This is a modern-English version of Index of the Project Gutenberg Works of Thomas Hardy, originally written by Hardy, Thomas. It has been thoroughly updated, including changes to sentence structure, words, spelling, and grammar—to ensure clarity for contemporary readers, while preserving the original spirit and nuance. If you click on a paragraph, you will see the original text that we modified, and you can toggle between the two versions.

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Compiled by David Widger

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table of contents for each of the twelve volumes.

Click on the title itself to open the original online file.

TABLES OF CONTENTS OF VOLUMES

FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD

By Thomas Hardy

TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES

A Pure Woman

Faithfully presented by

Thomas Hardy

Phase the First: The Maiden











Phase the Second: Maiden No More




Phase the Third: The Rally









Phase the Fourth: The Consequence










Phase the Fifth: The Woman Pays










Phase the Sixth: The Convert








Phase the Seventh: Fulfilment

THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE

by Thomas Hardy

CONTENTS

TABLE OF CONTENTS

THE THREE WOMEN

A Face on Which Time Makes but Little Impression

Humanity Appears upon the Scene, Hand in Hand with Trouble

The Custom of the Country

The Halt on the Turnpike Road

Perplexity among Honest People

The Figure against the Sky

Queen of Night

Those Who Are Found Where There Is Said to Be Nobody

Love Leads a Shrewd Man into Strategy

A Desperate Attempt at Persuasion

The Dishonesty of an Honest Woman

THE ARRIVAL

Tidings of the Comer

The People at Blooms-End Make Ready

How a Little Sound Produced a Great Dream

Eustacia Is Led on to an Adventure

Through the Moonlight

The Two Stand Face to Face

A Coalition between Beauty and Oddness

Firmness Is Discovered in a Gentle Heart

THE FASCINATION

“My Mind to Me a Kingdom Is”

The New Course Causes Disappointment

The First Act in a Timeworn Drama

An Hour of Bliss and Many Hours of Sadness

Sharp Words Are Spoken, and a Crisis Ensues

Yeobright Goes, and the Breach Is Complete

The Morning and the Evening of a Day

A New Force Disturbs the Current

THE CLOSED DOOR

The Rencounter by the Pool

He Is Set upon by Adversities but He Sings a Song

She Goes Out to Battle against Depression

Rough Coercion Is Employed

The Journey across the Heath

A Conjuncture, and Its Result upon the Pedestrian

The Tragic Meeting of Two Old Friends

Eustacia Hears of Good Fortune, and Beholds Evil

THE DISCOVERY

“Wherefore Is Light Given to Him That Is in Misery”

A Lurid Light Breaks in upon a Darkened Understanding

Eustacia Dresses Herself on a Black Morning

The Ministrations of a Half-forgotten One

An Old Move Inadvertently Repeated

Thomasin Argues with Her Cousin, and He Writes a Letter

The Night of the Sixth of November

Rain, Darkness, and Anxious Wanderers

Sights and Sounds Draw the Wanderers Together

AFTERCOURSES

The Inevitable Movement Onward

Thomasin Walks in a Green Place by the Roman Road

The Serious Discourse of Clym with His Cousin

Cheerfulness Again Asserts Itself at Blooms-End, and Clym Finds His

THE MAYOR OF CASTERBRIDGE

by Thomas Hardy

CHAPTERS

JUDE THE OBSCURE

By Thomas Hardy

PART FIRST At Marygreen











PART SECOND At Christminster







PART THIRD At Melchester










PART FOURTH At Shaston






PART FIFTH At Aldbrickham and Elsewhere








PART SIXTH At Christminster Again

A PAIR OF BLUE EYES

by Thomas Hardy

'A fair vestal, throned in the west'

'Twas on the evening of a winter's day.'

'Melodious birds sing madrigals'

'Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap.'

'Bosom'd high in tufted trees.'

'Fare thee weel awhile!'

'No more of me you knew, my love!'

'Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord.'

'Her father did fume'

'Beneath the shelter of an aged tree.'

'Journeys end in lovers meeting.'

'Adieu! she cries, and waved her lily hand.'

'He set in order many proverbs.'

'We frolic while 'tis May.'

'A wandering voice.'

'Then fancy shapes-as fancy can.'

'Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase.'

'He heard her musical pants.'

'Love was in the next degree.'

'A distant dearness in the hill.'

'On thy cold grey stones, O sea!'

'A woman's way.'

'Should auld acquaintance be forgot?'

'Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour.'

Mine own familiar friend.'

'To that last nothing under earth.'

'How should I greet thee?'

'I lull a fancy, trouble-tost.'

'Care, thou canker.'

'Vassal unto Love.'

'A worm i' the bud.'

'Had I wist before I kist'

'O daughter of Babylon, wasted with misery.'

'Yea, happy shall he be that rewardeth thee as thou hast served us.'

'And wilt thou leave me thus?-say nay-say nay!'

'The pennie's the jewel that beautifies a'.'

'After many days.'

'Jealousy is cruel as the grave.'

'Each to the loved one's side.'

'Welcome, proud lady.'

THE WOODLANDERS

By Thomas Hardy

SATIRES OF CIRCUMSTANCE LYRICS AND REVERIES WITH MISCELLANEOUS PIECES

By Thomas Hardy

Lyrics and Reveries— Lyrics and Dreams—			PAGE PAGE
	In Front of the Landscape In Front of the Scenery
	Channel Firing Channel Firing
	The Convergence of the Twain The Meeting of the Twain
	The Ghost of the Past The Ghost from the Past
	After the Visit After the Visit
	To Meet, or Otherwise To meet or not to meet
	The Difference The Difference
	The Sun on the Bookcase The Sun on the Shelf
	“When I set out for Lyonnesse” “When I headed out for Lyonnesse”
	A Thunderstorm in Town Thunderstorm in Town
	The Torn Letter The Torn Message
	Beyond the Last Lamp Beyond the Last Streetlight
	The Face at the Casement The Face at the Window
	Lost Love Lost Love
	“My spirit will not haunt the mound” “My spirit won’t haunt the mound.”
	Wessex Heights Wessex Heights
	In Death divided In death, separated.
	p. viThe Place on the Map p. viThe Spot on the Map
	Where the Picnic was Where the picnic took place
	The Schreckhorn The Schreckhorn
	A Singer asleep A singer sleeping
	A Plaint to Man A Complaint to Man
	God’s Funeral God's Funeral
	Spectres that grieve Grieving spirits
	“Ah, are you digging on my grave?” “Ah, are you digging at my grave?”
Satires of Circumstance— Satires of Circumstance—
	I. I.	At Tea At Tea Time
	II. II.	In Church At Church
	III. III.	By her Aunt’s Grave By Her Aunt's Grave
	IV. IV.	In the Room of the Bride-elect In the Room of the Bride-to-be
	V. V.	At the Watering-place At the Watering Hole
	VI. VI.	In the Cemetery At the Cemetery
	VII. VII.	Outside the Window Outside the Window
	VIII. VIII.	In the Study In the Lab
	IX. IX.	At the Altar-rail At the altar rail
	X. X.	In the Nuptial Chamber In the Wedding Suite
	XI. XI.	In the Restaurant At the Restaurant
	XII. XII.	At the Draper’s At the tailor’s
	XIII. XIII.	On the Death-bed On the deathbed
	XIV. XIV.	Over the Coffin Over the Casket
	XV. XV.	In the Moonlight In the moonlight
p. viiLyrics and Reveries (continued)— p. viiLyrics and Dreams (continued)—
	Self-unconscious Self-aware
	The Discovery The Find
	Tolerance Acceptance
	Before and after Summer Before and after summer
	At Day-close in November At November's end
	The Year’s Awakening The Year's Awakening
	Under the Waterfall Under the waterfall
	The Spell of the Rose The Rose Spell
	St. Launce’s revisited St. Launce’s reimagined
Poems of 1912–13– Poems from 1912–13–
	The Going The Going Out
	Your Last Drive Your Final Drive
	The Walk The Stroll
	Rain on a Grace Rain on a Gracious Day
	“I found her out there” "I found her out there."
	Without Ceremony No formalities
	Lament Grieve
	The Haunter The Haunter
	The Voice The Voice
	His Visitor His Guest
	A Circular A Circular Notice
	A Dream or No A Dream or Nah
	After a Journey After a Trip
	A Death-ray recalled A death ray remembered
	p. viiiBeeny Cliff Beeny Cliff
	At Castle Boterel At Boterel Castle
	Places Locations
	The Phantom Horsewoman The Ghost Rider
Miscellaneous Pieces— Random Items—
	The Wistful Lady The Nostalgic Lady
	The Woman in the Rye The Woman in the Rye
	The Cheval-Glass The full-length mirror
	The Re-enactment The Reenactment
	Her Secret Her secret
	“She charged me” “She billed me”
	The Newcomer’s Wife The Newcomer's Wife
	A Conversation at Dawn A Chat at Dawn
	A King’s Soliloquy A King’s Monologue
	The Coronation The Coronation
	Aquae Sulis Bath
	Seventy-four and Twenty 74 and 20
	The Elopement The Elopement
	“I rose up as my custom is” “I got up like I usually do”
	A Week A Week
	Had you wept Did you cry?
	Bereft, she thinks she dreams Lost, she thinks she dreams
	In the British Museum At the British Museum
	In the Servants’ Quarters In the Staff Room
	The Obliterate Tomb The Obliterate Tomb
	p. ix“Regret not me” "Don't regret me"
	The Recalcitrants The Stubborn Ones
	Starlings on the Roof Starlings on the Roof
	The Moon looks in The Moon is watching in
	The Sweet Hussy The Sweet Hussy
	The Telegram The Telegram App
	The Moth-signal The Moth Signal
	Seen by the Waits Seen by the Waits
	The Two Soldiers The Two Soldiers
	The Death of Regret The End of Regret
	In the Days of Crinoline In the Era of Crinoline
	The Roman Gravemounds The Roman Burial Mounds
	The Workbox The Workbox
	The Sacrilege The Blasphemy
	The Abbey Mason The Abbey Masonry
	The Jubilee of a Magazine The magazine's anniversary
	The Satin Shoes The Satin Sneakers
	Exeunt Omnes Exit all
	A Poet A Poet
Postscript— P.S.—
	“Men who march away” “Men who go to war”

DESPERATE REMEDIES

By Thomas Hardy

THE EVENTS OF THIRTY YEARS

THE EVENTS OF A FORTNIGHT

THE EVENTS OF EIGHT DAYS

THE EVENTS OF ONE DAY

THE EVENTS OF TWELVE HOURS

THE EVENTS OF EIGHTEEN DAYS

THE EVENTS OF TEN WEEKS

THE EVENTS OF A DAY AND NIGHT

THE EVENTS OF FIVE DAYS

THE EVENTS OF TEN MONTHS

THE EVENTS OF ONE DAY

THE EVENTS OF FIVE WEEKS

THE EVENTS OF THREE WEEKS

THE EVENTS OF ONE WEEK

THE EVENTS OF ONE DAY

THE EVENTS OF THREE DAYS

THE EVENTS OF A DAY AND NIGHT

THE EVENTS OF THREE HOURS

THE EVENTS OF EIGHTEEN HOURS

POEMS OF THE PAST AND THE PRESENT

By Thomas Hardy

		PAGE PAGE
V.R. 1819–1901 V.R. 1819–1901
WAR POEMS— WAR POEMS—
	Embarcation Boarding
	Departure Departure
	The Colonel’s Soliloquy The Colonel's Monologue
	The Going of the Battery The Departure of the Battery
	At the War Office At the Defense Department
	A Christmas Ghost-Story A Christmas Ghost Story
	The Dead Drummer The Dead Drummer
	A Wife in London A Wife in London
	The Souls of the Slain The Souls of the Fallen
	Song of the Soldiers’ Wives Wives of Soldiers' Song
	The Sick God The Ill God
POEMS OF PILGRIMAGE— Pilgrimage Poems—
	Genoa and the Mediterranean Genoa and the Med
	Shelley’s Skylark Shelley's Skylark
	In the Old Theatre, Fiesole At the Old Theatre, Fiesole
	Rome: on the Palatine Rome: at the Palatine
	,, Building a New Street in the Ancient Quarter ,, Building a New Street in the Historic District
	,, The Vatican: Sala Delle Muse The Vatican: Sala Delle Muse
	,, At the Pyramid of Cestius ,, At the Pyramid of Cestius
	Lausanne: In Gibbon’s Old Garden Lausanne: In Gibbon's Old Garden
	Zermatt: To the Matterhorn Zermatt: To the Matterhorn
	The Bridge of Lodi The Lodi Bridge
	On an Invitation to the United States On an Invitation to the United States
p. xiiMISCELLANEOUS POEMS— MISCELLANEOUS POEMS—
	The Mother Mourns The Mom Grieves
	“I said to Love” “I told Love”
	A Commonplace Day An Ordinary Day
	At a Lunar Eclipse During a Lunar Eclipse
	The Lacking Sense The Missing Sense
	To Life Cheers to Life
	Doom and She Doom and She
	The Problem The Issue
	The Subalterns The Subalterns
	The Sleep-worker The Sleep-Worker
	The Bullfinches The Bullfinches
	God-Forgotten God-Forgotten
	The Bedridden Peasant to an Unknowing God The Bedridden Peasant to an Unaware God
	By the Earth’s Corpse By the Earth's Remains
	Mute Opinion Silenced Perspective
	To an Unborn Pauper Child To an Unborn Poor Child
	To Flowers from Italy in Winter To Flowers from Italy in Winter
	On a Fine Morning On a Beautiful Morning
	To Lizbie Browne To Lizbie Browne
	Song of Hope Song of Hope
	The Well-Beloved The Well-Beloved
	Her Reproach Her Disapproval
	The Inconsistent The Unreliable
	A Broken Appointment A Missed Appointment
	“Between us now” “Between us now”
	“How great my Grief” “How deep my grief”
	“I need not go” "I don't need to go"
	The Coquette, and After The Coquette, and Beyond
	p. xiiiA Spot A Spot
	Long Plighted Long Engaged
	The Widow The Widow
	At a Hasty Wedding At a Quick Wedding
	The Dream-Follower The Dream-Chaser
	His Immortality His Immortality
	The To-be-Forgotten The Forgotten
	Wives in the Sere Wives in the Sere
	The Superseded The Outdated
	An August Midnight An August Midnight
	The Caged Thrush Freed and Home Again The Caged Thrush Is Free and Back Home Again
	Birds at Winter Nightfall Birds at Winter Dusk
	The Puzzled Game-Birds The Confused Game Birds
	Winter in Durnover Field Winter in Durnover Field
	The Last Chrysanthemum The Last Chrysanthemum
	The Darkling Thrush The Darkling Thrush
	The Comet at Yalbury or Yell’ham The Comet at Yalbury or Yell'ham
	Mad Judy Mad Judy
	A Wasted Illness A Squandered Illness
	A Man A Guy
	The Dame of Athelhall The Lady of Athelhall
	The Seasons of her Year Her Year’s Seasons
	The Milkmaid The Milkmaid
	The Levelled Churchyard The Levelled Cemetery
	The Ruined Maid The Ruined Maid
	The Respectable Burgher on “the Higher Criticism” The Respectable Burgher on “Higher Criticism”
	Architectural Masks Architectural Masks
	The Tenant-for-Life The Lifelong Tenant
	p. xivThe King’s Experiment The King’s Experiment
	The Tree: an Old Man’s Story The Tree: A Story from an Elderly Man
	Her Late Husband Her Late Husband
	The Self-Unseeing The Unseeing Self
	De Profundis i. De Profundis i.
	De Profundis ii. De Profundis ii.
	De Profundis iii. De Profundis iii.
	The Church-Builder The Church Creator
	The Lost Pyx: a Mediæval Legend The Lost Pyx: a Medieval Legend
	Tess’s Lament Tess's Lament
	The Supplanter: A Tale The Supplanter: A Story
IMITATIONS, Etc.— IMITATIONS, etc.—
	Sapphic Fragment Sapphic Fragment
	Catullus: xxxi Catullus: xxxi
	After Schiller After Schiller
	Song: From Heine Song: From Heine
	From Victor Hugo From Victor Hugo
	Cardinal Bembo’s Epitaph on Raphael Cardinal Bembo’s Epitaph for Raphael
RETROSPECT— RETROSPECT—
	“I have Lived with Shades” “I have lived with shades”
	Memory and I Memory and Me
	ΑΓΝΩΣΤΩ. ΘΕΩ UNKNOWN. THEO

MOMENTS OF VISION AND MISCELLANEOUS VERSES

By Thomas Hardy

		PAGE PAGE
Moments of Vision Vision Moments
The Voice of Things The Sound of Things
“Why be at pains?” “Why make it difficult?”
“We sat at the window” "We sat by the window"
Afternoon Service at Mellstock Afternoon Service at Mellstock
At the Wicket-gate At the Wicket Gate
In a Museum At a Museum
Apostrophe to an Old Psalm Tune Apostrophe to an Old Psalm Tune
At the Word “Farewell” At the word "Goodbye"
First Sight of Her and After First Sight of Her and After
The Rival The Competitor
Heredity Genetics
“You were the sort that men forget” “You were the kind of person men forget.”
She, I, and They She, I, and They
Near Lanivet, 1872 Near Lanivet, 1872
Joys of Memory Memories are Joyful
To the Moon To the Moon
Copying Architecture in an Old Minster Copying Architecture in an Old Church
p. viTo Shakespeare To Shakespeare
Quid hic agis? What are you doing here?
On a Midsummer Eve On Midsummer's Eve
Timing Her Timing Her
Before Knowledge Before Learning
The Blinded Bird The Blind Bird
“The wind blew words” “The wind carried words”
The Faded Face The Worn-Out Face
The Riddle The Riddle
The Duel The Showdown
At Mayfair Lodgings At Mayfair Rentals
To my Father’s Violin To My Dad's Violin
The Statue of Liberty The Statue of Liberty
The Background and the Figure The Background and the Figure
The Change The Shift
Sitting on the Bridge Chilling on the Bridge
The Young Churchwarden The Young Church Volunteer
“I travel as a phantom now” “I travel as a ghost now”
Lines to a Movement in Mozart’s E-flat Symphony Lines to a Movement in Mozart’s E-flat Symphony
“In the seventies” "In the '70s"
The Pedigree The Bloodline
This Heart. A Woman’s Dream This Heart: A Woman's Dream
Where they lived Where they lived
The Occultation The Hidden Period
Life laughs Onward Life laughs forward
The Peace-offering The Peace Offering
p. vii“Something tapped” “Something tapped”
The Wound The Injury
A Merrymaking in Question A Celebration in Question
“I said and sang her excellence” “I expressed and celebrated her greatness”
A January Night. 1879 A January Night, 1879
A Kiss A Kiss
The Announcement The Announcement
The Oxen The Oxen
The Tresses The Hair
The Photograph The Photo
On a Heath On a Meadow
An Anniversary An Anniversary Celebration
“By the Runic Stone” "By the Rune Stone"
The Pink Frock The Pink Dress
Transformations Changes
In her Precincts In her district
The Last Signal The Final Signal
The House of Silence The Silent House
Great Things Awesome Stuff
The Chimes The Bells
The Figure in the Scene The Figure in the Scene
“Why did I sketch” “Why did I draw”
Conjecture Guess
The Blow The Hit
Love the Monopolist Love the Monopoly Player
At Middle-field Gate in February At Middle-field Gate in February
p. viiiThe Youth who carried a Light p. viiiThe Young Person who Carried a Light
The Head above the Fog The Head Above the Fog
Overlooking the River Stour Overlooking the River Stour
The Musical Box The Music Box
On Sturminster Foot-bridge On Sturminster Footbridge
Royal Sponsors Royal Patrons
Old Furniture Vintage Furniture
A Thought in Two Moods A Thought in Two Vibes
The Last Performance The Final Show
“You on the tower” “You're on the tower”
The Interloper The Intruder
Logs on the Hearth Firewood on the Hearth
The Sunshade The Shade
The Ageing House The Aging House
The Caged Goldfinch The Caged Goldfinch
At Madame Tussaud’s in Victorian Years At Madame Tussaud's in the Victorian Era
The Ballet The Ballet Performance
The Five Students The Five Students
The Wind’s Prophecy The Wind's Prediction
During Wind and Rain During Wind and Rain
He prefers her Earthly He prefers her on Earth.
The Dolls The Dolls
Molly gone Molly is gone.
A Backward Spring A Retro Spring
Looking Across Looking Around
At a Seaside Town in 1869 At a Seaside Town in 1869
p. ixThe Glimpse The Glimpse
The Pedestrian The Walker
“Who’s in the next room?” “Who’s in the other room?”
At a Country Fair At a Country Fair
The Memorial Brass: 186- The Memorial Brass: 186-
Her Love-birds Her Lovebirds
Paying Calls Visiting Friends
The Upper Birch-Leaves The Upper Birch Leaves
“It never looks like summer” "It never feels like summer"
Everything comes Everything arrives
The Man with a Past The Guy with a Past
He fears his Good Fortune He fears his good luck
He wonders about Himself He wonders about himself
Jubilate Rejoice
He revisits his First School He revisits his elementary school
“I thought, my heart” "I thought, my heart"
Fragment Fragment
Midnight on the Great Western Midnight on the Great Western
Honeymoon Time at an Inn Honeymoon Stay at an Inn
The Robin The Robin Bird
“I rose and went to Rou’tor town” “I got up and went to Rou’tor town”
The Nettles The Nettles
In a Waiting-room In a waiting room
The Clock-winder The Clock Winder
Old Excursions Old Trips
The Masked Face The Masked Face
p. xIn a Whispering Gallery In a Whispering Gallery
The Something that saved Him The thing that saved Him
The Enemy’s Portrait The Enemy's Portrait
Imaginings Imaginings
On the Doorstep On the Doorstep
Signs and Tokens Signs and Symbols
Paths of Former Time Old Time Paths
The Clock of the Years The Year Clock
At the Piano At the Piano Keys
The Shadow on the Stone The Shadow on the Stone
In the Garden In the Garden
The Tree and the Lady The Tree and the Woman
An Upbraiding A Reprimand
The Young Glass-stainer The Young Stained Glass Artist
Looking at a Picture on an Anniversary Looking at a Picture on an Anniversary
The Choirmaster’s Burial The Choir Director’s Burial
The Man who forgot The Man Who Forgot
While drawing in a Churchyard While sketching in a graveyard
“For Life I had never cared greatly” “For life, I had never cared much.”
Poems of War and Patriotism— War and Patriotism Poems—
	“Men who march away” (Song of the Soldiers) “Men who march away” (Song of the Soldiers)
	His Country His Nation
	England to Germany in 1914 England to Germany, 1914
	On the Belgian Expatriation On Belgian Expat Life
	p. xiAn Appeal to America on behalf of the Belgian Destitute p. xiAn Appeal to America for the Suffering People of Belgium
	The Pity of It The Sad Part of It
	In Time of Wars and Tumults In Times of War and Chaos
	In Time of “the Breaking of nations” In the Time of “the Breaking of Nations”
	Cry of the Homeless Cry of the Homeless
	Before Marching and After Before March and After
	“Often when warring” “Frequently during conflicts”
	Then and Now Then vs. Now
	A Call to National Service A Call for National Service
	The Dead and the Living One The Dead and the Living One
	A New Year’s Eve in War Time A New Year’s Eve in War Time
	“I met a man” "I met someone"
	“I looked up from my writing” “I looked up from my writing.”
Finale— Finale—
	The Coming of the End The End is Near
	Afterwards Afterward

A LAODICEAN: A STORY OF TO-DAY

By Thomas Hardy

GEORGE SOMERSET.

DARE AND HAVILL.

DE STANCY.

SOMERSET, DARE AND DE STANCY.

DE STANCY AND PAULA.

PAULA.

THE WELL-BELOVED

A SKETCH OF A TEMPERAMENT

By Thomas Hardy

A SUPPOSITITIOUS PRESENTMENT OF HER

THE INCARNATION IS ASSUMED TO BE TRUE

THE APPOINTMENT

A LONELY PEDESTRIAN

A CHARGE

ON THE BRINK

HER EARLIER INCARNATIONS

'TOO LIKE THE LIGHTNING’

FAMILIAR PHENOMENA IN THE DISTANCE

THE OLD PHANTOM BECOMES DISTINCT

SHE DRAWS CLOSE AND SATISFIES

SHE BECOMES AN INACCESSIBLE GHOST

SHE THREATENS TO RESUME CORPOREAL SUBSTANCE

THE RESUMPTION TAKES PLACE

THE PAST SHINES IN THE PRESENT

THE NEW BECOMES ESTABLISHED

HIS OWN SOUL CONFRONTS HIM

JUXTAPOSITIONS

SHE FAILS TO VANISH STILL

THE IMAGE PERSISTS

A GRILLE DESCENDS BETWEEN

SHE IS ENSHROUDED FROM SIGHT

SHE RETURNS FOR THE NEW SEASON

MISGIVINGS ON THE RE-EMBODIMENT

THE RENEWED IMAGE BURNS ITSELF IN

A DASH FOR THE LAST INCARNATION

ON THE VERGE OF POSSESSION

THE WELL-BELOVED IS—WHERE?

AN OLD TABERNACLE IN A NEW ASPECT

'ALAS FOR THIS GREY SHADOW, ONCE A MAN!’

LATE LYRICS AND EARLIER WITH MANY OTHER VERSES

By Thomas Hardy

	PAGE PAGE
Apology Apology
Weathers Weather
The maid of Keinton Mandeville The maid of Keinton Mandeville
Summer Schemes Summer Programs
Epeisodia Epeisodia
Faintheart in a Railway Train Coward on a Train
At Moonrise and Onwards At Moonrise and Beyond
The Garden Seat The Garden Seat
Barthélémon at Vauxhall Barthélémon at Vauxhall
“I sometimes think” “I occasionally think”
Jezreel Jezreel
A Jog-trot Pair A Jog-trot Couple
“The Curtains now are drawn” “The curtains are now drawn”
“According to the Mighty Working” “As per the Mighty Working”
“I was not He” “I wasn’t Him”
The West-of-Wessex Girl The Wessex Girl
Welcome Home Welcome Home
Going and Staying Going and Staying
Read by Moonlight Read by Moonlight
At a house in Hampstead At a house in Hampstead
A Woman’s Fancy A Woman’s Fancy
p. xxHer Song Her Song
A Wet August A Rainy August
The Dissemblers The Pretenders
To a Lady playing and singing in the Morning To a Lady Singing and Playing in the Morning
“A Man was drawing near to me” “A man was approaching me.”
The Strange House The Weird House
“As ’twere To-night” “As it were Tonight”
The Contretemps The Setback
A Gentleman’s Epitaph on Himself and a Lady A Gentleman’s Epitaph for Himself and a Lady
The Old Gown The Vintage Dress
A Night in November A Night in November
A Duettist to her Pianoforte A Duettist to Her Piano
“Where Three Roads joined” “Where Three Roads Meet”
“And There was a Great Calm” “And there was a great calm.”
Haunting Fingers Haunting Fingers
The Woman I Met The Woman I Met
“If it’s ever Spring again” “If it’s ever spring again”
The Two Houses The Two Houses
On Stinsford Hill at Midnight On Stinsford Hill at Midnight
The Fallow Deer at the Lonely House The Fallow Deer at the Lonely House
The Selfsame Song The Same Song
The Wanderer The Explorer
A Wife comes back A Wife Returns
A Young Man’s Exhortation A Young Man’s Call to Action
At Lulworth Cove a Century Back At Lulworth Cove a Hundred Years Ago
A Bygone Occasion A Past Event
Two Serenades Two Serenades
p. xxiThe Wedding Morning The Wedding Morning
End of the Year 1912 End of Year 1912
The Chimes play “Life’s a Bumper!” The Chimes perform "Life's a Bumper!"
“I worked no Wile to meet You” “I didn't try to meet you.”
At the Railway Station, Upway At Upway Train Station
Side by Side Side by Side
Dream of the City Shopwoman Dream of the City Store Clerk
A Maiden’s Pledge A Maiden's Promise
The Child and the Sage The Kid and the Sage
Mismet Mismet
An Autumn Rain-scene An Autumn Rain Scene
Meditations on a Holiday Reflections on a Holiday
An Experience An Experience
The Beauty The Beauty
The Collector cleans his Picture The Collector cleans his image
The Wood Fire The Wood Fire
Saying Good-bye Saying Goodbye
On the Tune called The Old-hundred-and-fourth On the song titled The Old-hundred-and-fourth
The Opportunity The Opportunity
Evelyn G. of Christminster Evelyn G. from Christminster
The Rift The Rift
Voices from Things growing Voices from Growing Things
On the Way On the Way
“She did not turn” “She didn’t turn”
Growth in May Growth in May
The Children and Sir Nameless The Kids and Sir Nameless
At the Royal Academy At the Royal Academy
Her Temple Her Sanctuary
p. xxiiA Two-years’ Idyll A Two-Year Idyll
By Henstridge Cross at the Year’s End By Henstridge Cross at the End of the Year
Penance Doing time
“I look in her Face” “I look in her face”
After the War Post-War
“If you had known” “If you had known”
The Chapel-Organist The Church Organist
Fetching Her Getting Her
“Could I but will” “If only I could”
She revisits alone the Church of her Marriage She returns alone to the church where she got married.
At the Entering of the New Year At the Beginning of the New Year
They would not come They won't come
After a Romantic Day After a Romantic Day
The Two Wives The Two Wives
“I knew a Lady” “I knew a lady”
A House with a History A House with a History
A Procession of Dead Days A Procession of Dead Days
He follows Himself He follows himself
The Singing Woman The Singing Woman
Without, not within Her Not inside Her
“O I won’t lead a Homely Life” “Oh, I’m not going to live a simple life.”
In the Small Hours In the Early Hours
The Little Old Table The Tiny Old Table
Vagg Hollow Vagg Hollow
The Dream is—which? The Dream is—which?
The Country Wedding The Country Wedding
First or Last First or Last
Lonely Days Lonely Days
p. xxiii“What did it mean?” “What's it mean?”
At the Dinner-table At the dinner table
The Marble Tablet The Marble Tablet
The Master and the Leaves The Master and the Leaves
Last Words to a Dumb Friend Final Words to an Oblivious Friend
A Drizzling Easter morning A rainy Easter morning
On One who lived and died where He was born About One who lived and died in the place where He was born.
The Second Night The Second Night
She who saw not She who didn't see
The Old Workman The Old Worker
The Sailor’s Mother The Sailor's Mom
Outside the Casement Outside the Window
The Passer-by The Bystander
“I was the Midmost” “I was the Midmost”
A Sound in the Night A Noise in the Night
On a Discovered Curl of Hair On a Curled Strand of Hair
An Old Likeness An Old Likeness
Her Apotheosis Her Ascendance
“Sacred to the Memory” “In Memory”
To a Well-named Dwelling To a Well-Named Home
The Whipper-in The Whipper-in
A Military Appointment A Military Job
The Milestone by the Rabbit-burrow The Milestone by the Rabbit Hole
The Lament of the Looking-glass The Lament of the Mirror
Cross-currents Cross-currents
The Old Neighbour and the New The Old Neighbor and the New
The Chosen The Chosen
The Inscription The Inscription
p. xxivThe Marble-streeted Town The Marble Street Town
A Woman driving A woman driving
A Woman’s Trust A Woman’s Trust
Best Times Top Moments
The Casual Acquaintance The Casual Friend
Intra Sepulchrum In the Grave
The Whitewashed Wall The Whitewashed Wall
Just the Same Same as Always
The Last Time The Last Time
The Seven Times The Seven Times
The Sun’s Last Look on the Country Girl The Sun's Last Look at the Country Girl
In a London Flat In a London apartment
Drawing Details in an Old Church Sketching Features in an Old Church
Rake-hell muses Reckless thinkers
The Colour The Color
Murmurs in the Gloom Whispers in the Dark
Epitaph Epitaph
An Ancient to Ancients An Ancient to Ancients
After reading psalms xxxix., xl. After reading Psalms 39, 40.
Surview Surview

LIFE'S LITTLE IRONIES

And a set of tales with some colloquial sketches entitled:

A FEW CRUSTED CHARACTERS

By Thomas Hardy

A TRAGEDY OF TWO AMBITIONS

ON THE WESTERN CIRCUIT

THE MELANCHOLY HUSSAR OF THE GERMAN LEGION

THE FIDDLER OF THE REELS

A TRADITION OF EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND FOUR

A FEW CRUSTED CHARACTERS

TONY KYTES, THE ARCH-DECEIVER

THE HISTORY OF THE HARDCOMES

THE SUPERSTITIOUS MAN'S STORY

ANDREY SATCHEL AND THE PARSON AND CLERK

OLD ANDREY'S EXPERIENCE AS A MUSICIAN

ABSENT-MINDEDNESS IN A PARISH CHOIR

THE WINTERS AND THE PALMLEYS

INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF MR. GEORGE CROOKHILL

NETTY SARGENT'S COPYHOLD

A GROUP OF NOBLE DAMES

That is to say: The First Countess Of Wessex; Barbara Of The Hose Of Grebe; The Marchioness Of Stonehenge; Lady Mottifont Squire Petrick's Lady; The Lady Icenway Anna, Lady Baxby; The Lady Penelope; The Duchess Of Hamptonshire; And The Honourable Laura

That is to say: The First Countess of Wessex; Barbara of the House of Grebe; The Marchioness of Stonehenge; Lady Mottifont Squire Petrick's lady; The Lady Icenway Anna, Lady Baxby; The Lady Penelope; The Duchess of Hamptonshire; and The Honourable Laura.

'. . . Store of Ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence.'-L'Allegro.

With a map of wessex

With a map of Wessex

By Thomas Hardy

CONTENTS

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PREFACE

DAME THE FIRST-THE FIRST COUNTESS OF WESSEX

DAME THE SECOND-BARBARA OF THE HOUSE OF GREBE

DAME THE THIRD-THE MARCHIONESS OF STONEHENGE

DAME THE FOURTH-LADY MOTTISFONT

DAME THE FIFTH-THE LADY ICENWAY

DAME THE SIXTH-SQUIRE PETRICK'S LADY

DAME THE SEVENTH-ANNA, LADY BAXBY

DAME THE EIGHTH-THE LADY PENELOPE

DAME THE NINTH-THE DUCHESS OF HAMPTONSHIRE

DAME THE TENTH-THE HONOURABLE LAURA

WESSEX TALES

By Thomas Hardy

CONTENTS

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PREFACE

AN IMAGINATIVE WOMAN

THE THREE STRANGERS

THE WITHERED ARM

CHAPTER I-A LORN MILKMAID

CHAPTER II-THE YOUNG WIFE

CHAPTER III-A VISION

CHAPTER IV-A SUGGESTION

CHAPTER V-CONJUROR TRENDLE

CHAPTER VI-A SECOND ATTEMPT

CHAPTER VII-A RIDE

VIII-A WATER-SIDE HERMIT

INTERLOPERS AT THE KNAP

III

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

I-HOW HIS COLD WAS CURED

II-HOW HE SAW TWO OTHER MEN

III-THE MYSTERIOUS GREATCOAT

IV-AT THE TIME OF THE NEW MOON

V-HOW THEY WENT TO LULSTEAD COVE

VI-THE GREAT SEARCH AT NETHER-MOYNTON

VII-THE WALK TO WARM'ELL CROSS AND AFTERWARDS

A CHANGED MAN AND OTHER TALES

By Thomas Hardy

CONTENTS

Table of Contents

CHAPTER I.-SHE MISSES HER SISTER

CHAPTER II.-NEWS INTERESTING AND SERIOUS

CHAPTER III.-HER GLOOM LIGHTENS A LITTLE

CHAPTER IV.-SHE BEHOLDS THE ATTRACTIVE STRANGER

CHAPTER V.-HER SITUATION IS A TRYING ONE

CHAPTER VI.-HER INGENUITY INSTIGATES HER

CHAPTER VII.-A SURPRISE AWAITS HER

CHAPTER VIII.-SHE TRAVELS IN PURSUIT

CHAPTER IX.-SHE WITNESSES THE END

CHAPTER X.-SHE ADDS A NOTE LONG AFTER

THE GRAVE BY THE HANDPOST

ENTER A DRAGOON

A TRYST AT AN ANCIENT EARTH WORK

WHAT THE SHEPHERD SAW

A COMMITTEE-MAN OF 'THE TERROR'

MASTER JOHN HORSELEIGH, KNIGHT

THE DUKE'S REAPPEARANCE-A FAMILY TRADITION

THE HAND OF ETHELBERTA-A COMEDY IN CHAPTERS

By Thomas Hardy

"Life hides behind the scenes." - Lucretius.

CONTENTS

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PREFACE

1. A STREET IN ANGLEBURY-A HEATH NEAR IT-INSIDE THE 'RED LION' INN

2. CHRISTOPHER'S HOUSE-SANDBOURNE TOWN-SANDBOURNE MOOR

3. SANDBOURNE MOOR (continued)

4. SANDBOURNE PIER-ROAD TO WYNDWAY-BALL-ROOM IN WYNDWAY HOUSE

5. AT THE WINDOW-THE ROAD HOME

6. THE SHORE BY WYNDWAY

7. THE DINING-ROOM OF A TOWN HOUSE-THE BUTLER'S PANTRY

8. CHRISTOPHER'S LODGINGS-THE GROUNDS ABOUT ROOKINGTON

9. A LADY'S DRAWING-ROOMS-ETHELBERTA'S DRESSING-ROOM

10. LADY PETHERWIN'S HOUSE

11. SANDBOURNE AND ITS NEIGHBOURHOOD-SOME LONDON STREETS

12. ARROWTHORNE PARK AND LODGE

13. THE LODGE (continued)-THE COPSE BEHIND

14. A TURNPIKE ROAD

15. AN INNER ROOM AT THE LODGE

16. A LARGE PUBLIC HALL

17. ETHELBERTA'S HOUSE

18. NEAR SANDBOURNE-LONDON STREETS-ETHELBERTA'S

19. ETHELBERTA'S DRAWING-ROOM

20. THE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF THE HALL-THE ROAD HOME

21. A STREET-NEIGH'S ROOMS-CHRISTOPHER'S ROOMS

22. ETHELBERTA'S HOUSE

23. ETHELBERTA'S HOUSE (continued)

24. ETHELBERTA'S HOUSE (continued)-THE BRITISH MUSEUM

25. THE ROYAL ACADEMY-THE FARNFIELD ESTATE

26. ETHELBERTA'S DRAWING-ROOM

27. MRS. BELMAINE'S-CRIPPLEGATE CHURCH

28. ETHELBERTA'S-MR. CHICKEREL'S ROOM

29. ETHELBERTA'S DRESSING-ROOM-MR. DONCASTLE'S HOUSE

30. ON THE HOUSETOP

31. KNOLLSEA-A LOFTY DOWN-A RUINED CASTLE

32. A ROOM IN ENCKWORTH COURT

33. THE ENGLISH CHANNEL-NORMANDY

34. THE HOTEL BEAU SEJOUR AND SPOTS NEAR IT

35. THE HOTEL (continued), AND THE QUAY IN FRONT

36. THE HOUSE IN TOWN

37. KNOLLSEA-AN ORNAMENTAL VILLA

38. ENCKWORTH COURT

39. KNOLLSEA-MELCHESTER

40. MELCHESTER (continued)

41. WORKSHOPS-AN INN-THE STREET

42. THE DONCASTLES' RESIDENCE, AND OUTSIDE THE SAME

43. THE RAILWAY-THE SEA-THE SHORE BEYOND

44. SANDBOURNE-A LONELY HEATH-THE 'RED LION'-THE HIGHWAY

45. KNOLLSEA-THE ROAD THENCE-ENCKWORTH

46. ENCKWORTH (continued)-THE ANGLEBURY HIGHWAY

47. ENCKWORTH AND ITS PRECINCTS-MELCHESTER

SEQUEL. ANGLEBURY-ENCKWORTH-SANDBOURNE

LIFE'S LITTLE IRONIES

And a set of tales with some colloquial sketches entitled:

A FEW CRUSTED CHARACTERS

By Thomas Hardy

CONTENTS

TABLE OF CONTENTS

A TRAGEDY OF TWO AMBITIONS

ON THE WESTERN CIRCUIT

THE MELANCHOLY HUSSAR OF THE GERMAN LEGION

THE FIDDLER OF THE REELS

A TRADITION OF EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND FOUR

A FEW CRUSTED CHARACTERS

TONY KYTES, THE ARCH-DECEIVER

THE HISTORY OF THE HARDCOMES

THE SUPERSTITIOUS MAN'S STORY

ANDREY SATCHEL AND THE PARSON AND CLERK

OLD ANDREY'S EXPERIENCE AS A MUSICIAN

ABSENT-MINDEDNESS IN A PARISH CHOIR

THE WINTERS AND THE PALMLEYS

INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF MR. GEORGE CROOKHILL

NETTY SARGENT'S COPYHOLD

THE SON'S VETO

CHAPTER I

To the eyes of a man viewing it from behind, the nut-brown hair was a wonder and a mystery. Under the black beaver hat, surmounted by its tuft of black feathers, the long locks, braided and twisted and coiled like the rushes of a basket, composed a rare, if somewhat barbaric, example of ingenious art. One could understand such weavings and coilings being wrought to last intact for a year, or even a calendar month; but that they should be all demolished regularly at bedtime, after a single day of permanence, seemed a reckless waste of successful fabrication.

To the eyes of a man looking from behind, the dark brown hair was both amazing and mysterious. Under the black beaver hat, topped with a tuft of black feathers, the long hair, braided and twisted like the rushes of a basket, showcased a rare, albeit somewhat primitive, form of clever artistry. It made sense that such intricate styles could be made to last for a year or even a month; however, the fact that they were all taken down every night after just one day seemed like a careless waste of a well-crafted hairstyle.

And she had done it all herself, poor thing. She had no maid, and it was almost the only accomplishment she could boast of. Hence the unstinted pains.

And she had done it all by herself, poor thing. She had no maid, and it was almost the only achievement she could take pride in. Hence the relentless effort.

She was a young invalid lady-not so very much of an invalid-sitting in a wheeled chair, which had been pulled up in the front part of a green enclosure, close to a bandstand, where a concert was going on, during a warm June afternoon. It had place in one of the minor parks or private gardens that are to be found in the suburbs of London, and was the effort of a local association to raise money for some charity. There are worlds within worlds in the great city, and though nobody outside the immediate district had ever heard of the charity, or the band, or the garden, the enclosure was filled with an interested audience sufficiently informed on all these.

