Ho, Fau! No, ma’am, I thank ye.”
“Fau!” echoed the Dutchwoman, with a derisive, chilling laugh,
which apprised old Mildred of her solecism. But the lady did not
mean to quarrel.
“What sort of dress have you for Sundays, going to church, and all
that?”
“An old dress it is now. I had the material, ye’ll mind, when ye was
here, long ago; but it wasn’t made up till long after. It’s very genteel,
the folk all says. Chocolate colour—British cashmere—’twas old Mrs.
Hartlepool, the parson’s widow, made me a compliment o’t when she
was goin’, and I kept it all the time, wi’ whole pepper and camphor, in
my box, by my bed, and it looked as fresh when I took it out to give it
to Miss Maddox to make up as if ’twas just put new on the counter.
She did open her eyes, that’s nigh seven years gone, when I told her
how old it was.”
“Heyday! Hi! I think I do remember that old chocolate thing. Why, it
can’t be that, that’s twenty years old. Well, look in my box, here’s the
key. You’ll see two books with green leather backs and gold. Can ye
read? I’m going to make you a present.”
“I can read, ma’am; but I scarce have time to read my Bible.”
“The Bible’s a good book, but that’s a better,” said the lady, with
one of her titters. “But it ain’t a book I’m going to give you. Look it
out, green and gold, there are only two in the box. It is the one that
has an I and a V on the back, four, the fourth volume. I have little
else to amuse me. I have the news of the neighbours, but I don’t like
’em, who could? A bad lot, they hate one another; ’twouldn’t be a
worse world if they were all hanged. They hate me because I’m a
lady, so I don’t cry when baby takes the croup, nor break my heart
when papa gets into the ‘Gazette.’ Have you found it? Why, it’s
under your hand there. They would not cry their eyes out for me, so I
can see the funny side of their adventures, bless them!”
“Is this it, ma’am?”
 “There are but two books in the box. Has it an I and a V on the
back?”
“V, O, L, I, V,” spelled out old Mildred, who was listening in a fever
for the sounds of Charles Fairfield’s arrival.
“That’s it. That’s the book you should read. I take it in, and I hire all
the others, and a French one, from the Hoxton library. I make Molly
Jinks, the little, dirty, starving maid, read to me two hours a day.
She’s got rather to like it. How are your eyes?”
“I can make out twelve or fourteen verses wi’ the glasses, but not
more, at one bout.”
“Well, get on your glasses. This is the ‘Magazine of the Beau-
Monde, and Court and Vashionable Gazette,’ and full of pictures.
Turn over.”
“La, ma’am, ’tis beautiful, but what have I to do with the like?”
“Well, look out for the puce gros de Naples walking dress, about
page twenty-nine, and I’ll show you the picture afterwards. Do be
quick. I have had it four years, it’s quite good though, only I’m grown
a little fuller since, and it don’t fit now. So read it, and you’ll see how
I’ll dress you.”
And bending her head forward and knitting her brows, she listened
absorbed, while old Mildred helped, or corrected, at every second
word, by her blind patroness, babbled and stuttered on with her in
duet recitation.
“Walking dress,” said Mildred—
“Go on,” said the lady, who, having this like other descriptions in
that cherished work pretty well by heart, led off energetically with her
lean old companion, and together they read—
“A pelisse of puce-coloured gros de Naples, the corsage made to
sit close to the shape, with a large round pelerine which wraps
across in front. The sleeve is excessively large at the upper part of
the arm. The fulness of the lower is more moderate. It is confined in
three places by bands and terminated by a broad wrist-band. The
pelerine and bands of the sleeves are cased with satin to
correspond, and three satin rouleaus are arranged en tablier on the
front of the skirt. The bonnet is of rice straw of the cottage shape,
trimmed under the brim on the right side, with a band and nœud of
gold-coloured ribbon. The crown being also ornamented with gold-
coloured ribbon, and a sprig of lilac, placed perpendicularly. Half-
boots of black gros de Naples, tipped with black kid.”
Here they drew breath, and Mildred Tarnley was silent for a
minute, thinking how much more like a lady her mother used to dress
than she was able, and what fine presents of old clothes old Mrs.
Fairfield used to send her now and then from Wyvern. For a moment
an air of dignity, a sense of feminine vanity, showed itself in the face
and mien of Mrs. Tarnley.
“That rice straw bonnet, with the gold-coloured nœud, of course I
haven’t got, nor the gros de Naples’ boots—they’re gone, of course,
long ago; but it reads best, altogether, and I hadn’t the heart to stop
you, nor you to stop reading till we got to the end. And look at the
pictures, you’ll easily find it; and I’ll write and have the pelisse sent
here by the day-coach. It will be here on Sunday. Do you like it?”
“It is a bit too fine for me, I’m afraid,” said Mildred, smiling in spite
of herself, with a grim elation; “my poor mother used to dress herself
grand enough, in her day, and keep me handsome also when I was
a young thing. But since the ladies come no more to Carwell the
Grange has been a dull place, and gives a body enough to do to live,
and little thought o’ fine dresses, and few to see them, except o’
Sundays, if ’twas here; not but ’twould be more for the credit o’ the
family if old Mildred Tarnley, that’s known down here for housekeeper
at the Grange of Carwell, wasn’t turned out quite so poor and dowdy,
and seeing them taking the wall o’ me, which their mothers used to
courtesy to mine, at church and market, and come up here to the
Grange as humble as you please, when money was stirring at
Carwell, and I, young as I was, thought more on, a deal more, than
the best o’ them.”
“I drink your health, Mildred; as you won’t pledge me, I do it alone.”
“I thank ye, ma’am.”
“Ha, yes, that does me good; I’m tired to death, Mildred.”
“There’s two on us so, ma’am; shall I get you to bed, please?”
“In a minute; give me your hand again, girl; come, come, come,—
yes, I have it. I think you are more friendly, eh? I think so; but the
little goodwill I ever show you now is nothing to what I mean for you
when I come to Wyvern—nothing.”