She was a young woman with a minor disability, sitting in a wheelchair that had been positioned in the front part of a green area, close to a bandstand where a concert was happening on a warm June afternoon. It took place in one of the smaller parks or private gardens found in the suburbs of London and was organized by a local group to raise money for a charity. There are so many different worlds within the vast city, and although no one outside the immediate area had ever heard of the charity, the band, or the garden, the enclosure was filled with an engaged audience who were well-informed about it all.

As the strains proceeded many of the listeners observed the chaired lady, whose back hair, by reason of her prominent position, so challenged inspection. Her face was not easily discernible, but the aforesaid cunning tress-weavings, the white ear and poll, and the curve of a cheek which was neither flaccid nor sallow, were signals that led to the expectation of good beauty in front. Such expectations are not infrequently disappointed as soon as the disclosure comes; and in the present case, when the lady, by a turn of the head, at length revealed herself, she was not so handsome as the people behind her had supposed, and even hoped-they did not know why.

As the music played on, many of the listeners noticed the woman in the chair, whose dark hair, due to her prominent position, caught their attention. Her face was hard to see, but her intricate hairstyle, the white of her ear and neck, and the shape of her cheek, which was neither puffy nor pale, suggested that she might be quite beautiful. However, those expectations are often let down when the person is finally revealed; in this case, when the woman turned her head and showed her face, she wasn't as attractive as those behind her had imagined and secretly hoped—though they didn't know why.

For one thing (alas! the commonness of this complaint), she was less young than they had fancied her to be. Yet attractive her face unquestionably was, and not at all sickly. The revelation of its details came each time she turned to talk to a boy of twelve or thirteen who stood beside her, and the shape of whose hat and jacket implied that he belonged to a well-known public school. The immediate bystanders could hear that he called her 'Mother.'

For one thing (sadly, this is a common complaint), she was younger than they had imagined. Still, her face was undeniably attractive and not at all pale. The true details of her features became clear each time she turned to speak to a boy of twelve or thirteen standing next to her, whose hat and jacket suggested he came from a well-known public school. Those nearby could hear him calling her 'Mother.'

When the end of the recital was reached, and the audience withdrew, many chose to find their way out by passing at her elbow. Almost all turned their heads to take a full and near look at the interesting woman, who remained stationary in the chair till the way should be clear enough for her to be wheeled out without obstruction. As if she expected their glances, and did not mind gratifying their curiosity, she met the eyes of several of her observers by lifting her own, showing these to be soft, brown, and affectionate orbs, a little plaintive in their regard.

When the recital ended and the audience started to leave, many decided to exit by passing right by her side. Almost everyone turned their heads to take a good look at the intriguing woman, who stayed seated until there was enough space for her to be wheeled out without any hassle. It seemed like she was expecting their gazes and didn’t mind satisfying their curiosity, as she looked up to meet the eyes of several onlookers, revealing her soft, brown, and warm eyes, which had a slightly wistful expression.

She was conducted out of the gardens, and passed along the pavement till she disappeared from view, the schoolboy walking beside her. To inquiries made by some persons who watched her away, the answer came that she was the second wife of the incumbent of a neighbouring parish, and that she was lame. She was generally believed to be a woman with a story-an innocent one, but a story of some sort or other.

She was led out of the gardens and walked along the path until she was out of sight, with the schoolboy beside her. When some people asked about her as she left, they were told she was the second wife of the parish priest from a nearby area and that she was lame. Most people thought she was a woman with a story—an innocent one, but a story nonetheless.

In conversing with her on their way home the boy who walked at her elbow said that he hoped his father had not missed them.

In their conversation on the way home, the boy walking next to her said he hoped his dad hadn't noticed they were gone.

'He have been so comfortable these last few hours that I am sure he cannot have missed us,' she replied.

'He has been so comfortable these last few hours that I’m sure he can't have missed us,' she replied.

'Has, dear mother-not have!' exclaimed the public-school boy, with an impatient fastidiousness that was almost harsh. 'Surely you know that by this time!'

'Has, dear mother—not have!' exclaimed the public-school boy, with an impatient fastidiousness that was almost harsh. 'Surely you know that by now!'

His mother hastily adopted the correction, and did not resent his making it, or retaliate, as she might well have done, by bidding him to wipe that crumby mouth of his, whose condition had been caused by surreptitious attempts to eat a piece of cake without taking it out of the pocket wherein it lay concealed. After this the pretty woman and the boy went onward in silence.

His mother quickly accepted the correction and didn't hold a grudge against him for saying it. She could have easily told him to wipe his crumb-filled mouth, a result of his sneaky efforts to eat a piece of cake without taking it out of the pocket where he had hidden it. After that, the attractive woman and the boy continued on in silence.

That question of grammar bore upon her history, and she fell into reverie, of a somewhat sad kind to all appearance. It might have been assumed that she was wondering if she had done wisely in shaping her life as she had shaped it, to bring out such a result as this.

That question about grammar weighed on her mind, and she drifted into a somewhat sad daydream. One might have guessed that she was pondering whether she had made the right choices in shaping her life the way she did, to end up with a result like this.

In a remote nook in North Wessex, forty miles from London, near the thriving county-town of Aldbrickham, there stood a pretty village with its church and parsonage, which she knew well enough, but her son had never seen. It was her native village, Gaymead, and the first event bearing upon her present situation had occurred at that place when she was only a girl of nineteen.

In a secluded spot in North Wessex, forty miles from London, close to the busy county-town of Aldbrickham, there was a charming village with a church and a parsonage that she knew well, but her son had never visited. It was her hometown, Gaymead, and the first event related to her current situation took place there when she was just nineteen.

How well she remembered it, that first act in her little tragi-comedy, the death of her reverend husband's first wife. It happened on a spring evening, and she who now and for many years had filled that first wife's place was then parlour-maid in the parson's house.

How clearly she remembered it, that first scene in her little tragi-comedy, the death of her reverend husband's first wife. It happened on a spring evening, and she, who now and for many years had taken that first wife's place, was then the parlor maid in the parson's house.

When everything had been done that could be done, and the death was announced, she had gone out in the dusk to visit her parents, who were living in the same village, to tell them the sad news. As she opened the white swing-gate and looked towards the trees which rose westward, shutting out the pale light of the evening sky, she discerned, without much surprise, the figure of a man standing in the hedge, though she roguishly exclaimed as a matter of form, 'Oh, Sam, how you frightened me!'

When everything that could be done was done, and the death was announced, she went out at dusk to visit her parents, who lived in the same village, to share the sad news. As she opened the white swing gate and looked toward the trees rising in the west, blocking the pale light of the evening sky, she noticed, without much surprise, a man standing by the hedge, though she playfully exclaimed out of habit, 'Oh, Sam, you scared me!'

He was a young gardener of her acquaintance. She told him the particulars of the late event, and they stood silent, these two young people, in that elevated, calmly philosophic mind which is engendered when a tragedy has happened close at hand, and has not happened to the philosophers themselves. But it had its bearing upon their relations.

He was a young gardener she knew. She shared the details of the recent event with him, and they stood there quietly, these two young people, in that elevated, calmly philosophical state of mind that comes when a tragedy has occurred nearby, yet hasn't directly affected them. But it did impact their relationship.

'And will you stay on now at the Vicarage, just the same?' asked he.

'So, will you stay at the Vicarage just like before?' he asked.

She had hardly thought of that. 'Oh, yes-I suppose!' she said. 'Everything will be just as usual, I imagine?'

She had hardly thought of that. 'Oh, yes—I guess so!' she said. 'Everything will be just the same as usual, I suppose?'

He walked beside her towards her mother's. Presently his arm stole round her waist. She gently removed it; but he placed it there again, and she yielded the point. 'You see, dear Sophy, you don't know that you'll stay on; you may want a home; and I shall be ready to offer one some day, though I may not be ready just yet.

He walked beside her towards her mother's. Soon his arm slid around her waist. She gently took it off, but he put it back there again, and she gave in. 'You see, dear Sophy, you don't know if you'll stay; you might want a home; and I'll be ready to offer one someday, even if I’m not quite ready just yet.

'Why, Sam, how can you be so fast! I've never even said I liked 'ee; and it is all your own doing, coming after me!'

'Why, Sam, how can you be so quick! I've never even said I liked you; and it’s all your fault for coming after me!'

'Still, it is nonsense to say I am not to have a try at you like the rest.' He stooped to kiss her a farewell, for they had reached her mother's door.

'Still, it’s ridiculous to say I shouldn’t get a chance with you like everyone else.' He bent down to kiss her goodbye, as they had arrived at her mother's door.

'No, Sam; you sha'n't!' she cried, putting her hand over his mouth. 'You ought to be more serious on such a night as this.' And she bade him adieu without allowing him to kiss her or to come indoors.

'No, Sam; you can't!' she shouted, covering his mouth with her hand. 'You should be more serious on a night like this.' And she said goodbye without letting him kiss her or come inside.

The vicar just left a widower was at this time a man about forty years of age, of good family, and childless. He had led a secluded existence in this college living, partly because there were no resident landowners; and his loss now intensified his habit of withdrawal from outward observation. He was still less seen than heretofore, kept himself still less in time with the rhythm and racket of the movements called progress in the world without. For many months after his wife's decease the economy of his household remained as before; the cook, the housemaid, the parlour-maid, and the man out-of-doors performed their duties or left them undone, just as Nature prompted them-the vicar knew not which. It was then represented to him that his servants seemed to have nothing to do in his small family of one. He was struck with the truth of this representation, and decided to cut down his establishment. But he was forestalled by Sophy, the parlour-maid, who said one evening that she wished to leave him.

The vicar had just left, and the widower was a man around forty, from a good family, and childless. He had lived a quiet life in this college setting, partly because there were no nearby landowners, and his grief now deepened his tendency to isolate himself from the outside world. He was even less visible than before, further out of sync with the hustle and bustle of what people called progress. For many months after his wife's death, the way his household operated stayed the same; the cook, housemaid, parlour-maid, and the groundskeeper did their jobs or didn’t, guided only by Nature’s whims—the vicar had no idea which. It was then pointed out to him that his staff seemed to have nothing to do in a household of just him. He realized the truth in this observation and decided to reduce his staff. However, he was preempted by Sophy, the parlour-maid, who mentioned one evening that she wanted to leave him.

'And why?' said the parson.

'And why?' asked the pastor.

'Sam Hobson has asked me to marry him, sir.'

'Well-do you want to marry?'

'So, do you want to get married?'

'Not much. But it would be a home for me. And we have heard that one of us will have to leave.'

'Not much. But it would be a home for me. And we’ve heard that one of us will have to leave.'

A day or two after she said: 'I don't want to leave just yet, sir, if you don't wish it. Sam and I have quarrelled.'

A day or two after she said, "I don't want to leave just yet, sir, unless you want me to. Sam and I had a fight."

He looked up at her. He had hardly ever observed her before, though he had been frequently conscious of her soft presence in the room. What a kitten-like, flexuous, tender creature she was! She was the only one of the servants with whom he came into immediate and continuous relation. What should he do if Sophy were gone?

He looked up at her. He had barely noticed her before, even though he often felt her gentle presence in the room. What a kitten-like, graceful, and delicate person she was! She was the only servant he interacted with directly and regularly. What would he do if Sophy were gone?

Sophy did not go, but one of the others did, and things went on quietly again.

Sophy didn't go, but one of the others did, and everything continued quietly again.

When Mr. Twycott, the vicar, was ill, Sophy brought up his meals to him, and she had no sooner left the room one day than he heard a noise on the stairs. She had slipped down with the tray, and so twisted her foot that she could not stand. The village surgeon was called in; the vicar got better, but Sophy was incapacitated for a long time; and she was informed that she must never again walk much or engage in any occupation which required her to stand long on her feet. As soon as she was comparatively well she spoke to him alone. Since she was forbidden to walk and bustle about, and, indeed, could not do so, it became her duty to leave. She could very well work at something sitting down, and she had an aunt a seamstress.

When Mr. Twycott, the vicar, was sick, Sophy brought his meals to him. One day, as soon as she left the room, he heard a noise on the stairs. She had slipped down with the tray and twisted her foot so badly that she couldn’t stand. The village doctor was called, and while the vicar recovered, Sophy was out of commission for a long time. She was told that she could never again walk much or do any job that required her to stand for long periods. Once she felt somewhat better, she spoke to him privately. Since she was not allowed to walk around or couldn’t manage it anyway, she felt it was her responsibility to leave. She was capable of working on something while sitting, and she had an aunt who was a seamstress.

The parson had been very greatly moved by what she had suffered on his account, and he exclaimed, 'No, Sophy; lame or not lame, I cannot let you go. You must never leave me again!'

The pastor was really touched by what she had gone through for him, and he exclaimed, 'No, Sophy; whether you're lame or not, I can't let you go. You can never leave me again!'

He came close to her, and, though she could never exactly tell how it happened, she became conscious of his lips upon her cheek. He then asked her to marry him. Sophy did not exactly love him, but she had a respect for him which almost amounted to veneration. Even if she had wished to get away from him she hardly dared refuse a personage so reverend and august in her eyes, and she assented forthwith to be his wife.

He moved closer to her, and even though she could never quite figure out how it happened, she felt his lips on her cheek. He then asked her to marry him. Sophy didn’t truly love him, but she had a level of respect for him that felt almost like worship. Even if she had wanted to distance herself from him, she hardly felt she could refuse someone so respected and noble in her eyes, so she quickly agreed to be his wife.

Thus it happened that one fine morning, when the doors of the church were naturally open for ventilation, and the singing birds fluttered in and alighted on the tie-beams of the roof, there was a marriage-service at the communion-rails, which hardly a soul knew of. The parson and a neighbouring curate had entered at one door, and Sophy at another, followed by two necessary persons, whereupon in a short time there emerged a newly-made husband and wife.

Thus it happened that one beautiful morning, when the church doors were open for fresh air, and the singing birds flew in and perched on the beams of the roof, a wedding ceremony took place at the communion rails, which hardly anyone knew about. The pastor and a nearby curate had entered through one door, while Sophy came in through another, followed by two essential witnesses, and soon after, a newly-married couple emerged.

Mr. Twycott knew perfectly well that he had committed social suicide by this step, despite Sophy's spotless character, and he had taken his measures accordingly. An exchange of livings had been arranged with an acquaintance who was incumbent of a church in the south of London, and as soon as possible the couple removed thither, abandoning their pretty country home, with trees and shrubs and glebe, for a narrow, dusty house in a long, straight street, and their fine peal of bells for the wretchedest one-tongued clangour that ever tortured mortal ears. It was all on her account. They were, however, away from every one who had known her former position; and also under less observation from without than they would have had to put up with in any country parish.

Mr. Twycott knew very well that he had basically committed social suicide by this decision, even with Sophy's impeccable character, and he had taken steps accordingly. He arranged to swap his church position with someone he knew who worked at a church in south London, and as soon as possible, the couple moved there, leaving behind their lovely countryside home with its trees, shrubs, and land for a narrow, dusty house on a long, straight street, trading their beautiful bells for the most dreadful, one-note clamor that could ever torture human ears. It was all for her sake. However, they were away from everyone who had known her previous status and also under less scrutiny from the outside than they would have faced in any country parish.

Sophy the woman was as charming a partner as a man could possess, though Sophy the lady had her deficiencies. She showed a natural aptitude for little domestic refinements, so far as related to things and manners; but in what is called culture she was less intuitive. She had now been married more than fourteen years, and her husband had taken much trouble with her education; but she still held confused ideas on the use of 'was' and 'were,' which did not beget a respect for her among the few acquaintances she made. Her great grief in this relation was that her only child, on whose education no expense had been and would be spared, was now old enough to perceive these deficiencies in his mother, and not only to see them but to feel irritated at their existence.

Sophy the woman was as charming a partner as any man could wish for, but Sophy the lady had her shortcomings. She had a natural talent for little household comforts and social niceties, but when it came to what we call culture, she was less gifted. She had been married for over fourteen years, and her husband had put in a lot of effort to educate her; however, she still struggled with confusing ideas about using 'was' and 'were,' which didn’t earn her much respect among the few friends she had. Her biggest sorrow was that her only child, for whom no expense had been spared on education, was now old enough to notice these shortcomings in his mother and not just recognize them but also feel annoyed by their presence.

Thus she lived on in the city, and wasted hours in braiding her beautiful hair, till her once apple cheeks waned to pink of the very faintest. Her foot had never regained its natural strength after the accident, and she was mostly obliged to avoid walking altogether. Her husband had grown to like London for its freedom and its domestic privacy; but he was twenty years his Sophy's senior, and had latterly been seized with a serious illness. On this day, however, he had seemed to be well enough to justify her accompanying her son Randolph to the concert.

Thus, she continued to live in the city, spending hours styling her beautiful hair, until her once apple-like cheeks faded to the faintest pink. Her foot had never fully recovered its natural strength after the accident, and she mostly had to avoid walking altogether. Her husband had come to appreciate London for its freedom and privacy; however, he was twenty years older than Sophy and had recently fallen seriously ill. On this day, though, he seemed well enough to allow her to accompany their son Randolph to the concert.

CHAPTER II

The next time we get a glimpse of her is when she appears in the mournful attire of a widow.

The next time we see her is when she shows up in the sad outfit of a widow.

Mr. Twycott had never rallied, and now lay in a well-packed cemetery to the south of the great city, where, if all the dead it contained had stood erect and alive, not one would have known him or recognized his name. The boy had dutifully followed him to the grave, and was now again at school.

Mr. Twycott had never recovered, and now rested in a well-kept cemetery south of the big city, where, if all the dead buried there had stood up and been alive, not a single one would have known him or recognized his name. The boy had dutifully followed him to the grave and was back at school now.

Throughout these changes Sophy had been treated like the child she was in nature though not in years. She was left with no control over anything that had been her husband's beyond her modest personal income. In his anxiety lest her inexperience should be overreached he had safeguarded with trustees all he possibly could. The completion of the boy's course at the public school, to be followed in due time by Oxford and ordination, had been all previsioned and arranged, and she really had nothing to occupy her in the world but to eat and drink, and make a business of indolence, and go on weaving and coiling the nut-brown hair, merely keeping a home open for the son whenever he came to her during vacations.

Throughout these changes, Sophy was treated like the child she was at heart, even if she wasn't young in years. She had no control over anything that previously belonged to her husband, except for her small personal income. Worried that her lack of experience might lead to her being taken advantage of, he had put everything he could under the protection of trustees. The completion of the boy's schooling at the public school, followed eventually by Oxford and ordination, had all been planned out, leaving her with little to do in life except eat and drink, embrace a life of laziness, and continue styling her nut-brown hair, simply keeping a home ready for her son whenever he visited during holidays.

Foreseeing his probable decease long years before her, her husband in his lifetime had purchased for her use a semi-detached villa in the same long, straight road whereon the church and parsonage faced, which was to be hers as long as she chose to live in it. Here she now resided, looking out upon the fragment of lawn in front, and through the railings at the ever-flowing traffic; or, bending forward over the window-sill on the first floor, stretching her eyes far up and down the vista of sooty trees, hazy air, and drab house-facades, along which echoed the noises common to a suburban main thoroughfare.

Anticipating that he might pass away years before her, her husband had, during his life, bought her a semi-detached villa on the same long, straight road where the church and parsonage were located, which she could keep for as long as she wanted to live there. She now lived here, looking out at the patch of lawn in front of her and through the railings at the constantly moving traffic; or leaning forward over the window sill on the first floor, she would stretch her eyes up and down the row of dusty trees, hazy air, and dull house facades, along which the typical sounds of a suburban main street echoed.

Somehow, her boy, with his aristocratic school-knowledge, his grammars, and his aversions, was losing those wide infantine sympathies, extending as far as to the sun and moon themselves, with which he, like other children, had been born, and which his mother, a child of nature herself, had loved in him; he was reducing their compass to a population of a few thousand wealthy and titled people, the mere veneer of a thousand million or so of others who did not interest him at all. He drifted further and further away from her. Sophy's milieu being a suburb of minor tradesmen and under-clerks, and her almost only companions the two servants of her own house, it was not surprising that after her husband's death she soon lost the little artificial tastes she had acquired from him, and became-in her son's eyes-a mother whose mistakes and origin it was his painful lot as a gentleman to blush for. As yet he was far from being man enough-if he ever would be-to rate these sins of hers at their true infinitesimal value beside the yearning fondness that welled up and remained penned in her heart till it should be more fully accepted by him, or by some other person or thing. If he had lived at home with her he would have had all of it; but he seemed to require so very little in present circumstances, and it remained stored.

Somehow, her son, with his fancy schooling, his grammar books, and his dislikes, was losing those wide, childlike sympathies that stretched all the way to the sun and moon, which he, like other kids, had been born with, and that his mother, a natural person herself, had cherished in him. He was narrowing his view to a few thousand wealthy and titled people, ignoring the veneer of a billion others who simply didn’t interest him at all. He was drifting further and further away from her. Since Sophy lived in a suburb of small business owners and junior clerks, and her almost only companions were her two household servants, it wasn’t surprising that after her husband’s death she soon lost the little refined tastes she had picked up from him and became, in her son’s eyes, a mother whose shortcomings and background were a source of embarrassment for him as a gentleman. He was still far from being grown-up enough—if he ever would be—to see these faults of hers for what they really were, tiny compared to the deep love that filled her heart and remained locked away until he could accept it more fully, or until someone else could. If he had lived with her, he would have experienced all of it; but he seemed to need so little right now, and it all stayed bottled up.

Her life became insupportably dreary; she could not take walks, and had no interest in going for drives, or, indeed, in travelling anywhere. Nearly two years passed without an event, and still she looked on that suburban road, thinking of the village in which she had been born, and whither she would have gone back-O how gladly!-even to work in the fields.

Her life became unbearably dull; she couldn't go for walks and had no interest in drives or traveling anywhere. Nearly two years went by without anything happening, and still she looked at that suburban road, thinking of the village where she was born and where she would have happily returned—even to work in the fields.

Taking no exercise, she often could not sleep, and would rise in the night or early morning and look out upon the then vacant thoroughfare, where the lamps stood like sentinels waiting for some procession to go by. An approximation to such a procession was indeed made early every morning about one o'clock, when the country vehicles passed up with loads of vegetables for Covent Garden market. She often saw them creeping along at this silent and dusky hour-waggon after waggon, bearing green bastions of cabbages nodding to their fall, yet never falling, walls of baskets enclosing masses of beans and peas, pyramids of snow-white turnips, swaying howdahs of mixed produce-creeping along behind aged night-horses, who seemed ever patiently wondering between their hollow coughs why they had always to work at that still hour when all other sentient creatures were privileged to rest. Wrapped in a cloak, it was soothing to watch and sympathize with them when depression and nervousness hindered sleep, and to see how the fresh green-stuff brightened to life as it came opposite the lamp, and how the sweating animals steamed and shone with their miles of travel.

Taking no exercise, she often couldn’t sleep and would get up in the night or early morning to look out at the empty street, where the lamps stood like guards waiting for a procession to pass by. There was a kind of procession that happened every morning around one o'clock when the country vehicles rolled in with loads of vegetables for Covent Garden market. She often watched them slowly moving along at this quiet and dark hour—wagon after wagon, loaded with green mounds of cabbages nodding to their fall but never falling, walls of baskets filled with heaps of beans and peas, pyramids of white turnips, and swaying loads of mixed produce—creeping along behind tired old horses, who seemed to be wondering with their hollow coughs why they always had to work at this still hour when all other living beings were free to rest. Wrapped in a cloak, it was comforting to watch and empathize with them when depression and anxiety kept her awake, to see how the fresh greens came to life as they passed the lamp, and how the sweating animals glistened after their long journey.

They had an interest, almost a charm, for Sophy, these semirural people and vehicles moving in an urban atmosphere, leading a life quite distinct from that of the daytime toilers on the same road. One morning a man who accompanied a waggon-load of potatoes gazed rather hard at the house-fronts as he passed, and with a curious emotion she thought his form was familiar to her. She looked out for him again. His being an old-fashioned conveyance, with a yellow front, it was easily recognizable, and on the third night after she saw it a second time. The man alongside was, as she had fancied, Sam Hobson, formerly gardener at Gaymead, who would at one time have married her.

They had a kind of charm for Sophy, these semi-rural people and vehicles moving through the city, living a life totally different from that of the daytime workers on the same road. One morning, a man riding alongside a wagon full of potatoes stared intently at the house fronts as he passed, and she felt a strange familiarity with him. She kept an eye out for him again. Since it was an old-fashioned wagon with a yellow front, it was easy to spot, and on the third night after, she saw it again. The man next to it was, as she had suspected, Sam Hobson, who used to be the gardener at Gaymead and who had once wanted to marry her.

She had occasionally thought of him, and wondered if life in a cottage with him would not have been a happier lot than the life she had accepted. She had not thought of him passionately, but her now dismal situation lent an interest to his resurrection-a tender interest which it is impossible to exaggerate. She went back to bed, and began thinking. When did these market-gardeners, who travelled up to town so regularly at one or two in the morning, come back? She dimly recollected seeing their empty waggons, hardly noticeable amid the ordinary day-traffic, passing down at some hour before noon.

She occasionally thought about him and wondered if living in a cottage with him would have been a happier choice than the life she had accepted. She hadn't thought about him intensely, but her current gloomy situation made his return feel interesting—an interest that was impossible to overstate. She went back to bed and started thinking. When did these market gardeners, who traveled into town so regularly at one or two in the morning, come back? She vaguely remembered seeing their empty wagons, barely noticeable among the usual daytime traffic, passing through at some hour before noon.

It was only April, but that morning, after breakfast, she had the window opened, and sat looking out, the feeble sun shining full upon her. She affected to sew, but her eyes never left the street. Between ten and eleven the desired waggon, now unladen, reappeared on its return journey. But Sam was not looking round him then, and drove on in a reverie.

It was only April, but that morning, after breakfast, she had the window open and sat looking out, the weak sun shining down on her. She pretended to sew, but her eyes never left the street. Between ten and eleven, the desired wagon, now empty, came back on its return journey. But Sam wasn't paying attention at that moment and drove on lost in thought.

'Sam!' cried she.

"Sam!" she shouted.

Turning with a start, his face lighted up. He called to him a little boy to hold the horse, alighted, and came and stood under her window.

Turning suddenly, his face brightened. He called to a little boy to hold the horse, got down, and stood under her window.

'I can't come down easily, Sam, or I would!' she said. 'Did you know I lived here?'

'Well, Mrs. Twycott, I knew you lived along here somewhere. I have often looked out for 'ee.'

'Well, Mrs. Twycott, I knew you lived around here somewhere. I've often kept an eye out for you.'

He briefly explained his own presence on the scene. He had long since given up his gardening in the village near Aldbrickham, and was now manager at a market-gardener's on the south side of London, it being part of his duty to go up to Covent Garden with waggon-loads of produce two or three times a week. In answer to her curious inquiry, he admitted that he had come to this particular district because he had seen in the Aldbrickham paper, a year or two before, the announcement of the death in South London of the aforetime vicar of Gaymead, which had revived an interest in her dwelling-place that he could not extinguish, leading him to hover about the locality till his present post had been secured.

He briefly explained why he was there. He had long given up gardening in the village near Aldbrickham and was now the manager at a market garden on the south side of London. One of his responsibilities was to go up to Covent Garden with truckloads of produce a couple of times a week. In response to her curious question, he admitted that he had come to this particular area because he had seen in the Aldbrickham newspaper, a year or two earlier, the announcement of the death of the former vicar of Gaymead in South London. That news sparked an interest in her home that he couldn't shake off, leading him to hang around the area until he secured his current job.

They spoke of their native village in dear old North Wessex, the spots in which they had played together as children. She tried to feel that she was a dignified personage now, that she must not be too confidential with Sam. But she could not keep it up, and the tears hanging in her eyes were indicated in her voice.

They talked about their hometown in beloved North Wessex, the places where they had played together as kids. She tried to convince herself that she was an important person now, that she shouldn't be too open with Sam. But she couldn't maintain it, and the tears welling up in her eyes were reflected in her voice.

'You are not happy, Mrs. Twycott, I'm afraid?' he said.

'You’re not happy, Mrs. Twycott, are you?' he said.

'O, of course not! I lost my husband only the year before last.'

'O, of course not! I lost my husband just the year before last.'

'Ah! I meant in another way. You'd like to be home again?'

'Oh! I meant it differently. You wish you were home again?'

'This is my home-for life. The house belongs to me. But I understand'-She let it out then. 'Yes, Sam. I long for home-our home! I should like to be there, and never leave it, and die there.' But she remembered herself. 'That's only a momentary feeling. I have a son, you know, a dear boy. He's at school now.'

'This is my forever home. The house is mine. But I understand'—she let it out then. 'Yes, Sam. I miss home—our home! I wish I could be there, never leave it, and die there.' But she caught herself. 'That's just a temporary feeling. I have a son, you know, a wonderful boy. He's at school right now.'

'Somewhere handy, I suppose? I see there's lots on 'em along this road.'

'Somewhere nearby, I guess? I see there are plenty of them along this road.'

'O no! Not in one of these wretched holes! At a public school-one of the most distinguished in England.'

'O no! Not in one of these awful places! At a public school—one of the most prestigious in England.'

'Chok' it all! of course! I forget, ma'am, that you've been a lady for so many years.'

'Choke it all! Of course! I forget, ma'am, that you've been a lady for so many years.'

'No, I am not a lady,' she said sadly. 'I never shall be. But he's a gentleman, and that-makes it-O how difficult for me!'

'No, I’m not a lady,' she said sadly. 'I never will be. But he’s a gentleman, and that makes it—oh, how difficult for me!'

CHAPTER III

The acquaintance thus oddly reopened proceeded apace. She often looked out to get a few words with him, by night or by day. Her sorrow was that she could not accompany her one old friend on foot a little way, and talk more freely than she could do while he paused before the house. One night, at the beginning of June, when she was again on the watch after an absence of some days from the window, he entered the gate and said softly, 'Now, wouldn't some air do you good? I've only half a load this morning. Why not ride up to Covent Garden with me? There's a nice seat on the cabbages, where I've spread a sack. You can be home again in a cab before anybody is up.'

The strange acquaintance reconnected quickly. She often watched for a chance to exchange a few words with him, day or night. She felt sad that she couldn’t walk a little way with her old friend and talk more freely than she could while he stood outside her house. One night, at the start of June, after being away from the window for a few days, she saw him enter the gate and he said softly, “Hey, wouldn’t some fresh air do you good? I only have a light load this morning. Want to ride up to Covent Garden with me? There’s a nice spot on the cabbages where I’ve laid out a sack. You can be home again in a cab before anyone is up.”

She refused at first, and then, trembling with excitement, hastily finished her dressing, and wrapped herself up in cloak and veil, afterwards sidling downstairs by the aid of the handrail, in a way she could adopt on an emergency. When she had opened the door she found Sam on the step, and he lifted her bodily on his strong arm across the little forecourt into his vehicle. Not a soul was visible or audible in the infinite length of the straight, flat highway, with its ever-waiting lamps converging to points in each direction. The air was fresh as country air at this hour, and the stars shone, except to the north- eastward, where there was a whitish light-the dawn. Sam carefully placed her in the seat, and drove on.

She initially said no, but then, trembling with excitement, quickly finished getting ready, putting on her cloak and veil. She cautiously made her way down the stairs using the handrail, a technique she had practiced for emergencies. When she opened the door, she saw Sam waiting on the step, and he picked her up effortlessly with his strong arm and carried her across the small yard to his vehicle. Not a single person was in sight or heard along the endless stretch of the straight, flat road, where the street lamps lined up, narrowing into points in both directions. The air was as fresh as it gets in the countryside at this time, and the stars were shining, except to the northeast, where a pale light indicated the dawn. Sam gently set her down in the seat and drove off.

They talked as they had talked in old days, Sam pulling himself up now and then, when he thought himself too familiar. More than once she said with misgiving that she wondered if she ought to have indulged in the freak. 'But I am so lonely in my house,' she added, 'and this makes me so happy!'

They chatted like they used to, with Sam straightening up every now and then when he felt he was getting too comfortable. More than once, she mentioned with uncertainty that she questioned if she should have gone along with the whim. "But I feel so lonely at home," she added, "and this makes me so happy!"

'You must come again, dear Mrs. Twycott. There is no time o' day for taking the air like this.'

'You have to come again, dear Mrs. Twycott. There's no time of day for enjoying the fresh air like this.'

It grew lighter and lighter. The sparrows became busy in the streets, and the city waxed denser around them. When they approached the river it was day, and on the bridge they beheld the full blaze of morning sunlight in the direction of St. Paul's, the river glistening towards it, and not a craft stirring.

It got lighter and lighter. The sparrows busied themselves in the streets, and the city got busier around them. As they reached the river, it was daytime, and on the bridge, they saw the bright morning sunlight shining toward St. Paul's, with the river sparkling in response, and not a single boat moving.

Near Covent Garden he put her into a cab, and they parted, looking into each other's faces like the very old friends they were. She reached home without adventure, limped to the door, and let herself in with her latch-key unseen.

Near Covent Garden, he helped her into a cab, and they said goodbye, looking into each other’s eyes like the longtime friends they were. She got home without any trouble, limped to the door, and let herself in with her latchkey, unnoticed.

The air and Sam's presence had revived her: her cheeks were quite pink-almost beautiful. She had something to live for in addition to her son. A woman of pure instincts, she knew there had been nothing really wrong in the journey, but supposed it conventionally to be very wrong indeed.

The fresh air and Sam's company had brought her back to life: her cheeks were a rosy pink—almost beautiful. She found new purpose beyond just her son. A woman guided by her instincts, she understood that there was actually nothing truly wrong with the journey, yet she believed it was considered very wrong by societal standards.

Soon, however, she gave way to the temptation of going with him again, and on this occasion their conversation was distinctly tender, and Sam said he never should forget her, notwithstanding that she had served him rather badly at one time. After much hesitation he told her of a plan it was in his power to carry out, and one he should like to take in hand, since he did not care for London work: it was to set up as a master greengrocer down at Aldbrickham, the county-town of their native place. He knew of an opening-a shop kept by aged people who wished to retire.

Soon, however, she couldn't resist the temptation to be with him again, and this time their conversation was really sweet. Sam told her he would never forget her, even though she had treated him pretty poorly at one point. After a lot of hesitation, he shared a plan that he could actually pursue and that he wanted to take on since he wasn’t interested in working in London: he wanted to open a greengrocer shop in Aldbrickham, the county town of their hometown. He knew of an opening—a shop run by elderly people who wanted to retire.

'And why don't you do it, then, Sam?' she asked with a slight heartsinking.

'And why don't you do it, then, Sam?' she asked, feeling a little disappointed.

'Because I'm not sure if-you'd join me. I know you wouldn't-couldn't! Such a lady as ye've been so long, you couldn't be a wife to a man like me.'

'Because I'm not sure if you'd join me. I know you wouldn't—couldn't! A lady like you, after being so refined for so long, couldn't be a wife to a man like me.'

'I hardly suppose I could!' she assented, also frightened at the idea.

'I can hardly believe I could!' she agreed, also scared by the thought.

'If you could,' he said eagerly, 'you'd on'y have to sit in the back parlour and look through the glass partition when I was away sometimes-just to keep an eye on things. The lameness wouldn't hinder that . . . I'd keep you as genteel as ever I could, dear Sophy-if I might think of it!' he pleaded.

'If you could,' he said eagerly, 'you'd just have to sit in the back room and look through the glass partition when I was away sometimes—just to keep an eye on things. The lameness wouldn't be an issue… I'd keep you as classy as I could, dear Sophy—if I could even think of it!' he pleaded.

'Sam, I'll be frank,' she said, putting her hand on his. 'If it were only myself I would do it, and gladly, though everything I possess would be lost to me by marrying again.'

'Sam, I’ll be honest,' she said, placing her hand on his. 'If it were just me, I would do it, and happily, even though I would lose everything I own by marrying again.'

'I don't mind that! It's more independent.'

'That's good of you, dear, dear Sam. But there's something else. I have a son . . . I almost fancy when I am miserable sometimes that he is not really mine, but one I hold in trust for my late husband. He seems to belong so little to me personally, so entirely to his dead father. He is so much educated and I so little that I do not feel dignified enough to be his mother . . . Well, he would have to be told.'

'That's really kind of you, dear Sam. But there's something else. I have a son... Sometimes when I'm feeling down, I almost think he doesn't really belong to me, but that I'm just taking care of him for my late husband. He feels so much like his father's child and so little like mine. He's so well-educated, and I feel so uneducated that I don’t feel worthy enough to be his mother… Well, he needs to be told.'

'Yes. Unquestionably.' Sam saw her thought and her fear. 'Still, you can do as you like, Sophy-Mrs. Twycott,' he added. 'It is not you who are the child, but he.'

'Yes. Absolutely.' Sam recognized her thoughts and her fears. 'Nonetheless, you can do whatever you want, Sophy-Mrs. Twycott,' he continued. 'It’s not you who is the child, but him.'

'Ah, you don't know! Sam, if I could, I would marry you, some day. But you must wait a while, and let me think.'

'Oh, you have no idea! Sam, if I could, I would marry you someday. But you need to wait for a bit and let me think.'

It was enough for him, and he was blithe at their parting. Not so she. To tell Randolph seemed impossible. She could wait till he had gone up to Oxford, when what she did would affect his life but little. But would he ever tolerate the idea? And if not, could she defy him?

It was enough for him, and he was happy as they parted ways. Not so for her. Telling Randolph felt impossible. She could wait until he went up to Oxford, when what she did would hardly impact his life. But would he ever accept the idea? And if not, could she go against him?

She had not told him a word when the yearly cricket-match came on at Lord's between the public schools, though Sam had already gone back to Aldbrickham. Mrs. Twycott felt stronger than usual: she went to the match with Randolph, and was able to leave her chair and walk about occasionally. The bright idea occurred to her that she could casually broach the subject while moving round among the spectators, when the boy's spirits were high with interest in the game, and he would weigh domestic matters as feathers in the scale beside the day's victory. They promenaded under the lurid July sun, this pair, so wide apart, yet so near, and Sophy saw the large proportion of boys like her own, in their broad white collars and dwarf hats, and all around the rows of great coaches under which was jumbled the debris of luxurious luncheons; bones, pie-crusts, champagne-bottles, glasses, plates, napkins, and the family silver; while on the coaches sat the proud fathers and mothers; but never a poor mother like her. If Randolph had not appertained to these, had not centred all his interests in them, had not cared exclusively for the class they belonged to, how happy would things have been! A great huzza at some small performance with the bat burst from the multitude of relatives, and Randolph jumped wildly into the air to see what had happened. Sophy fetched up the sentence that had been already shaped; but she could not get it out. The occasion was, perhaps, an inopportune one. The contrast between her story and the display of fashion to which Randolph had grown to regard himself as akin would be fatal. She awaited a better time.

She hadn’t said a word to him when the annual cricket match took place at Lord's between the public schools, even though Sam had already returned to Aldbrickham. Mrs. Twycott felt stronger than usual; she went to the match with Randolph and was able to get up from her chair and walk around occasionally. It struck her that she could casually bring up the topic while mingling among the spectators, when the boy was excited about the game and would consider family issues as light as feathers compared to the day's victory. They strolled under the blazing July sun, this pair, so far apart yet so close, and Sophy noticed many boys like her own, wearing broad white collars and tiny hats, surrounded by rows of large coaches where the remnants of lavish picnics were mixed together: bones, pie crusts, champagne bottles, glasses, plates, napkins, and even family silverware; while sitting on the coaches were proud mothers and fathers, but never a poor mother like her. If Randolph hadn’t belonged to these people, hadn’t focused all his interests on them, and hadn’t cared exclusively about the class they were part of, how much happier things could have been! A loud cheer erupted from the crowd at some small feat with the bat, and Randolph jumped excitedly to see what had happened. Sophy had the sentence she wanted to say already formed, but she couldn’t bring it out. The timing didn’t seem right. The contrast between her situation and the display of wealth that Randolph now identified with would be disastrous. She decided to wait for a better moment.

It was on an evening when they were alone in their plain suburban residence, where life was not blue but brown, that she ultimately broke silence, qualifying her announcement of a probable second marriage by assuring him that it would not take place for a long time to come, when he would be living quite independently of her.

It was an evening when they were alone in their simple suburban home, where life was dull rather than vibrant, that she finally spoke up, introducing the idea of a possible second marriage by assuring him that it wouldn’t happen for a long time, by which point he would be living completely on his own.

The boy thought the idea a very reasonable one, and asked if she had chosen anybody? She hesitated; and he seemed to have a misgiving. He hoped his stepfather would be a gentleman? he said.

The boy thought the idea was quite reasonable and asked if she had picked someone. She hesitated, and he seemed to have a worry. He hoped his stepdad would be a decent guy, he said.

'Not what you call a gentleman,' she answered timidly. 'He'll be much as I was before I knew your father;' and by degrees she acquainted him with the whole. The youth's face remained fixed for a moment; then he flushed, leant on the table, and burst into passionate tears.

'Not exactly what you’d call a gentleman,' she replied hesitantly. 'He'll be a lot like I was before I knew your father;' and gradually she shared everything with him. The young man's face stayed frozen for a moment; then he blushed, leaned on the table, and broke down in tears.

His mother went up to him, kissed all of his face that she could get at, and patted his back as if he were still the baby he once had been, crying herself the while. When he had somewhat recovered from his paroxysm he went hastily to his own room and fastened the door.

His mother approached him, kissed every part of his face she could reach, and patted his back as if he were still the baby he used to be, crying the whole time. Once he had calmed down a bit, he rushed to his room and locked the door.

Parleyings were attempted through the keyhole, outside which she waited and listened. It was long before he would reply, and when he did it was to say sternly at her from within: 'I am ashamed of you! It will ruin me! A miserable boor! a churl! a clown! It will degrade me in the eyes of all the gentlemen of England!'

Parleys were attempted through the keyhole, outside of which she waited and listened. It took a while before he answered, and when he finally did, he said sternly from inside: 'I'm ashamed of you! This will ruin me! A pathetic jerk! A rude person! A fool! It will lower my reputation in the eyes of all the gentlemen of England!'

'Say no more-perhaps I am wrong! I will struggle against it!' she cried miserably.

'Say no more—maybe I'm wrong! I'll fight against it!' she cried miserably.

Before Randolph left her that summer a letter arrived from Sam to inform her that he had been unexpectedly fortunate in obtaining the shop. He was in possession; it was the largest in the town, combining fruit with vegetables, and he thought it would form a home worthy even of her some day. Might he not run up to town to see her?

Before Randolph left her that summer, a letter arrived from Sam letting her know that he had unexpectedly managed to get the shop. He was now in charge of it; it was the biggest in town, selling both fruit and vegetables, and he believed it could eventually be a home worthy of her. Could he come to town to see her?

She met him by stealth, and said he must still wait for her final answer. The autumn dragged on, and when Randolph was home at Christmas for the holidays she broached the matter again. But the young gentleman was inexorable.

She met him secretly and told him he would have to keep waiting for her final answer. The autumn dragged on, and when Randolph was home for the holidays at Christmas, she brought it up again. But the young man was unyielding.

It was dropped for months; renewed again; abandoned under his repugnance; again attempted; and thus the gentle creature reasoned and pleaded till four or five long years had passed. Then the faithful Sam revived his suit with some peremptoriness. Sophy's son, now an undergraduate, was down from Oxford one Easter, when she again opened the subject. As soon as he was ordained, she argued, he would have a home of his own, wherein she, with her bad grammar and her ignorance, would be an encumbrance to him. Better obliterate her as much as possible.

It was ignored for months; brought up again; dismissed due to his disgust; tried again; and so the kind-hearted creature reasoned and begged until four or five long years had gone by. Then the loyal Sam pushed his case with some insistence. Sophy's son, now a college student, was back from Oxford one Easter when she brought up the topic again. As soon as he was ordained, she argued, he would have a home of his own, where she, with her poor grammar and her lack of knowledge, would be a burden to him. Better to minimize her presence as much as possible.

He showed a more manly anger now, but would not agree. She on her side was more persistent, and he had doubts whether she could be trusted in his absence. But by indignation and contempt for her taste he completely maintained his ascendency; and finally taking her before a little cross and altar that he had erected in his bedroom for his private devotions, there bade her kneel, and swear that she would not wed Samuel Hobson without his consent. 'I owe this to my father!' he said.

He showed a stronger anger now, but still wouldn’t agree. She was more persistent, and he had doubts about whether she could be trusted while he was away. But with his outrage and disdain for her choices, he kept his control; finally, taking her in front of a small cross and altar he had set up in his bedroom for his private prayers, he made her kneel and swear that she would not marry Samuel Hobson without his approval. “I owe this to my father!” he said.

The poor woman swore, thinking he would soften as soon as he was ordained and in full swing of clerical work. But he did not. His education had by this time sufficiently ousted his humanity to keep him quite firm; though his mother might have led an idyllic life with her faithful fruiterer and greengrocer, and nobody have been anything the worse in the world.

The poor woman hoped he would become more compassionate once he was ordained and fully immersed in his clerical duties. But he didn't change. By this point, his education had pushed his humanity aside enough to make him quite resolute; even though his mother could have enjoyed a peaceful life with her loyal fruit vendor and greengrocer, and no one would have suffered for it.

Her lameness became more confirmed as time went on, and she seldom or never left the house in the long southern thoroughfare, where she seemed to be pining her heart away. 'Why mayn't I say to Sam that I'll marry him? Why mayn't I?' she would murmur plaintively to herself when nobody was near.

Her lameness became more evident as time passed, and she rarely left the house on the long southern street, where she seemed to be wasting away. 'Why can't I tell Sam that I'll marry him? Why can't I?' she would murmur sadly to herself when no one was around.

Some four years after this date a middle-aged man was standing at the door of the largest fruiterer's shop in Aldbrickham. He was the proprietor, but to-day, instead of his usual business attire, he wore a neat suit of black; and his window was partly shuttered. From the railway-station a funeral procession was seen approaching: it passed his door and went out of the town towards the village of Gaymead. The man, whose eyes were wet, held his hat in his hand as the vehicles moved by; while from the mourning coach a young smooth-shaven priest in a high waistcoat looked black as a cloud at the shop keeper standing there.

About four years after this date, a middle-aged man stood at the door of the largest fruit shop in Aldbrickham. He was the owner, but today, instead of his usual work clothes, he wore a smart black suit; and his window was partially boarded up. From the train station, a funeral procession was seen approaching: it passed his door and moved out of town towards the village of Gaymead. The man, with wet eyes, held his hat in his hand as the vehicles passed by, while from the mourning carriage, a young clean-shaven priest in a high waistcoat glared at the shopkeeper standing there.

December 1891.

FOR CONSCIENCE' SAKE

CHAPTER I

Whether the utilitarian or the intuitive theory of the moral sense be upheld, it is beyond question that there are a few subtle-souled persons with whom the absolute gratuitousness of an act of reparation is an inducement to perform it; while exhortation as to its necessity would breed excuses for leaving it undone. The case of Mr. Millborne and Mrs. Frankland particularly illustrated this, and perhaps something more.

Whether we support the utilitarian or the intuitive theory of moral sense, it's clear that there are a few sensitive individuals for whom the completely selfless nature of a reparative act serves as motivation to carry it out; meanwhile, urging them on its necessity would only create reasons to avoid doing it. The situation with Mr. Millborne and Mrs. Frankland especially highlighted this, and maybe even a bit more.

There were few figures better known to the local crossing-sweeper than Mr. Millborne's, in his daily comings and goings along a familiar and quiet London street, where he lived inside the door marked eleven, though not as householder. In age he was fifty at least, and his habits were as regular as those of a person can be who has no occupation but the study of how to keep himself employed. He turned almost always to the right on getting to the end of his street, then he went onward down Bond Street to his club, whence he returned by precisely the same course about six o'clock, on foot; or, if he went to dine, later on in a cab. He was known to be a man of some means, though apparently not wealthy. Being a bachelor he seemed to prefer his present mode of living as a lodger in Mrs. Towney's best rooms, with the use of furniture which he had bought ten times over in rent during his tenancy, to having a house of his own.

There were few people better recognized by the local street cleaner than Mr. Millborne, who went about his daily routine on a familiar, quiet London street, where he lived behind the door marked eleven, though he wasn't the homeowner. He was at least fifty years old, and his habits were as regular as someone can be who has no job except figuring out how to keep himself busy. He almost always turned right when he reached the end of his street, then continued down Bond Street to his club, returning by the exact same route around six o'clock, either walking or, if he had dinner plans, later in a cab. He was known to have some money, though he didn't seem wealthy. As a bachelor, he appeared to prefer his current living situation as a lodger in Mrs. Towney's nicest rooms, where he had paid for furniture he had rented ten times over, rather than owning a home of his own.

None among his acquaintance tried to know him well, for his manner and moods did not excite curiosity or deep friendship. He was not a man who seemed to have anything on his mind, anything to conceal, anything to impart. From his casual remarks it was generally understood that he was country-born, a native of some place in Wessex; that he had come to London as a young man in a banking-house, and had risen to a post of responsibility; when, by the death of his father, who had been fortunate in his investments, the son succeeded to an income which led him to retire from a business life somewhat early.

None of his acquaintances tried to get to know him well, since his demeanor and emotions didn’t spark curiosity or deep friendship. He wasn’t the kind of guy who seemed to have anything on his mind, anything to hide, or anything to share. From his casual comments, it was generally understood that he was from the countryside, a native of some place in Wessex; that he had moved to London as a young man to work in a bank and had climbed the ranks to a position of responsibility; then, after his father passed away—who had been successful in his investments—he inherited an income that allowed him to retire from working life somewhat early.

One evening, when he had been unwell for several days, Doctor Bindon came in, after dinner, from the adjoining medical quarter, and smoked with him over the fire. The patient's ailment was not such as to require much thought, and they talked together on indifferent subjects.

One evening, after he had been feeling unwell for several days, Doctor Bindon came in from the nearby medical area after dinner and smoked with him by the fire. The patient's illness wasn't serious enough to need much consideration, so they chatted about casual topics.

'I am a lonely man, Bindon-a lonely man,' Millborne took occasion to say, shaking his head gloomily. 'You don't know such loneliness as mine . . . And the older I get the more I am dissatisfied with myself. And to-day I have been, through an accident, more than usually haunted by what, above all other events of my life, causes that dissatisfaction-the recollection of an unfulfilled promise made twenty years ago. In ordinary affairs I have always been considered a man of my word and perhaps it is on that account that a particular vow I once made, and did not keep, comes back to me with a magnitude out of all proportion (I daresay) to its real gravity, especially at this time of day. You know the discomfort caused at night by the half-sleeping sense that a door or window has been left unfastened, or in the day by the remembrance of unanswered letters. So does that promise haunt me from time to time, and has done to-day particularly.'

'I’m a lonely man, Bindon—a really lonely man,' Millborne said, shaking his head sadly. 'You don’t understand loneliness like mine... And the older I get, the more I’m unhappy with myself. Today, I’ve been unusually troubled by something that, more than anything else in my life, makes me feel this way—the memory of a promise I didn’t keep twenty years ago. In everyday matters, I’ve always been seen as someone who keeps his word, and maybe that’s why this specific vow I made and broke keeps coming back to me, much larger than it probably is, especially at this time of day. You know that uneasy feeling at night when you think a door or window might be unlocked, or during the day when you remember unanswered letters? That’s how that promise haunts me now and especially today.'

There was a pause, and they smoked on. Millborne's eyes, though fixed on the fire, were really regarding attentively a town in the West of England.

There was a pause, and they continued to smoke. Millborne's eyes, although focused on the fire, were actually intently considering a town in the West of England.

'Yes,' he continued, 'I have never quite forgotten it, though during the busy years of my life it was shelved and buried under the pressure of my pursuits. And, as I say, to-day in particular, an incident in the law- report of a somewhat similar kind has brought it back again vividly. However, what it was I can tell you in a few words, though no doubt you, as a man of the world, will smile at the thinness of my skin when you hear it . . . I came up to town at one-and-twenty, from Toneborough, in Outer Wessex, where I was born, and where, before I left, I had won the heart of a young woman of my own age. I promised her marriage, took advantage of my promise, and-am a bachelor.'

'Yeah,' he continued, 'I’ve never really forgotten it, even though during the hectic years of my life it got pushed aside and buried under all my responsibilities. And, like I said, today in particular, something in a legal report that was a bit similar brought it all back to me vividly. Anyway, I can explain what it was in just a few words, though I’m sure you, as a worldly person, will chuckle at how sensitive I am when you hear it . . . I came to the city at twenty-one, from Toneborough, in Outer Wessex, where I was born, and where, before I left, I had won the heart of a young woman my age. I promised her marriage, took advantage of that promise, and—well, I’m still single.'

'The old story.'

'The classic tale.'

The other nodded.

The other person nodded.

'I left the place, and thought at the time I had done a very clever thing in getting so easily out of an entanglement. But I have lived long enough for that promise to return to bother me-to be honest, not altogether as a pricking of the conscience, but as a dissatisfaction with myself as a specimen of the heap of flesh called humanity. If I were to ask you to lend me fifty pounds, which I would repay you next midsummer, and I did not repay you, I should consider myself a shabby sort of fellow, especially if you wanted the money badly. Yet I promised that girl just as distinctly; and then coolly broke my word, as if doing so were rather smart conduct than a mean action, for which the poor victim herself, encumbered with a child, and not I, had really to pay the penalty, in spite of certain pecuniary aid that was given. There, that's the retrospective trouble that I am always unearthing; and you may hardly believe that though so many years have elapsed, and it is all gone by and done with, and she must be getting on for an old woman now, as I am for an old man, it really often destroys my sense of self- respect still.'

'I left the place, thinking at the time that I had done something really smart by getting out of a tricky situation so easily. But I've lived long enough for that promise to come back and bother me—not entirely as a guilty conscience, but as a feeling of disappointment with myself as part of the human race. If I were to ask you for fifty pounds, saying I’d pay you back by next midsummer, and then I didn’t repay you, I would see myself as a pretty lousy person, especially if you really needed the money. Yet I made that same clear promise to that girl and then casually broke my word, as if it was something clever rather than a mean thing to do. The poor girl, burdened with a child, had to bear the consequences, not me, despite some financial help that was given. That’s the inner turmoil I keep digging up; and you might find it hard to believe that even after all these years, with everything in the past and her likely becoming an old woman now, just as I am becoming an old man, it still often ruins my self-respect.'

'O, I can understand it. All depends upon the temperament. Thousands of men would have forgotten all about it; so would you, perhaps, if you had married and had a family. Did she ever marry?'

'O, I get it. It all depends on the personality. Thousands of men would have totally moved on from it; maybe you would have too if you had gotten married and had kids. Did she ever marry?'

'I don't think so. O no-she never did. She left Toneborough, and later on appeared under another name at Exonbury, in the next county, where she was not known. It is very seldom that I go down into that part of the country, but in passing through Exonbury, on one occasion, I learnt that she was quite a settled resident there, as a teacher of music, or something of the kind. That much I casually heard when I was there two or three years ago. But I have never set eyes on her since our original acquaintance, and should not know her if I met her.'

'I don't think so. Oh no—she never did. She left Toneborough and later showed up under a different name in Exonbury, in the next county, where no one knew her. I rarely go to that part of the country, but one time when I was passing through Exonbury, I found out that she was living there as a music teacher or something similar. I heard that much casually when I was there a couple of years ago. But I haven't seen her since we first met, and I wouldn’t recognize her if I ran into her.'

'Did the child live?' asked the doctor.

'Did the child survive?' asked the doctor.

'For several years, certainly,' replied his friend. 'I cannot say if she is living now. It was a little girl. She might be married by this time as far as years go.'

'For several years, for sure,' replied his friend. 'I can't say if she's still alive. It was a little girl. She could be married by now, considering how much time has passed.'

'And the mother-was she a decent, worthy young woman?'

'And the mother—was she a decent, good young woman?'

'O yes; a sensible, quiet girl, neither attractive nor unattractive to the ordinary observer; simply commonplace. Her position at the time of our acquaintance was not so good as mine. My father was a solicitor, as I think I have told you. She was a young girl in a music-shop; and it was represented to me that it would be beneath my position to marry her. Hence the result.'

'O yes; a sensible, quiet girl, neither attractive nor unattractive to the average person; just ordinary. At the time we met, her situation wasn’t as good as mine. My dad was a lawyer, as I think I’ve mentioned before. She worked in a music shop, and it was suggested to me that marrying her would be beneath my status. So that’s what happened.'

'Well, all I can say is that after twenty years it is probably too late to think of mending such a matter. It has doubtless by this time mended itself. You had better dismiss it from your mind as an evil past your control. Of course, if mother and daughter are alive, or either, you might settle something upon them, if you were inclined, and had it to spare.'

'Well, all I can say is that after twenty years it’s probably too late to think about fixing this situation. It’s likely taken care of itself by now. You should just let it go as something bad that you can’t change. Of course, if the mother and daughter are alive, or even just one of them, you could do something for them if you wanted to and had the means to do so.'

'Well, I haven't much to spare; and I have relations in narrow circumstances-perhaps narrower than theirs. But that is not the point. Were I ever so rich I feel I could not rectify the past by money. I did not promise to enrich her. On the contrary, I told her it would probably be dire poverty for both of us. But I did promise to make her my wife.'

'Well, I don't have much extra; and I have family in tough situations—maybe tougher than theirs. But that's not the issue. Even if I were rich, I feel like I couldn't fix the past with money. I didn’t promise to make her wealthy. On the contrary, I said it would probably be severe poverty for both of us. But I did promise to make her my wife.'

'Then find her and do it,' said the doctor jocularly as he rose to leave.

"Then go find her and do it," the doctor joked as he got up to leave.

'Ah, Bindon. That, of course, is the obvious jest. But I haven't the slightest desire for marriage; I am quite content to live as I have lived. I am a bachelor by nature, and instinct, and habit, and everything. Besides, though I respect her still (for she was not an atom to blame), I haven't any shadow of love for her. In my mind she exists as one of those women you think well of, but find uninteresting. It would be purely with the idea of putting wrong right that I should hunt her up, and propose to do it off-hand.'

'Ah, Bindon. That’s clearly a joke. But I have no interest in marriage; I’m perfectly happy living as I am. I’m a bachelor by nature, instinct, habit, and everything else. Plus, while I still respect her (since she didn’t do anything wrong), I don’t have any feelings for her. To me, she’s just one of those women you think highly of but find boring. I’d only seek her out and propose just to make things right.'

'You don't think of it seriously?' said his surprised friend.

"You don't take it seriously?" said his surprised friend.

'I sometimes think that I would, if it were practicable; simply, as I say, to recover my sense of being a man of honour.'

'I sometimes think that I would, if it were possible; simply, as I say, to regain my sense of being an honorable man.'

'I wish you luck in the enterprise,' said Doctor Bindon. 'You'll soon be out of that chair, and then you can put your impulse to the test. But-after twenty years of silence-I should say, don't!'

"I wish you luck with the venture," said Doctor Bindon. "You'll be out of that chair soon, and then you can see if your instincts hold up. But—after twenty years of silence—I would suggest not!"

CHAPTER II

The doctor's advice remained counterpoised, in Millborne's mind, by the aforesaid mood of seriousness and sense of principle, approximating often to religious sentiment, which had been evolving itself in his breast for months, and even years.

The doctor's advice was balanced in Millborne's mind by the serious mood and sense of principle he had been developing in his heart for months and even years, which often felt close to a religious sentiment.

The feeling, however, had no immediate effect upon Mr. Millborne's actions. He soon got over his trifling illness, and was vexed with himself for having, in a moment of impulse, confided such a case of conscience to anybody.

The feeling, however, didn't impact Mr. Millborne's actions right away. He quickly recovered from his minor illness and was annoyed with himself for, in a moment of impulse, sharing such a personal dilemma with anyone.

But the force which had prompted it, though latent, remained with him and ultimately grew stronger. The upshot was that about four months after the date of his illness and disclosure, Millborne found himself on a mild spring morning at Paddington Station, in a train that was starting for the west. His many intermittent thoughts on his broken promise from time to time, in those hours when loneliness brought him face to face with his own personality, had at last resulted in this course.

But the urge that had driven him, although hidden, stayed with him and eventually got stronger. As a result, about four months after his illness and revelation, Millborne found himself on a mild spring morning at Paddington Station, on a train heading west. His many scattered thoughts about his broken promise, especially during those moments of loneliness when he confronted his own self, had finally led him to this decision.

The decisive stimulus had been given when, a day or two earlier, on looking into a Post-Office Directory, he learnt that the woman he had not met for twenty years was still living on at Exonbury under the name she had assumed when, a year or two after her disappearance from her native town and his, she had returned from abroad as a young widow with a child, and taken up her residence at the former city. Her condition was apparently but little changed, and her daughter seemed to be with her, their names standing in the Directory as 'Mrs. Leonora Frankland and Miss Frankland, Teachers of Music and Dancing.'

The crucial moment came a day or two earlier when he checked the Post-Office Directory and found out that the woman he hadn’t seen in twenty years was still living in Exonbury under the name she took on after she returned from abroad as a young widow with a child, about a year or two after she disappeared from her hometown and his. She seemed to be in a similar situation, and her daughter appeared to be with her, listed in the Directory as 'Mrs. Leonora Frankland and Miss Frankland, Teachers of Music and Dancing.'

Mr. Millborne reached Exonbury in the afternoon, and his first business, before even taking his luggage into the town, was to find the house occupied by the teachers. Standing in a central and open place it was not difficult to discover, a well-burnished brass doorplate bearing their names prominently. He hesitated to enter without further knowledge, and ultimately took lodgings over a toyshop opposite, securing a sitting-room which faced a similar drawing or sitting-room at the Franklands', where the dancing lessons were given. Installed here he was enabled to make indirectly, and without suspicion, inquiries and observations on the character of the ladies over the way, which he did with much deliberateness.

Mr. Millborne arrived in Exonbury in the afternoon, and his first task, even before bringing his luggage into town, was to locate the house where the teachers lived. It was easy to find since it stood in a central, open area, clearly marked with a polished brass doorplate displaying their names. He hesitated to go in without more information, so he ended up renting a room above a toy shop across the street, securing a sitting room that faced a similar room at the Franklands', where the dance lessons were held. Settled in, he was able to make inquiries and observe the character of the ladies across the way without raising any suspicions, and he did so with great care.

He learnt that the widow, Mrs. Frankland, with her one daughter, Frances, was of cheerful and excellent repute, energetic and painstaking with her pupils, of whom she had a good many, and in whose tuition her daughter assisted her. She was quite a recognized townswoman, and though the dancing branch of her profession was perhaps a trifle worldly, she was really a serious-minded lady who, being obliged to live by what she knew how to teach, balanced matters by lending a hand at charitable bazaars, assisting at sacred concerts, and giving musical recitations in aid of funds for bewildering happy savages, and other such enthusiasms of this enlightened country. Her daughter was one of the foremost of the bevy of young women who decorated the churches at Easter and Christmas, was organist in one of those edifices, and had subscribed to the testimonial of a silver broth-basin that was presented to the Reverend Mr. Walker as a token of gratitude for his faithful and arduous intonations of six months as sub-precentor in the Cathedral. Altogether mother and daughter appeared to be a typical and innocent pair among the genteel citizens of Exonbury.

He learned that the widow, Mrs. Frankland, along with her daughter, Frances, was well-liked and had a great reputation. She was energetic and dedicated to her students, of whom she had quite a few, and her daughter helped her with teaching. She was a well-known member of the community, and although the dance aspect of her profession might seem a bit worldly, she was genuinely a serious-minded woman who, because she needed to earn a living from her skills, balanced her work by volunteering at charity bazaars, helping with sacred concerts, and giving musical performances to raise funds for various causes, including supporting underprivileged groups. Her daughter was among the leading young women who decorated the churches for Easter and Christmas, served as the organist in one of those churches, and contributed to a testimonial for a silver broth-basin that was given to Reverend Mr. Walker as a token of appreciation for his dedicated service as sub-precentor in the Cathedral over the past six months. Overall, mother and daughter seemed like a typical and innocent duo among the respectable citizens of Exonbury.

As a natural and simple way of advertising their profession they allowed the windows of the music-room to be a little open, so that you had the pleasure of hearing all along the street at any hour between sunrise and sunset fragmentary gems of classical music as interpreted by the young people of twelve or fourteen who took lessons there. But it was said that Mrs. Frankland made most of her income by letting out pianos on hire, and by selling them as agent for the makers.

As a natural and straightforward way of promoting their work, they kept the windows of the music room slightly open, so you could enjoy snippets of classical music performed by the young students aged twelve or fourteen at any time from sunrise to sunset along the street. However, it was said that Mrs. Frankland earned most of her income by renting out pianos and working as an agent for the manufacturers to sell them.

The report pleased Millborne; it was highly creditable, and far better than he had hoped. He was curious to get a view of the two women who led such blameless lives.

The report made Millborne happy; it was very impressive and much better than he had expected. He was eager to see the two women who lived such innocent lives.

He had not long to wait to gain a glimpse of Leonora. It was when she was standing on her own doorstep, opening her parasol, on the morning after his arrival. She was thin, though not gaunt; and a good, well- wearing, thoughtful face had taken the place of the one which had temporarily attracted him in the days of his nonage. She wore black, and it became her in her character of widow. The daughter next appeared; she was a smoothed and rounded copy of her mother, with the same decision in her mien that Leonora had, and a bounding gait in which he traced a faint resemblance to his own at her age.

He didn't have to wait long to catch a glimpse of Leonora. It was when she was standing on her own front steps, opening her umbrella, the morning after he arrived. She was slender, but not emaciated; and a kind, thoughtful face had replaced the one that had briefly attracted him in his younger days. She wore black, which suited her as a widow. Then the daughter appeared; she was a smoother, rounder version of her mother, with the same strong demeanor that Leonora had, and a lively stride that reminded him a bit of his own at her age.

For the first time he absolutely made up his mind to call on them. But his antecedent step was to send Leonora a note the next morning, stating his proposal to visit her, and suggesting the evening as the time, because she seemed to be so greatly occupied in her professional capacity during the day. He purposely worded his note in such a form as not to require an answer from her which would be possibly awkward to write.

For the first time, he was completely determined to pay them a visit. But his first step was to send Leonora a note the next morning, saying he planned to visit her and suggesting the evening as the best time since she seemed so busy with work during the day. He carefully phrased his note to avoid putting her in the position of having to write a potentially awkward response.

No answer came. Naturally he should not have been surprised at this; and yet he felt a little checked, even though she had only refrained from volunteering a reply that was not demanded.

No answer came. He really shouldn’t have been surprised by this; and yet he felt a bit put off, even though she had just chosen not to give an answer that wasn’t required.

At eight, the hour fixed by himself, he crossed over and was passively admitted by the servant. Mrs. Frankland, as she called herself, received him in the large music-and-dancing room on the first-floor front, and not in any private little parlour as he had expected. This cast a distressingly business-like colour over their first meeting after so many years of severance. The woman he had wronged stood before him, well-dressed, even to his metropolitan eyes, and her manner as she came up to him was dignified even to hardness. She certainly was not glad to see him. But what could he expect after a neglect of twenty years!

At eight, the time he set for himself, he crossed over and was let in by the servant. Mrs. Frankland, as she referred to herself, greeted him in the large music and dance room on the first floor, not in some cozy little parlor as he had anticipated. This made their first meeting after so many years apart feel uncomfortably formal. The woman he had wronged stood before him, well-dressed, even by city standards, and her approach was dignified, almost cold. She certainly wasn’t happy to see him. But what could he expect after twenty years of neglect?

'How do you do, Mr. Millborne?' she said cheerfully, as to any chance caller. 'I am obliged to receive you here because my daughter has a friend downstairs.'

'How's it going, Mr. Millborne?' she said cheerfully, as she would to any unexpected visitor. 'I have to have you here because my daughter has a friend downstairs.'

'Your daughter-and mine.'

'Your daughter and my daughter.'

'Ah-yes, yes,' she replied hastily, as if the addition had escaped her memory. 'But perhaps the less said about that the better, in fairness to me. You will consider me a widow, please.'

'Oh, yes,' she answered quickly, as if she had almost forgotten. 'But maybe it's best not to talk about that, for my sake. Please consider me a widow.'

'Certainly, Leonora . . . ' He could not get on, her manner was so cold and indifferent. The expected scene of sad reproach, subdued to delicacy by the run of years, was absent altogether. He was obliged to come to the point without preamble.

'Of course, Leonora . . . ' He couldn't continue; her demeanor was so cold and uncaring. The anticipated moment of gentle blame, softened by the passage of time, was completely missing. He had to get straight to the point without any introduction.

'You are quite free, Leonora-I mean as to marriage? There is nobody who has your promise, or-'

'You are totally free, Leonora—I mean when it comes to marriage? There's no one who has your promise, or—'

'O yes; quite free, Mr. Millborne,' she said, somewhat surprised.

'Oh yes; totally free, Mr. Millborne,' she said, a bit surprised.

'Then I will tell you why I have come. Twenty years ago I promised to make you my wife; and I am here to fulfil that promise. Heaven forgive my tardiness!'

'Then I will tell you why I'm here. Twenty years ago, I promised to make you my wife, and I'm here to keep that promise. May heaven forgive my delay!'

Her surprise was increased, but she was not agitated. She seemed to become gloomy, disapproving. 'I could not entertain such an idea at this time of life,' she said after a moment or two. 'It would complicate matters too greatly. I have a very fair income, and require no help of any sort. I have no wish to marry . . . What could have induced you to come on such an errand now? It seems quite extraordinary, if I may say so!'

Her surprise grew, but she wasn't upset. She looked a bit down and disapproving. "I can't consider such an idea at this point in my life," she said after a moment. "It would complicate things too much. I have a decent income and don’t need help at all. I don’t want to get married... What could possibly have made you come with such a request now? It seems quite strange, if I may say so!"

'It must-I daresay it does,' Millborne replied vaguely; 'and I must tell you that impulse-I mean in the sense of passion-has little to do with it. I wish to marry you, Leonora; I much desire to marry you. But it is an affair of conscience, a case of fulfilment. I promised you, and it was dishonourable of me to go away. I want to remove that sense of dishonour before I die. No doubt we might get to love each other as warmly as we did in old times?'

'It must—I daresay it does,' Millborne replied vaguely; 'and I need to tell you that impulse—I mean in the sense of passion—has little to do with it. I want to marry you, Leonora; I really want to marry you. But it’s a matter of conscience, a question of keeping my word. I promised you, and it was dishonorable of me to leave. I want to clear that sense of dishonor before I die. No doubt we could learn to love each other as deeply as we did in the past?'

She dubiously shook her head. 'I appreciate your motives, Mr. Millborne; but you must consider my position; and you will see that, short of the personal wish to marry, which I don't feel, there is no reason why I should change my state, even though by so doing I should ease your conscience. My position in this town is a respected one; I have built it up by my own hard labours, and, in short, I don't wish to alter it. My daughter, too, is just on the verge of an engagement to be married, to a young man who will make her an excellent husband. It will be in every way a desirable match for her. He is downstairs now.'

She shook her head doubtfully. "I understand your intentions, Mr. Millborne, but you have to consider my situation. You'll see that, aside from the personal desire to marry, which I don't have, there's no reason for me to change my status, even if it would ease your conscience. I've built a respected position in this town through my hard work, and honestly, I don’t want to change that. My daughter is also about to get engaged to a great young man who will make her a wonderful husband. It’s definitely a good match for her. He’s downstairs right now."

'Does she know-anything about me?'

'Does she know anything about me?'

'O no, no; God forbid! Her father is dead and buried to her. So that, you see, things are going on smoothly, and I don't want to disturb their progress.'

'O no, no; God forbid! Her father is dead and buried to her. So, you see, things are going smoothly, and I don't want to disturb their progress.'

He nodded. 'Very well,' he said, and rose to go. At the door, however, he came back again.

He nodded. "Alright," he said, and stood up to leave. At the door, though, he turned back again.

'Still, Leonora,' he urged, 'I have come on purpose; and I don't see what disturbance would be caused. You would simply marry an old friend. Won't you reconsider? It is no more than right that we should be united, remembering the girl.'

'Still, Leonora,' he insisted, 'I came here specifically for this; and I don’t understand what the issue would be. You'd just be marrying an old friend. Will you reconsider? It’s only fair that we should be together, thinking of the girl.'

She shook her head, and patted with her foot nervously.

She shook her head and nervously tapped her foot.

'Well, I won't detain you,' he added. 'I shall not be leaving Exonbury yet. You will allow me to see you again?'

'Well, I won’t keep you,' he said. 'I’m not leaving Exonbury just yet. Will you let me see you again?'

'Yes; I don't mind,' she said reluctantly.

'Yeah; I don't mind,' she said hesitantly.

The obstacles he had encountered, though they did not reanimate his dead passion for Leonora, did certainly make it appear indispensable to his peace of mind to overcome her coldness. He called frequently. The first meeting with the daughter was a trying ordeal, though he did not feel drawn towards her as he had expected to be; she did not excite his sympathies. Her mother confided to Frances the errand of 'her old friend,' which was viewed by the daughter with strong disfavour. His desire being thus uncongenial to both, for a long time Millborne made not the least impression upon Mrs. Frankland. His attentions pestered her rather than pleased her. He was surprised at her firmness, and it was only when he hinted at moral reasons for their union that she was ever shaken. 'Strictly speaking,' he would say, 'we ought, as honest persons, to marry; and that's the truth of it, Leonora.'

The challenges he faced, although they didn’t revive his lost passion for Leonora, definitely made it feel necessary for his peace of mind to break through her coldness. He visited often. The first meeting with the daughter was a tough experience, even though he didn't feel as connected to her as he had anticipated; she didn’t stir any feelings of sympathy in him. Her mother shared with Frances the purpose of "her old friend," which the daughter viewed very negatively. With his desire being unwelcome to both of them, for a long time Millborne made no impression on Mrs. Frankland. His attentions annoyingly bothered her instead of making her happy. He was taken aback by her determination, and it was only when he suggested moral reasons for their union that she ever seemed affected. "To be honest," he would say, "we should, as decent people, get married; and that's the truth of it, Leonora."

'I have looked at it in that light,' she said quickly. 'It struck me at the very first. But I don't see the force of the argument. I totally deny that after this interval of time I am bound to marry you for honour's sake. I would have married you, as you know well enough, at the proper time. But what is the use of remedies now?'

'I’ve thought about it that way,' she said quickly. 'I realized that from the very beginning. But I don’t see how that argument holds. I completely disagree that after this time I’m obligated to marry you for the sake of honor. I would have married you, as you well know, at the right time. But what’s the point of remedies now?'

They were standing at the window. A scantly-whiskered young man, in clerical attire, called at the door below. Leonora flushed with interest.

They were standing at the window. A young man with a bit of stubble, in a clerical outfit, knocked at the door below. Leonora blushed with curiosity.

'Who is he?' said Mr. Millborne.

'Who is he?' asked Mr. Millborne.

'My Frances's lover. I am so sorry-she is not at home! Ah! they have told him where she is, and he has gone to find her . . . I hope that suit will prosper, at any rate!'

'My Frances's lover. I’m really sorry—she's not home! Ah! They’ve told him where she is, and he’s gone to look for her... I hope that works out for him, at least!'

'Why shouldn't it?'

'Why not?'

'Well, he cannot marry yet; and Frances sees but little of him now he has left Exonbury. He was formerly doing duty here, but now he is curate of St. John's, Ivell, fifty miles up the line. There is a tacit agreement between them, but-there have been friends of his who object, because of our vocation. However, he sees the absurdity of such an objection as that, and is not influenced by it.'

'Well, he can't marry yet; and Frances sees very little of him now that he has left Exonbury. He used to work here, but now he's the curate of St. John's, Ivell, fifty miles away. There's an unspoken understanding between them, but there are friends of his who disapprove because of our job. However, he recognizes how silly that objection is and isn't swayed by it.'

'Your marriage with me would help the match, instead of hindering it, as you have said.'

'Your marriage to me would support the match instead of blocking it, as you have claimed.'

'Do you think it would?'

'Do you think it will?'

'It certainly would, by taking you out of this business altogether.'

'It definitely would, by getting you out of this business completely.'

By chance he had found the way to move her somewhat, and he followed it up. This view was imparted to Mrs. Frankland's daughter, and it led her to soften her opposition. Millborne, who had given up his lodging in Exonbury, journeyed to and fro regularly, till at last he overcame her negations, and she expressed a reluctant assent.

By chance, he discovered a way to influence her a bit, and he pursued it. This perspective was shared with Mrs. Frankland's daughter, which helped her ease her resistance. Millborne, who had moved out of his place in Exonbury, traveled back and forth regularly until he finally broke down her refusals, and she reluctantly agreed.

They were married at the nearest church; and the goodwill-whatever that was-of the music-and-dancing connection was sold to a successor only too ready to jump into the place, the Millbornes having decided to live in London.

They got married at the closest church, and whatever goodwill there was from the music-and-dancing scene was sold to someone eager to take over, since the Millbornes had decided to move to London.

CHAPTER III

Millborne was a householder in his old district, though not in his old street, and Mrs. Millborne and their daughter had turned themselves into Londoners. Frances was well reconciled to the removal by her lover's satisfaction at the change. It suited him better to travel from Ivell a hundred miles to see her in London, where he frequently had other engagements, than fifty in the opposite direction where nothing but herself required his presence. So here they were, furnished up to the attics, in one of the small but popular streets of the West district, in a house whose front, till lately of the complexion of a chimney-sweep, had been scraped to show to the surprised wayfarer the bright yellow and red brick that had lain lurking beneath the soot of fifty years.

Millborne was a homeowner in his old neighborhood, although not on his old street, and Mrs. Millborne and their daughter had adapted to life in London. Frances had accepted the move well, thanks to her boyfriend's happiness with the change. It worked better for him to travel a hundred miles from Ivell to see her in London, where he often had other commitments, rather than fifty miles in the opposite direction, where he only needed to be with her. So here they were, fully furnished even into the attics, in one of the small but popular streets of the West district, in a house whose front, once as dark as a chimney sweep, had been cleaned to reveal the bright yellow and red bricks that had been hidden under fifty years of soot.

The social lift that the two women had derived from the alliance was considerable; but when the exhilaration which accompanies a first residence in London, the sensation of standing on a pivot of the world, had passed, their lives promised to be somewhat duller than when, at despised Exonbury, they had enjoyed a nodding acquaintance with three- fourths of the town. Mr. Millborne did not criticise his wife; he could not. Whatever defects of hardness and acidity his original treatment and the lapse of years might have developed in her, his sense of a realized idea, of a re-established self-satisfaction, was always thrown into the scale on her side, and out-weighed all objections.

The social boost that the two women got from their partnership was significant; but once the excitement of living in London for the first time wore off, that feeling of being at the center of the world faded, and their lives seemed likely to be a bit more boring than when they had a friendly acquaintance with most of the town back in the less favored Exonbury. Mr. Millborne didn’t criticize his wife; he couldn’t. No matter what flaws in her personality his initial treatment and the passage of time may have brought out, his perception of her as a fulfilled idea and a restored sense of self-worth always outweighed any objections he might have had.

It was about a month after their settlement in town that the household decided to spend a week at a watering-place in the Isle of Wight, and while there the Reverend Percival Cope (the young curate aforesaid) came to see them, Frances in particular. No formal engagement of the young pair had been announced as yet, but it was clear that their mutual understanding could not end in anything but marriage without grievous disappointment to one of the parties at least. Not that Frances was sentimental. She was rather of the imperious sort, indeed; and, to say all, the young girl had not fulfilled her father's expectations of her. But he hoped and worked for her welfare as sincerely as any father could do.

About a month after they settled in town, the family decided to spend a week at a resort in the Isle of Wight. While they were there, the Reverend Percival Cope (the young curate mentioned earlier) came to visit them, particularly Frances. No official engagement between the young couple had been announced yet, but it was evident that their mutual feelings could only lead to marriage without causing significant disappointment for at least one of them. Frances wasn’t overly sentimental; she was more of a dominant personality. To put it simply, the young girl hadn’t met her father’s expectations for her. Still, he hoped for her well-being and worked towards it as sincerely as any father could.

Mr. Cope was introduced to the new head of the family, and stayed with them in the Island two or three days. On the last day of his visit they decided to venture on a two hours' sail in one of the small yachts which lay there for hire. The trip had not progressed far before all, except the curate, found that sailing in a breeze did not quite agree with them; but as he seemed to enjoy the experience, the other three bore their condition as well as they could without grimace or complaint, till the young man, observing their discomfort, gave immediate directions to tack about. On the way back to port they sat silent, facing each other.

Mr. Cope was introduced to the new head of the family and spent two or three days with them on the Island. On the last day of his visit, they decided to take a two-hour sail in one of the small yachts available for rent. The trip hadn't gone far before everyone, except the curate, realized that sailing in a breeze wasn't really enjoyable for them; however, since he seemed to be having a great time, the other three tried to endure their discomfort without making faces or complaining, until the young man, noticing their unease, quickly instructed them to turn back. On the way back to the port, they sat in silence, facing each other.

Nausea in such circumstances, like midnight watching, fatigue, trouble, fright, has this marked effect upon the countenance, that it often brings out strongly the divergences of the individual from the norm of his race, accentuating superficial peculiarities to radical distinctions. Unexpected physiognomies will uncover themselves at these times in well-known faces; the aspect becomes invested with the spectral presence of entombed and forgotten ancestors; and family lineaments of special or exclusive cast, which in ordinary moments are masked by a stereotyped expression and mien, start up with crude insistence to the view.

Nausea in situations like watching something at midnight, feeling tired, or experiencing fear has a distinct effect on our faces, making noticeable differences between individuals and what’s considered normal for their race, highlighting minor quirks into significant differences. At such times, familiar faces will reveal unexpected features; their expressions seem to show the ghostly presence of buried and forgotten ancestors, and family traits that usually hide behind a usual expression become strikingly visible.

Frances, sitting beside her mother's husband, with Mr. Cope opposite, was naturally enough much regarded by the curate during the tedious sail home; at first with sympathetic smiles. Then, as the middle-aged father and his child grew each gray-faced, as the pretty blush of Frances disintegrated into spotty stains, and the soft rotundities of her features diverged from their familiar and reposeful beauty into elemental lines, Cope was gradually struck with the resemblance between a pair in their discomfort who in their ease presented nothing to the eye in common. Mr. Millborne and Frances in their indisposition were strangely, startlingly alike.

Frances, sitting next to her mother's husband, with Mr. Cope across from her, was understandably the focus of the curate's attention during the dull boat ride home; at first, he looked at her with sympathetic smiles. But as the middle-aged father and his daughter both turned gray-faced, and Frances’s once-pretty blush faded into blotchy patches, her soft, round features transformed from their usual beautiful serenity into harsh lines. Cope gradually became aware of how much they resembled each other in their discomfort, despite the fact that they looked nothing alike when they were feeling fine. Mr. Millborne and Frances, in their unhappiness, were oddly and strikingly similar.

The inexplicable fact absorbed Cope's attention quite. He forgot to smile at Frances, to hold her hand; and when they touched the shore he remained sitting for some moments like a man in a trance.

The puzzling fact completely captured Cope's attention. He forgot to smile at Frances or hold her hand, and when they reached the shore, he sat there for a while like a man in a daze.

As they went homeward, and recovered their complexions and contours, the similarities one by one disappeared, and Frances and Mr. Millborne were again masked by the commonplace differences of sex and age. It was as if, during the voyage, a mysterious veil had been lifted, temporarily revealing a strange pantomime of the past.

As they headed home and regained their looks, the similarities faded away one by one, and Frances and Mr. Millborne were once again obscured by the ordinary differences of gender and age. It was like a mysterious veil had been lifted during the journey, briefly exposing a bizarre performance from the past.

During the evening he said to her casually: 'Is your step-father a cousin of your mother, dear Frances?'

During the evening, he casually said to her, "Is your stepdad a cousin of your mom, dear Frances?"

'Oh, no,' said she. 'There is no relationship. He was only an old friend of hers. Why did you suppose such a thing?'

'Oh, no,' she said. 'There’s no relationship. He was just an old friend of hers. Why did you think that?'

He did not explain, and the next morning started to resume his duties at Ivell.

He didn't explain, and the next morning he went back to his duties at Ivell.

Cope was an honest young fellow, and shrewd withal. At home in his quiet rooms in St. Peter's Street, Ivell, he pondered long and unpleasantly on the revelations of the cruise. The tale it told was distinct enough, and for the first time his position was an uncomfortable one. He had met the Franklands at Exonbury as parishioners, had been attracted by Frances, and had floated thus far into an engagement which was indefinite only because of his inability to marry just yet. The Franklands' past had apparently contained mysteries, and it did not coincide with his judgment to marry into a family whose mystery was of the sort suggested. So he sat and sighed, between his reluctance to lose Frances and his natural dislike of forming a connection with people whose antecedents would not bear the strictest investigation.

Cope was a straightforward young guy, and quite perceptive too. At home in his quiet rooms on St. Peter's Street in Ivell, he spent a long and uncomfortable time reflecting on the revelations from the cruise. The story it revealed was clear enough, and for the first time, he felt uneasy about his position. He had met the Franklands at Exonbury as parishioners, had been drawn to Frances, and had ended up in an engagement that was only uncertain because he wasn't ready to marry yet. The Franklands' past seemed to have some secrets, and it didn’t sit right with him to marry into a family with that kind of mystery. So he sat and sighed, caught between his reluctance to lose Frances and his natural aversion to getting involved with people whose backgrounds wouldn’t stand up to close scrutiny.

A passionate lover of the old-fashioned sort might possibly never have halted to weigh these doubts; but though he was in the church Cope's affections were fastidious-distinctly tempered with the alloys of the century's decadence. He delayed writing to Frances for some while, simply because he could not tune himself up to enthusiasm when worried by suspicions of such a kind.

A passionate, old-fashioned lover might never stop to consider these doubts; but even in church, Cope's feelings were particular—definitely influenced by the negative aspects of the current age. He took his time writing to Frances because he just couldn't bring himself to feel enthusiastic while being troubled by such suspicions.

Meanwhile the Millbornes had returned to London, and Frances was growing anxious. In talking to her mother of Cope she had innocently alluded to his curious inquiry if her mother and her step-father were connected by any tie of cousinship. Mrs. Millborne made her repeat the words. Frances did so, and watched with inquisitive eyes their effect upon her elder.

Meanwhile, the Millbornes had returned to London, and Frances was becoming anxious. While talking to her mother about Cope, she had unintentionally mentioned his strange question about whether her mother and step-father were related in any way. Mrs. Millborne asked her to repeat what she said. Frances did so, watching intently to see how it affected her mother.

'What is there so startling in his inquiry then?' she asked. 'Can it have anything to do with his not writing to me?'

'What’s so shocking about his question then?' she asked. 'Could it have anything to do with him not writing to me?'

Her mother flinched, but did not inform her, and Frances also was now drawn within the atmosphere of suspicion. That night when standing by chance outside the chamber of her parents she heard for the first time their voices engaged in a sharp altercation.

Her mother flinched but didn't say anything to her, and Frances was now caught up in the atmosphere of suspicion. That night, while accidentally standing outside her parents' room, she heard their voices for the first time engaged in a heated argument.

The apple of discord had, indeed, been dropped into the house of the Millbornes. The scene within the chamber-door was Mrs. Millborne standing before her dressing-table, looking across to her husband in the dressing-room adjoining, where he was sitting down, his eyes fixed on the floor.

The apple of discord had, indeed, been dropped into the Millborne household. Inside the room, Mrs. Millborne stood in front of her dressing table, glancing over at her husband in the adjacent dressing room, where he was seated with his eyes staring at the floor.

'Why did you come and disturb my life a second time?' she harshly asked. 'Why did you pester me with your conscience, till I was driven to accept you to get rid of your importunity? Frances and I were doing well: the one desire of my life was that she should marry that good young man. And now the match is broken off by your cruel interference! Why did you show yourself in my world again, and raise this scandal upon my hard-won respectability-won by such weary years of labour as none will ever know!' She bent her face upon the table and wept passionately.

'Why did you come and disrupt my life again?' she asked sharply. 'Why did you bother me with your guilt until I felt forced to accept you just to get you off my back? Frances and I were doing well: my only wish was for her to marry that great young man. And now your cruel interference has ruined the engagement! Why did you decide to come back into my life and create this scandal that threatens my hard-earned respectability—earned through years of effort that no one will ever understand?' She laid her head on the table and cried bitterly.

There was no reply from Mr. Millborne. Frances lay awake nearly all that night, and when at breakfast-time the next morning still no letter appeared from Mr. Cope, she entreated her mother to go to Ivell and see if the young man were ill.

There was no response from Mr. Millborne. Frances stayed awake nearly all night, and when breakfast rolled around the next morning with still no letter from Mr. Cope, she begged her mother to go to Ivell and check if the young man was unwell.

Mrs. Millborne went, returning the same day. Frances, anxious and haggard, met her at the station.

Mrs. Millborne went and came back the same day. Frances, worried and worn out, met her at the station.

Was all well? Her mother could not say it was; though he was not ill.

Was everything okay? Her mother couldn’t honestly say it was, even though he wasn’t sick.

One thing she had found out, that it was a mistake to hunt up a man when his inclinations were to hold aloof. Returning with her mother in the cab Frances insisted upon knowing what the mystery was which plainly had alienated her lover. The precise words which had been spoken at the interview with him that day at Ivell Mrs. Millborne could not be induced to repeat; but thus far she admitted, that the estrangement was fundamentally owing to Mr. Millborne having sought her out and married her.

One thing she learned was that it was a mistake to chase after a man when he wanted to keep his distance. On the way back with her mom in the cab, Frances insisted on knowing what the mystery was that had clearly pushed her boyfriend away. Mrs. Millborne wouldn't reveal the exact words spoken during the meeting with him that day at Ivell, but she did admit that the rift was mainly due to Mr. Millborne seeking her out and marrying her.

'And why did he seek you out-and why were you obliged to marry him?' asked the distressed girl. Then the evidences pieced themselves together in her acute mind, and, her colour gradually rising, she asked her mother if what they pointed to was indeed the fact. Her mother admitted that it was.

'And why did he come looking for you—and why did you have to marry him?' asked the upset girl. Then the clues fell into place in her sharp mind, and, her face gradually turning red, she asked her mother if what they indicated was really true. Her mother confirmed that it was.

A flush of mortification succeeded to the flush of shame upon the young woman's face. How could a scrupulously correct clergyman and lover like Mr. Cope ask her to be his wife after this discovery of her irregular birth? She covered her eyes with her hands in a silent despair.

A wave of embarrassment replaced the flush of shame on the young woman's face. How could a proper and honorable clergyman like Mr. Cope ask her to be his wife after finding out about her irregular birth? She covered her eyes with her hands in silent despair.

In the presence of Mr. Millborne they at first suppressed their anguish. But by and by their feelings got the better of them, and when he was asleep in his chair after dinner Mrs. Millborne's irritation broke out. The embittered Frances joined her in reproaching the man who had come as the spectre to their intended feast of Hymen, and turned its promise to ghastly failure.

In front of Mr. Millborne, they initially held back their pain. But eventually, their emotions overwhelmed them, and when he dozed off in his chair after dinner, Mrs. Millborne's frustration spilled over. The resentful Frances joined her in criticizing the man who had appeared like a ghost to ruin their planned celebration, turning it into a horrific disappointment.

'Why were you so weak, mother, as to admit such an enemy to your house-one so obviously your evil genius-much less accept him as a husband, after so long? If you had only told me all, I could have advised you better! But I suppose I have no right to reproach him, bitter as I feel, and even though he has blighted my life for ever!'

'Why were you so weak, Mom, as to let such an enemy into your house—one so clearly your evil genius—let alone accept him as a husband after all this time? If you had just told me everything, I could have helped you better! But I guess I have no right to blame him, as angry as I feel, even though he has ruined my life forever!'

'Frances, I did hold out; I saw it was a mistake to have any more to say to a man who had been such an unmitigated curse to me! But he would not listen; he kept on about his conscience and mine, till I was bewildered, and said Yes! . . . Bringing us away from a quiet town where we were known and respected-what an ill-considered thing it was! O the content of those days! We had society there, people in our own position, who did not expect more of us than we expected of them. Here, where there is so much, there is nothing! He said London society was so bright and brilliant that it would be like a new world. It may be to those who are in it; but what is that to us two lonely women; we only see it flashing past! . . . O the fool, the fool that I was!'

'Frances, I did hold out; I realized it was a mistake to say anything more to a man who had been such a complete burden to me! But he wouldn’t listen; he kept going on about his conscience and mine, until I was confused and said Yes! . . . Leaving behind a quiet town where we were known and respected—what a thoughtless thing to do! Oh, the comfort of those days! We had a community there, people in our own position who didn’t expect more from us than we expected from them. Here, where there’s so much, there’s nothing! He said London society was so bright and vibrant that it would feel like a new world. It might be for those who are part of it; but what does that mean for us two lonely women? We only see it speeding by! . . . Oh, the fool, the fool that I was!'

Now Millborne was not so soundly asleep as to prevent his hearing these animadversions that were almost execrations, and many more of the same sort. As there was no peace for him at home, he went again to his club, where, since his reunion with Leonora, he had seldom if ever been seen. But the shadow of the troubles in his household interfered with his comfort here also; he could not, as formerly, settle down into his favourite chair with the evening paper, reposeful in the celibate's sense that where he was his world's centre had its fixture. His world was now an ellipse, with a dual centrality, of which his own was not the major.

Now Millborne wasn’t so deeply asleep that he couldn’t hear these harsh criticisms that were almost curses, along with many more like them. Since he found no peace at home, he returned to his club, where, since reconnecting with Leonora, he had rarely, if ever, been seen. But the weight of his family troubles disrupted his comfort there too; he could no longer relax in his favorite chair with the evening paper, feeling at ease in the way a single man does, believing he’s at the center of his own world. His world had now become an ellipse, with a dual center, and his was no longer the primary one.

The young curate of Ivell still held aloof, tantalizing Frances by his elusiveness. Plainly he was waiting upon events. Millborne bore the reproaches of his wife and daughter almost in silence; but by degrees he grew meditative, as if revolving a new idea. The bitter cry about blighting their existence at length became so impassioned that one day Millborne calmly proposed to return again to the country; not necessarily to Exonbury, but, if they were willing, to a little old manor-house which he had found was to be let, standing a mile from Mr. Cope's town of Ivell.

The young curate of Ivell kept his distance, frustrating Frances with his unpredictability. It was clear he was waiting for something to happen. Millborne accepted the complaints from his wife and daughter mostly in silence, but gradually he became pensive, as if considering a new idea. The desperate plea about ruining their lives eventually became so intense that one day Millborne calmly suggested they return to the countryside; not necessarily to Exonbury, but, if they agreed, to a quaint old manor house he discovered was available for rent, located a mile from Mr. Cope's town of Ivell.

They were surprised, and, despite their view of him as the bringer of ill, were disposed to accede. 'Though I suppose,' said Mrs. Millborne to him, 'it will end in Mr. Cope's asking you flatly about the past, and your being compelled to tell him; which may dash all my hopes for Frances. She gets more and more like you every day, particularly when she is in a bad temper. People will see you together, and notice it; and I don't know what may come of it!'

They were surprised, and, even though they saw him as trouble, they were inclined to agree. “But I guess,” Mrs. Millborne said to him, “this will end with Mr. Cope directly asking you about the past, and you’ll have to tell him; which could ruin all my hopes for Frances. She’s becoming more and more like you every day, especially when she’s in a bad mood. People will see you two together and notice it; and I have no idea what might come of that!”

'I don't think they will see us together,' he said; but he entered into no argument when she insisted otherwise. The removal was eventually resolved on; the town-house was disposed of; and again came the invasion by furniture-men and vans, till all the movables and servants were whisked away. He sent his wife and daughter to an hotel while this was going on, taking two or three journeys himself to Ivell to superintend the refixing, and the improvement of the grounds. When all was done he returned to them in town.

"I don't think they'll see us together," he said, but he didn't argue when she insisted otherwise. The move was eventually sorted out; the townhouse was sold, and once again, furniture movers and vans invaded, whisking away all the belongings and staff. He sent his wife and daughter to a hotel while this was happening, making a few trips himself to Ivell to oversee the reinstallation and improvement of the grounds. When everything was finished, he went back to them in the city.

The house was ready for their reception, he told them, and there only remained the journey. He accompanied them and their personal luggage to the station only, having, he said, to remain in town a short time on business with his lawyer. They went, dubious and discontented-for the much-loved Cope had made no sign.

The house was all set for their arrival, he told them, and all that was left was the trip. He took them and their bags to the station only, saying he had to stay in town for a bit to meet with his lawyer. They left, feeling uncertain and unhappy—since their beloved Cope had not shown any indication.

'If we were going down to live here alone,' said Mrs Millborne to her daughter in the train; 'and there was no intrusive tell-tale presence! . . . But let it be!'

'If we were going down to live here alone,' said Mrs. Millborne to her daughter on the train, 'and there was no annoying, prying presence! . . . But let it go!'

The house was a lovely little place in a grove of elms, and they liked it much. The first person to call upon them as new residents was Mr. Cope. He was delighted to find that they had come so near, and (though he did not say this) meant to live in such excellent style. He had not, however, resumed the manner of a lover.

The house was a charming little spot in a grove of elms, and they really liked it. The first person to visit them as new neighbors was Mr. Cope. He was thrilled to see that they had moved so close, and (though he didn’t mention it) planned to live in such a refined way. He hadn't, however, returned to his former romantic demeanor.

'Your father spoils all!' murmured Mrs. Millborne.

'Your dad spoils everything!' whispered Mrs. Millborne.

But three days later she received a letter from her husband, which caused her no small degree of astonishment. It was written from Boulogne.

But three days later, she got a letter from her husband that left her quite surprised. It was sent from Boulogne.

It began with a long explanation of settlements of his property, in which he had been engaged since their departure. The chief feature in the business was that Mrs. Millborne found herself the absolute owner of a comfortable sum in personal estate, and Frances of a life-interest in a larger sum, the principal to be afterwards divided amongst her children if she had any. The remainder of his letter ran as hereunder:-

It started with a lengthy explanation about managing his property, which he had been working on since they left. The main point was that Mrs. Millborne was now the sole owner of a nice amount of personal assets, while Frances had a life interest in a larger amount, with the principal to be divided among her children if she had any. The rest of his letter continued as follows:-

'I have learnt that there are some derelictions of duty which cannot be blotted out by tardy accomplishment. Our evil actions do not remain isolated in the past, waiting only to be reversed: like locomotive plants they spread and re-root, till to destroy the original stem has no material effect in killing them. I made a mistake in searching you out; I admit it; whatever the remedy may be in such cases it is not marriage, and the best thing for you and me is that you do not see me more. You had better not seek me, for you will not be likely to find me: you are well provided for, and we may do ourselves more harm than good by meeting again.

'I have learned that some failures in duty can't be erased by late achievements. Our wrong actions don't just stay in the past, waiting to be undone; like weeds, they spread and take root again, so destroying the original source doesn’t really eliminate them. I was wrong to seek you out; I admit it; whatever the solution is in such situations, it’s certainly not marriage, and the best thing for both of us is for you not to see me again. It's best if you don’t look for me, because you probably won’t find me: you're well taken care of, and meeting again may do us more harm than good.'

'F. M.'

Millborne, in short, disappeared from that day forward. But a searching inquiry would have revealed that, soon after the Millbornes went to Ivell, an Englishman, who did not give the name of Millborne, took up his residence in Brussels; a man who might have been recognized by Mrs. Millborne if she had met him. One afternoon in the ensuing summer, when this gentleman was looking over the English papers, he saw the announcement of Miss Frances Frankland's marriage. She had become the Reverend Mrs. Cope.

Millborne, in short, vanished from that day on. However, a thorough investigation would have shown that, not long after the Millbornes moved to Ivell, an Englishman, who didn’t go by the name of Millborne, settled in Brussels; a man whom Mrs. Millborne might have recognized if she had encountered him. One afternoon the following summer, while this man was browsing through the English newspapers, he came across the announcement of Miss Frances Frankland's wedding. She had become the Reverend Mrs. Cope.

'Thank God!' said the gentleman.

"Thank God!" said the man.

But his momentary satisfaction was far from being happiness. As he formerly had been weighted with a bad conscience, so now was he burdened with the heavy thought which oppressed Antigone, that by honourable observance of a rite he had obtained for himself the reward of dishonourable laxity. Occasionally he had to be helped to his lodgings by his servant from the Cercle he frequented, through having imbibed a little too much liquor to be able to take care of himself. But he was harmless, and even when he had been drinking said little.

But his brief sense of satisfaction was far from happiness. Just as he had once been weighed down by a guilty conscience, he was now burdened by the heavy thought that oppressed Antigone: by properly observing a ritual, he had earned himself the reward of dishonorable carelessness. Sometimes, he needed his servant to help him back to his place from the club he often visited, having drunk a bit too much to take care of himself. But he meant no harm, and even when he had been drinking, he said very little.

March 1891.

A TRAGEDY OF TWO AMBITIONS

CHAPTER I

The shouts of the village-boys came in at the window, accompanied by broken laughter from loungers at the inn-door; but the brothers Halborough worked on.

The shouts of the village boys came through the window, mixed with the broken laughter of people hanging out at the inn door; but the Halborough brothers kept working.

They were sitting in a bedroom of the master-millwright's house, engaged in the untutored reading of Greek and Latin. It was no tale of Homeric blows and knocks, Argonautic voyaging, or Theban family woe that inflamed their imaginations and spurred them onward. They were plodding away at the Greek Testament, immersed in a chapter of the idiomatic and difficult Epistle to the Hebrews.

They were sitting in the bedroom of the master millwright's house, trying to read Greek and Latin on their own. It wasn't stories of heroic battles, adventurous voyages, or tragic family tales that sparked their excitement and motivated them. They were grinding through the Greek Testament, focused on a chapter of the challenging and complex Epistle to the Hebrews.

The Dog-day sun in its decline reached the low ceiling with slanting sides, and the shadows of the great goat's-willow swayed and interchanged upon the walls like a spectral army manoeuvring. The open casement which admitted the remoter sounds now brought the voice of some one close at hand. It was their sister, a pretty girl of fourteen, who stood in the court below.

The fading summer sun hit the low ceiling with slanted sides, and the shadows of the large goat's-willow moved and shifted on the walls like a ghostly army in formation. The open window, which had previously allowed distant sounds to come through, now brought the voice of someone nearby. It was their sister, a pretty girl of fourteen, standing in the courtyard below.

'I can see the tops of your heads! What's the use of staying up there? I like you not to go out with the street-boys; but do come and play with me!'

'I can see the tops of your heads! What's the point of staying up there? I don’t want you to hang out with the street kids, but please come and play with me!'

They treated her as an inadequate interlocutor, and put her off with some slight word. She went away disappointed. Presently there was a dull noise of heavy footsteps at the side of the house, and one of the brothers sat up. 'I fancy I hear him coming,' he murmured, his eyes on the window.

They treated her like she couldn’t hold a decent conversation, and dismissed her with a few casual words. She left feeling let down. Soon, there was a dull sound of heavy footsteps coming from the side of the house, and one of the brothers sat up. "I think I hear him coming," he murmured, looking out the window.

A man in the light drab clothes of an old-fashioned country tradesman approached from round the corner, reeling as he came. The elder son flushed with anger, rose from his books, and descended the stairs. The younger sat on, till, after the lapse of a few minutes, his brother re- entered the room.

A man in the dull, outdated clothes of a country merchant came around the corner, stumbling as he walked. The older brother, filled with anger, got up from his books and went down the stairs. The younger brother stayed seated until, after a few minutes passed, his brother came back into the room.

'Did Rosa see him?'

'No.'

'Nope.'

'Nor anybody?'

'Or anyone?'

'No.'

No.

'What have you done with him?'

'What did you do with him?'

'He's in the straw-shed. I got him in with some trouble, and he has fallen asleep. I thought this would be the explanation of his absence! No stones dressed for Miller Kench, the great wheel of the saw-mills waiting for new float-boards, even the poor folk not able to get their waggons wheeled.'

'He's in the straw shed. I got him in there with some effort, and he has fallen asleep. I thought this would explain his absence! No stones ready for Miller Kench, the big wheel of the sawmills waiting for new float boards, even the poor people unable to get their wagons moving.'

'What is the use of poring over this!' said the younger, shutting up Donnegan's Lexicon with a slap. 'O if we had only been able to keep mother's nine hundred pounds, what we could have done!'

'What’s the point of obsessing over this!' said the younger one, slamming shut Donnegan's Lexicon. 'Oh, if only we had managed to hold onto mother's nine hundred pounds, think of what we could have done!'

'How well she had estimated the sum necessary! Four hundred and fifty each, she thought. And I have no doubt that we could have done it on that, with care.'

'She really nailed the total amount needed! Four hundred and fifty each, she thought. I’m sure we could have pulled it off with that, as long as we were careful.'

This loss of the nine hundred pounds was the sharp thorn of their crown. It was a sum which their mother had amassed with great exertion and self-denial, by adding to a chance legacy such other small amounts as she could lay hands on from time to time; and she had intended with the hoard to indulge the dear wish of her heart-that of sending her sons, Joshua and Cornelius, to one of the Universities, having been informed that from four hundred to four hundred and fifty each might carry them through their terms with such great economy as she knew she could trust them to practise. But she had died a year or two before this time, worn out by too keen a strain towards these ends; and the money, coming unreservedly into the hands of their father, had been nearly dissipated. With its exhaustion went all opportunity and hope of a university degree for the sons.

This loss of nine hundred pounds was a painful blow to their family. It was a sum that their mother had built up through hard work and sacrifices, by adding small amounts from a chance inheritance whenever she could. She had hoped to use this money to fulfill her dream of sending her sons, Joshua and Cornelius, to university, knowing that it would cost about four hundred to four hundred and fifty pounds each, which she believed they could manage carefully. But she had passed away a year or two earlier, worn out from the strain of her efforts, and the money, now fully in their father’s hands, had been almost entirely wasted. With its depletion went all chance and hope for the sons to earn a university degree.

'It drives me mad when I think of it,' said Joshua, the elder. 'And here we work and work in our own bungling way, and the utmost we can hope for is a term of years as national schoolmasters, and possible admission to a Theological college, and ordination as despised licentiates.'

'It drives me crazy when I think about it,' said Joshua, the elder. 'And here we toil and toil in our clumsy way, and the best we can hope for is a few years as national schoolteachers, and maybe getting into a Theological college, and being ordained as underappreciated licensees.'

The anger of the elder was reflected as simple sadness in the face of the other. 'We can preach the Gospel as well without a hood on our surplices as with one,' he said with feeble consolation.

The elder's anger appeared as mere sadness on the other person's face. "We can share the Gospel just as well without a hood on our robes as we can with one," he said, offering weak comfort.

'Preach the Gospel-true,' said Joshua with a slight pursing of mouth. 'But we can't rise!'

'Preach the true Gospel,' Joshua said, slightly pursing his lips. 'But we can't get up!'

'Let us make the best of it, and grind on.'

'Let’s make the best of it and keep pushing forward.'

The other was silent, and they drearily bent over their books again.

The other stayed quiet, and they reluctantly leaned back over their books again.

The cause of all this gloom, the millwright Halborough, now snoring in the shed, had been a thriving master-machinist, notwithstanding his free and careless disposition, till a taste for a more than adequate quantity of strong liquor took hold of him; since when his habits had interfered with his business sadly. Already millers went elsewhere for their gear, and only one set of hands was now kept going, though there were formerly two. Already he found a difficulty in meeting his men at the week's end, and though they had been reduced in number there was barely enough work to do for those who remained.

The reason for all this sadness, the millwright Halborough, now snoring in the shed, used to be a successful master machinist, despite his laid-back and carefree attitude, until he developed a taste for way too much strong liquor; since then, his habits had badly affected his business. Millers were already going elsewhere for their equipment, and only one crew was now working, even though there used to be two. He was also having trouble paying his workers at the end of the week, and although their numbers had decreased, there was barely enough work for those who were left.

The sun dropped lower and vanished, the shouts of the village children ceased to resound, darkness cloaked the students' bedroom, and all the scene outwardly breathed peace. None knew of the fevered youthful ambitions that throbbed in two breasts within the quiet creeper-covered walls of the millwright's house.

The sun set and disappeared, the shouts of the village kids quieted down, darkness enveloped the students' bedroom, and everything outside seemed to breathe peace. No one knew about the intense youthful dreams that pulsed within two hearts inside the quiet, ivy-covered walls of the millwright's house.

In a few months the brothers left the village of their birth to enter themselves as students in a training college for schoolmasters; first having placed their young sister Rosa under as efficient a tuition at a fashionable watering-place as the means at their disposal could command.

In a few months, the brothers left their hometown to enroll as students in a teacher training college, after making sure their younger sister Rosa received the best education possible at a popular resort, given the resources they had.

CHAPTER II

A man in semi-clerical dress was walking along the road which led from the railway-station into a provincial town. As he walked he read persistently, only looking up once now and then to see that he was keeping on the foot track and to avoid other passengers. At those moments, whoever had known the former students at the millwright's would have perceived that one of them, Joshua Halborough, was the peripatetic reader here.

A man in a semi-formal outfit was walking along the road that connected the train station to a small town. As he walked, he kept reading intently, only glancing up occasionally to ensure he was staying on the path and to dodge other travelers. During those moments, anyone familiar with the past students at the millwright's would have recognized that one of them, Joshua Halborough, was the reader on the move.

What had been simple force in the youth's face was energized judgment in the man's. His character was gradually writing itself out in his countenance. That he was watching his own career with deeper and deeper interest, that he continually 'heard his days before him,' and cared to hear little else, might have been hazarded from what was seen there. His ambitions were, in truth, passionate, yet controlled; so that the germs of many more plans than ever blossomed to maturity had place in him; and forward visions were kept purposely in twilight, to avoid distraction.

What used to be simple force in the youth's face was now focused determination in the man's. His character was slowly revealing itself in his expressions. You could tell he was paying more and more attention to his own career, that he was always ‘hearing his days ahead of him,’ and didn’t really want to hear much else. His ambitions were, in fact, strong yet restrained, allowing for the possibility of many more plans than those that ever came to fruition; he deliberately kept future aspirations vague to prevent distractions.

Events so far had been encouraging. Shortly after assuming the mastership of his first school he had obtained an introduction to the Bishop of a diocese far from his native county, who had looked upon him as a promising young man and taken him in hand. He was now in the second year of his residence at the theological college of the cathedral-town, and would soon be presented for ordination.

Events so far had been encouraging. Shortly after taking on the leadership of his first school, he got an introduction to the Bishop of a diocese far from his home county, who regarded him as a promising young man and took him under his wing. He was now in the second year of his time at the theological college in the cathedral town and would soon be presented for ordination.

He entered the town, turned into a back street, and then into a yard, keeping his book before him till he set foot under the arch of the latter place. Round the arch was written 'National School,' and the stonework of the jambs was worn away as nothing but boys and the waves of ocean will wear it. He was soon amid the sing-song accents of the scholars.

He walked into the town, turned onto a side street, and then into a yard, holding his book in front of him until he stepped under the arch of that place. Around the arch, it said 'National School,' and the stonework of the doorframe was worn down just like only boys and the ocean waves can wear it. He quickly found himself surrounded by the playful voices of the students.

His brother Cornelius, who was the schoolmaster here, laid down the pointer with which he was directing attention to the Capes of Europe, and came forward.

His brother Cornelius, who was the schoolmaster here, set aside the pointer he was using to highlight the Capes of Europe and stepped forward.

'That's his brother Jos!' whispered one of the sixth standard boys. 'He's going to be a pa'son, he's now at college.'

'That's his brother Jos!' whispered one of the sixth graders. 'He's going to be a priest; he's in college now.'

'Corney is going to be one too, when he's saved enough money,' said another.

'Corney will be one too when he saves up enough money,' said another.

After greeting his brother, whom he had not seen for several months, the junior began to explain his system of teaching geography.

After greeting his brother, whom he hadn't seen in several months, the junior started to explain his method of teaching geography.

But Halborough the elder took no interest in the subject. 'How about your own studies?' he asked. 'Did you get the books I sent?'

But Halborough the elder showed no interest in the topic. "What about your own studies?" he asked. "Did you receive the books I sent?"

Cornelius had received them, and he related what he was doing.

Cornelius had received them, and he shared what he was doing.

'Mind you work in the morning. What time do you get up?'

'Make sure to work in the morning. What time do you wake up?'

The younger replied: 'Half-past five.'

The younger replied, "5:30."

'Half-past four is not a minute too soon this time of the year. There is no time like the morning for construing. I don't know why, but when I feel even too dreary to read a novel I can translate-there is something mechanical about it I suppose. Now, Cornelius, you are rather behindhand, and have some heavy reading before you if you mean to get out of this next Christmas.'

'4:30 is not a minute too soon this time of year. There’s no time like the morning for figuring things out. I don’t know why, but when I feel too down to read a novel, I can still translate—there’s something automatic about it, I guess. Now, Cornelius, you’re a bit behind, and you have some tough reading ahead of you if you want to be done by next Christmas.'

'I am afraid I have.'

"I'm afraid I have."

'We must soon sound the Bishop. I am sure you will get a title without difficulty when he has heard all. The sub-dean, the principal of my college, says that the best plan will be for you to come there when his lordship is present at an examination, and he'll get you a personal interview with him. Mind you make a good impression upon him. I found in my case that that was everything and doctrine almost nothing. You'll do for a deacon, Corney, if not for a priest.'

'We need to talk to the Bishop soon. I'm sure you'll get a title easily once he hears everything. The sub-dean, who is the head of my college, suggests that you come when his lordship is present for an exam, and he’ll arrange a personal meeting for you. Make sure to impress him. I found that was the most important thing, while doctrine didn't matter as much. You'll be fine as a deacon, Corney, if not as a priest.'

The younger remained thoughtful. 'Have you heard from Rosa lately?' he asked; 'I had a letter this morning.'

The younger one stayed thoughtful. 'Have you heard from Rosa recently?' he asked; 'I got a letter this morning.'

'Yes. The little minx writes rather too often. She is homesick-though Brussels must be an attractive place enough. But she must make the most of her time over there. I thought a year would be enough for her, after that high-class school at Sandbourne, but I have decided to give her two, and make a good job of it, expensive as the establishment is.'

'Yes. The little troublemaker writes way too often. She's homesick—though Brussels must be a pretty nice place. But she should really make the most of her time there. I thought one year would be enough for her after that fancy school at Sandbourne, but I've decided to give her two years and do it right, even though the school is expensive.'

Their two rather harsh faces had softened directly they began to speak of their sister, whom they loved more ambitiously than they loved themselves.

Their two rather harsh faces softened as soon as they started talking about their sister, whom they loved more deeply than they loved themselves.

'But where is the money to come from, Joshua?'

'But where is the money going to come from, Joshua?'

'I have already got it.' He looked round, and finding that some boys were near withdrew a few steps. 'I have borrowed it at five per cent. from the farmer who used to occupy the farm next our field. You remember him.'

'I already have it.' He glanced around and, noticing some boys nearby, moved back a few steps. 'I borrowed it at five percent from the farmer who used to run the farm next to our field. You remember him.'

'But about paying him?'

'But what about paying him?'

'I shall pay him by degrees out of my stipend. No, Cornelius, it was no use to do the thing by halves. She promises to be a most attractive, not to say beautiful, girl. I have seen that for years; and if her face is not her fortune, her face and her brains together will be, if I observe and contrive aright. That she should be, every inch of her, an accomplished and refined woman, was indispensable for the fulfilment of her destiny, and for moving onwards and upwards with us; and she'll do it, you will see. I'd half starve myself rather than take her away from that school now.'

'I’ll pay him gradually from my salary. No, Cornelius, it was no use doing things halfway. She’s going to be a very attractive, if not downright beautiful, girl. I’ve known that for years; and if her looks don’t secure her future, her looks paired with her intelligence definitely will, if I plan and manage things correctly. It’s essential that she becomes, in every way, a well-educated and sophisticated woman, to fulfill her destiny and to move forward and upward with us; and she will, just wait and see. I’d rather go without food than pull her out of that school right now.'

They looked round the school they were in. To Cornelius it was natural and familiar enough, but to Joshua, with his limited human sympathies, who had just dropped in from a superior sort of place, the sight jarred unpleasantly, as being that of something he had left behind. 'I shall be glad when you are out of this,' he said, 'and in your pulpit, and well through your first sermon.'

They looked around the school they were in. For Cornelius, it felt normal and comfortable, but for Joshua, who had just come from a much better place and had limited empathy for others, the scene felt jarring, like something he had moved on from. "I’ll be glad when you’re out of this," he said, "and in your pulpit, ready to deliver your first sermon."

'You may as well say inducted into my fat living, while you are about it.'

'You might as well say you've been brought into my comfortable life while you're at it.'

'Ah, well-don't think lightly of the Church. There's a fine work for any man of energy in the Church, as you'll find,' he said fervidly. 'Torrents of infidelity to be stemmed, new views of old subjects to be expounded, truths in spirit to be substituted for truths in the letter . . . ' He lapsed into reverie with the vision of his career, persuading himself that it was ardour for Christianity which spurred him on, and not pride of place. He had shouldered a body of doctrine, and was prepared to defend it tooth and nail, solely for the honour and glory that warriors win.

'Oh, don't underestimate the Church. There's important work for any energetic person in the Church, as you'll see,' he said passionately. 'There are waves of disbelief to address, new perspectives on old topics to discuss, spiritual truths to replace literal ones... ' He fell into a daydream, picturing his career, convincing himself that it was his enthusiasm for Christianity that motivated him, not just a desire for status. He had taken on a set of beliefs and was ready to defend them fiercely, purely for the honor and glory that comes from being a warrior.

'If the Church is elastic, and stretches to the shape of the time, she'll last, I suppose,' said Cornelius. 'If not-. Only think, I bought a copy of Paley's Evidences, best edition, broad margins, excellent preservation, at a bookstall the other day for-ninepence; and I thought that at this rate Christianity must be in rather a bad way.'

'If the Church can adapt and evolve with the times, I guess it will survive,' said Cornelius. 'If not—just think about it, I found a copy of Paley's Evidences, the best edition with wide margins and in great condition, at a bookstall the other day for nine pence; and I thought that at this rate, Christianity must be in pretty rough shape.'

'No, no!' said the other almost, angrily. 'It only shows that such defences are no longer necessary. Men's eyes can see the truth without extraneous assistance. Besides, we are in for Christianity, and must stick to her whether or no. I am just now going right through Pusey's Library of the Fathers.'

'No, no!' the other replied, almost angrily. 'It just shows that those kinds of defenses aren’t needed anymore. People can see the truth without any outside help. Besides, we’re committed to Christianity and have to stay loyal to it no matter what. Right now, I'm going through Pusey's Library of the Fathers.'

'You'll be a bishop, Joshua, before you have done!'

'You'll be a bishop, Joshua, before you're done!'

'Ah!' said the other bitterly, shaking his head. 'Perhaps I might have been-I might have been! But where is my D.D. or LL.D.; and how be a bishop without that kind of appendage? Archbishop Tillotson was the son of a Sowerby clothier, but he was sent to Clare College. To hail Oxford or Cambridge as alma mater is not for me-for us! My God! when I think of what we should have been-what fair promise has been blighted by that cursed, worthless-'

'Ah!' said the other bitterly, shaking his head. 'Maybe I could have been—I could have been! But where's my D.D. or LL.D.? How can I be a bishop without that kind of title? Archbishop Tillotson was the son of a cloth trader from Sowerby, but he was sent to Clare College. Calling Oxford or Cambridge my alma mater is not for me—none of us! My God! when I think of what we could have become—what great potential has been ruined by that cursed, worthless—'

'Hush, hush! . . . But I feel it, too, as much as you. I have seen it more forcibly lately. You would have obtained your degree long before this time-possibly fellowship-and I should have been on my way to mine.'

'Hush, hush! . . . But I feel it too, just like you do. I've noticed it more clearly lately. You would have gotten your degree long before now—possibly even a fellowship—and I should have been on my way to getting mine.'

'Don't talk of it,' said the other. 'We must do the best we can.'

"Don't bring it up," said the other. "We have to make the best of this situation."

They looked out of the window sadly, through the dusty panes, so high up that only the sky was visible. By degrees the haunting trouble loomed again, and Cornelius broke the silence with a whisper: 'He has called on me!'

They looked out of the window sadly, through the dusty panes, so high up that only the sky was visible. Gradually, the haunting concern came back, and Cornelius broke the silence with a whisper: 'He has called on me!'

The living pulses died on Joshua's face, which grew arid as a cIRONlinker. 'When was that?' he asked quickly.

The life faded from Joshua's face, which became dry like a cIRONlinker. 'When was that?' he asked suddenly.

'Last week.'

'How did he get here-so many miles?'

'How did he get here—so many miles?'

'Came by railway. He came to ask for money.'

'Came by train. He came to ask for money.'

'Ah!'

'Oh!'

'He says he will call on you.'

'He says he will call you.'

Joshua replied resignedly. The theme of their conversation spoilt his buoyancy for that afternoon. He returned in the evening, Cornelius accompanying him to the station; but he did not read in the train which took him back to the Fountall Theological College, as he had done on the way out. That ineradicable trouble still remained as a squalid spot in the expanse of his life. He sat with the other students in the cathedral choir next day; and the recollection of the trouble obscured the purple splendour thrown by the panes upon the floor.

Joshua replied with a sense of defeat. The topic of their conversation ruined his good mood for the rest of the day. He returned in the evening, with Cornelius joining him at the station; but unlike on the way there, he didn’t read on the train back to Fountall Theological College. That persistent worry still lingered like a dark stain in the broader picture of his life. The next day, he sat with the other students in the cathedral choir; and the memory of that worry dimmed the vibrant colors cast by the stained glass on the floor.

It was afternoon. All was as still in the Close as a cathedral-green can be between the Sunday services, and the incessant cawing of the rooks was the only sound. Joshua Halborough had finished his ascetic lunch, and had gone into the library, where he stood for a few moments looking out of the large window facing the green. He saw walking slowly across it a man in a fustian coat and a battered white hat with a much- ruffled nap, having upon his arm a tall gipsy-woman wearing long brass earrings. The man was staring quizzically at the west front of the cathedral, and Halborough recognized in him the form and features of his father. Who the woman was he knew not. Almost as soon as Joshua became conscious of these things, the sub-dean, who was also the principal of the college, and of whom the young man stood in more awe than of the Bishop himself, emerged from the gate and entered a path across the Close. The pair met the dignitary, and to Joshua's horror his father turned and addressed the sub-dean.

It was afternoon. Everything was as quiet in the Close as it can be between Sunday services, and the only sound was the constant cawing of the rooks. Joshua Halborough had finished his simple lunch and had gone into the library, where he stood for a moment looking out of the large window that faced the green. He saw a man in a worn coat and a battered white hat with a frayed nap walking slowly across it, with a tall gypsy woman with long brass earrings on his arm. The man was curiously staring at the west front of the cathedral, and Halborough recognized his father’s form and features. He didn’t know who the woman was. Almost as soon as Joshua became aware of this, the sub-dean, who was also the head of the college—and whom the young man feared even more than the Bishop himself—emerged from the gate and entered a path across the Close. The two of them encountered the dignitary, and to Joshua’s horror, his father turned to speak to the sub-dean.

What passed between them he could not tell. But as he stood in a cold sweat he saw his father place his hand familiarly on the sub-dean's shoulder; the shrinking response of the latter, and his quick withdrawal, told his feeling. The woman seemed to say nothing, but when the sub-dean had passed by they came on towards the college gate.

What happened between them he couldn’t say. But as he stood there sweating, he saw his father casually put his hand on the sub-dean's shoulder; the sub-dean's shrinking response and quick pullback showed his discomfort. The woman didn’t seem to say anything, but after the sub-dean walked by, they moved towards the college gate.

Halborough flew along the corridor and out at a side door, so as to intercept them before they could reach the front entrance, for which they were making. He caught them behind a clump of laurel.

Halborough raced down the hallway and out through a side door to catch them before they reached the front entrance they were aiming for. He found them hidden behind a bush of laurel.

'By Jerry, here's the very chap! Well, you're a fine fellow, Jos, never to send your father as much as a twist o' baccy on such an occasion, and to leave him to travel all these miles to find ye out!'

'By Jerry, here's the guy! Well, you're a great friend, Jos, never to send your dad even a little bit of tobacco on such an occasion, and to leave him to travel all these miles to find you!'

'First, who is this?' said Joshua Halborough with pale dignity, waving his hand towards the buxom woman with the great earrings.

'First, who is this?' said Joshua Halborough with a calm dignity, waving his hand towards the attractive woman with the large earrings.

'Dammy, the mis'ess! Your step-mother! Didn't you know I'd married? She helped me home from market one night, and we came to terms, and struck the bargain. Didn't we, Selinar?'

'Dammy, the mistress! Your step-mother! Didn’t you know I got married? She helped me home from the market one night, and we came to an agreement, and made the deal. Didn’t we, Selinar?'

'Oi, by the great Lord an' we did!' simpered the lady.

'Oi, by the great Lord, we really did!' the lady said with a smile.

'Well, what sort of a place is this you are living in?' asked the millwright. 'A kind of house-of-correction, apparently?'

'So, what kind of place are you living in?' asked the millwright. 'Some sort of correctional facility, it seems?'

Joshua listened abstractedly, his features set to resignation. Sick at heart he was going to ask them if they were in want of any necessary, any meal, when his father cut him short by saying, 'Why, we've called to ask ye to come round and take pot-luck with us at the Cock-and-Bottle, where we've put up for the day, on our way to see mis'ess's friends at Binegar Fair, where they'll be lying under canvas for a night or two. As for the victuals at the Cock I can't testify to 'em at all; but for the drink, they've the rarest drop of Old Tom that I've tasted for many a year.'

Joshua listened absently, his expression showing resignation. Heavy-hearted, he was about to ask them if they needed anything, like a meal, when his father interrupted him, saying, "Well, we came to invite you to join us for a meal at the Cock-and-Bottle, where we’re staying for the day on our way to visit the mistress's friends at Binegar Fair, where they’ll be camping for a night or two. As for the food at the Cock, I can’t speak to that; but for drinks, they have the finest Old Tom I’ve tasted in years."

'Thanks; but I am a teetotaller; and I have lunched,' said Joshua, who could fully believe his father's testimony to the gin, from the odour of his breath. 'You see we have to observe regular habits here; and I couldn't be seen at the Cock-and-Bottle just now.'

'Thanks, but I don’t drink, and I’ve already had lunch,' said Joshua, who could totally believe his dad’s story about the gin from the smell of his breath. 'You see, we have to stick to a routine here, and I can’t be seen at the Cock-and-Bottle right now.'

'O dammy, then don't come, your reverence. Perhaps you won't mind standing treat for those who can be seen there?'

'O dammy, then don't come, your reverence. Maybe you won't mind covering for those who are present there?'

'Not a penny,' said the younger firmly. 'You've had enough already.'

'Not a penny,' the younger one said firmly. 'You've had enough already.'

'Thank you for nothing. By the bye, who was that spindle-legged, shoe- buckled parson feller we met by now? He seemed to think we should poison him!'

'Thanks for nothing. By the way, who was that skinny, shoe-buckled pastor we met just now? He acted like we should poison him!'

Joshua remarked coldly that it was the principal of his college, guardedly inquiring, 'Did you tell him whom you were come to see?'

Joshua commented coolly that it was the principal of his college, cautiously asking, 'Did you tell him who you were here to see?'

His father did not reply. He and his strapping gipsy wife-if she were his wife-stayed no longer, and disappeared in the direction of the High Street. Joshua Halborough went back to the library. Determined as was his nature, he wept hot tears upon the books, and was immeasurably more wretched that afternoon than the unwelcome millwright. In the evening he sat down and wrote a letter to his brother, in which, after stating what had happened, and expatiating upon this new disgrace in the gipsy wife, he propounded a plan for raising money sufficient to induce the couple to emigrate to Canada. 'It is our only chance,' he said. 'The case as it stands is maddening. For a successful painter, sculptor, musician, author, who takes society by storm, it is no drawback, it is sometimes even a romantic recommendation, to hail from outcasts and profligates. But for a clergyman of the Church of England! Cornelius, it is fatal! To succeed in the Church, people must believe in you, first of all, as a gentleman, secondly as a man of means, thirdly as a scholar, fourthly as a preacher, fifthly, perhaps, as a Christian,-but always first as a gentleman, with all their heart and soul and strength. I would have faced the fact of being a small machinist's son, and have taken my chance, if he'd been in any sense respectable and decent. The essence of Christianity is humility, and by the help of God I would have brazened it out. But this terrible vagabondage and disreputable connection! If he does not accept my terms and leave the country, it will extinguish us and kill me. For how can we live, and relinquish our high aim, and bring down our dear sister Rosa to the level of a gipsy's step-daughter?'

His father didn’t say anything. He and his strong gypsy wife—if she was indeed his wife—didn’t stick around and vanished toward High Street. Joshua Halborough returned to the library. Determined as he was, he cried hot tears onto the books and felt far more miserable that afternoon than the unwelcome millwright. That evening, he sat down and wrote a letter to his brother, where he detailed what had happened and went on about the new disgrace of the gypsy wife. He suggested a plan to raise enough money to persuade the couple to move to Canada. 'It’s our only chance,' he said. 'The situation as it stands is infuriating. For a successful painter, sculptor, musician, or author who takes society by storm, coming from outcasts and misfits can actually be a bonus, sometimes even a romantic notion. But for an Anglican clergyman? Cornelius, it’s a death sentence! To succeed in the Church, people first need to see you as a gentleman, then as someone with means, next as a scholar, fourth as a preacher, and lastly, perhaps, as a Christian—but always foremost as a gentleman, with all their heart and soul. I could have accepted being the son of a small machinist and taken my chances if he had been in any way respectable or decent. The essence of Christianity is humility, and with God's help, I would have faced it boldly. But this awful life of wandering and this disgraceful connection! If he doesn’t accept my terms and leave the country, it will ruin us and destroy me. How can we live with ourselves, give up our noble aspirations, and drag our dear sister Rosa down to the level of a gypsy’s stepdaughter?'

CHAPTER III

There was excitement in the parish of Narrobourne one day. The congregation had just come out from morning service, and the whole conversation was of the new curate, Mr. Halborough, who had officiated for the first time, in the absence of the rector.

There was a buzz in the parish of Narrobourne one day. The congregation had just finished the morning service, and everyone was talking about the new curate, Mr. Halborough, who had officiated for the first time in the rector's absence.

Never before had the feeling of the villagers approached a level which could be called excitement on such a matter as this. The droning which had been the rule in that quiet old place for a century seemed ended at last. They repeated the text to each other as a refrain: 'O Lord, be thou my helper!' Not within living memory till to-day had the subject of the sermon formed the topic of conversation from the church door to church-yard gate, to the exclusion of personal remarks on those who had been present, and on the week's news in general.

Never before had the villagers felt a level of excitement about something like this. The constant hum that had been the norm in that quiet old place for a century seemed to finally be over. They kept repeating the line to each other like a chant: 'O Lord, be my helper!' Until today, no one could remember a time when the topic of the sermon had been the main topic of conversation from the church door to the churchyard gate, completely overshadowing personal comments about those who were there and the week's news in general.

The thrilling periods of the preacher hung about their minds all that day. The parish being steeped in indifferentism, it happened that when the youths and maidens, middle-aged and old people, who had attended church that morning, recurred as by a fascination to what Halborough had said, they did so more or less indirectly, and even with the subterfuge of a light laugh that was not real, so great was their shyness under the novelty of their sensations.

The exciting moments from the preacher stayed on their minds all day. The community was overwhelmed by indifference, so when the young men and women, middle-aged folks, and older people who had gone to church that morning found themselves drawn back to what Halborough had said, they did it in a somewhat indirect way. They even laughed lightly, but the laughter wasn’t genuine; their shyness was so intense given the new feelings they were experiencing.

What was more curious than that these unconventional villagers should have been excited by a preacher of a new school after forty years of familiarity with the old hand who had had charge of their souls, was the effect of Halborough's address upon the occupants of the manor-house pew, including the owner of the estate. These thought they knew how to discount the mere sensational sermon, how to minimize flash oratory to its bare proportions; but they had yielded like the rest of the assembly to the charm of the newcomer.

What was even more surprising than these unconventional villagers being excited by a preacher from a new school after forty years with the familiar old one who had guided their souls was the impact of Halborough's speech on the people in the manor-house pew, including the estate owner. They believed they could ignore the hype of a sensational sermon and downplay flashy oratory to its simplest form; yet, like the rest of the crowd, they had been captivated by the newcomer’s charm.

Mr. Fellmer, the landowner, was a young widower, whose mother, still in the prime of life, had returned to her old position in the family mansion since the death of her son's wife in the year after her marriage, at the birth of a fragile little girl. From the date of his loss to the present time, Fellmer had led an inactive existence in the seclusion of the parish; a lack of motive seemed to leave him listless. He had gladly reinstated his mother in the gloomy house, and his main occupation now lay in stewarding his estate, which was not large. Mrs. Fellmer, who had sat beside him under Halborough this morning, was a cheerful, straightforward woman, who did her marketing and her alms- giving in person, was fond of old-fashioned flowers, and walked about the village on very wet days visiting the parishioners. These, the only two great ones of Narrobourne, were impressed by Joshua's eloquence as much as the cottagers.

Mr. Fellmer, the landowner, was a young widower. His mother, still vibrantly alive, had taken back her old role in the family mansion after her daughter-in-law passed away a year after their marriage, following the birth of a delicate little girl. Since that loss, Fellmer had lived a quiet life in the solitude of the parish; a lack of purpose seemed to leave him feeling aimless. He had happily welcomed his mother back into the dim house, and his main focus now was managing his not-so-large estate. Mrs. Fellmer, who had sat next to him under Halborough that morning, was a cheerful and straightforward woman. She did her shopping and charity work in person, loved old-fashioned flowers, and would stroll around the village, even on really rainy days, visiting the locals. These two prominent figures in Narrobourne were as impressed by Joshua's eloquence as the villagers were.

Halborough had been briefly introduced to them on his arrival some days before, and, their interest being kindled, they waited a few moments till he came out of the vestry, to walk down the churchyard-path with him. Mrs. Fellmer spoke warmly of the sermon, of the good fortune of the parish in his advent, and hoped he had found comfortable quarters.

Halborough had been briefly introduced to them when he arrived a few days earlier, and with their interest piqued, they waited a moment for him to come out of the vestry so they could walk down the churchyard path with him. Mrs. Fellmer praised the sermon, expressed how fortunate the parish was to have him, and hoped he had found a comfortable place to stay.

Halborough, faintly flushing, said that he had obtained very fair lodgings in the roomy house of a farmer, whom he named.

Halborough, slightly blushing, said that he had found quite nice accommodations in the spacious house of a farmer, whose name he mentioned.

She feared he would find it very lonely, especially in the evenings, and hoped they would see a good deal of him. When would he dine with them? Could he not come that day-it must be so dull for him the first Sunday evening in country lodgings?

She was worried he would feel really lonely, especially in the evenings, and hoped they would spend a lot of time with him. When would he have dinner with them? Could he come over today? It must be so boring for him on his first Sunday evening in the countryside.

Halborough replied that it would give him much pleasure, but that he feared he must decline. 'I am not altogether alone,' he said. 'My sister, who has just returned from Brussels, and who felt, as you do, that I should be rather dismal by myself, has accompanied me hither to stay a few days till she has put my rooms in order and set me going. She was too fatigued to come to church, and is waiting for me now at the farm.'

Halborough replied that he would be very happy to, but he was afraid he had to decline. "I'm not completely alone," he said. "My sister, who just got back from Brussels and who felt, like you do, that I’d be quite miserable by myself, has come with me to stay a few days until she gets my place organized and gets me settled in. She was too tired to come to church and is waiting for me now at the farm."

'Oh, but bring your sister-that will be still better! I shall be delighted to know her. How I wish I had been aware! Do tell her, please, that we had no idea of her presence.'

'Oh, but bring your sister—that would be even better! I would love to meet her. I wish I had known! Please tell her that we had no idea she was coming.'

Halborough assured Mrs. Fellmer that he would certainly bear the message; but as to her coming he was not so sure. The real truth was, however, that the matter would be decided by him, Rosa having an almost filial respect for his wishes. But he was uncertain as to the state of her wardrobe, and had determined that she should not enter the manor- house at a disadvantage that evening, when there would probably be plenty of opportunities in the future of her doing so becomingly.

Halborough told Mrs. Fellmer that he would definitely pass on the message; but he wasn't so sure about her coming. The real truth was that the decision would be up to him, as Rosa had a nearly daughterly respect for his wishes. However, he was unsure about the condition of her wardrobe and had decided that she shouldn’t come to the manor house looking less than her best that evening, considering there would likely be plenty of chances in the future for her to do so in a more fitting way.

He walked to the farm in long strides. This, then, was the outcome of his first morning's work as curate here. Things had gone fairly well with him. He had been ordained; he was in a comfortable parish, where he would exercise almost sole supervision, the rector being infirm. He had made a deep impression at starting, and the absence of a hood seemed to have done him no harm. Moreover, by considerable persuasion and payment, his father and the dark woman had been shipped off to Canada, where they were not likely to interfere greatly with his interests.

He walked to the farm with long strides. This was the result of his first morning's work as a curate here. Things had gone pretty well for him. He had been ordained; he was in a comfortable parish where he would have almost complete control, as the rector was unwell. He made a strong impression right from the beginning, and the lack of a hood didn't seem to hurt him at all. Plus, after a lot of convincing and some financial support, his father and the dark woman had been sent off to Canada, where they likely wouldn't interfere much with his interests.

Rosa came out to meet him. 'Ah! you should have gone to church like a good girl,' he said.

Rosa came out to meet him. "Ah! You should have gone to church like a good girl," he said.

'Yes-I wished I had afterwards. But I do so hate church as a rule that even your preaching was underestimated in my mind. It was too bad of me!'

'Yes—I wished I had later. But I really hate church as a rule, so even your preaching didn't get the credit it deserved in my mind. That was unfair of me!'

The girl who spoke thus playfully was fair, tall, and sylph-like, in a muslin dress, and with just the coquettish desinvolture which an English girl brings home from abroad, and loses again after a few months of native life. Joshua was the reverse of playful; the world was too important a concern for him to indulge in light moods. He told her in decided, practical phraseology of the invitation.

The girl who spoke like that playfully was pretty, tall, and slender, wearing a muslin dress, and had just the playful confidence that an English girl picks up while traveling abroad but loses after a few months back home. Joshua was the complete opposite of playful; the world was too serious for him to allow himself to be lighthearted. He told her in clear, practical terms about the invitation.

'Now, Rosa, we must go-that's settled-if you've a dress that can be made fit to wear all on the hop like this. You didn't, of course, think of bringing an evening dress to such an out-of-the-way place?'

'Now, Rosa, we have to go—that's decided—if you have a dress that can be made to wear at a moment's notice like this. You didn't, of course, think to bring an evening dress to such a remote place?'

But Rosa had come from the wrong city to be caught napping in those matters. 'Yes, I did,' said she. 'One never knows what may turn up.'

But Rosa came from the wrong city to be caught off guard in those situations. 'Yes, I did,' she said. 'You never know what might happen.'

'Well done! Then off we go at seven.'

'Great job! Then we’re off at seven.'

The evening drew on, and at dusk they started on foot, Rosa pulling up the edge of her skirt under her cloak out of the way of the dews, so that it formed a great wind-bag all round her, and carrying her satin shoes under her arm. Joshua would not let her wait till she got indoors before changing them, as she proposed, but insisted on her performing that operation under a tree, so that they might enter as if they had not walked. He was nervously formal about such trifles, while Rosa took the whole proceeding-walk, dressing, dinner, and all-as a pastime. To Joshua it was a serious step in life.

The evening went on, and at dusk they started walking, Rosa lifting the edge of her skirt under her cloak to keep it away from the dew, turning it into a big windbag around her, while she held her satin shoes under her arm. Joshua wouldn’t let her wait until they got inside to change shoes, as she suggested, but insisted she do it under a tree so they could enter as if they hadn’t been walking. He was unusually particular about such small details, while Rosa treated the whole experience—walking, changing, dinner, and everything else—as just a fun outing. For Joshua, it felt like a significant moment in life.

A more unexpected kind of person for a curate's sister was never presented at a dinner. The surprise of Mrs. Fellmer was unconcealed. She had looked forward to a Dorcas, or Martha, or Rhoda at the outside, and a shade of misgiving crossed her face. It was possible that, had the young lady accompanied her brother to church, there would have been no dining at Narrobourne House that day.

A more surprising type of person for a curate's sister had never been seen at a dinner. Mrs. Fellmer's shock was obvious. She had expected someone like Dorcas, Martha, or Rhoda at the very least, and a hint of worry crossed her face. It seemed that if the young woman had gone to church with her brother, there might not have been any dinner at Narrobourne House that day.

Not so with the young widower, her son. He resembled a sleeper who had awaked in a summer noon expecting to find it only dawn. He could scarcely help stretching his arms and yawning in their faces, so strong was his sense of being suddenly aroused to an unforeseen thing. When they had sat down to table he at first talked to Rosa somewhat with the air of a ruler in the land; but the woman lurking in the acquaintance soon brought him to his level, and the girl from Brussels saw him looking at her mouth, her hands, her contour, as if he could not quite comprehend how they got created: then he dropped into the more satisfactory stage which discerns no particulars.

Not so with the young widower, her son. He looked like someone who had just woken up on a summer afternoon, expecting it to still be dawn. He could hardly help stretching his arms and yawning in their faces, so strong was his feeling of being suddenly awakened to something unexpected. When they sat down at the table, he initially spoke to Rosa a bit like a ruler in his domain; however, the familiar vibe between them quickly brought him back to reality. The girl from Brussels noticed him gazing at her mouth, her hands, her figure, as if he couldn't fully grasp how they came to be. Then he shifted into a more comfortable state where he stopped noticing the details.

He talked but little; she said much. The homeliness of the Fellmers, to her view, though they were regarded with such awe down here, quite disembarrassed her. The squire had become so unpractised, had dropped so far into the shade during the last year or so of his life, that he had almost forgotten what the world contained till this evening reminded him. His mother, after her first moments of doubt, appeared to think that he must be left to his own guidance, and gave her attention to Joshua.

He didn't say much; she talked a lot. The simplicity of the Fellmers, even though people here looked up to them, made her feel at ease. The squire had gotten so out of touch and had faded so much in the last year of his life that he had nearly forgotten what the world had to offer until tonight reminded him. His mother, after her initial moments of uncertainty, seemed to believe that he needed to figure things out on his own and turned her focus to Joshua.

With all his foresight and doggedness of aim, the result of that dinner exceeded Halborough's expectations. In weaving his ambitions he had viewed his sister Rosa as a slight, bright thing to be helped into notice by his abilities; but it now began to dawn upon him that the physical gifts of nature to her might do more for them both than nature's intellectual gifts to himself. While he was patiently boring the tunnel Rosa seemed about to fly over the mountain.

With all his planning and determination, the outcome of that dinner surpassed Halborough's expectations. In pursuing his ambitions, he had seen his sister Rosa as a delicate, radiant person to be elevated by his talents; but he was starting to realize that her natural beauty might do more for both of them than his own intellectual abilities. While he was methodically working through obstacles, Rosa appeared ready to soar over challenges.

He wrote the next day to his brother, now occupying his own old rooms in the theological college, telling him exultingly of the unanticipated debut of Rosa at the manor-house. The next post brought him a reply of congratulation, dashed with the counteracting intelligence that his father did not like Canada-that his wife had deserted him, which made him feel so dreary that he thought of returning home.

He wrote to his brother the next day, who was now in his old rooms at the theological college, excitedly telling him about Rosa's unexpected debut at the manor house. The next mail brought a reply full of congratulations, mixed with the disappointing news that their father didn’t like Canada and that his wife had left him, which made him feel so down that he considered going back home.

In his recent satisfaction at his own successes Joshua Halborough had well-nigh forgotten his chronic trouble-latterly screened by distance. But it now returned upon him; he saw more in this brief announcement than his brother seemed to see. It was the cloud no bigger than a man's hand.

In his recent satisfaction with his own successes, Joshua Halborough had almost forgotten his ongoing troubles, which had lately been hidden by distance. But they returned to him; he noticed more in this brief announcement than his brother appeared to. It was the cloud no bigger than a man's hand.

CHAPTER IV

The following December, a day or two before Christmas, Mrs. Fellmer and her son were walking up and down the broad gravel path which bordered the east front of the house. Till within the last half-hour the morning had been a drizzling one, and they had just emerged for a short turn before luncheon.

The following December, a day or two before Christmas, Mrs. Fellmer and her son were strolling back and forth on the wide gravel path alongside the east side of the house. Up until about half an hour ago, the morning had been drizzly, and they had just stepped outside for a quick walk before lunch.

'You see, dear mother,' the son was saying, 'it is the peculiarity of my position which makes her appear to me in such a desirable light. When you consider how I have been crippled at starting, how my life has been maimed; that I feel anything like publicity distasteful, that I have ye no political ambition, and that my chief aim and hope lie in the education of the little thing Annie has left me, you must see how desirable a wife like Miss Halborough would be, to prevent my becoming a mere vegetable.'

'You see, Mom,' the son was saying, 'it's the unique situation I'm in that makes her seem so appealing to me. When you think about how I've been held back from the start, how my life has been impacted; that I find anything like public attention uncomfortable, that I have no political ambitions, and that my main goal and hope is to raise the little one Annie left me, you must realize how great a partner like Miss Halborough would be, to keep me from turning into a total recluse.'

'If you adore her, I suppose you must have her!' replied his mother with dry indirectness. 'But you'll find that she will not be content to live on here as you do, giving her whole mind to a young child.'

'If you love her, I guess you have to have her!' replied his mother with a dry indirectness. 'But you'll see that she won't be satisfied living here like you do, focusing all her attention on a young child.'

'That's just where we differ. Her very disqualification, that of being a nobody, as you call it, is her recommendation in my eyes. Her lack of influential connections limits her ambition. From what I know of her, a life in this place is all that she would wish for. She would never care to go outside the park-gates if it were necessary to stay within.'

'That's where we see things differently. Her being a nobody, as you put it, is what I find appealing about her. Her absence of powerful connections keeps her aspirations in check. From what I've seen, she would be content with a life here. She wouldn’t want to leave the park gates if it meant she could stay.'

'Being in love with her, Albert, and meaning to marry her, you invent your practical reasons to make the case respectable. Well, do as you will; I have no authority over you, so why should you consult me? You mean to propose on this very occasion, no doubt. Don't you, now?'

'Since you love her, Albert, and plan to marry her, you're coming up with practical reasons to justify it. Go ahead; I can't tell you what to do, so why ask for my opinion? You definitely plan to propose tonight, right?'

'By no means. I am merely revolving the idea in my mind. If on further acquaintance she turns out to be as good as she has hitherto seemed-well, I shall see. Admit, now, that you like her.'

'Not at all. I'm just thinking about the idea. If, after getting to know her better, she turns out to be as great as she seems so far—well, I’ll see. Come on, admit that you like her.'

'I readily admit it. She is very captivating at first sight. But as a stepmother to your child! You seem mighty anxious, Albert, to get rid of me!'

'I admit it. She's really captivating at first glance. But as a stepmother to your child? You seem incredibly eager, Albert, to get rid of me!'

'Not at all. And I am not so reckless as you think. I don't make up my mind in a hurry. But the thought having occurred to me, I mention it to you at once, mother. If you dislike it, say so.'

'Not at all. And I'm not as reckless as you think. I don't rush to conclusions. But since the thought popped into my head, I’m bringing it up to you right away, Mom. If you don’t like it, just let me know.'

'I don't say anything. I will try to make the best of it if you are determined. When does she come?'

'I won't say anything. I'll try to make the best of it if you’re set on it. When does she arrive?'

'To-morrow.'

'Tomorrow.'

All this time there were great preparations in train at the curate's, who was now a householder. Rosa, whose two or three weeks' stay on two occasions earlier in the year had so affected the squire, was coming again, and at the same time her younger brother Cornelius, to make up a family party. Rosa, who journeyed from the Midlands, could not arrive till late in the evening, but Cornelius was to get there in the afternoon, Joshua going out to meet him in his walk across the fields from the railway.

All this time, the curate, now a homeowner, was making big preparations. Rosa, whose two or three-week visits earlier in the year had such an impact on the squire, was coming back again, along with her younger brother Cornelius to make it a family gathering. Rosa, traveling from the Midlands, wouldn't arrive until late in the evening, but Cornelius was set to arrive in the afternoon, with Joshua going out to meet him on his walk across the fields from the train station.

Everything being ready in Joshua's modest abode he started on his way, his heart buoyant and thankful, if ever it was in his life. He was of such good report himself that his brother's path into holy orders promised to be unexpectedly easy; and he longed to compare experiences with him, even though there was on hand a more exciting matter still. From his youth he had held that, in old-fashioned country places, the Church conferred social prestige up to a certain point at a cheaper price than any other profession or pursuit; and events seemed to be proving him right.

Everything was set in Joshua's small home, so he began his journey, his heart light and thankful like never before. He had a great reputation himself, making his brother's journey into the clergy look unexpectedly smooth; he was eager to share experiences with him, even though there was something even more thrilling happening. Since he was young, he believed that in traditional rural areas, the Church offered social status at a lower cost than any other career or endeavor, and things seemed to be proving him right.

He had walked about half an hour when he saw Cornelius coming along the path; and in a few minutes the two brothers met. The experiences of Cornelius had been less immediately interesting than those of Joshua, but his personal position was satisfactory, and there was nothing to account for the singularly subdued manner that he exhibited, which at first Joshua set down to the fatigue of over-study; and he proceeded to the subject of Rosa's arrival in the evening, and the probable consequences of this her third visit. 'Before next Easter she'll be his wife, my boy,' said Joshua with grave exultation.

He had walked for about half an hour when he saw Cornelius coming down the path, and a few minutes later, the two brothers met. Cornelius's experiences had been less immediately engaging than Joshua's, but his personal situation was good, and there was nothing to explain the unusually subdued demeanor he showed, which at first Joshua attributed to the fatigue of studying too much. He then brought up Rosa's arrival that evening and the likely outcomes of her third visit. "By next Easter, she'll be his wife, my boy," Joshua said with serious excitement.

Cornelius shook his head. 'She comes too late!' he returned.

Cornelius shook his head. "She's too late!" he replied.

'What do you mean?'

'Look here.' He produced the Fountall paper, and placed his finger on a paragraph, which Joshua read. It appeared under the report of Petty Sessions, and was a commonplace case of disorderly conduct, in which a man was sent to prison for seven days for breaking windows in that town.

'Look here.' He pulled out the Fountall paper and pointed to a paragraph, which Joshua read. It was in the section about Petty Sessions and described a typical case of disorderly conduct, where a man was sentenced to seven days in jail for breaking windows in that town.

'Well?' said Joshua.

"Well?" Joshua asked.

'It happened during an evening that I was in the street; and the offender is our father.'

'It happened one evening when I was out on the street; and the culprit is our father.'

'Not-how-I sent him more money on his promising to stay in Canada?'

'Did I really send him more money based on his promise to stay in Canada?'

'He is home, safe enough.' Cornelius in the same gloomy tone gave the remainder of his information. He had witnessed the scene, unobserved of his father, and had heard him say that he was on his way to see his daughter, who was going to marry a rich gentleman. The only good fortune attending the untoward incident was that the millwright's name had been printed as Joshua Alborough.

'He's home, safe enough.' Cornelius continued in the same gloomy tone, sharing the rest of his news. He had seen the whole thing happen without his father noticing and had heard him mention that he was going to see his daughter, who was set to marry a wealthy man. The only silver lining from the unfortunate incident was that the millwright’s name was printed as Joshua Alborough.

'Beaten! We are to be beaten on the eve of our expected victory!' said the elder brother. 'How did he guess that Rosa was likely to marry? Good Heaven Cornelius, you seem doomed to bring bad news always, do you not!'

'Defeated! We are going to be defeated right before our expected victory!' said the elder brother. 'How did he figure out that Rosa was likely to get married? Good grief, Cornelius, it seems like you're always bringing bad news, aren't you!'

'I do,' said Cornelius. 'Poor Rosa!'

It was almost in tears, so great was their heart-sickness and shame, that the brothers walked the remainder of the way to Joshua's dwelling. In the evening they set out to meet Rosa, bringing her to the village in a fly; and when she had come into the house, and was sitting down with them, they almost forgot their secret anxiety in contemplating her, who knew nothing about it.

It was nearly in tears, so deep was their heartache and shame, that the brothers walked the rest of the way to Joshua's house. That evening, they went to pick up Rosa, bringing her to the village in a carriage; and when she entered the house and sat down with them, they almost forgot their hidden worry as they watched her, totally unaware of it.

Next day the Fellmers came, and the two or three days after that were a lively time. That the squire was yielding to his impulses-making up his mind-there could be no doubt. On Sunday Cornelius read the lessons, and Joshua preached. Mrs. Fellmer was quite maternal towards Rosa, and it appeared that she had decided to welcome the inevitable with a good grace. The pretty girl was to spend yet another afternoon with the elder lady, superintending some parish treat at the house in observance of Christmas, and afterwards to stay on to dinner, her brothers to fetch her in the evening. They were also invited to dine, but they could not accept owing to an engagement.

The next day, the Fellmers arrived, and the next two or three days were quite lively. There was no doubt that the squire was giving in to his feelings and making up his mind. On Sunday, Cornelius read the lessons, and Joshua preached. Mrs. Fellmer was very nurturing toward Rosa, and it seemed she had decided to accept what was coming with good humor. The pretty girl was set to spend another afternoon with the older woman, overseeing a parish event at the house to celebrate Christmas, and afterward, she would stay for dinner, with her brothers picking her up in the evening. They were also invited to dinner, but they couldn’t accept due to a prior commitment.

The engagement was of a sombre sort. They were going to meet their father, who would that day be released from Fountall Gaol, and try to persuade him to keep away from Narrobourne. Every exertion was to be made to get him back to Canada, to his old home in the Midlands-anywhere, so that he would not impinge disastrously upon their courses, and blast their sister's prospects of the auspicious marriage which was just then hanging in the balance.

The meeting was serious. They were going to see their father, who would be released from Fountall Gaol that day, and try to convince him to stay away from Narrobourne. They planned to do everything possible to get him back to Canada, to his old home in the Midlands—anywhere, so that he wouldn't negatively affect their lives or ruin their sister's chances of the promising marriage that was currently uncertain.

As soon as Rosa had been fetched away by her friends at the manor-house her brothers started on their expedition, without waiting for dinner or tea. Cornelius, to whom the millwright always addressed his letters when he wrote any, drew from his pocket and re-read as he walked the curt note which had led to this journey being undertaken; it was despatched by their father the night before, immediately upon his liberation, and stated that he was setting out for Narrobourne at the moment of writing; that having no money he would be obliged to walk all the way; that he calculated on passing through the intervening town of Ivell about six on the following day, where he should sup at the Castle Inn, and where he hoped they would meet him with a carriage-and-pair, or some other such conveyance, that he might not disgrace them by arriving like a tramp.

As soon as Rosa was picked up by her friends at the manor, her brothers started their journey without waiting for dinner or tea. Cornelius, to whom the millwright always addressed his letters, took out and re-read the brief note that had prompted this trip. It had been sent by their father the night before, right after he was freed, and said that he was setting off for Narrobourne as he wrote; that since he had no money, he would have to walk the entire way; that he expected to pass through the nearby town of Ivell around six the next day, where he planned to have dinner at the Castle Inn, and where he hoped they would meet him with a carriage, or some other ride, so that he wouldn’t arrive looking like a beggar.

'That sounds as if he gave a thought to our position,' said Cornelius.

'That sounds like he considered our situation,' said Cornelius.

Joshua knew the satire that lurked in the paternal words, and said nothing. Silence prevailed during the greater part of their journey. The lamps were lighted in Ivell when they entered the streets, and Cornelius, who was quite unknown in this neighbourhood, and who, moreover, was not in clerical attire, decided that he should be the one to call at the Castle Inn. Here, in answer to his inquiry under the darkness of the archway, they told him that such a man as he had described left the house about a quarter of an hour earlier, after making a meal in the kitchen-settle. He was rather the worse for liquor.

Joshua recognized the sarcasm in his father's words but said nothing. For most of their journey, silence filled the air. The lights were on in Ivell when they entered the streets, and Cornelius, who was a complete stranger in this area and not dressed like a clergyman, decided he would go to the Castle Inn. There, in response to his question under the dark archway, they informed him that the man he described had left the house about fifteen minutes earlier, after having a meal by the kitchen fireplace. He was a bit worse for wear from drinking.

'Then,' said Joshua, when Cornelius joined him outside with this intelligence, 'we must have met and passed him! And now that I think of it, we did meet some one who was unsteady in his gait, under the trees on the other side of Hendford Hill, where it was too dark to see him.'

'Then,' said Joshua, when Cornelius joined him outside with this news, 'we must have encountered and gone past him! And now that I think about it, we did see someone who was unsteady on their feet, under the trees on the other side of Hendford Hill, where it was too dark to see clearly.'

They rapidly retraced their steps; but for a long stretch of the way home could discern nobody. When, however, they had gone about three- quarters of the distance, they became conscious of an irregular footfall in front of them, and could see a whitish figure in the gloom. They followed dubiously. The figure met another wayfarer-the single one that had been encountered upon this lonely road-and they distinctly heard him ask the way to Narrobourne. The stranger replied-what was quite true-that the nearest way was by turning in at the stile by the next bridge, and following the footpath which branched thence across the meadows.

They quickly retraced their steps, but for a long stretch of the way home, they didn't see anyone. However, after they had traveled about three-quarters of the distance, they noticed a strange footstep in front of them and could make out a pale figure in the shadows. They followed cautiously. The figure encountered another traveler—the only person they had run into on this lonely road—and they clearly heard him ask for directions to Narrobourne. The stranger replied—truthfully—that the quickest way was to turn at the stile by the next bridge and take the footpath that branched across the meadows.

When the brothers reached the stile they also entered the path, but did not overtake the subject of their worry till they had crossed two or three meads, and the lights from Narrobourne manor-house were visible before them through the trees. Their father was no longer walking; he was seated against the wet bank of an adjoining hedge. Observing their forms he shouted, 'I'm going to Narrobourne; who may you be?'

When the brothers got to the gate, they entered the path but didn't catch up to the person they were worried about until they'd crossed two or three meadows, and they could see the lights from the Narrobourne manor-house through the trees. Their father wasn't walking anymore; he was sitting against the wet bank of a nearby hedge. Seeing them, he shouted, "I'm heading to Narrobourne; who are you?"

They went up to him, and revealed themselves, reminding him of the plan which he had himself proposed in his note, that they should meet him at Ivell.

They approached him and showed who they were, reminding him of the plan he had suggested in his note to meet him at Ivell.

'By Jerry, I'd forgot it!' he said. 'Well, what do you want me to do?' His tone was distinctly quarrelsome.

'By Jerry, I forgot it!' he said. 'Well, what do you want me to do?' His tone was clearly argumentative.

A long conversation followed, which became embittered at the first hint from them that he should not come to the village. The millwright drew a quart bottle from his pocket, and challenged them to drink if they meant friendly and called themselves men. Neither of the two had touched alcohol for years, but for once they thought it best to accept, so as not to needlessly provoke him.

A lengthy conversation took place, which turned sour at the first suggestion from them that he shouldn’t come to the village. The millwright pulled out a quart bottle from his pocket and dared them to drink if they were serious and considered themselves men. Neither of the two had had alcohol in years, but this time they believed it was better to go along with it, so as not to unnecessarily provoke him.

'What's in it?' said Joshua.

"What's in it?" asked Joshua.

'A drop of weak gin-and-water. It won't hurt ye. Drin' from the bottle.' Joshua did so, and his father pushed up the bottom of the vessel so as to make him swallow a good deal in spite of himself. It went down into his stomach like molten lead.

'A sip of watered-down gin. It won’t hurt you. Drink from the bottle.' Joshua did, and his father lifted the bottom of the bottle to force him to take a big gulp despite his resistance. It slid down his throat like hot metal.

'Ha, ha, that's right!' said old Halborough. 'But 'twas raw spirit-ha, ha!'

'Ha, ha, that's right!' said old Halborough. 'But it was pure excitement—ha, ha!'

'Why should you take me in so!' said Joshua, losing his self-command, try as he would to keep calm.

'Why should you take me in like this?' said Joshua, losing his composure, trying as hard as he could to stay calm.

'Because you took me in, my lad, in banishing me to that cursed country under pretence that it was for my good. You were a pair of hypocrites to say so. It was done to get rid of me-no more nor less. But, by Jerry, I'm a match for ye now! I'll spoil your souls for preaching. My daughter is going to be married to the squire here. I've heard the news-I saw it in a paper!'

'Because you took me in, my boy, while sending me away to that wretched place pretending it was for my own good. You two were being hypocrites to say that. It was just a way to get rid of me—nothing more, nothing less. But, by gosh, I'm ready for you now! I'll ruin your souls for preaching. My daughter is going to marry the squire here. I’ve heard the news—I saw it in a newspaper!'

'It is premature-'

'It's too early-'

'I know it is true; and I'm her father, and I shall give her away, or there'll be a hell of a row, I can assure ye! Is that where the gennleman lives?'

'I know it's true; and I'm her dad, and I'll give her away, or there'll be a huge fight, I can promise you! Is that where the gentleman lives?'

Joshua Halborough writhed in impotent despair. Fellmer had not yet positively declared himself, his mother was hardly won round; a scene with their father in the parish would demolish as fair a palace of hopes as was ever builded. The millwright rose. 'If that's where the squire lives I'm going to call. Just arrived from Canady with her fortune-ha, ha! I wish no harm to the gennleman, and the gennleman will wish no harm to me. But I like to take my place in the family, and stand upon my rights, and lower people's pride!'

Joshua Halborough twisted in frustrated despair. Fellmer hadn't officially stated his position yet, and his mother was hardly convinced; an argument with their father in the parish would crush the hopes they had built. The millwright stood up. "If that's where the squire lives, I'm going to pay him a visit. Just arrived from Canada with her fortune—ha, ha! I mean no harm to the gentleman, and the gentleman will mean no harm to me. But I want to secure my place in the family, stand up for my rights, and bring down people's pride!"

'You've succeeded already! Where's that woman you took with you-'

'You've already succeeded! Where's that woman you brought with you-'

'Woman! She was my wife as lawful as the Constitution-a sight more lawful than your mother was till some time after you were born!'

'Woman! She was my wife, as lawful as the Constitution—way more lawful than your mother was until some time after you were born!'

Joshua had for many years before heard whispers that his father had cajoled his mother in their early acquaintance, and had made somewhat tardy amends; but never from his father's lips till now. It was the last stroke, and he could not bear it. He sank back against the hedge. 'It is over!' he said. 'He ruins us all!'

Joshua had heard rumors for many years that his father had sweet-talked his mother during their early relationship and had made some late apologies, but he had never heard it from his father until now. It was the final blow, and he couldn't take it. He leaned back against the hedge. "It’s over!" he said. "He’s ruining all of us!"

The millwright moved on, waving his stick triumphantly, and the two brothers stood still. They could see his drab figure stalking along the path, and over his head the lights from the conservatory of Narrobourne House, inside which Albert Fellmer might possibly be sitting with Rosa at that moment, holding her hand, and asking her to share his home with him.

The millwright walked away, waving his stick in triumph, while the two brothers stayed still. They watched his dull figure walking down the path, and above him, the lights from the conservatory of Narrobourne House shone, where Albert Fellmer might be sitting with Rosa at that very moment, holding her hand and asking her to move in with him.

The staggering whitey-brown form, advancing to put a blot on all this, had been diminishing in the shade; and now suddenly disappeared beside a weir. There was the noise of a flounce in the water.

The huge whitey-brown figure, moving to disrupt all this, had been getting smaller in the shade; and then it suddenly vanished next to a weir. There was a splash in the water.

'He has fallen in!' said Cornelius, starting forward to run for the place at which his father had vanished.

'He has fallen in!' shouted Cornelius, rushing forward to go to the spot where his father had disappeared.

Joshua, awaking from the stupefied reverie into which he had sunk, rushed to the other's side before he had taken ten steps. 'Stop, stop, what are you thinking of?' he whispered hoarsely, grasping Cornelius's arm.

Joshua, waking up from the dazed trance he had fallen into, rushed to the other person's side before he took ten steps. "Wait, wait, what are you thinking?" he whispered hoarsely, grabbing Cornelius's arm.

'Pulling him out!'

'Getting him out!'

'Yes, yes-so am I. But-wait a moment-'

'Yes, yes—I feel the same. But—hold on a second—'

'But, Joshua!'

'But, Josh!'

'Her life and happiness, you know-Cornelius-and your reputation and mine-and our chance of rising together, all three-'

'Her life and happiness, you know—Cornelius—and your reputation and mine—and our chance of rising together, all three-'

He clutched his brother's arm to the bone; and as they stood breathless the splashing and floundering in the weir continued; over it they saw the hopeful lights from the manor-house conservatory winking through the trees as their bare branches waved to and fro.

He held onto his brother's arm tightly; and as they stood there, out of breath, the splashing and struggling in the weir went on; above it, they saw the hopeful lights from the manor-house conservatory flickering through the trees as the bare branches swayed back and forth.

The floundering and splashing grew weaker, and they could hear gurgling words: 'Help-I'm drownded! Rosie-Rosie!'

The struggling and splashing slowed down, and they could hear muffled words: 'Help—I’m drowning! Rosie—Rosie!'

'We'll go-we must save him. O Joshua!'

'We're going—we have to save him. Oh Joshua!'

'Yes, yes! we must!'

"Absolutely, we must!"

Still they did not move, but waited, holding each other, each thinking the same thought. Weights of lead seemed to be affixed to their feet, which would no longer obey their wills. The mead became silent. Over it they fancied they could see figures moving in the conservatory. The air up there seemed to emit gentle kisses.

Still they didn't move, but waited, holding onto each other, each thinking the same thing. It felt like weights of lead were tied to their feet, which no longer obeyed them. The meadow fell silent. They imagined they could see figures moving in the conservatory. The air up there seemed to blow gentle kisses.

Cornelius started forward at last, and Joshua almost simultaneously. Two or three minutes brought them to the brink of the stream. At first they could see nothing in the water, though it was not so deep nor the night so dark but that their father's light kerseymere coat would have been visible if he had lain at the bottom. Joshua looked this way and that.

Cornelius finally moved ahead, and Joshua did almost the same at the same time. In just a couple of minutes, they reached the edge of the stream. At first, they couldn’t see anything in the water, even though it wasn't too deep and the night wasn't so dark that their dad's light kerseymere coat wouldn't have been visible if he had been lying at the bottom. Joshua glanced around.

'He has drifted into the culvert,' he said.

Below the foot-bridge of the weir the stream suddenly narrowed to half its width, to pass under a barrel arch or culvert constructed for waggons to cross into the middle of the mead in haymaking time. It being at present the season of high water the arch was full to the crown, against which the ripples clucked every now and then. At this point he had just caught sight of a pale object slipping under. In a moment it was gone.

Below the footbridge of the weir, the stream suddenly narrowed to half its width to pass under a barrel arch or culvert built for wagons to cross into the middle of the meadow during haymaking season. Since it was currently high water season, the arch was filled to the top, with ripples occasionally splashing against it. At that moment, he had just spotted a pale object slipping underneath. In an instant, it was gone.

They went to the lower end, but nothing emerged. For a long time they tried at both ends to effect some communication with the interior, but to no purpose.

They went to the lower end, but nothing came out. For a long time, they tried at both ends to make some kind of connection with the inside, but it was all in vain.

'We ought to have come sooner!' said the conscience-stricken Cornelius, when they were quite exhausted, and dripping wet.

'We should have come earlier!' said the guilt-ridden Cornelius, when they were completely worn out and soaking wet.

'I suppose we ought,' replied Joshua heavily. He perceived his father's walking-stick on the bank; hastily picking it up he stuck it into the mud among the sedge. Then they went on.

'I guess we should,' Joshua replied with a sigh. He noticed his father's walking stick on the bank; quickly grabbing it, he jabbed it into the mud among the reeds. Then they moved on.

'Shall we-say anything about this accident?' whispered Cornelius as they approached the door of Joshua's house.

'Should we say anything about this accident?' whispered Cornelius as they approached the door of Joshua's house.

'What's the use? It can do no good. We must wait until he is found.'

'What's the point? It won't help at all. We have to wait until he’s found.'

They went indoors and changed their clothes; after which they started for the manor-house, reaching it about ten o'clock. Besides their sister there were only three guests; an adjoining landowner and his wife, and the infirm old rector.

They went inside and changed their clothes; after that, they headed for the manor house, arriving around ten o'clock. Besides their sister, there were only three guests: a neighboring landowner and his wife, and the elderly rector who was not well.

Rosa, although she had parted from them so recently, grasped their hands in an ecstatic, brimming, joyful manner, as if she had not seen them for years. 'You look pale,' she said.

Rosa, even though she had just left them, grabbed their hands in a blissful, overflowing, joyful way, as if she hadn't seen them in years. 'You look pale,' she said.

The brothers answered that they had had a long walk, and were somewhat tired. Everybody in the room seemed charged full with some sort of interesting knowledge: the squire's neighbour and his wife looked wisely around; and Fellmer himself played the part of host with a preoccupied bearing which approached fervour. They left at eleven, not accepting the carriage offered, the distance being so short and the roads dry. The squire came rather farther into the dark with them than he need have done, and wished Rosa good-night in a mysterious manner, slightly apart from the rest.

The brothers replied that they had taken a long walk and were a bit tired. Everyone in the room seemed filled with some kind of intriguing knowledge: the squire's neighbor and his wife looked around wisely, and Fellmer himself acted as host with a focused demeanor that was almost intense. They left at eleven, declining the offered carriage since the distance was short and the roads were dry. The squire accompanied them into the dark a bit more than necessary and bid Rosa goodnight in a mysterious way, slightly away from the others.

When they were walking along Joshua said, with desperate attempt at joviality, 'Rosa, what's going on?'

When they were walking, Joshua said, trying hard to be cheerful, "Rosa, what's happening?"

'O, I-' she began between a gasp and a bound. 'He-'

'O, I-' she started, catching her breath and leaping forward. 'He-'

'Never mind-if it disturbs you.'

'It's okay if it bothers you.'

She was so excited that she could not speak connectedly at first, the practised air which she had brought home with her having disappeared. Calming herself she added, 'I am not disturbed, and nothing has happened. Only he said he wanted to ask me something, some day; and I said never mind that now. He hasn't asked yet, and is coining to speak to you about it. He would have done so to-night, only I asked him not to be in a hurry. But he will come to-morrow, I am sure!'

She was so excited that she couldn’t speak clearly at first; the confident vibe she had brought home with her vanished. Taking a moment to calm down, she added, "I’m not upset, and nothing’s wrong. He just said he wanted to ask me something someday, and I told him to forget about it for now. He hasn’t asked yet and is planning to talk to you about it. He would have done it tonight, but I asked him not to rush. But I’m sure he’ll come tomorrow!"

CHAPTER V

It was summer-time, six months later, and mowers and haymakers were at work in the meads. The manor-house, being opposite them, frequently formed a peg for conversation during these operations; and the doings of the squire, and the squire's young wife, the curate's sister-who was at present the admired of most of them, and the interest of all-met with their due amount of criticism.

It was summer, six months later, and mowers and haymakers were busy in the fields. The manor house, located right across from them, often served as a topic of conversation during their work; the actions of the squire, his young wife, and the curate's sister—who was currently the object of admiration for many and the center of everyone's interest—received their fair share of criticism.

Rosa was happy, if ever woman could be said to be so. She had not learnt the fate of her father, and sometimes wondered-perhaps with a sense of relief-why he did not write to her from his supposed home in Canada. Her brother Joshua had been presented to a living in a small town, shortly after her marriage, and Cornelius had thereupon succeeded to the vacant curacy of Narrobourne.

Rosa was happy, if any woman could really be said to be. She hadn’t learned what happened to her father, and sometimes she wondered—maybe with a hint of relief—why he didn’t write to her from what was supposed to be his home in Canada. Her brother Joshua had been given a position in a small town shortly after her marriage, and Cornelius had then taken over the vacant curacy of Narrobourne.

These two had awaited in deep suspense the discovery of their father's body; and yet the discovery had not been made. Every day they expected a man or a boy to run up from the meads with the intelligence; but he had never come. Days had accumulated to weeks and months; the wedding had come and gone: Joshua had tolled and read himself in at his new parish; and never a shout of amazement over the millwright's remains.

These two had been anxiously waiting to find their father's body, but that discovery never happened. Each day they hoped a man or a boy would come running from the fields with the news, but no one ever showed up. Days turned into weeks and months; the wedding happened and passed: Joshua had taken on his role at his new parish, and there was never any shout of disbelief about the millwright's remains.

But now, in June, when they were mowing the meads, the hatches had to be drawn and the water let out of its channels for the convenience of the mowers. It was thus that the discovery was made. A man, stooping low with his scythe, caught a view of the culvert lengthwise, and saw something entangled in the recently bared weeds of its bed. A day or two after there was an inquest; but the body was unrecognizable. Fish and flood had been busy with the millwright; he had no watch or marked article which could be identified; and a verdict of the accidental drowning of a person unknown settled the matter.

But now, in June, when they were mowing the meadows, they had to pull up the hatches and drain the water from its channels for the convenience of the mowers. That’s how the discovery was made. A man, bent low with his scythe, caught a glimpse of the culvert and saw something tangled in the recently cleared weeds at the bottom. A day or two later, there was an inquest, but the body was unrecognizable. Fish and the flood had done their work on the millwright; he had no watch or identifiable belongings, and a verdict of accidental drowning of an unknown person closed the case.

As the body was found in Narrobourne parish, there it had to be buried. Cornelius wrote to Joshua, begging him to come and read the service, or to send some one; he himself could not do it. Rather than let in a stranger Joshua came, and silently scanned the coroner's order handed him by the undertaker:-

As the body was discovered in Narrobourne parish, that was where it had to be buried. Cornelius wrote to Joshua, asking him to come and conduct the service or to send someone else; he himself couldn't do it. Rather than allow an outsider to handle it, Joshua came and quietly looked over the coroner's order handed to him by the undertaker: -

'I, Henry Giles, Coroner for the Mid-Division of Outer Wessex, do hereby order the Burial of the Body now shown to the Inquest Jury as the Body of an Adult Male Person Unknown . . . ,' etc.

'I, Henry Giles, Coroner for the Mid-Division of Outer Wessex, hereby order the burial of the body now presented to the Inquest Jury as the body of an unknown adult male...' etc.

Joshua Halborough got through the service in some way, and rejoined his brother Cornelius at his house. Neither accepted an invitation to lunch at their sister's; they wished to discuss parish matters together. In the afternoon she came down, though they had already called on her, and had not expected to see her again. Her bright eyes, brown hair, flowery bonnet, lemon-coloured gloves, and flush beauty, were like an irradiation into the apartment, which they in their gloom could hardly bear.

Joshua Halborough managed to get through the service and rejoined his brother Cornelius at his house. Neither of them accepted an invitation to lunch at their sister's; they wanted to discuss parish matters together. In the afternoon, she came down, even though they had already visited her and didn’t expect to see her again. Her bright eyes, brown hair, flowery hat, lemon-colored gloves, and flushed beauty felt like a burst of sunshine in the room, which they found difficult to handle in their gloomy mood.

'I forgot to tell you,' she said, 'of a curious thing which happened to me a month or two before my marriage-something which I have thought may have had a connection with the accident to the poor man you have buried to-day. It was on that evening I was at the manor-house waiting for you to fetch me; I was in the winter-garden with Albert, and we were sitting silent together, when we fancied we heard a cry. We opened the door, and while Albert ran to fetch his hat, leaving me standing there, the cry was repeated, and my excited senses made me think I heard my own name. When Albert came back all was silent, and we decided that it was only a drunken shout, and not a cry for help. We both forgot the incident, and it never has occurred to me till since the funeral to-day that it might have been this stranger's cry. The name of course was only fancy, or he might have had a wife or child with a name something like mine, poor man!'

"I forgot to tell you," she said, "about a strange thing that happened to me a month or two before my wedding—something that I thought might be connected to the incident with the poor man you buried today. It was on that evening when I was at the manor house waiting for you to pick me up; I was in the winter garden with Albert, and we were sitting in silence together when we thought we heard a cry. We opened the door, and while Albert went to grab his hat, leaving me standing there, the cry came again, and my heightened senses made me think I heard my own name. When Albert returned, everything was quiet, and we concluded it was just a drunken shout, not a call for help. We both forgot about it, and it never crossed my mind until after the funeral today that it could have been this stranger's cry. The name, of course, was just a notion, or he might have had a wife or child with a name similar to mine, poor man!"

When she was gone the brothers were silent till Cornelius said, 'Now mark this, Joshua. Sooner or later she'll know.'

When she left, the brothers were quiet until Cornelius said, 'Now listen to this, Joshua. Sooner or later, she'll find out.'

'How?'

'From one of us. Do you think human hearts are iron-cased safes, that you suppose we can keep this secret for ever?'

'From one of us. Do you think human hearts are like iron safes, that you believe we can keep this secret forever?'

'Yes, I think they are, sometimes,' said Joshua.

'Yeah, I think they are, sometimes,' said Joshua.

'No. It will out. We shall tell.'

'No. It will come out. We will tell.'

'What, and ruin her-kill her? Disgrace her children, and pull down the whole auspicious house of Fellmer about our ears? No! May I-drown where he was drowned before I do it! Never, never. Surely you can say the same, Cornelius!'

'What, and ruin her—kill her? Disgrace her children and bring down the entire respected house of Fellmer around us? No! I’d rather drown where he drowned before I do it! Never, never. Surely you feel the same, Cornelius!'

Cornelius seemed fortified, and no more was said. For a long time after that day he did not see Joshua, and before the next year was out a son and heir was born to the Fellmers. The villagers rang the three bells every evening for a week and more, and were made merry by Mr. Fellmer's ale; and when the christening came on Joshua paid Narrobourne another visit.

Cornelius seemed strengthened, and no one said anything more. For a long time after that day, he didn’t see Joshua, and before the year was over, a son and heir was born to the Fellmers. The villagers rang the three bells every evening for more than a week and celebrated with Mr. Fellmer’s ale; and when the christening happened, Joshua paid Narrobourne another visit.

Among all the people who assembled on that day the brother clergymen were the least interested. Their minds were haunted by a spirit in kerseymere in the evening they walked together in the fields.

Among all the people who gathered that day, the clergymen were the least interested. Their thoughts were occupied by a presence in a fine wool fabric, and in the evening they walked together in the fields.

'She's all right,' said Joshua. 'But here are you doing journey-work, Cornelius, and likely to continue at it till the end of the day, as far as I can see. I, too, with my petty living-what am I after all? . . . To tell the truth, the Church is a poor forlorn hope for people without influence, particularly when their enthusiasm begins to flag. A social regenerator has a better chance outside, where he is unhampered by dogma and tradition. As for me, I would rather have gone on mending mills, with my crust of bread and liberty.'

'She's fine,' said Joshua. 'But here you are doing hard work, Cornelius, and it looks like you'll be at it until the end of the day, from what I can see. I, too, with my modest living—what am I really? ... Honestly, the Church is a poor last resort for people without power, especially when their enthusiasm starts to wane. A social reformer has a better shot outside, where he's not held back by rules and traditions. As for me, I would have preferred to keep fixing mills, with my piece of bread and freedom.'

Almost automatically they had bent their steps along the margin of the river; they now paused. They were standing on the brink of the well- known weir. There were the hatches, there was the culvert; they could see the pebbly bed of the stream through the pellucid water. The notes of the church-bells were audible, still jangled by the enthusiastic villagers.

Almost instinctively, they had walked along the edge of the river; now they stopped. They were standing at the edge of the familiar weir. There were the hatches, there was the culvert; they could see the rocky bottom of the stream through the clear water. The sounds of the church bells could be heard, still ringing from the excited villagers.

'Why see-it was there I hid his walking-stick!' said Joshua, looking towards the sedge. The next moment, during a passing breeze, something flashed white on the spot to which the attention of Cornelius was drawn.

'Look! There it is, I hid his walking stick!' said Joshua, glancing at the reeds. Just then, as a breeze passed by, something white caught Cornelius’s eye in that spot.

From the sedge rose a straight little silver-poplar, and it was the leaves of this sapling which caused the flicker of whiteness.

From the reeds grew a straight little silver-poplar, and it was the leaves of this young tree that created the flash of whiteness.

'His walking-stick has grown!' Joshua added. 'It was a rough one-cut from the hedge, I remember.'

'His walking stick has grown!' Joshua added. 'It was a rough cut from the hedge, I remember.'

At every puff of wind the tree turned white, till they could not bear to look at it; and they walked away.

At every gust of wind, the tree turned white, until they could no longer stand to look at it; so they walked away.

'I see him every night,' Cornelius murmured . . . 'Ah, we read our Hebrews to little account, Jos! ?p??e??e sta????, a?s????? ?ataf????sa?. To have endured the cross, despising the shame-there lay greatness! But now I often feel that I should like to put an end to trouble here in this self-same spot.'

'I see him every night,' Cornelius murmured . . . 'Ah, we underestimate our Hebrews, Jos! To have endured the cross, disregarding the shame—there lies greatness! But now I often feel like I want to put an end to the troubles right here in this very spot.'

'I have thought of it myself,' said Joshua.

'I have thought about it myself,' said Joshua.

'Perhaps we shall, some day,' murmured his brother. 'Perhaps,' said Joshua moodily.

'Maybe we will someday,' murmured his brother. 'Maybe,' said Joshua with a frown.

With that contingency to consider in the silence of their nights and days they bent their steps homewards.

With that consideration in mind during the quiet of their nights and days, they made their way home.

December 1888.

ON THE WESTERN CIRCUIT

CHAPTER I

The man who played the disturbing part in the two quiet lives hereafter depicted-no great man, in any sense, by the way-first had knowledge of them on an October evening, in the city of Melchester. He had been standing in the Close, vainly endeavouring to gain amid the darkness a glimpse of the most homogeneous pile of mediaval architecture in England, which towered and tapered from the damp and level sward in front of him. While he stood the presence of the Cathedral walls was revealed rather by the ear than by the eyes; he could not see them, but they reflected sharply a roar of sound which entered the Close by a street leading from the city square, and, falling upon the building, was flung back upon him.

The man who played a troubling role in the two quiet lives described later—not a great man, by any means—first became aware of them one October evening in the city of Melchester. He had been standing in the Close, unsuccessfully trying to catch a glimpse of the most cohesive medieval architecture in England, which rose and narrowed from the damp, flat ground in front of him. While he stood there, he sensed the Cathedral walls more through sound than sight; he couldn't see them, but they sharply reflected a loud noise that entered the Close from a street leading off the city square and bounced back towards him.

He postponed till the morrow his attempt to examine the deserted edifice, and turned his attention to the noise. It was compounded of steam barrel-organs, the clanging of gongs, the ringing of hand-bells, the clack of rattles, and the undistinguishable shouts of men. A lurid light hung in the air in the direction of the tumult. Thitherward he went, passing under the arched gateway, along a straight street, and into the square.

He put off his attempt to check out the abandoned building until tomorrow and focused on the noise instead. It was a mix of steam-powered organs, ringing gongs, hand-bells, rattles, and indistinct shouts from men. A bright, ominous light filled the air in the direction of the chaos. He headed that way, walking under the arched gateway, down a straight street, and into the square.

He might have searched Europe over for a greater contrast between juxtaposed scenes. The spectacle was that of the eighth chasm of the Inferno as to colour and flame, and, as to mirth, a development of the Homeric heaven. A smoky glare, of the complexion of brass-filings, ascended from the fiery tongues of innumerable naphtha lamps affixed to booths, stalls, and other temporary erections which crowded the spacious market-square. In front of this irradiation scores of human figures, more or less in profile, were darting athwart and across, up, down, and around, like gnats against a sunset.

He could have searched all over Europe for a greater contrast between scenes. The spectacle was like the eighth circle of Hell in terms of color and flame, and in terms of joy, it resembled the heavenly scenes of Homer. A smoky glare, similar to brass filings, rose from the fiery tongues of countless naphtha lamps attached to booths, stalls, and other temporary structures that filled the large market square. In front of this glow, dozens of human figures, appearing more or less in profile, were darting back and forth, up, down, and around, like gnats against a sunset.

Their motions were so rhythmical that they seemed to be moved by machinery. And it presently appeared that they were moved by machinery indeed; the figures being those of the patrons of swings, see-saws, flying-leaps, above all of the three steam roundabouts which occupied the centre of the position. It was from the latter that the din of steam-organs came.

Their movements were so rhythmic that they looked like they were operated by machines. It soon became clear that they actually were being moved by machines; the figures were those of people enjoying swings, see-saws, flying leaps, and especially the three steam-powered carousels in the center of the area. It was from those that the noise of steam organs emanated.

Throbbing humanity in full light was, on second thoughts, better than architecture in the dark. The young man, lighting a short pipe, and putting his hat on one side and one hand in his pocket, to throw himself into harmony with his new environment, drew near to the largest and most patronized of the steam circuses, as the roundabouts were called by their owners. This was one of brilliant finish, and it was now in full revolution. The musical instrument around which and to whose tones the riders revolved, directed its trumpet-mouths of brass upon the young man, and the long plate-glass mirrors set at angles, which revolved with the machine, flashed the gyrating personages and hobby horses kaleidoscopically into his eyes.

Throbbing humanity in full view was, upon reflection, better than architecture in the dark. The young man, lighting a short pipe, tipping his hat to one side and slipping one hand into his pocket to blend in with his new surroundings, approached the largest and most popular of the steam circuses, as the roundabouts were called by their owners. This one was brilliantly designed, and it was now in full motion. The musical instrument around which the riders spun, with its brass trumpet mouths, directed its sounds towards the young man, while the long plate-glass mirrors set at angles that revolved with the machine flashed the swirling figures and hobby horses kaleidoscopically into his eyes.

It could now be seen that he was unlike the majority of the crowd. A gentlemanly young fellow, one of the species found in large towns only, and London particularly, built on delicate lines, well, though not fashionably dressed, he appeared to belong to the professional class; he had nothing square or practical about his look, much that was curvilinear and sensuous. Indeed, some would have called him a man not altogether typical of the middle-class male of a century wherein sordid ambition is the master-passion that seems to be taking the time-honoured place of love.

It was now clear that he stood apart from most of the crowd. A refined young man, one of those types you typically find only in big cities, especially London, he had a slender build and was dressed well, though not in a trendy way. He seemed to come from a professional background; there was nothing solid or practical about his appearance, but rather a lot that was smooth and alluring. In fact, some might say he wasn’t exactly the typical middle-class man of a century where grim ambition seems to be replacing the age-old importance of love.

The revolving figures passed before his eyes with an unexpected and quiet grace in a throng whose natural movements did not suggest gracefulness or quietude as a rule. By some contrivance there was imparted to each of the hobby-horses a motion which was really the triumph and perfection of roundabout inventiveness-a galloping rise and fall, so timed that, of each pair of steeds, one was on the spring while the other was on the pitch. The riders were quite fascinated by these equine undulations in this most delightful holiday-game of our times. There were riders as young as six, and as old as sixty years, with every age between. At first it was difficult to catch a personality, but by and by the observer's eyes centred on the prettiest girl out of the several pretty ones revolving.

The spinning figures glided before him with an unexpected and gentle grace in a crowd that usually didn’t give off an air of elegance or calm. Thanks to some clever mechanism, each of the hobby-horses moved in a way that showcased the ultimate in carousel creativity—a galloping rise and fall, perfectly timed so that in each pair of horses, one was springing up while the other was coming down. The riders were completely mesmerized by these horse-like movements in this most enchanting holiday ride of our time. There were riders as young as six and as old as sixty, with every age in between. At first, it was hard to focus on any one individual, but gradually the observer's attention settled on the prettiest girl among several attractive ones spinning around.

It was not that one with the light frock and light hat whom he had been at first attracted by; no, it was the one with the black cape, grey skirt, light gloves and-no, not even she, but the one behind her; she with the crimson skirt, dark jacket, brown hat and brown gloves. Unmistakably that was the prettiest girl.

It wasn't the one in the light dress and light hat who had first caught his attention; no, it was the one in the black cape, gray skirt, light gloves—and no, not even her, but the girl behind her; the one in the red skirt, dark jacket, brown hat, and brown gloves. Clearly, she was the prettiest girl.

Having finally selected her, this idle spectator studied her as well as he was able during each of her brief transits across his visual field. She was absolutely unconscious of everything save the act of riding: her features were rapt in an ecstatic dreaminess; for the moment she did not know her age or her history or her lineaments, much less her troubles. He himself was full of vague latter-day glooms and popular melancholies, and it was a refreshing sensation to behold this young thing then and there, absolutely as happy as if she were in a Paradise.

Having finally chosen her, this passive observer looked at her as best he could during her short appearances in his line of sight. She was completely unaware of anything except for riding: her features were lost in a blissful dreaminess; for the moment, she didn't know her age, her background, or her appearance, let alone her problems. He, on the other hand, was filled with vague modern anxieties and common sorrows, and it felt refreshing to see this young person right then and there, completely as happy as if she were in Paradise.

Dreading the moment when the inexorable stoker, grimily lurking behind the glittering rococo-work, should decide that this set of riders had had their pennyworth, and bring the whole concern of steam-engine, horses, mirrors, trumpets, drums, cymbals, and such-like to pause and silence, he waited for her every reappearance, glancing indifferently over the intervening forms, including the two plainer girls, the old woman and child, the two youngsters, the newly-married couple, the old man with a clay pipe, the sparkish youth with a ring, the young ladies in the chariot, the pair of journeyman-carpenters, and others, till his select country beauty followed on again in her place. He had never seen a fairer product of nature, and at each round she made a deeper mark in his sentiments. The stoppage then came, and the sighs of the riders were audible.

Dreading the moment when the relentless stoker, grimly waiting behind the shiny rococo decorations, would decide that this group of riders had had their fill and bring the whole operation of steam engine, horses, mirrors, trumpets, drums, cymbals, and everything else to a stop, he anxiously awaited her next appearance, casually glancing over the people in between, including the two plain girls, the old woman and child, the two young boys, the newlywed couple, the old man with a clay pipe, the stylish young man with a ring, the young ladies in the chariot, the two apprentice carpenters, and others, until his chosen country beauty reappeared in her spot. He had never seen a fairer product of nature, and with each round, she left a deeper impression on his feelings. Then the stop came, and the sighs of the riders were unmistakable.

He moved round to the place at which he reckoned she would alight; but she retained her seat. The empty saddles began to refill, and she plainly was deciding to have another turn. The young man drew up to the side of her steed, and pleasantly asked her if she had enjoyed her ride.

He moved over to the spot where he thought she would get off, but she stayed in place. The empty saddles started to fill up again, and it was clear she was planning to go another round. The young man pulled up next to her horse and cheerfully asked if she had enjoyed her ride.

'O yes!' she said, with dancing eyes. 'It has been quite unlike anything I have ever felt in my life before!'

'O yes!' she said, her eyes sparkling. 'It's been completely different from anything I've ever experienced in my life before!'

It was not difficult to fall into conversation with her. Unreserved-too unreserved-by nature, she was not experienced enough to be reserved by art, and after a little coaxing she answered his remarks readily. She had come to live in Melchester from a village on the Great Plain, and this was the first time that she had ever seen a steam-circus; she could not understand how such wonderful machines were made. She had come to the city on the invitation of Mrs. Harnham, who had taken her into her household to train her as a servant, if she showed any aptitude. Mrs. Harnham was a young lady who before she married had been Miss Edith White, living in the country near the speaker's cottage; she was now very kind to her through knowing her in childhood so well. She was even taking the trouble to educate her. Mrs. Harnham was the only friend she had in the world, and being without children had wished to have her near her in preference to anybody else, though she had only lately come; allowed her to do almost as she liked, and to have a holiday whenever she asked for it. The husband of this kind young lady was a rich wine- merchant of the town, but Mrs. Harnham did not care much about him. In the daytime you could see the house from where they were talking. She, the speaker, liked Melchester better than the lonely country, and she was going to have a new hat for next Sunday that was to cost fifteen and ninepence.

It was easy to start a conversation with her. She was naturally open—perhaps too open—and didn't have enough experience to be reserved on purpose. After a little encouragement, she readily responded to his comments. She had moved to Melchester from a village on the Great Plain, and this was the first time she had ever seen a steam circus; she couldn’t grasp how such amazing machines were created. She came to the city at the invitation of Mrs. Harnham, who had taken her into her home to train her as a servant, if she showed any skill. Mrs. Harnham was a young woman who, before she got married, had been Miss Edith White, living in the countryside near the speaker's cottage; she was now very kind to her because she knew her well from childhood. She was even taking the time to educate her. Mrs. Harnham was the only friend she had in the world, and because she had no children, she preferred to have her close rather than anyone else, even though she had only just arrived; she allowed her to do almost as she pleased and take a day off whenever she wanted. The husband of this kind young woman was a wealthy wine merchant in town, but Mrs. Harnham didn’t care much about him. During the day, you could see their house from where they were talking. The speaker preferred Melchester to the lonely countryside, and she was planning to buy a new hat for next Sunday that would cost fifteen and ninepence.

Then she inquired of her acquaintance where he lived, and he told her in London, that ancient and smoky city, where everybody lived who lived at all, and died because they could not live there. He came into Wessex two or three times a year for professional reasons; he had arrived from Wintoncester yesterday, and was going on into the next county in a day or two. For one thing he did like the country better than the town, and it was because it contained such girls as herself.

Then she asked her friend where he lived, and he told her in London, that old and smoky city, where everyone who lived at all lived and died because they couldn't survive there. He came to Wessex two or three times a year for work; he had come from Wintoncester yesterday and was heading to the next county in a day or two. For one thing, he actually preferred the countryside to the city, and it was because it had girls like her.

Then the pleasure-machine started again, and, to the light-hearted girl, the figure of the handsome young man, the market-square with its lights and crowd, the houses beyond, and the world at large, began moving round as before, countermoving in the revolving mirrors on her right hand, she being as it were the fixed point in an undulating, dazzling, lurid universe, in which loomed forward most prominently of all the form of her late interlocutor. Each time that she approached the half of her orbit that lay nearest him they gazed at each other with smiles, and with that unmistakable expression which means so little at the moment, yet so often leads up to passion, heart-ache, union, disunion, devotion, overpopulation, drudgery, content, resignation, despair.

Then the pleasure-machine started up again, and for the cheerful girl, the figure of the handsome young man, the market square filled with lights and people, the buildings beyond, and the world at large began to spin around like before. It felt as if she were the fixed point in a swirling, bright, chaotic universe, with her late conversation partner standing out most prominently. Each time she got close to the part of her orbit nearest him, they exchanged smiles and that unmistakable look that means so little at the moment, yet often leads to passion, heartache, connection, separation, commitment, overpopulation, toil, satisfaction, acceptance, and despair.

When the horses slowed anew he stepped to her side and proposed another heat. 'Hang the expense for once,' he said. 'I'll pay!'

When the horses slowed down again, he moved to her side and suggested another round. 'Forget about the cost this time,' he said. 'I'll cover it!'

She laughed till the tears came.

She laughed so hard she cried.

'Why do you laugh, dear?' said he.

'Why are you laughing, dear?' he asked.

'Because-you are so genteel that you must have plenty of money, and only say that for fun!' she returned.

'You're so refined that you must be rich, and you only say that for fun!' she replied.

'Ha-ha!' laughed the young man in unison, and gallantly producing his money she was enabled to whirl on again.

'Ha-ha!' laughed the young man together, and by boldly pulling out his money, she was able to spin around again.

As he stood smiling there in the motley crowd, with his pipe in his hand, and clad in the rough pea-jacket and wideawake that he had put on for his stroll, who would have supposed him to be Charles Bradford Raye, Esquire, stuff-gownsman, educated at Wintoncester, called to the Bar at Lincoln's-Inn, now going the Western Circuit, merely detained in Melchester by a small arbitration after his brethren had moved on to the next county-town?

As he stood there smiling in the diverse crowd, holding his pipe and wearing the rugged pea jacket and wide-brimmed hat he had on for his walk, who would have guessed he was Charles Bradford Raye, Esquire, a law graduate from Wintoncester, called to the Bar at Lincoln's Inn, now working the Western Circuit, simply held up in Melchester by a minor arbitration after his colleagues had moved on to the next county town?

CHAPTER II

The square was overlooked from its remoter corner by the house of which the young girl had spoken, a dignified residence of considerable size, having several windows on each floor. Inside one of these, on the first floor, the apartment being a large drawing-room, sat a lady, in appearance from twenty-eight to thirty years of age. The blinds were still undrawn, and the lady was absently surveying the weird scene without, her cheek resting on her hand. The room was unlit from within, but enough of the glare from the market-place entered it to reveal the lady's face. She was what is called an interesting creature rather than a handsome woman; dark-eyed, thoughtful, and with sensitive lips.

The square was viewed from its distant corner by the house the young girl had mentioned, a stately residence of significant size, with several windows on each floor. Inside one of these windows, on the first floor, in a spacious drawing-room, sat a lady, appearing to be between twenty-eight and thirty years old. The blinds were still pulled up, and the lady was absentmindedly looking out at the strange scene outside, her cheek resting on her hand. The room was dark, but enough light from the market outside came in to illuminate her face. She was what you'd call an interesting person rather than a traditionally beautiful woman; dark-eyed, thoughtful, and with sensitive lips.

A man sauntered into the room from behind and came forward.

A man casually walked into the room from behind and approached.

'O, Edith, I didn't see you,' he said. 'Why are you sitting here in the dark?'

'I am looking at the fair,' replied the lady in a languid voice.

'I am looking at the fair,' replied the lady in a relaxed voice.

'Oh? Horrid nuisance every year! I wish it could be put a stop to'

'Oh? What a terrible annoyance every year! I wish it could be stopped.'

'I like it.'

"I love it."

'H'm. There's no accounting for taste.'

'Hmm. You can't explain people's taste.'

For a moment he gazed from the window with her, for politeness sake, and then went out again.

For a moment, he looked out the window with her, just to be polite, and then he stepped outside again.

In a few minutes she rang.

In a few minutes, she called.

'Hasn't Anna come in?' asked Mrs. Harnham.

"Hasn't Anna come in?" asked Mrs. Harnham.

'No m'm.'

'No way.'

'She ought to be in by this time. I meant her to go for ten minutes only.'

'She should be back by now. I only meant for her to be gone for ten minutes.'

'Shall I go and look for her, m'm?' said the house-maid alertly.

"Should I go look for her, ma'am?" the housemaid asked eagerly.

'No. It is not necessary: she is a good girl and will come soon.'

'No. It’s not needed: she’s a good girl and will be here soon.'

However, when the servant had gone Mrs. Harnham arose, went up to her room, cloaked and bonneted herself, and proceeded downstairs, where she found her husband.

However, after the servant left, Mrs. Harnham got up, went to her room, put on her coat and hat, and then went downstairs, where she found her husband.

'I want to see the fair,' she said; 'and I am going to look for Anna. I have made myself responsible for her, and must see she comes to no harm. She ought to be indoors. Will you come with me?'

'I want to see the fair,' she said; 'and I'm going to look for Anna. I've taken responsibility for her and need to make sure she stays safe. She should be inside. Will you come with me?'

'Oh, she's all right. I saw her on one of those whirligig things, talking to her young man as I came in. But I'll go if you wish, though I'd rather go a hundred miles the other way.'

'Oh, she's fine. I saw her on one of those spinning rides, chatting with her boyfriend as I walked in. But I'll leave if you want, even though I'd prefer to go a hundred miles in the opposite direction.'

'Then please do so. I shall come to no harm alone.'

'Then please go ahead. I’ll be fine on my own.'

She left the house and entered the crowd which thronged the market- place, where she soon discovered Anna, seated on the revolving horse. As soon as it stopped Mrs. Harnham advanced and said severely, 'Anna, how can you be such a wild girl? You were only to be out for ten minutes.'

She left the house and walked into the crowd at the marketplace, where she quickly spotted Anna, sitting on the carousel horse. As soon as it stopped, Mrs. Harnham approached and said sternly, "Anna, how can you be so reckless? You were only supposed to be out for ten minutes."

Anna looked blank, and the young man, who had dropped into the background, came to her assistance.

Anna looked confused, and the young man, who had faded into the background, stepped in to help her.

'Please don't blame her,' he said politely. 'It is my fault that she has stayed. She looked so graceful on the horse that I induced her to go round again. I assure you that she has been quite safe.'

'Please don't blame her,' he said politely. 'It's my fault that she stayed. She looked so graceful on the horse that I encouraged her to go around again. I promise you, she's been completely safe.'

'In that case I'll leave her in your hands,' said Mrs. Harnham, turning to retrace her steps.

'In that case, I'll leave her in your hands,' said Mrs. Harnham, turning to head back.

But this for the moment it was not so easy to do. Something had attracted the crowd to a spot in their rear, and the wine-merchant's wife, caught by its sway, found herself pressed against Anna's acquaintance without power to move away. Their faces were within a few inches of each other, his breath fanned her cheek as well as Anna's. They could do no other than smile at the accident; but neither spoke, and each waited passively. Mrs. Harnham then felt a man's hand clasping her fingers, and from the look of consciousness on the young fellow's face she knew the hand to be his: she also knew that from the position of the girl he had no other thought than that the imprisoned hand was Anna's. What prompted her to refrain from undeceiving him she could hardly tell. Not content with holding the hand, he playfully slipped two of his fingers inside her glove, against her palm. Thus matters continued till the pressure lessened; but several minutes passed before the crowd thinned sufficiently to allow Mrs. Harnham to withdraw.

But for the moment, it wasn't that easy. Something had drawn the crowd to a spot behind them, and the wine merchant's wife, caught up in it, found herself pressed against Anna's acquaintance with no way to move away. Their faces were just a few inches apart, his breath brushing her cheek as well as Anna's. They could only smile at the awkward situation, but neither spoke, and they both waited passively. Mrs. Harnham then felt a man's hand wrapping around her fingers, and from the look of awareness on the young man's face, she knew it was his hand: she also realized that given the girl's position, he assumed the hand belonged to Anna. She could barely explain why she didn't set him straight. Not satisfied with just holding her hand, he playfully slipped two of his fingers inside her glove, against her palm. This continued until the pressure eased; but several minutes passed before the crowd thinned enough for Mrs. Harnham to pull away.

'How did they get to know each other, I wonder?' she mused as she retreated. 'Anna is really very forward-and he very wicked and nice.'

'How did they get to know each other, I wonder?' she thought as she stepped back. 'Anna is really quite bold—and he’s both wicked and charming.'

She was so gently stirred with the stranger's manner and voice, with the tenderness of his idle touch, that instead of re-entering the house she turned back again and observed the pair from a screened nook. Really she argued (being little less impulsive than Anna herself) it was very excusable in Anna to encourage him, however she might have contrived to make his acquaintance; he was so gentlemanly, so fascinating, had such beautiful eyes. The thought that he was several years her junior produced a reasonless sigh.

She was so softly affected by the stranger's manner and voice, by the gentleness of his casual touch, that instead of going back inside the house, she turned around and watched the couple from a hidden spot. Honestly, she reasoned (being just as impulsive as Anna herself) that it was perfectly understandable for Anna to encourage him, no matter how she managed to meet him; he was so refined, so captivating, with such beautiful eyes. The realization that he was several years younger than her made her sigh for no particular reason.

At length the couple turned from the roundabout towards the door of Mrs. Harnham's house, and the young man could be heard saying that he would accompany her home. Anna, then, had found a lover, apparently a very devoted one. Mrs. Harnham was quite interested in him. When they drew near the door of the wine-merchant's house, a comparatively deserted spot by this time, they stood invisible for a little while in the shadow of a wall, where they separated, Anna going on to the entrance, and her acquaintance returning across the square.

At last, the couple turned from the roundabout toward the door of Mrs. Harnham's house, and the young man could be heard saying that he would walk her home. Anna, it seemed, had found a boyfriend, apparently a very dedicated one. Mrs. Harnham was quite interested in him. As they approached the door of the wine merchant's house, which was relatively quiet by this point, they lingered in the shadow of a wall for a moment, where they parted ways—Anna heading to the entrance and her companion crossing back over the square.

'Anna,' said Mrs. Harnham, coming up. 'I've been looking at you! That young man kissed you at parting I am almost sure.'

'Anna,' Mrs. Harnham said, approaching her. 'I've been watching you! I'm almost certain that young man kissed you goodbye.'

'Well,' stammered Anna; 'he said, if I didn't mind-it would do me no harm, and, and, him a great deal of good!'

'Well,' stammered Anna; 'he said that if I didn't mind, it wouldn't do me any harm, and, and it would do him a lot of good!'

'Ah, I thought so! And he was a stranger till to-night?'

'Ah, I knew it! And he was a stranger until tonight?'

'Yes ma'am.'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'Yet I warrant you told him your name and every thing about yourself?'

'But I bet you told him your name and everything about yourself?'

'He asked me.'

"He asked me."

'But he didn't tell you his?'

'Yes ma'am, he did!' cried Anna victoriously. 'It is Charles Bradford, of London.'

'Yes ma'am, he did!' Anna exclaimed triumphantly. 'It's Charles Bradford from London.'

'Well, if he's respectable, of course I've nothing to say against your knowing him,' remarked her mistress, prepossessed, in spite of general principles, in the young man's favour. 'But I must reconsider all that, if he attempts to renew your acquaintance. A country-bred girl like you, who has never lived in Melchester till this month, who had hardly ever seen a black-coated man till you came here, to be so sharp as to capture a young Londoner like him!'

'Well, if he's a good guy, I really can't say anything against you getting to know him,' her boss said, already biased in the young man's favor despite her general beliefs. 'But I’ll have to rethink that if he tries to get back in touch with you. A girl from the countryside like you, who just moved to Melchester this month, and who had barely ever seen a suited man until you got here, to be clever enough to catch the attention of a young guy from London like him!'

'I didn't capture him. I didn't do anything,' said Anna, in confusion.

"I didn't catch him. I didn't do anything," Anna said, confused.

When she was indoors and alone Mrs. Harnham thought what a well-bred and chivalrous young man Anna's companion had seemed. There had been a magic in his wooing touch of her hand; and she wondered how he had come to be attracted by the girl.

When she was inside and by herself, Mrs. Harnham thought about how well-mannered and gallant Anna's companion had seemed. There had been a charm in the way he had gently touched her hand, and she wondered what had drawn him to the girl.

The next morning the emotional Edith Harnham went to the usual week-day service in Melchester cathedral. In crossing the Close through the fog she again perceived him who had interested her the previous evening, gazing up thoughtfully at the high-piled architecture of the nave: and as soon as she had taken her seat he entered and sat down in a stall opposite hers.

The next morning, the emotional Edith Harnham attended the regular weekday service at Melchester Cathedral. As she walked through the fog across the Close, she spotted the man who had caught her attention the evening before, looking up thoughtfully at the impressive architecture of the nave. As soon as she took her seat, he walked in and sat down in a stall across from hers.

He did not particularly heed her; but Mrs. Harnham was continually occupying her eyes with him, and wondered more than ever what had attracted him in her unfledged maid-servant. The mistress was almost as unaccustomed as the maiden herself to the end-of-the-age young man, or she might have wondered less. Raye, having looked about him awhile, left abruptly, without regard to the service that was proceeding; and Mrs. Harnham-lonely, impressionable creature that she was-took no further interest in praising the Lord. She wished she had married a London man who knew the subtleties of love-making as they were evidently known to him who had mistakenly caressed her hand.

He didn’t pay her much attention, but Mrs. Harnham kept her eyes on him, wondering even more what had drawn him to her inexperienced maid. The mistress was almost as unfamiliar with the trendy young man as the maid was, or she might have wondered less. Raye, after looking around for a bit, left suddenly, ignoring the service happening. And Mrs. Harnham—lonely and impressionable as she was—lost interest in praising the Lord. She wished she had married a man from London who understood the complexities of romance like the one who had mistakenly touched her hand.

CHAPTER III

The calendar at Melchester had been light, occupying the court only a few hours; and the assizes at Casterbridge, the next county-town on the Western Circuit, having no business for Raye, he had not gone thither. At the next town after that they did not open till the following Monday, trials to begin on Tuesday morning. In the natural order of things Raye would have arrived at the latter place on Monday afternoon; but it was not till the middle of Wednesday that his gown and grey wig, curled in tiers, in the best fashion of Assyrian bas-reliefs, were seen blowing and bobbing behind him as he hastily walked up the High Street from his lodgings. But though he entered the assize building there was nothing for him to do, and sitting at the blue baize table in the well of the court, he mended pens with a mind far away from the case in progress. Thoughts of unpremeditated conduct, of which a week earlier he would not have believed himself capable, threw him into a mood of dissatisfied depression.

The schedule at Melchester had been light, taking up the court for only a few hours; and since there was no work for Raye at the assizes in Casterbridge, the next county town on the Western Circuit, he hadn’t gone there. The next town after that didn’t start until the following Monday, with trials set to begin on Tuesday morning. Normally, Raye would have arrived there on Monday afternoon; but it wasn't until the middle of Wednesday that his gown and grey wig, styled in layers like Assyrian bas-reliefs, were seen swaying behind him as he hurried up the High Street from his place. However, once he entered the assize building, there was nothing for him to do, and sitting at the blue baize table in the court’s well, he fiddled with pens, his mind far away from the ongoing case. Thoughts of spontaneous behavior, which just a week earlier he would have thought himself incapable of, plunged him into a state of dissatisfied gloom.

He had contrived to see again the pretty rural maiden Anna, the day after the fair, had walked out of the city with her to the earthworks of Old Melchester, and feeling a violent fancy for her, had remained in Melchester all Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday; by persuasion obtaining walks and meetings with the girl six or seven times during the interval; had in brief won her, body and soul.

He managed to see the pretty country girl Anna again the day after the fair. He walked out of the city with her to the earthworks of Old Melchester, and feeling a strong attraction to her, he stayed in Melchester all Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday. By convincing her, he arranged to walk and meet with her six or seven times during that time and, in short, he won her over completely.

He supposed it must have been owing to the seclusion in which he had lived of late in town that he had given way so unrestrainedly to a passion for an artless creature whose inexperience had, from the first, led her to place herself unreservedly in his hands. Much he deplored trifling with her feelings for the sake of a passing desire; and he could only hope that she might not live to suffer on his account.

He thought it must be because of the isolation he had experienced lately in the city that he had so freely given in to a passion for an innocent girl whose naivety had made her trust him completely from the start. He greatly regretted playing with her feelings for a fleeting desire; all he could do was hope she wouldn’t have to suffer because of him.

She had begged him to come to her again; entreated him; wept. He had promised that he would do so, and he meant to carry out that promise. He could not desert her now. Awkward as such unintentional connections were, the interspace of a hundred miles-which to a girl of her limited capabilities was like a thousand-would effectually hinder this summer fancy from greatly encumbering his life; while thought of her simple love might do him the negative good of keeping him from idle pleasures in town when he wished to work hard. His circuit journeys would take him to Melchester three or four times a year; and then he could always see her.

She had pleaded with him to come back to her; begged him; cried. He had promised he would, and he intended to keep that promise. He couldn't abandon her now. Although such unplanned connections were awkward, the distance of a hundred miles—which felt like a thousand to a girl with her limited experience—would effectively prevent this summer fling from significantly complicating his life; meanwhile, the thought of her genuine love might help keep him away from distractions in town when he wanted to focus on his work. He would visit Melchester three or four times a year for his circuit trips, and he could always see her then.

The pseudonym, or rather partial name, that he had given her as his before knowing how far the acquaintance was going to carry him, had been spoken on the spur of the moment, without any ulterior intention whatever. He had not afterwards disturbed Anna's error, but on leaving her he had felt bound to give her an address at a stationer's not far from his chambers, at which she might write to him under the initials 'C. B.'

The nickname, or rather the partial name, that he had given her before realizing how deep their connection would become was said in the heat of the moment, with no hidden intentions. He didn’t correct Anna’s misunderstanding later, but when he left her, he felt it necessary to provide her with an address at a nearby stationery store where she could write to him under the initials 'C. B.'

In due time Raye returned to his London abode, having called at Melchester on his way and spent a few additional hours with his fascinating child of nature. In town he lived monotonously every day. Often he and his rooms were enclosed by a tawny fog from all the world besides, and when he lighted the gas to read or write by, his situation seemed so unnatural that he would look into the fire and think of that trusting girl at Melchester again and again. Often, oppressed by absurd fondness for her, he would enter the dim religious nave of the Law Courts by the north door, elbow other juniors habited like himself, and like him unretained; edge himself into this or that crowded court where a sensational case was going on, just as if he were in it, though the police officers at the door knew as well as he knew himself that he had no more concern with the business in hand than the patient idlers at the gallery-door outside, who had waited to enter since eight in the morning because, like him, they belonged to the classes that live on expectation. But he would do these things to no purpose, and think how greatly the characters in such scenes contrasted with the pink and breezy Anna.

In time, Raye returned to his London home after stopping in Melchester to spend some extra hours with his captivating child of nature. In the city, his daily life felt dull and repetitive. Often, he and his rooms were shrouded in a thick fog that cut him off from the outside world, and when he lit the gas to read or write, the situation felt so unnatural that he would gaze into the fire and think about that trusting girl in Melchester over and over. Frequently, overwhelmed by foolish affection for her, he would enter the dim, almost sacred space of the Law Courts through the north door, jostle with other young lawyers dressed like him, and without any real engagement, squeeze himself into crowded courtrooms where a sensational case was unfolding, as if he were actually involved. The police officers at the door knew, just as well as he did, that he had no more connection to the case at hand than the bored onlookers waiting at the gallery door since eight that morning, who, like him, belonged to the class that thrives on anticipation. But he would do these things without any real purpose and reflect on how much the people in those scenes contrasted with the vibrant and cheerful Anna.

An unexpected feature in that peasant maiden's conduct was that she had not as yet written to him, though he had told her she might do so if she wished. Surely a young creature had never before been so reticent in such circumstances. At length he sent her a brief line, positively requesting her to write. There was no answer by the return post, but the day after a letter in a neat feminine hand, and bearing the Melchester post-mark, was handed to him by the stationer.

An unexpected aspect of that peasant girl’s behavior was that she hadn’t written to him yet, even though he told her she could if she wanted to. Surely, no young woman had ever been so reserved in such a situation before. Finally, he sent her a short note, specifically asking her to write. There was no response in the next mail, but the day after, he received a letter in a neat feminine handwriting, with a Melchester postmark, handed to him by the stationer.

The fact alone of its arrival was sufficient to satisfy his imaginative sentiment. He was not anxious to open the epistle, and in truth did not begin to read it for nearly half-an-hour, anticipating readily its terms of passionate retrospect and tender adjuration. When at last he turned his feet to the fireplace and unfolded the sheet, he was surprised and pleased to find that neither extravagance nor vulgarity was there. It was the most charming little missive he had ever received from woman. To be sure the language was simple and the ideas were slight; but it was so self-possessed; so purely that of a young girl who felt her womanhood to be enough for her dignity that he read it through twice. Four sides were filled, and a few lines written across, after the fashion of former days; the paper, too, was common, and not of the latest shade and surface. But what of those things? He had received letters from women who were fairly called ladies, but never so sensible, so human a letter as this. He could not single out any one sentence and say it was at all remarkable or clever; the ensemble of the letter it was which won him; and beyond the one request that he would write or come to her again soon there was nothing to show her sense of a claim upon him.

The fact that it had arrived was enough to satisfy his imagination. He wasn't in a hurry to open the letter and, in fact, didn’t start reading it for almost half an hour, easily predicting its passionate memories and heartfelt plea. When he finally settled in front of the fireplace and unfolded the page, he was surprised and pleased to see that it contained neither extravagance nor crudeness. It was the most delightful little note he had ever received from a woman. The language was simple and the ideas were light, but it had a calmness to it; it was purely from a young girl who felt her womanhood was enough for her dignity, and he read it through twice. Four sides were filled, with a few lines scribbled across, in the style of earlier times; the paper was plain, not of the latest color or texture. But what did that matter? He had received letters from women who could easily be called ladies, but none as sensible or as genuine as this one. He couldn't point out any single sentence as being particularly remarkable or clever; it was the overall feel of the letter that captivated him, and besides the one request for him to write or come see her again soon, there was nothing to indicate she felt entitled to him.

To write again and develop a correspondence was the last thing Raye would have preconceived as his conduct in such a situation; yet he did send a short, encouraging line or two, signed with his pseudonym, in which he asked for another letter, and cheeringly promised that he would try to see her again on some near day, and would never forget how much they had been to each other during their short acquaintance.

To write again and start a correspondence was the last thing Raye imagined he would do in this situation; yet he sent a brief, encouraging message or two, signed with his pseudonym, where he asked for another letter and cheerfully promised that he would try to see her again soon and would never forget how much they had meant to each other during their short time together.

CHAPTER IV

To return now to the moment at which Anna, at Melchester, had received Raye's letter.

To go back to the moment when Anna, in Melchester, got Raye's letter.

It had been put into her own hand by the postman on his morning rounds. She flushed down to her neck on receipt of it, and turned it over and over. 'It is mine?' she said.

It was handed to her by the postman during his morning rounds. She blushed all the way down to her neck when she received it and kept turning it over in her hands. "Is it mine?" she asked.

'Why, yes, can't you see it is?' said the postman, smiling as he guessed the nature of the document and the cause of the confusion.

'Of course, can't you tell?' said the postman, smiling as he figured out what the document was and why there was confusion.

'O yes, of course!' replied Anna, looking at the letter, forcedly tittering, and blushing still more.

'O yes, of course!' replied Anna, glancing at the letter, awkwardly giggling, and blushing even more.

Her look of embarrassment did not leave her with the postman's departure. She opened the envelope, kissed its contents, put away the letter in her pocket, and remained musing till her eyes filled with tears.

Her embarrassed expression didn't fade even after the postman left. She opened the envelope, kissed what was inside, tucked the letter into her pocket, and sat lost in thought until her eyes filled with tears.

A few minutes later she carried up a cup of tea to Mrs. Harnham in her bed-chamber. Anna's mistress looked at her, and said: 'How dismal you seem this morning, Anna. What's the matter?'

A few minutes later, she brought a cup of tea to Mrs. Harnham in her bedroom. Anna's mistress looked at her and said, "You seem really down this morning, Anna. What’s wrong?"

'I'm not dismal, I'm glad; only I-' She stopped to stifle a sob.

'I'm not sad, I'm happy; it’s just that-' She paused to hold back a sob.

'Well?'

'So?'

'I've got a letter-and what good is it to me, if I can't read a word in it!'

'I've got a letter—and what good is it to me if I can't read a word of it!'

'Why, I'll read it, child, if necessary.'

'Why, I'll read it, kid, if I have to.'

'But this is from somebody-I don't want anybody to read it but myself!' Anna murmured.

'But this is from someone—I don't want anyone to read it but me!' Anna murmured.

'I shall not tell anybody. Is it from that young man?'

'I won't tell anyone. Is it from that guy?'

'I think so.' Anna slowly produced the letter, saying: 'Then will you read it to me, ma'am?'

'I think so.' Anna slowly pulled out the letter, saying: 'Then will you read it to me, ma'am?'

This was the secret of Anna's embarrassment and flutterings. She could neither read nor write. She had grown up under the care of an aunt by marriage, at one of the lonely hamlets on the Great Mid-Wessex Plain where, even in days of national education, there had been no school within a distance of two miles. Her aunt was an ignorant woman; there had been nobody to investigate Anna's circumstances, nobody to care about her learning the rudiments; though, as often in such cases, she had been well fed and clothed and not unkindly treated. Since she had come to live at Melchester with Mrs. Harnham, the latter, who took a kindly interest in the girl, had taught her to speak correctly, in which accomplishment Anna showed considerable readiness, as is not unusual with the illiterate; and soon became quite fluent in the use of her mistress's phraseology. Mrs. Harnham also insisted upon her getting a spelling and copy book, and beginning to practise in these. Anna was slower in this branch of her education, and meanwhile here was the letter.

This was the reason for Anna's embarrassment and nervousness. She couldn't read or write. She had grown up with an aunt by marriage in one of the isolated villages on the Great Mid-Wessex Plain, where even with national education, there hadn't been a school within two miles. Her aunt was uneducated; there was no one to look into Anna's situation or to care about her learning the basics; although, as often happens in such cases, she was well-fed, well-dressed, and treated reasonably well. Since moving to Melchester with Mrs. Harnham, who took a kind interest in her, Anna had learned to speak correctly, and she picked it up quickly, which is common among those who are illiterate; she soon became quite fluent in her mistress's language. Mrs. Harnham also insisted that she get a spelling and copybook and start practicing with them. Anna was slower in this part of her education, and meanwhile, here was the letter.

Edith Harnham's large dark eyes expressed some interest in the contents, though, in her character of mere interpreter, she threw into her tone as much as she could of mechanical passiveness. She read the short epistle on to its concluding sentence, which idly requested Anna to send him a tender answer.

Edith Harnham's large dark eyes showed some interest in what she was reading, but, as just an interpreter, she tried to sound as passive as possible. She read the brief letter until the end, which casually asked Anna to reply with something sweet.

'Now-you'll do it for me, won't you, dear mistress?' said Anna eagerly. 'And you'll do it as well as ever you can, please? Because I couldn't bear him to think I am not able to do it myself. I should sink into the earth with shame if he knew that!'

'Now, you’ll do it for me, won’t you, dear mistress?' said Anna eagerly. 'And you’ll do it as well as you can, please? Because I couldn’t bear him to think I am not able to do it myself. I would be so embarrassed if he knew that!'

From some words in the letter Mrs. Harnham was led to ask questions, and the answers she received confirmed her suspicions. Deep concern filled Edith's heart at perceiving how the girl had committed her happiness to the issue of this new-sprung attachment. She blamed herself for not interfering in a flirtation which had resulted so seriously for the poor little creature in her charge; though at the time of seeing the pair together she had a feeling that it was hardly within her province to nip young affection in the bud. However, what was done could not be undone, and it behoved her now, as Anna's only protector, to help her as much as she could. To Anna's eager request that she, Mrs. Harnham, should compose and write the answer to this young London man's letter, she felt bound to accede, to keep alive his attachment to the girl if possible; though in other circumstances she might have suggested the cook as an amanuensis.

From some of the words in the letter, Mrs. Harnham started to ask questions, and the answers she got confirmed her suspicions. Edith felt a deep concern in her heart as she realized how the girl had tied her happiness to this new relationship. She blamed herself for not stepping in during a flirtation that had ended up so seriously for the poor girl in her care; although at the time she had felt it was not her place to squash young feelings right from the start. Still, what was done was done, and now it was her duty, as Anna's only protector, to help her as much as she could. When Anna eagerly asked her to compose and write a response to this young London man's letter, she felt she had to agree, to keep his interest in the girl alive if possible; though under different circumstances, she might have suggested the cook as a writer.

A tender reply was thereupon concocted, and set down in Edith Harnham's hand. This letter it had been which Raye had received and delighted in. Written in the presence of Anna it certainly was, and on Anna's humble note-paper, and in a measure indited by the young girl; but the life, the spirit, the individuality, were Edith Harnham's.

A heartfelt response was then crafted and written in Edith Harnham's handwriting. This is the letter that Raye had received and cherished. It was definitely written in Anna's presence, on Anna's simple letterhead, and partly composed by the young girl; however, the vitality, the essence, and the personality belonged to Edith Harnham.

'Won't you at least put your name yourself?' she said. 'You can manage to write that by this time?'

"Can't you at least write your name yourself?" she asked. "You should be able to do that by now?"

'No, no,' said Anna, shrinking back. 'I should do it so bad. He'd be ashamed of me, and never see me again!'

'No, no,' Anna said, pulling back. 'I would do it so poorly. He'd be embarrassed of me and wouldn't want to see me again!'

The note, so prettily requesting another from him, had, as we have seen, power enough in its pages to bring one. He declared it to be such a pleasure to hear from her that she must write every week. The same process of manufacture was accordingly repeated by Anna and her mistress, and continued for several weeks in succession; each letter being penned and suggested by Edith, the girl standing by; the answer read and commented on by Edith, Anna standing by and listening again.

The note, so nicely asking for another from him, had enough charm in its words to get one. He said it was such a joy to hear from her that she should write every week. The same routine was then repeated by Anna and her employer, continuing for several weeks in a row; each letter was written and inspired by Edith, with Anna beside her; the response was read and discussed by Edith, while Anna listened in once more.

Late on a winter evening, after the dispatch of the sixth letter, Mrs. Harnham was sitting alone by the remains of her fire. Her husband had retired to bed, and she had fallen into that fixity of musing which takes no count of hour or temperature. The state of mind had been brought about in Edith by a strange thing which she had done that day. For the first time since Raye's visit Anna had gone to stay over a night or two with her cottage friends on the Plain, and in her absence had arrived, out of its time, a letter from Raye. To this Edith had replied on her own responsibility, from the depths of her own heart, without waiting for her maid's collaboration. The luxury of writing to him what would be known to no consciousness but his was great, and she had indulged herself therein.

Late on a winter evening, after sending the sixth letter, Mrs. Harnham was sitting alone by the dying fire. Her husband had gone to bed, and she had fallen into a deep state of thought that ignored the hour or the cold. This mindset had been triggered by something unusual she had done that day. For the first time since Raye's visit, Anna had gone to spend a night or two with her friends in the cottage on the Plain, and while she was away, a letter from Raye had arrived unexpectedly. Edith responded on her own, straight from her heart, without waiting for her maid's help. The pleasure of writing to him in a way that no one else would know about was immense, and she allowed herself to enjoy it.

Why was it a luxury?

Edith Harnham led a lonely life. Influenced by the belief of the British parent that a bad marriage with its aversions is better than free womanhood with its interests, dignity, and leisure, she had consented to marry the elderly wine-merchant as a pis aller, at the age of seven-and-twenty-some three years before this date-to find afterwards that she had made a mistake. That contract had left her still a woman whose deeper nature had never been stirred.

Edith Harnham lived a solitary life. Shaped by her British parents' belief that a bad marriage with its conflicts is better than an independent life with its opportunities, respect, and free time, she agreed to marry the older wine merchant as a last resort when she was twenty-seven, about three years before this moment, only to realize later that she had made a mistake. That choice had left her as a woman whose deeper self had never been awakened.

She was now clearly realizing that she had become possessed to the bottom of her soul with the image of a man to whom she was hardly so much as a name. From the first he had attracted her by his looks and voice; by his tender touch; and, with these as generators, the writing of letter after letter and the reading of their soft answers had insensibly developed on her side an emotion which fanned his; till there had resulted a magnetic reciprocity between the correspondents, notwithstanding that one of them wrote in a character not her own. That he had been able to seduce another woman in two days was his crowning though unrecognized fascination for her as the she-animal.

She was now fully realizing that she had become deeply captivated by the image of a man who barely knew her name. From the beginning, he had drawn her in with his looks and voice, his gentle touch; and with these as sparks, writing letter after letter and reading his soft replies had gradually stirred an emotion within her that ignited his own. This led to a magnetic connection between them, even though one of them wrote in a style that wasn't truly hers. The fact that he was able to charm another woman in just two days was his ultimate, though unrecognized, allure for her as a woman.

They were her own impassioned and pent-up ideas-lowered to monosyllabic phraseology in order to keep up the disguise-that Edith put into letters signed with another name, much to the shallow Anna's delight, who, unassisted, could not for the world have conceived such pretty fancies for winning him, even had she been able to write them. Edith found that it was these, her own foisted-in sentiments, to which the young barrister mainly responded. The few sentences occasionally added from Anna's own lips made apparently no impression upon him.

They were her own passionate and suppressed ideas, simplified into one-syllable words to maintain the disguise, that Edith wrote in letters signed with a different name, much to the delight of the shallow Anna, who, on her own, could never have come up with such charming notions to win him, even if she could write them. Edith realized that it was these, her own implanted sentiments, that the young barrister mainly reacted to. The few sentences occasionally spoken by Anna herself seemed to leave no impression on him.

The letter-writing in her absence Anna never discovered; but on her return the next morning she declared she wished to see her lover about something at once, and begged Mrs. Harnham to ask him to come.

The letter-writing during her absence, Anna never found out about; but upon her return the next morning, she stated that she wanted to see her lover about something immediately and asked Mrs. Harnham to invite him over.

There was a strange anxiety in her manner which did not escape Mrs. Harnham, and ultimately resolved itself into a flood of tears. Sinking down at Edith's knees, she made confession that the result of her relations with her lover it would soon become necessary to disclose.

There was an odd anxiety in her behavior that didn’t go unnoticed by Mrs. Harnham, and it eventually turned into a torrent of tears. Crumbling at Edith's feet, she admitted that it would soon be necessary to reveal the outcome of her relationship with her lover.

Edith Harnham was generous enough to be very far from inclined to cast Anna adrift at this conjuncture. No true woman ever is so inclined from her own personal point of view, however prompt she may be in taking such steps to safeguard those dear to her. Although she had written to Raye so short a time previously, she instantly penned another Anna-note hinting clearly though delicately the state of affairs.

Edith Harnham was generous enough not to consider abandoning Anna at this moment. No genuine woman ever feels that way from her own perspective, no matter how quickly she might take steps to protect those she cares about. Even though she had written to Raye just a short time ago, she quickly wrote another note to Anna, subtly yet clearly hinting at the situation.

Raye replied by a hasty line to say how much he was affected by her news: he felt that he must run down to see her almost immediately.

Raye quickly replied with a brief message to express how much he was moved by her news: he felt he needed to rush down to see her right away.

But a week later the girl came to her mistress's room with another note, which on being read informed her that after all he could not find time for the journey. Anna was broken with grief; but by Mrs. Harnham's counsel strictly refrained from hurling at him the reproaches and bitterness customary from young women so situated. One thing was imperative: to keep the young man's romantic interest in her alive. Rather therefore did Edith, in the name of her protegee, request him on no account to be distressed about the looming event, and not to inconvenience himself to hasten down. She desired above everything to be no weight upon him in his career, no clog upon his high activities. She had wished him to know what had befallen: he was to dismiss it again from his mind. Only he must write tenderly as ever, and when he should come again on the spring circuit it would be soon enough to discuss what had better be done.

But a week later, the girl came to her mistress's room with another note, which, upon reading, informed her that he couldn't find time for the trip after all. Anna was devastated; however, following Mrs. Harnham's advice, she held back from throwing the usual accusations and bitterness that young women in her situation might express. One thing was essential: to keep the young man's romantic interest in her alive. Therefore, Edith, on behalf of her protégé, urged him not to be upset about the upcoming event and not to rush to come down. She wanted to make sure she was no burden to him in his career, no hindrance to his ambitions. She wished him to know what had happened, but he was to forget it afterward. He just needed to write to her as lovingly as ever, and when he came back in the spring, it would be the right time to talk about what should be done.

It may well be supposed that Anna's own feelings had not been quite in accord with these generous expressions; but the mistress's judgment had ruled, and Anna had acquiesced. 'All I want is that niceness you can so well put into your letters, my dear, dear mistress, and that I can't for the life o' me make up out of my own head; though I mean the same thing and feel it exactly when you've written it down!'

It’s likely that Anna’s actual feelings didn’t completely match these kind words; however, her mistress’s opinion prevailed, and Anna went along with it. "All I want is that sweetness you always manage to convey in your letters, my dear mistress, something I just can’t come up with on my own, even though I mean the same thing and feel it just as you do when you’ve put it into words!"

When the letter had been sent off, and Edith Harnham was left alone, she bowed herself on the back of her chair and wept.

When the letter was sent off and Edith Harnham was left alone, she bowed her head on the back of her chair and cried.

'I wish it was mine-I wish it was!' she murmured. 'Yet how can I say such a wicked thing!'

'I wish it was mine—I wish it was!' she murmured. 'But how can I say such a terrible thing!'

CHAPTER V

The letter moved Raye considerably when it reached him. The intelligence itself had affected him less than her unexpected manner of treating him in relation to it. The absence of any word of reproach, the devotion to his interests, the self-sacrifice apparent in every line, all made up a nobility of character that he had never dreamt of finding in womankind.

The letter deeply affected Raye when it arrived. The information itself impacted him less than her surprising way of addressing him about it. The lack of any blame, her dedication to his well-being, and the selflessness evident in every line all revealed a nobility of character he had never imagined he would find in women.

'God forgive me!' he said tremulously. 'I have been a wicked wretch. I did not know she was such a treasure as this!'

'God forgive me!' he said shakily. 'I've been a terrible person. I didn’t realize she was such a treasure like this!'

He reassured her instantly; declaring that he would not of course desert her, that he would provide a home for her somewhere. Meanwhile she was to stay where she was as long as her mistress would allow her.

He quickly reassured her, saying that he would never abandon her and that he would find a place for her to live. In the meantime, she should stay where she was for as long as her employer would permit.

But a misfortune supervened in this direction. Whether an inkling of Anna's circumstances reached the knowledge of Mrs. Harnham's husband or not cannot be said, but the girl was compelled, in spite of Edith's entreaties, to leave the house. By her own choice she decided to go back for a while to the cottage on the Plain. This arrangement led to a consultation as to how the correspondence should be carried on; and in the girl's inability to continue personally what had been begun in her name, and in the difficulty of their acting in concert as heretofore, she requested Mrs. Harnham-the only well-to-do friend she had in the world-to receive the letters and reply to them off-hand, sending them on afterwards to herself on the Plain, where she might at least get some neighbour to read them to her, if a trustworthy one could be met with. Anna and her box then departed for the Plain.

But then an unfortunate event occurred. It’s unclear whether Mrs. Harnham's husband learned about Anna's situation, but the girl had no choice but to leave the house, despite Edith's pleas. She decided on her own to return to the cottage on the Plain for a while. This led to a discussion about how they would keep in touch; since she couldn’t continue the correspondence in person as she had before, and it was challenging for them to coordinate as they once did, she asked Mrs. Harnham—her only wealthy friend—to receive the letters and reply to them quickly, then send them on to her at the Plain, where she could at least get a neighbor to read them to her if she could find someone trustworthy. Anna then left with her box for the Plain.

Thus it befel that Edith Harnham found herself in the strange position of having to correspond, under no supervision by the real woman, with a man not her husband, in terms which were virtually those of a wife, concerning a condition that was not Edith's at all; the man being one for whom, mainly through the sympathies involved in playing this part, she secretly cherished a predilection, subtle and imaginative truly, but strong and absorbing. She opened each letter, read it as if intended for herself, and replied from the promptings of her own heart and no other.

Thus it happened that Edith Harnham found herself in the strange position of having to correspond, without any supervision from the real woman, with a man who was not her husband, using terms that were practically those of a wife, about a situation that wasn’t even Edith’s. This man was someone for whom, mostly due to the feelings involved in playing this role, she secretly had a strong and captivating fondness—subtle and imaginative, yes, but intense and consuming. She opened each letter, read it as if it was intended for her, and replied based on her own feelings and nothing else.

Throughout this correspondence, carried on in the girl's absence, the high-strung Edith Harnham lived in the ecstasy of fancy; the vicarious intimacy engendered such a flow of passionateness as was never exceeded. For conscience' sake Edith at first sent on each of his letters to Anna, and even rough copies of her replies; but later on these so-called copies were much abridged, and many letters on both sides were not sent on at all.

Throughout this correspondence, which took place while the girl was away, the highly emotional Edith Harnham found herself lost in her imagination; the shared closeness created a level of passion that was unparalleled. To ease her conscience, Edith initially forwarded each of his letters to Anna, along with rough drafts of her replies. However, as time went on, these so-called drafts were shortened significantly, and many letters from both sides were never sent at all.

Though selfish, and, superficially at least, infested with the self- indulgent vices of artificial society, there was a substratum of honesty and fairness in Raye's character. He had really a tender regard for the country girl, and it grew more tender than ever when he found her apparently capable of expressing the deepest sensibilities in the simplest words. He meditated, he wavered; and finally resolved to consult his sister, a maiden lady much older than himself, of lively sympathies and good intent. In making this confidence he showed her some of the letters.

Though selfish and, at least on the surface, caught up in the self-indulgent vices of modern society, there was a foundation of honesty and fairness in Raye's character. He genuinely cared for the country girl, and his feelings grew even stronger when he realized she could express profound emotions in the simplest words. He thought it over, hesitated, and ultimately decided to consult his sister, a much older single woman who had a lively sense of empathy and good intentions. In sharing this confidence, he showed her some of the letters.

'She seems fairly educated,' Miss Raye observed. 'And bright in ideas. She expresses herself with a taste that must be innate.'

'She seems quite educated,' Miss Raye noted. 'And bright with ideas. She expresses herself with a style that must be natural.'

'Yes. She writes very prettily, doesn't she, thanks to these elementary schools?'

'Yes. She writes beautifully, doesn't she, thanks to these elementary schools?'

'One is drawn out towards her, in spite of one's self, poor thing.'

'One is drawn to her, despite oneself, poor thing.'

The upshot of the discussion was that though he had not been directly advised to do it, Raye wrote, in his real name, what he would never have decided to write on his own responsibility; namely that he could not live without her, and would come down in the spring and shelve her looming difficulty by marrying her.

The takeaway from the conversation was that even though nobody specifically told him to do it, Raye wrote, using his real name, something he would never have chosen to write on his own; specifically, that he couldn’t live without her and would come down in the spring to resolve her major problem by marrying her.

This bold acceptance of the situation was made known to Anna by Mrs. Harnham driving out immediately to the cottage on the Plain. Anna jumped for joy like a little child. And poor, crude directions for answering appropriately were given to Edith Harnham, who on her return to the city carried them out with warm intensification.

This brave acceptance of the situation was conveyed to Anna by Mrs. Harnham, who drove straight to the cottage on the Plain. Anna jumped for joy like a little kid. And poor, clumsy advice for responding appropriately was given to Edith Harnham, who, on her way back to the city, followed it with great enthusiasm.

'O!' she groaned, as she threw down the pen. 'Anna-poor good little fool-hasn't intelligence enough to appreciate him! How should she? While I-don't bear his child!'

'O!' she groaned, throwing down the pen. 'Anna—poor sweet fool—doesn't have enough sense to appreciate him! How could she? While I—I'm not having his baby!'

It was now February. The correspondence had continued altogether for four months; and the next letter from Raye contained incidentally a statement of his position and prospects. He said that in offering to wed her he had, at first, contemplated the step of retiring from a profession which hitherto had brought him very slight emolument, and which, to speak plainly, he had thought might be difficult of practice after his union with her. But the unexpected mines of brightness and warmth that her letters had disclosed to be lurking in her sweet nature had led him to abandon that somewhat sad prospect. He felt sure that, with her powers of development, after a little private training in the social forms of London under his supervision, and a little help from a governess if necessary, she would make as good a professional man's wife as could be desired, even if he should rise to the woolsack. Many a Lord Chancellor's wife had been less intuitively a lady than she had shown herself to be in her lines to him.

It was now February. The correspondence had gone on for four months, and Raye's next letter included an update on his situation and future. He mentioned that when he proposed to her, he initially considered stepping away from a career that had brought him very little income so far, and honestly thought it might be hard to continue it after marrying her. But the unexpected warmth and brightness he discovered in her letters made him rethink that somewhat gloomy outlook. He was confident that, with her ability to grow, after a bit of private coaching on the social scene in London under his guidance, and a little assistance from a governess if needed, she would be an excellent wife for a professional man, even if he ended up as a high-ranking official. Many a Lord Chancellor's wife had been less naturally refined than she had proven to be in her letters to him.

'O-poor fellow, poor fellow!' mourned Edith Harnham.

'O-poor guy, poor guy!' lamented Edith Harnham.

Her distress now raged as high as her infatuation. It was she who had wrought him to this pitch-to a marriage which meant his ruin; yet she could not, in mercy to her maid, do anything to hinder his plan. Anna was coming to Melchester that week, but she could hardly show the girl this last reply from the young man; it told too much of the second individuality that had usurped the place of the first.

Her distress now soared as high as her infatuation. She was the one who had pushed him to this point—a marriage that would lead to his downfall; yet, out of compassion for her maid, she couldn't do anything to stop his plan. Anna was coming to Melchester that week, but she could barely show the girl this last message from the young man; it revealed too much about the second identity that had taken the place of the first.

Anna came, and her mistress took her into her own room for privacy. Anna began by saying with some anxiety that she was glad the wedding was so near.

Anna arrived, and her boss took her into her own room for some privacy. Anna started off, a bit nervously, expressing that she was happy the wedding was so close.

'O Anna!' replied Mrs. Harnham. 'I think we must tell him all-that I have been doing your writing for you?-lest he should not know it till after you become his wife, and it might lead to dissension and recriminations-'

'O Anna!' replied Mrs. Harnham. 'I think we need to tell him everything—that I’ve been writing your letters for you?—so he doesn’t find out after you get married, which could lead to arguments and blame—'

'O mis'ess, dear mis'ess-please don't tell him now!' cried Anna in distress. 'If you were to do it, perhaps he would not marry me; and what should I do then? It would be terrible what would come to me! And I am getting on with my writing, too. I have brought with me the copybook you were so good as to give me, and I practise every day, and though it is so, so hard, I shall do it well at last, I believe, if I keep on trying.'

"Oh, ma'am, please don't tell him now!" Anna cried, clearly upset. "If you do, he might not marry me, and then what would I do? It would be awful! Plus, I'm making progress with my writing. I brought the notebook you kindly gave me, and I practice every day. Even though it’s really, really hard, I believe I’ll get it right eventually if I just keep trying."

Edith looked at the copybook. The copies had been set by herself, and such progress as the girl had made was in the way of grotesque facsimile of her mistress's hand. But even if Edith's flowing caligraphy were reproduced the inspiration would be another thing.

Edith looked at the notebook. The copies had been made by her, and the girl’s progress was just a weird imitation of her mistress's handwriting. But even if Edith's beautiful calligraphy was copied, the inspiration would still be something else entirely.

'You do it so beautifully,' continued Anna, 'and say all that I want to say so much better than I could say it, that I do hope you won't leave me in the lurch just now!'

'You do it so beautifully,' continued Anna, 'and express everything I want to say so much better than I ever could, that I really hope you won't leave me hanging right now!'

'Very well,' replied the other. 'But I-but I thought I ought not to go on!'

'Okay,' the other person replied. 'But I-I thought I shouldn't continue!'

'Why?'

Her strong desire to confide her sentiments led Edith to answer truly:

Her strong desire to share her feelings prompted Edith to respond honestly:

'Because of its effect upon me.'

'Because of how it affects me.'

'But it can't have any!'

'Why, child?'

'Why, kid?'

'Because you are married already!' said Anna with lucid simplicity.

'Because you’re already married!' said Anna with clear simplicity.

'Of course it can't,' said her mistress hastily; yet glad, despite her conscience, that two or three outpourings still remained to her. 'But you must concentrate your attention on writing your name as I write it here.'

'Of course it can't,' her mistress said quickly; yet she was glad, despite her conscience, that she still had two or three chances left. 'But you need to focus on writing your name just like I’m writing it here.'

CHAPTER VI

Soon Raye wrote about the wedding. Having decided to make the best of what he feared was a piece of romantic folly, he had acquired more zest for the grand experiment. He wished the ceremony to be in London, for greater privacy. Edith Harnham would have preferred it at Melchester; Anna was passive. His reasoning prevailed, and Mrs. Harnham threw herself with mournful zeal into the preparations for Anna's departure. In a last desperate feeling that she must at every hazard be in at the death of her dream, and see once again the man who by a species of telepathy had exercised such an influence on her, she offered to go up with Anna and be with her through the ceremony-'to see the end of her,' as her mistress put it with forced gaiety; an offer which the girl gratefully accepted; for she had no other friend capable of playing the part of companion and witness, in the presence of a gentlemanly bridegroom, in such a way as not to hasten an opinion that he had made an irremediable social blunder.

Soon, Raye wrote about the wedding. Having decided to make the best of what he feared was a romantic mistake, he became more enthusiastic about the big event. He wanted the ceremony to be in London for more privacy. Edith Harnham would have preferred it in Melchester; Anna was indifferent. His reasoning won out, and Mrs. Harnham threw herself into the preparations for Anna's departure with a heavy heart. In a last-ditch effort to be part of her dream and see again the man who had influenced her so deeply, she offered to accompany Anna and be there for the ceremony—"to see the end of her," as her mistress put it with forced cheerfulness; an offer that the girl gratefully accepted since she had no other friend who could act as a companion and witness, in the presence of a gentlemanly bridegroom, in a way that wouldn’t lead to the assumption that he had made a serious social mistake.

It was a muddy morning in March when Raye alighted from a four-wheel cab at the door of a registry-office in the S.W. district of London, and carefully handed down Anna and her companion Mrs. Harnham. Anna looked attractive in the somewhat fashionable clothes which Mrs. Harnham had helped her to buy, though not quite so attractive as, an innocent child, she had appeared in her country gown on the back of the wooden horse at Melchester Fair.

It was a muddy morning in March when Raye got out of a four-wheel cab at the door of a registry office in the S.W. district of London and carefully helped Anna and her companion, Mrs. Harnham, down. Anna looked attractive in the somewhat trendy clothes Mrs. Harnham had helped her buy, though not quite as appealing as when she was an innocent child in her country dress riding the wooden horse at Melchester Fair.

Mrs. Harnham had come up this morning by an early train, and a young man-a friend of Raye's-having met them at the door, all four entered the registry-office together. Till an hour before this time Raye had never known the wine-merchant's wife, except at that first casual encounter, and in the flutter of the performance before them he had little opportunity for more than a brief acquaintance. The contract of marriage at a registry is soon got through; but somehow, during its progress, Raye discovered a strange and secret gravitation between himself and Anna's friend.

Mrs. Harnham had taken an early train that morning, and a young man—a friend of Raye's—met them at the door, so all four of them went into the registry office together. Until an hour before, Raye had only briefly met the wine merchant's wife during their first casual encounter, and with the excitement of the moment, he had little chance to get to know her better. The marriage contract at a registry office is completed quickly; however, during this process, Raye unexpectedly felt a strange and secret connection between himself and Anna's friend.

The formalities of the wedding-or rather ratification of a previous union-being concluded, the four went in one cab to Raye's lodgings, newly taken in a new suburb in preference to a house, the rent of which he could ill afford just then. Here Anna cut the little cake which Raye had bought at a pastrycook's on his way home from Lincoln's Inn the night before. But she did not do much besides. Raye's friend was obliged to depart almost immediately, and when he had left the only ones virtually present were Edith and Raye who exchanged ideas with much animation. The conversation was indeed theirs only, Anna being as a domestic animal who humbly heard but understood not. Raye seemed startled in awakening to this fact, and began to feel dissatisfied with her inadequacy.

The formalities of the wedding—or rather, the confirmation of a previous union—wrapped up, the four of them took a cab to Raye's new place in a suburb he chose over a house, which he couldn't really afford at the moment. Here, Anna cut the small cake that Raye had picked up from a bakery on his way back from Lincoln's Inn the night before. But she didn’t do much else. Raye’s friend had to leave almost immediately, and once he was gone, the only ones really present were Edith and Raye, who chatted animatedly. The conversation was really just for them, as Anna sat like a domestic animal, quietly listening but not really understanding. Raye seemed surprised when he realized this, and started feeling frustrated by her lack of engagement.

At last, more disappointed than he cared to own, he said, 'Mrs. Harnham, my darling is so flurried that she doesn't know what she is doing or saying. I see that after this event a little quietude will be necessary before she gives tongue to that tender philosophy which she used to treat me to in her letters.'

At last, more upset than he wanted to admit, he said, 'Mrs. Harnham, my dear is so overwhelmed that she doesn't know what she's doing or saying. I realize that after this event, a bit of calm will be needed before she shares that sweet philosophy she used to write to me about in her letters.'

They had planned to start early that afternoon for Knollsea, to spend the few opening days of their married life there, and as the hour for departure was drawing near Raye asked his wife if she would go to the writing-desk in the next room and scribble a little note to his sister, who had been unable to attend through indisposition, informing her that the ceremony was over, thanking her for her little present, and hoping to know her well now that she was the writer's sister as well as Charles's.

They planned to leave early that afternoon for Knollsea, to spend the first few days of their married life there. As the departure time approached, Raye asked his wife to go to the writing desk in the next room and quickly write a note to his sister, who couldn't attend because she was unwell. The note would let her know the ceremony was over, thank her for her small gift, and express hope of getting to know her better now that she was not only Charles's sister but also the writer's.

'Say it in the pretty poetical way you know so well how to adopt,' he added, 'for I want you particularly to win her, and both of you to be dear friends.'

"Say it in that beautiful poetic way you know so well," he added, "because I really want you to win her over, and for both of you to become great friends."

Anna looked uneasy, but departed to her task, Raye remaining to talk to their guest. Anna was a long while absent, and her husband suddenly rose and went to her.

Anna looked uncomfortable but went off to do her task, while Raye stayed behind to chat with their guest. Anna was gone for quite a while, and her husband suddenly got up and went after her.

He found her still bending over the writing-table, with tears brimming up in her eyes; and he looked down upon the sheet of note-paper with some interest, to discover with what tact she had expressed her good- will in the delicate circumstances. To his surprise she had progressed but a few lines, in the characters and spelling of a child of eight, and with the ideas of a goose.

He found her still leaning over the writing desk, tears welling up in her eyes; he glanced at the sheet of note paper with curiosity, wanting to see how cleverly she had conveyed her goodwill in this delicate situation. To his surprise, she had only written a few lines, in the handwriting and spelling of an eight-year-old, with thoughts that were quite foolish.

'Anna,' he said, staring; 'what's this?'

"Anna," he said, looking intently. "What's going on?"

'It only means-that I can't do it any better!' she answered, through her tears.

'It just means that I can't do it any better!' she replied, through her tears.

'Eh? Nonsense!'

'What? That's ridiculous!'

'I can't!' she insisted, with miserable, sobbing hardihood. 'I-I-didn't write those letters, Charles! I only told her what to write! And not always that! But I am learning, O so fast, my dear, dear husband! And you'll forgive me, won't you, for not telling you before?' She slid to her knees, abjectly clasped his waist and laid her face against him.

"I can't!" she insisted, her voice filled with despair as she sobbed. "I-I-didn't write those letters, Charles! I just told her what to write! And not even all the time! But I'm learning, oh so quickly, my dear husband! And you'll forgive me, right, for not telling you sooner?" She dropped to her knees, desperately clasped his waist, and rested her face against him.

He stood a few moments, raised her, abruptly turned, and shut the door upon her, rejoining Edith in the drawing-room. She saw that something untoward had been discovered, and their eyes remained fixed on each other.

He stood there for a moment, picked her up, suddenly turned, and closed the door behind her, going back to Edith in the living room. She noticed that something unexpected had happened, and their gazes stayed locked on each other.

'Do I guess rightly?' he asked, with wan quietude. 'You were her scribe through all this?'

'Am I right in thinking this?' he asked, with a faint calmness. 'You were her writer for all of this?'

'It was necessary,' said Edith.

"That was needed," said Edith.

'Did she dictate every word you ever wrote to me?'

'Did she tell you every word you ever wrote to me?'

'Not every word.'

'Not every word counts.'

'In fact, very little?'

'Actually, not much?'

'Very little.'

'Not much.'

'You wrote a great part of those pages every week from your own conceptions, though in her name!'

'You wrote a significant portion of those pages every week based on your own ideas, even though it was in her name!'

'Yes.'

Yes.

'Perhaps you wrote many of the letters when you were alone, without communication with her?'

'Maybe you wrote a lot of the letters when you were by yourself, without talking to her?'

'I did.'

"I did."

He turned to the bookcase, and leant with his hand over his face; and Edith, seeing his distress, became white as a sheet.

He turned to the bookcase and leaned with his hand over his face; and Edith, seeing his distress, turned pale as a sheet.

'You have deceived me-ruined me!' he murmured.

'You've lied to me—destroyed me!' he whispered.

'O, don't say it!' she cried in her anguish, jumping up and putting her hand on his shoulder. 'I can't bear that!'

'O, don't say it!' she cried in her anguish, jumping up and putting her hand on his shoulder. 'I can't handle that!'

'Delighting me deceptively! Why did you do it-why did you!'

'You tricked me into feeling happy! Why did you do it—why?'

'I began doing it in kindness to her! How could I do otherwise than try to save such a simple girl from misery? But I admit that I continued it for pleasure to myself.'

'I started doing it out of kindness to her! How could I do anything but try to save such an innocent girl from suffering? But I have to admit that I kept it up for my own enjoyment.'

Raye looked up. 'Why did it give you pleasure?' he asked.

Raye looked up. "Why did it make you happy?" he asked.

'I must not tell,' said she.

"I can't say," she said.

He continued to regard her, and saw that her lips suddenly began to quiver under his scrutiny, and her eyes to fill and droop. She started aside, and said that she must go to the station to catch the return train: could a cab be called immediately?

He kept looking at her and noticed that her lips started to tremble under his gaze, and her eyes began to fill with tears and droop. She looked away and said she needed to go to the station to catch the return train: could a cab be called right away?

But Raye went up to her, and took her unresisting hand. 'Well, to think of such a thing as this!' he said. 'Why, you and I are friends-lovers-devoted lovers-by correspondence!'

But Raye walked up to her and took her hand, which she didn't pull away. 'Can you believe this?' he said. 'You and I are friends—lovers—devoted lovers by mail!'

'Yes; I suppose.'

"Yeah, I guess."

'More.'

'More?'

'Want more?'

'Plainly more. It is no use bIRONlinking that. Legally I have married her-God help us both!-in soul and spirit I have married you, and no other woman in the world!'

'Clearly more. There's no point in denying that. Legally, I’ve married her—God help us both!—in soul and spirit, I’ve married you, and no other woman in the world!'

'Hush!'

'Be quiet!'

'But I will not hush! Why should you try to disguise the full truth, when you have already owned half of it? Yes, it is between you and me that the bond is-not between me and her! Now I'll say no more. But, O my cruel one, I think I have one claim upon you!'

'But I won't be quiet! Why try to hide the whole truth when you've already admitted part of it? Yes, the bond is between you and me, not between me and her! Now I won’t say anything more. But, oh my cruel one, I believe I have one claim on you!'

She did not say what, and he drew her towards him, and bent over her. 'If it was all pure invention in those letters,' he said emphatically, 'give me your cheek only. If you meant what you said, let it be lips. It is for the first and last time, remember!'

She didn’t say anything, and he pulled her closer, leaning over her. “If everything in those letters was just made up,” he said seriously, “just give me your cheek. If you meant what you said, then let it be your lips. Remember, it’s the first and last time!”

She put up her mouth, and he kissed her long. 'You forgive me?' she said crying.

She leaned in, and he kissed her deeply. 'Do you forgive me?' she asked, tears streaming down her face.

'Yes.'

Yes.

'But you are ruined!'

'But you're ruined!'

'What matter!' he said shrugging his shoulders. 'It serves me right!'

"What does it matter?" he said, shrugging his shoulders. "I brought this on myself!"

She withdrew, wiped her eyes, entered and bade good-bye to Anna, who had not expected her to go so soon, and was still wrestling with the letter. Raye followed Edith downstairs, and in three minutes she was in a hansom driving to the Waterloo station.

She stepped back, wiped her eyes, entered, and said goodbye to Anna, who hadn’t expected her to leave so soon and was still struggling with the letter. Raye followed Edith downstairs, and in three minutes, she was in a cab heading to Waterloo station.

He went back to his wife. 'Never mind the letter, Anna, to-day,' he said gently. 'Put on your things. We, too, must be off shortly.'

He went back to his wife. "Don’t worry about the letter, Anna, today," he said softly. "Put on your things. We need to leave soon, too."

The simple girl, upheld by the sense that she was indeed married, showed her delight at finding that he was as kind as ever after the disclosure. She did not know that before his eyes he beheld as it were a galley, in which he, the fastidious urban, was chained to work for the remainder of his life, with her, the unlettered peasant, chained to his side.

The simple girl, reassured by the fact that she was really married, expressed her joy at discovering that he was as kind as ever after she revealed the truth. She had no idea that in his mind, he saw their situation as a trap, where he, the picky city guy, was forced to spend the rest of his life working alongside her, the unsophisticated country girl, who was bound to him.

Edith travelled back to Melchester that day with a face that showed the very stupor of grief; her lips still tingling from the desperate pressure of his kiss. The end of her impassioned dream had come. When at dusk she reached the Melchester station her husband was there to meet her, but in his perfunctoriness and her preoccupation they did not see each other, and she went out of the station alone.

Edith traveled back to Melchester that day with a face that displayed the depth of her sorrow; her lips still buzzing from the intensity of his kiss. The end of her passionate dream had arrived. When she arrived at the Melchester station at dusk, her husband was there to greet her, but in his indifference and her distraction, they overlooked each other, and she left the station alone.

She walked mechanically homewards without calling a fly. Entering, she could not bear the silence of the house, and went up in the dark to where Anna had slept, where she remained thinking awhile. She then returned to the drawing-room, and not knowing what she did, crouched down upon the floor.

She walked home in a daze, not making a sound. Once inside, she couldn't stand the silence of the house, so she went upstairs in the dark to where Anna had slept, where she lingered in thought for a bit. Then she returned to the living room and, without realizing what she was doing, crouched down on the floor.

'I have ruined him!' she kept repeating. 'I have ruined him; because I would not deal treacherously towards her!'

'I have ruined him!' she kept saying. 'I have ruined him; because I wouldn't betray her!'

In the course of half an hour a figure opened the door of the apartment.

In about thirty minutes, a person opened the apartment door.

'Ah-who's that?' she said, starting up, for it was dark.

'Who’s that?' she said, sitting up, since it was dark.

'Your husband-who should it be?' said the worthy merchant.

'Your husband—who could it be?' said the respected merchant.

'Ah-my husband!-I forgot I had a husband!' she whispered to herself.

'Oh—my husband!—I forgot I had a husband!' she whispered to herself.

'I missed you at the station,' he continued. 'Did you see Anna safely tied up? I hope so, for 'twas time.'

'I missed you at the station,' he continued. 'Did you see Anna safely secured? I hope so, because it was time.'

'Yes-Anna is married.'

"Yes, Anna is married."

Simultaneously with Edith's journey home Anna and her husband were sitting at the opposite windows of a second-class carriage which sped along to Knollsea. In his hand was a pocket-book full of creased sheets closely written over. Unfolding them one after another he read them in silence, and sighed.

As Edith was on her way home, Anna and her husband were sitting at opposite windows in a second-class train carriage speeding toward Knollsea. In his hand, he held a pocket notebook full of crumpled sheets filled with tightly written notes. He unfolded them one by one, read in silence, and sighed.

'What are you doing, dear Charles?' she said timidly from the other window, and drew nearer to him as if he were a god.

'What are you up to, dear Charles?' she asked shyly from the other window, stepping closer to him as if he were a god.

'Reading over all those sweet letters to me signed "Anna,"' he replied with dreary resignation.

'Reading through all those sweet letters to me signed "Anna,"' he replied with a sense of weary acceptance.

Autumn 1891.

Fall 1891.

TO PLEASE HIS WIFE

CHAPTER I

The interior of St. James's Church, in Havenpool Town, was slowly darkening under the close clouds of a winter afternoon. It was Sunday: service had just ended, the face of the parson in the pulpit was buried in his hands, and the congregation, with a cheerful sigh of release, were rising from their knees to depart.

The inside of St. James's Church, in Havenpool Town, was gradually getting darker with the low winter clouds. It was Sunday: the service had just wrapped up, the pastor in the pulpit had his face buried in his hands, and the congregation, with a happy sigh of relief, was getting up from their knees to leave.

For the moment the stillness was so complete that the surging of the sea could be heard outside the harbour-bar. Then it was broken by the footsteps of the clerk going towards the west door to open it in the usual manner for the exit of the assembly. Before, however, he had reached the doorway, the latch was lifted from without, and the dark figure of a man in a sailor's garb appeared against the light.

For the moment, the stillness was so complete that you could hear the waves crashing outside the harbor entrance. Then, it was interrupted by the footsteps of the clerk heading toward the west door to open it, as usual, for the assembly to leave. Before he reached the doorway, however, the latch was lifted from outside, and a dark figure in a sailor's outfit appeared in the light.

The clerk stepped aside, the sailor closed the door gently behind him, and advanced up the nave till he stood at the chancel-step. The parson looked up from the private little prayer which, after so many for the parish, he quite fairly took for himself; rose to his feet, and stared at the intruder.

The clerk moved aside, the sailor quietly closed the door behind him, and walked up the nave until he reached the chancel step. The parson looked up from his personal prayer, which he felt he deserved after so many for the parish; he stood up and stared at the stranger.

'I beg your pardon, sir,' said the sailor, addressing the minister in a voice distinctly audible to all the congregation. 'I have come here to offer thanks for my narrow escape from shipwreck. I am given to understand that it is a proper thing to do, if you have no objection?'

'I apologize, sir,' said the sailor, speaking to the minister in a voice that everyone in the congregation could clearly hear. 'I’ve come here to express my gratitude for my close call with shipwreck. I understand that it's appropriate to do this, if you don't mind?'

The parson, after a moment's pause, said hesitatingly, 'I have no objection; certainly. It is usual to mention any such wish before service, so that the proper words may be used in the General Thanksgiving. But, if you wish, we can read from the form for use after a storm at sea.'

The pastor, after a brief pause, said uncertainly, "I have no objection; of course. It’s common to mention any such request before the service, so the appropriate words can be included in the General Thanksgiving. But if you'd like, we can read from the form meant for after a storm at sea."

'Ay, sure; I ain't particular,' said the sailor.

'Ay, sure; I'm not picky,' said the sailor.

The clerk thereupon directed the sailor to the page in the prayer-book where the collect of thanksgiving would be found, and the rector began reading it, the sailor kneeling where he stood, and repeating it after him word by word in a distinct voice. The people, who had remained agape and motionless at the proceeding, mechanically knelt down likewise; but they continued to regard the isolated form of the sailor who, in the precise middle of the chancel-step, remained fixed on his knees, facing the east, his hat beside him, his hands joined, and he quite unconscious of his appearance in their regard.

The clerk then pointed the sailor to the page in the prayer book where the thanksgiving prayer was located, and the rector started to read it. The sailor knelt where he was and repeated it after him, word for word, in a clear voice. The people, who had been staring wide-eyed and frozen at the scene, slowly knelt down as well; however, they kept watching the lone figure of the sailor, who stayed in the exact center of the chancel step on his knees, facing east, with his hat beside him and his hands clasped, completely unaware of how he looked to them.

When his thanksgiving had come to an end he rose; the people rose also, and all went out of church together. As soon as the sailor emerged, so that the remaining daylight fell upon his face, old inhabitants began to recognize him as no other than Shadrach Jolliffe, a young man who had not been seen at Havenpool for several years. A son of the town, his parents had died when he was quite young, on which account he had early gone to sea, in the Newfoundland trade.

When his prayer of thanks was over, he stood up; the congregation did the same, and they all left the church together. As soon as the sailor stepped out, with the fading light hitting his face, long-time residents started to recognize him as none other than Shadrach Jolliffe, a young man who hadn’t been seen in Havenpool for several years. A local boy, he'd lost his parents at a young age, which is why he had gone to sea early on, getting involved in the Newfoundland trade.

He talked with this and that townsman as he walked, informing them that, since leaving his native place years before, he had become captain and owner of a small coasting-ketch, which had providentially been saved from the gale as well as himself. Presently he drew near to two girls who were going out of the churchyard in front of him; they had been sitting in the nave at his entry, and had watched his doings with deep interest, afterwards discussing him as they moved out of church together. One was a slight and gentle creature, the other a tall, large-framed, deliberative girl. Captain Jolliffe regarded the loose curls of their hair, their backs and shoulders, down to their heels, for some time.

He chatted with different townspeople as he walked, telling them that, since leaving his hometown years ago, he had become the captain and owner of a small coastal ketch, which had luckily been saved from the storm along with him. Soon, he approached two girls who were leaving the churchyard in front of him; they had been sitting in the nave when he arrived and had watched him with great interest, later discussing him as they walked out of the church together. One was a petite and gentle girl, while the other was tall, big-framed, and thoughtful. Captain Jolliffe studied the loose curls of their hair, their backs and shoulders, all the way down to their heels, for a while.

'Who may them two maids be?' he whispered to his neighbour.

'Who could those two girls be?' he whispered to his neighbor.

'The little one is Emily Hanning; the tall one Joanna Phippard.'

The little one is Emily Hanning; the tall one is Joanna Phippard.

'Ah! I recollect 'em now, to be sure.'

'Oh! I remember them now, for sure.'

He advanced to their elbow, and genially stole a gaze at them.

He stepped closer to them and casually stole a glance at them.

'Emily, you don't know me?' said the sailor, turning his beaming brown eyes on her.

'Emily, you don't know who I am?' said the sailor, turning his bright brown eyes on her.

'I think I do, Mr. Jolliffe,' said Emily shyly.

"I think I do, Mr. Jolliffe," Emily said shyly.

The other girl looked straight at him with her dark eyes.

The other girl stared directly at him with her dark eyes.

'The face of Miss Joanna I don't call to mind so well,' he continued. 'But I know her beginnings and kindred.'

'I'm not sure I remember Miss Joanna's face that clearly,' he continued. 'But I know about her background and family.'

They walked and talked together, Jolliffe narrating particulars of his late narrow escape, till they reached the corner of Sloop Lane, in which Emily Hanning dwelt, when, with a nod and smile, she left them. Soon the sailor parted also from Joanna, and, having no especial errand or appointment, turned back towards Emily's house. She lived with her father, who called himself an accountant, the daughter, however, keeping a little stationery-shop as a supplemental provision for the gaps of his somewhat uncertain business. On entering Jolliffe found father and daughter about to begin tea.

They walked and talked together, Jolliffe sharing details of his recent narrow escape, until they reached the corner of Sloop Lane, where Emily Hanning lived. With a nod and a smile, she said goodbye. Soon after, the sailor also left Joanna and, with no particular plans or commitments, headed back toward Emily's house. She lived with her father, who referred to himself as an accountant, though Emily ran a small stationery shop to help fill in the gaps of his somewhat unstable business. When Jolliffe entered, he found the father and daughter getting ready to have tea.

'O, I didn't know it was tea-time,' he said. 'Ay, I'll have a cup with much pleasure.'

'O, I didn't realize it was tea time,' he said. 'Yeah, I'd love a cup.'

He remained to tea and long afterwards, telling more tales of his seafaring life. Several neighbours called to listen, and were asked to come in. Somehow Emily Hanning lost her heart to the sailor that Sunday night, and in the course of a week or two there was a tender understanding between them.

He stayed for tea and long after, sharing more stories about his life at sea. Several neighbors came by to listen and were invited in. Somehow, Emily Hanning fell for the sailor that Sunday night, and within a week or two, there was a gentle understanding between them.

One moonlight evening in the next month Shadrach was ascending out of the town by the long straight road eastward, to an elevated suburb where the more fashionable houses stood-if anything near this ancient port could be called fashionable-when he saw a figure before him whom, from her manner of glancing back, he took to be Emily. But, on coming up, he found she was Joanna Phippard. He gave a gallant greeting, and walked beside her.

One moonlit evening next month, Shadrach was walking out of town along the long straight road heading east to a higher suburb where the nicer houses were—if anything near this old port could be called nice—when he saw a figure ahead of him. From the way she glanced back, he thought it was Emily. But as he got closer, he realized it was Joanna Phippard. He greeted her warmly and walked beside her.

'Go along,' she said, 'or Emily will be jealous!'

'Go ahead,' she said, 'or Emily will get jealous!'

He seemed not to like the suggestion, and remained. What was said and what was done on that walk never could be clearly recollected by Shadrach; but in some way or other Joanna contrived to wean him away from her gentler and younger rival. From that week onwards, Jolliffe was seen more and more in the wake of Joanna Phippard and less in the company of Emily; and it was soon rumoured about the quay that old Jolliffe's son, who had come home from sea, was going to be married to the former young woman, to the great disappointment of the latter.

He didn't seem to like the suggestion and stayed silent. Shadrach could never clearly remember what was said or done during that walk, but somehow Joanna managed to pull him away from her softer and younger rival. From that week on, Jolliffe was seen more and more trailing after Joanna Phippard and less with Emily; and it quickly spread around the quay that old Jolliffe's son, who had just returned from sea, was going to marry Joanna, which greatly disappointed Emily.

Just after this report had gone about, Joanna dressed herself for a walk one morning, and started for Emily's house in the little cross-street. Intelligence of the deep sorrow of her friend on account of the loss of Shadrach had reached her ears also, and her conscience reproached her for winning him away.

Just after this report spread, Joanna got ready for a walk one morning and headed to Emily's house in the small side street. She had also heard about her friend's deep sorrow over the loss of Shadrach, and her conscience nagged her for taking him away.

Joanna was not altogether satisfied with the sailor. She liked his attentions, and she coveted the dignity of matrimony; but she had never been deeply in love with Jolliffe. For one thing, she was ambitious, and socially his position was hardly so good as her own, and there was always the chance of an attractive woman mating considerably above her. It had long been in her mind that she would not strongly object to give him back again to Emily if her friend felt so very badly about him. To this end she had written a letter of renunciation to Shadrach, which letter she carried in her hand, intending to send it if personal observation of Emily convinced her that her friend was suffering.

Joanna wasn't completely satisfied with the sailor. She appreciated his attention and desired the status of marriage, but she had never truly been in love with Jolliffe. For one thing, she was ambitious, and socially, his position wasn't as good as hers. Plus, there was always the possibility of a more attractive woman partnering with someone higher up. She had long considered that she wouldn't strongly oppose giving him back to Emily if her friend felt really bad about him. To this end, she had written a letter of renunciation to Shadrach, which she held in her hand, planning to send it if she observed that Emily was suffering.

Joanna entered Sloop Lane and stepped down into the stationery-shop, which was below the pavement level. Emily's father was never at home at this hour of the day, and it seemed as though Emily were not at home either, for the visitor could make nobody hear. Customers came so seldom hither that a five minutes' absence of the proprietor counted for little. Joanna waited in the little shop, where Emily had tastefully set out-as women can-articles in themselves of slight value, so as to obscure the meagreness of the stock-in-trade; till she saw a figure pausing without the window apparently absorbed in the contemplation of the sixpenny books, packets of paper, and prints hung on a string. It was Captain Shadrach Jolliffe, peering in to ascertain if Emily were there alone. Moved by an impulse of reluctance to meet him in a spot which breathed of Emily, Joanna slipped through the door that communicated with the parlour at the back. She had frequently done so before, for in her friendship with Emily she had the freedom of the house without ceremony.

Joanna walked down Sloop Lane and stepped into the stationery shop, which was below street level. Emily's dad was never home at this time of day, and it seemed like Emily wasn't there either, since Joanna couldn't get anyone to hear her. Customers came so rarely that even a five-minute absence of the owner didn’t matter much. Joanna waited in the small shop, where Emily had neatly arranged—like women often do—items that weren't worth much to hide the scantiness of the stock; then she noticed a figure stopping outside the window, seemingly lost in thought over the sixpenny books, packs of paper, and prints hanging on a string. It was Captain Shadrach Jolliffe, peeking in to see if Emily was there by herself. Feeling a sudden urge to avoid running into him in a place filled with reminders of Emily, Joanna slipped through the door that led to the parlor at the back. She had done this many times before, as her friendship with Emily gave her the freedom to enter the house without any fuss.

Jolliffe entered the shop. Through the thin blind which screened the glass partition she could see that he was disappointed at not finding Emily there. He was about to go out again, when Emily's form darkened the doorway, hastening home from some errand. At sight of Jolliffe she started back as if she would have gone out again.

Jolliffe walked into the shop. Through the thin blind that covered the glass partition, she could tell he was disappointed not to see Emily there. He was about to leave again when Emily appeared in the doorway, rushing home from some errand. When she saw Jolliffe, she flinched as if she were going to turn around and leave again.

'Don't run away, Emily; don't!' said he. 'What can make ye afraid?'

"Don't run away, Emily; please don't!" he said. "What could possibly scare you?"

'I'm not afraid, Captain Jolliffe. Only-only I saw you all of a sudden, and-it made me jump!' Her voice showed that her heart had jumped even more than the rest of her.

'I'm not scared, Captain Jolliffe. I just—I saw you out of nowhere, and it startled me!' Her voice revealed that her heart had raced even more than the rest of her.

'I just called as I was passing,' he said.

'I just called as I was passing by,' he said.

'For some paper?' She hastened behind the counter.

'For some paper?' She rushed behind the counter.

'No, no, Emily; why do ye get behind there? Why not stay by me? You seem to hate me.'

'No, no, Emily; why are you hiding back there? Why not stay with me? You seem to hate me.'

'I don't hate you. How can I?'

'I don't hate you. How could I?'

'Then come out, so that we can talk like Christians.'

'Then come out, so we can talk like decent people.'

Emily obeyed with a fitful laugh, till she stood again beside him in the open part of the shop.

Emily laughed awkwardly but did what he asked until she was standing next to him again in the open part of the shop.

'There's a dear,' he said.

"There's a dear," he said.

'You mustn't say that, Captain Jolliffe; because the words belong to somebody else.'

'You can’t say that, Captain Jolliffe; because those words belong to someone else.'

'Ah! I know what you mean. But, Emily, upon my life I didn't know till this morning that you cared one bit about me, or I should not have done as I have done. I have the best of feelings for Joanna, but I know that from the beginning she hasn't cared for me more than in a friendly way; and I see now the one I ought to have asked to be my wife. You know, Emily, when a man comes home from sea after a long voyage he's as blind as a bat-he can't see who's who in women. They are all alike to him, beautiful creatures, and he takes the first that comes easy, without thinking if she loves him, or if he might not soon love another better than her. From the first I inclined to you most, but you were so backward and shy that I thought you didn't want me to bother 'ee, and so I went to Joanna.'

'Ah! I get what you’re saying. But, Emily, honestly, I didn’t realize until this morning that you cared about me at all, or I wouldn’t have done what I did. I really like Joanna, but I’ve known all along that she only sees me as a friend; now I can see that you’re the one I should have asked to be my wife. You know, Emily, when a guy comes back home from a long trip at sea, he’s totally clueless—he can't tell the women apart. They all look like beautiful creatures to him, and he just goes for the first one who shows interest without thinking about whether she loves him, or if he might soon find someone else he likes more. Right from the start, I was drawn to you the most, but you were so shy that I thought you didn't want me to bother you, so I went after Joanna instead.'

'Don't say any more, Mr. Jolliffe, don't!' said she, choking. 'You are going to marry Joanna next month, and it is wrong to-to-'

'Don't say any more, Mr. Jolliffe, please!' she said, struggling to hold back tears. 'You're going to marry Joanna next month, and it's just not right to—'

'O, Emily, my darling!' he cried, and clasped her little figure in his arms before she was aware.

'O, Emily, my darling!' he exclaimed, wrapping his arms around her tiny frame before she even noticed.

Joanna, behind the curtain, turned pale, tried to withdraw her eyes, but could not.

Joanna, hidden behind the curtain, paled and tried to look away, but couldn't.

'It is only you I love as a man ought to love the woman he is going to marry; and I know this from what Joanna has said, that she will willingly let me off! She wants to marry higher I know, and only said "Yes" to me out of kindness. A fine, tall girl like her isn't the sort for a plain sailor's wife: you be the best suited for that.'

'You're the only one I love the way a man should love the woman he's going to marry, and I know this because Joanna has told me she’s happy to let me go! She wants to marry someone richer, and she only said "Yes" to me out of kindness. A beautiful, tall girl like her isn't meant to be with a plain sailor like me; you're the one who's really suited for that.'

He kissed her and kissed her again, her flexible form quivering in the agitation of his embrace.

He kissed her and kissed her again, her body trembling in the excitement of his embrace.

'I wonder-are you sure-Joanna is going to break off with you? O, are you sure? Because-'

'I wonder—are you sure Joanna is going to break up with you? Oh, are you sure? Because—'

'I know she would not wish to make us miserable. She will release me.'

'I know she wouldn't want to make us unhappy. She'll let me go.'

'O, I hope-I hope she will! Don't stay any longer, Captain Jolliffe!'

'O, I really hope she will! Please don’t stay any longer, Captain Jolliffe!'

He lingered, however, till a customer came for a penny stick of sealing- wax, and then he withdrew.

He stuck around until a customer came in for a penny stick of sealing wax, and then he left.

Green envy had overspread Joanna at the scene. She looked about for a way of escape. To get out without Emily's knowledge of her visit was indispensable. She crept from the parlour into the passage, and thence to the front door of the house, where she let herself noiselessly into the street.

Green envy washed over Joanna at the scene. She looked around for a way to escape. It was essential to leave without Emily knowing about her visit. She quietly slipped from the parlor into the hallway, and then to the front door of the house, where she quietly let herself out into the street.

The sight of that caress had reversed all her resolutions. She could not let Shadrach go. Reaching home she burnt the letter, and told her mother that if Captain Jolliffe called she was too unwell to see him.

The sight of that touch had changed all her mind. She couldn’t let Shadrach leave. When she got home, she burned the letter and told her mother that if Captain Jolliffe came by, she was too sick to see him.

Shadrach, however, did not call. He sent her a note expressing in simple language the state of his feelings; and asked to be allowed to take advantage of the hints she had given him that her affection, too, was little more than friendly, by cancelling the engagement.

Shadrach, however, didn't call. He sent her a note that simply expressed how he felt and asked if he could take her hints about her feelings— that they were more like friendship— as a reason to cancel the engagement.

Looking out upon the harbour and the island beyond he waited and waited in his lodgings for an answer that did not come. The suspense grew to be so intolerable that after dark he went up the High Street. He could not resist calling at Joanna's to learn his fate.

Looking out at the harbor and the island beyond, he waited and waited in his room for an answer that never came. The suspense became so unbearable that after dark, he headed up the High Street. He couldn't help but stop by Joanna's to find out his fate.

Her mother said her daughter was too unwell to see him, and to his questioning admitted that it was in consequence of a letter received from himself; which had distressed her deeply.

Her mom said her daughter was too sick to see him, and when he asked, she admitted it was because of a letter he had sent that had upset her a lot.

'You know what it was about, perhaps, Mrs. Phippard?' he said.

'You know what it was about, maybe, Mrs. Phippard?' he said.

Mrs. Phippard owned that she did, adding that it put them in a very painful position. Thereupon Shadrach, fearing that he had been guilty of an enormity, explained that if his letter had pained Joanna it must be owing to a misunderstanding, since he had thought it would be a relief to her. If otherwise, he would hold himself bound by his word, and she was to think of the letter as never having been written.

Mrs. Phippard admitted that she did, adding that it put them in a very tough position. Then Shadrach, worried that he had done something terrible, clarified that if his letter had upset Joanna, it must be due to a misunderstanding because he thought it would be a relief for her. If that’s not the case, he would stick to his word, and she should consider the letter as if it was never written.

Next morning he received an oral message from the young woman, asking him to fetch her home from a meeting that evening. This he did, and while walking from the Town Hall to her door, with her hand in his arm, she said:

Next morning, he got a verbal message from the young woman, asking him to pick her up from a meeting that evening. He did so, and while walking from the Town Hall to her door, with her hand on his arm, she said:

'It is all the same as before between us, isn't it, Shadrach? Your letter was sent in mistake?'

'It's just like before between us, isn't it, Shadrach? Your letter was sent by mistake?'

'It is all the same as before,' he answered, 'if you say it must be.'

'It's exactly like before,' he replied, 'if you insist it has to be.'

'I wish it to be,' she murmured, with hard lineaments, as she thought of Emily.

'I want it to be,' she murmured, with a tough expression, as she thought of Emily.

Shadrach was a religious and scrupulous man, who respected his word as his life. Shortly afterwards the wedding took place, Jolliffe having conveyed to Emily as gently as possible the error he had fallen into when estimating Joanna's mood as one of indifference.

Shadrach was a devout and meticulous man, who valued his promises as highly as his life. Soon after, the wedding happened, with Jolliffe having gently explained to Emily the mistake he made in judging Joanna's mood as one of indifference.

CHAPTER II

A month after the marriage Joanna's mother died, and the couple were obliged to turn their attention to very practical matters. Now that she was left without a parent, Joanna could not bear the notion of her husband going to sea again, but the question was, What could he do at home? They finally decided to take on a grocer's shop in High Street, the goodwill and stock of which were waiting to be disposed of at that time. Shadrach knew nothing of shopkeeping, and Joanna very little, but they hoped to learn.

A month after the wedding, Joanna's mother passed away, and the couple had to focus on practical issues. With her parent gone, Joanna couldn't stand the idea of her husband going back to sea, but the question was, what could he do at home? They ultimately decided to take over a grocery store on High Street, which was up for sale at that time, including its goodwill and inventory. Shadrach didn’t know anything about running a shop, and Joanna knew very little, but they were hopeful they could figure it out.

To the management of this grocery business they now devoted all their energies, and continued to conduct it for many succeeding years, without great success. Two sons were born to them, whom their mother loved to idolatry, although she had never passionately loved her husband; and she lavished upon them all her forethought and care. But the shop did not thrive, and the large dreams she had entertained of her sons' education and career became attenuated in the face of realities. Their schooling was of the plainest, but, being by the sea, they grew alert in all such nautical arts and enterprises as were attractive to their age.

They dedicated all their energy to managing the grocery store and ran it for many years, but without much success. They had two sons whom their mother adored, even though she had never truly loved her husband; she showered them with all her attention and care. However, the shop didn't prosper, and her grand dreams for her sons' education and careers faded in the face of reality. Their schooling was basic, but living by the sea made them eager to learn all the nautical skills and activities that interested kids their age.

The great interest of the Jolliffes' married life, outside their own immediate household, had lain in the marriage of Emily. By one of those odd chances which lead those that lurk in unexpected corners to be discovered, while the obvious are passed by, the gentle girl had been seen and loved by a thriving merchant of the town, a widower, some years older than herself, though still in the prime of life. At first Emily had declared that she never, never could marry any one; but Mr. Lester had quietly persevered, and had at last won her reluctant assent. Two children also were the fruits of this union, and, as they grew and prospered, Emily declared that she had never supposed that she could live to be so happy.

The main highlight of the Jolliffes' marriage, aside from their own family, was Emily's marriage. By one of those strange twists of fate that reveal hidden opportunities while the obvious ones are overlooked, the kind girl caught the eye of a successful local businessman, a widower who was a few years older than her but still in the prime of his life. At first, Emily insisted that she could never marry anyone, but Mr. Lester patiently persisted and eventually earned her hesitant agreement. Their union also brought two children, and as they thrived, Emily expressed that she never thought she could be this happy.

The worthy merchant's home, one of those large, substantial brick mansions frequently jammed up in old-fashioned towns, faced directly on the High Street, nearly opposite to the grocery shop of the Jolliffes, and it now became the pain of Joanna to behold the woman whose place she had usurped out of pure covetousness, looking down from her position of comparative wealth upon the humble shop-window with its dusty sugar- loaves, heaps of raisins, and canisters of tea, over which it was her own lot to preside. The business having so dwindled, Joanna was obliged to serve in the shop herself; and it galled and mortified her that Emily Lester, sitting in her large drawing-room over the way, could witness her own dancings up and down behind the counter at the beck and call of wretched twopenny customers, whose patronage she was driven to welcome gladly: persons to whom she was compelled to be civil in the street, while Emily was bounding along with her children and her governess, and conversing with the genteelest people of the town and neighbourhood. This was what she had gained by not letting Shadrach Jolliffe, whom she had so faintly loved, carry his affection elsewhere.

The respectable merchant's house, one of those large, sturdy brick mansions often found in traditional towns, faced directly onto High Street, almost directly across from the Jolliffe family's grocery store. Now, it caused Joanna pain to see the woman whose position she had taken out of sheer greed looking down from her relatively privileged position at the humble shop window filled with dusty sugar loaves, piles of raisins, and canisters of tea, which she was now stuck managing. Since the business had dwindled so much, Joanna had to work in the shop herself, and it frustrated and embarrassed her that Emily Lester, sitting in her spacious drawing room across the street, could watch her moving back and forth behind the counter serving miserable two-penny customers, whose business she was forced to welcome eagerly. These were people she had to be polite to in the street while Emily was out strolling with her kids and governess, chatting with the most refined people in town and nearby. This was the result of not letting Shadrach Jolliffe, whom she had cared for so slightly, seek his affection elsewhere.

Shadrach was a good and honest man, and he had been faithful to her in heart and in deed. Time had clipped the wings of his love for Emily in his devotion to the mother of his boys: he had quite lived down that impulsive earlier fancy, and Emily had become in his regard nothing more than a friend. It was the same with Emily's feelings for him. Possibly, had she found the least cause for jealousy, Joanna would almost have been better satisfied. It was in the absolute acquiescence of Emily and Shadrach in the results she herself had contrived that her discontent found nourishment.

Shadrach was a good and honest man, and he had been faithful to her in both heart and action. Time had dimmed his love for Emily due to his devotion to the mother of his children: he had completely moved on from that impulsive early crush, and Emily had become nothing more than a friend in his eyes. The same was true for Emily's feelings toward him. If she had found even a hint of jealousy, Joanna might have felt better about the situation. It was in the total acceptance of the situation by both Emily and Shadrach that Joanna's discontent grew.

Shadrach was not endowed with the narrow shrewdness necessary for developing a retail business in the face of many competitors. Did a customer inquire if the grocer could really recommend the wondrous substitute for eggs which a persevering bagman had forced into his stock, he would answer that 'when you did not put eggs into a pudding it was difficult to taste them there'; and when he was asked if his 'real Mocha coffee' was real Mocha, he would say grimly, 'as understood in small shops.'

Shadrach didn't have the sharp insight needed to run a retail business with so many competitors around. When a customer asked if the grocer could genuinely recommend the amazing egg substitute that a persistent salesman had pushed into his inventory, he'd reply that "when you don't add eggs to a pudding, it's hard to taste them." And when someone questioned whether his "real Mocha coffee" was actually real Mocha, he'd respond dryly, "as it's understood in small shops."

One summer day, when the big brick house opposite was reflecting the oppressive sun's heat into the shop, and nobody was present but husband and wife, Joanna looked across at Emily's door, where a wealthy visitor's carriage had drawn up. Traces of patronage had been visible in Emily's manner of late.

One summer day, when the large brick house across the street was bouncing the sweltering heat of the sun into the shop, and only the husband and wife were there, Joanna glanced at Emily's door, where a fancy visitor's carriage had just arrived. Recently, Emily had shown signs of needing support.

'Shadrach, the truth is, you are not a business-man,' his wife sadly murmured. 'You were not brought up to shopkeeping, and it is impossible for a man to make a fortune at an occupation he has jumped into, as you did into this.'

'Shadrach, the truth is, you’re not a businessman,' his wife said sadly. 'You weren’t raised for retail, and it’s impossible for someone to make a fortune in a job they just jumped into, like you did with this.'

Jolliffe agreed with her, in this as in everything else.

Jolliffe agreed with her on this, just like in everything else.

'Not that I care a rope's end about making a fortune,' he said cheerfully. 'I am happy enough, and we can rub on somehow.'

'Not that I care at all about making a fortune,' he said cheerfully. 'I'm happy enough, and we can get by somehow.'

She looked again at the great house through the screen of bottled pickles.

She looked again at the big house through the jar of pickles.

'Rub on-yes,' she said bitterly. 'But see how well off Emmy Lester is, who used to be so poor! Her boys will go to College, no doubt; and think of yours-obliged to go to the Parish School!'

'Rub it in-yes,' she said bitterly. 'But look at how well-off Emmy Lester is, who used to be so poor! Her boys will definitely go to college; and think about yours—having to go to the parish school!'

Shadrach's thoughts had flown to Emily.

Shadrach's thoughts had drifted to Emily.

'Nobody,' he said good-humouredly, 'ever did Emily a better turn than you did, Joanna, when you warned her off me and put an end to that little simpering nonsense between us, so as to leave it in her power to say "Aye" to Lester when he came along.' This almost maddened her.

'Nobody,' he said with a smile, 'ever did Emily a bigger favor than you did, Joanna, when you warned her away from me and put a stop to that silly nonsense between us, so she could say "Yes" to Lester when he showed up.' This almost drove her crazy.

'Don't speak of bygones!' she implored, in stern sadness. 'But think, for the boys' and my sake, if not for your own, what are we to do to get richer?'

'Don't talk about the past!' she begged, with a serious sadness. 'But please, for the boys and me, if not for yourself, think about what we can do to get richer?'

'Well,' he said, becoming serious, 'to tell the truth, I have always felt myself unfit for this business, though I've never liked to say so. I seem to want more room for sprawling; a more open space to strike out in than here among friends and neighbours. I could get rich as well as any man, if I tried my own way.'

'Well,' he said, turning serious, 'to be honest, I've always felt unfit for this line of work, though I've never liked to admit it. I just seem to need more space to breathe; a wider area to explore than what's here among friends and neighbors. I could make just as much money as anyone else if I did things my way.'

'I wish you would! What is your way?'

'I wish you would! What’s your approach?'

'To go to sea again.'

She had been the very one to keep him at home, hating the semi-widowed existence of sailors' wives. But her ambition checked her instincts now, and she said: 'Do you think success really lies that way?'

She was the one who kept him at home, disliking the half-widowed life of sailors' wives. But her ambition held back her instincts now, and she asked, 'Do you really think success is found that way?'

'I am sure it lies in no other.'

'I’m sure it doesn’t exist anywhere else.'

'Do you want to go, Shadrach?'

'Not for the pleasure of it, I can tell 'ee. There's no such pleasure at sea, Joanna, as I can find in my back parlour here. To speak honest, I have no love for the brine. I never had much. But if it comes to a question of a fortune for you and the lads, it is another thing. That's the only way to it for one born and bred a seafarer as I.'

'Not for the enjoyment of it, I can tell you. There’s no pleasure at sea, Joanna, like what I can find in my back room here. To be honest, I have no fondness for the saltwater. I never really did. But if it’s about making a fortune for you and the kids, that’s a different story. That’s the only way for someone born and raised a sailor like me.'

'Would it take long to earn?'

'Will it take a long time to earn?'

'Well, that depends; perhaps not.'

"Well, that depends; maybe not."

The next morning Shadrach pulled from a chest of drawers the nautical jacket he had worn during the first months of his return, brushed out the moths, donned it, and walked down to the quay. The port still did a fair business in the Newfoundland trade, though not so much as formerly.

The next morning, Shadrach pulled out from a chest of drawers the nautical jacket he had worn during the first months of his return, brushed off the moths, put it on, and walked down to the quay. The port was still doing decent business in the Newfoundland trade, though not as much as before.

It was not long after this that he invested all he possessed in purchasing a part-ownership in a brig, of which he was appointed captain. A few months were passed in coast-trading, during which interval Shadrach wore off the land-rust that had accumulated upon him in his grocery phase; and in the spring the brig sailed for Newfoundland.

It wasn't long after this that he put everything he had into buying a share of a brig, and he was made captain. A few months went by doing coast trading, during which time Shadrach shook off the land-rust he had picked up during his grocery days; and in the spring, the brig set sail for Newfoundland.

Joanna lived on at home with her sons, who were now growing up into strong lads, and occupying themselves in various ways about the harbour and quay.

Joanna continued to live at home with her sons, who were now maturing into strong young men and keeping themselves busy in different ways around the harbor and dock.

'Never mind, let them work a little,' their fond mother said to herself. 'Our necessities compel it now, but when Shadrach comes home they will be only seventeen and eighteen, and they shall be removed from the port, and their education thoroughly taken in hand by a tutor; and with the money they'll have they will perhaps be as near to gentlemen as Emmy Lester's precious two, with their algebra and their Latin!'

'Never mind, let them work a little,' their loving mother thought to herself. 'Right now, we have to, but when Shadrach comes home, they’ll only be seventeen and eighteen. They’ll be moved away from the port, and we’ll get them a tutor to really focus on their education. With the money they’ll have, they’ll be as close to gentlemen as Emmy Lester’s precious two with their algebra and Latin!'

The date for Shadrach's return drew near and arrived, and he did not appear. Joanna was assured that there was no cause for anxiety, sailing-ships being so uncertain in their coming; which assurance proved to be well grounded, for late one wet evening, about a month after the calculated time, the ship was announced as at hand, and presently the slip-slop step of Shadrach as the sailor sounded in the passage, and he entered. The boys had gone out and had missed him, and Joanna was sitting alone.

The date for Shadrach's return was approaching and then arrived, but he didn't show up. Joanna was told not to worry since sailing ships were so unpredictable in their arrivals; this reassurance turned out to be true because, late one rainy evening, about a month past the expected time, the ship was reported to be arriving, and soon after, Shadrach's familiar footsteps echoed in the hallway as he walked in. The boys had gone out and missed him, and Joanna was sitting alone.

As soon as the first emotion of reunion between the couple had passed, Jolliffe explained the delay as owing to a small speculative contract, which had produced good results.

As soon as the first feelings of the couple reuniting settled down, Jolliffe explained the delay was due to a small speculative contract that had turned out well.

'I was determined not to disappoint 'ee,' he said; 'and I think you'll own that I haven't!'

'I was set on not letting you down,' he said; 'and I think you'll agree that I haven't!'

With this he pulled out an enormous canvas bag, full and rotund as the money-bag of the giant whom Jack slew, untied it, and shook the contents out into her lap as she sat in her low chair by the fire. A mass of sovereigns and guineas (there were guineas on the earth in those days) fell into her lap with a sudden thud, weighing down her gown to the floor.

With that, he pulled out a huge canvas bag, as round and full as the giant's money-bag that Jack defeated, untied it, and dumped the contents into her lap while she sat in her low chair by the fire. A pile of gold coins (there were guineas back then) landed in her lap with a heavy thud, causing her gown to sag to the floor.

'There!' said Shadrach complacently. 'I told 'ee, dear, I'd do it; and have I done it or no?'

'There!' said Shadrach confidently. 'I told you, dear, I'd do it; and have I done it or not?'

Somehow her face, after the first excitement of possession, did not retain its glory.

Somehow, after the initial thrill of having it, her face lost its shine.

'It is a lot of gold, indeed,' she said. 'And-is this all?'

'That’s a lot of gold, for sure,' she said. 'Is this it?'

'All? Why, dear Joanna, do you know you can count to three hundred in that heap? It is a fortune!'

'All? Why, dear Joanna, did you know you can count to three hundred in that pile? It's a fortune!'

'Yes-yes. A fortune-judged by sea; but judged by land-'

'Yes, yes. A fortune judged by the sea; but judged by land-'

However, she banished considerations of the money for the nonce. Soon the boys came in, and next Sunday Shadrach returned thanks to God-this time by the more ordinary channel of the italics in the General Thanksgiving. But a few days after, when the question of investing the money arose, he remarked that she did not seem so satisfied as he had hoped.

However, she put aside thoughts of the money for the moment. Soon the boys came in, and the following Sunday Shadrach thanked God—this time using the more common wording of the italics in the General Thanksgiving. But a few days later, when the topic of investing the money came up, he noted that she didn't seem as happy as he had expected.

'Well you see, Shadrach,' she answered, 'we count by hundreds; they count by thousands' (nodding towards the other side of the Street). 'They have set up a carriage and pair since you left.'

'Well, you see, Shadrach,' she replied, 'we count by hundreds; they count by thousands' (nodding toward the other side of the street). 'They’ve set up a carriage and pair since you left.'

'O, have they?'

"Oh, really?"

'My dear Shadrach, you don't know how the world moves. However, we'll do the best we can with it. But they are rich, and we are poor still!'

'My dear Shadrach, you have no idea how the world works. Still, we'll make the best of it. But they have money, and we're still broke!'

The greater part of a year was desultorily spent. She moved sadly about the house and shop, and the boys were still occupying themselves in and around the harbour.

The majority of the year was spent aimlessly. She wandered sadly around the house and shop, while the boys continued to hang out at the harbor.

'Joanna,' he said, one day, 'I see by your movements that it is not enough.'

'Joanna,' he said one day, 'I can tell by the way you're acting that it's not enough.'

'It is not enough,' said she. 'My boys will have to live by steering the ships that the Lesters own; and I was once above her!'

'That's not enough,' she said. 'My boys will have to make a living by steering the ships owned by the Lesters; and I was once above her!'

Jolliffe was not an argumentative man, and he only murmured that he thought he would make another voyage.

Jolliffe wasn't the type to argue, and he just quietly mentioned that he thought he might go on another trip.

He meditated for several days, and coming home from the quay one afternoon said suddenly:

He thought deeply for several days, and then one afternoon as he was returning from the dock, he suddenly said:

'I could do it for 'ee, dear, in one more trip, for certain, if-if-'

'I could do it for you, dear, in one more trip, for sure, if-if-'

'Do what, Shadrach?'

'What should I do, Shadrach?'

'Enable 'ee to count by thousands instead of hundreds.'

'Enable me to count by thousands instead of hundreds.'

'If what?'

'What if?'

'If I might take the boys.'

'If I could take the boys.'

She turned pale.

She went pale.

'Don't say that, Shadrach,' she answered hastily.

'Don't say that, Shadrach,' she replied quickly.

'Why?'

'I don't like to hear it! There's danger at sea. I want them to be something genteel, and no danger to them. I couldn't let them risk their lives at sea. O, I couldn't ever, ever!'

'I don’t want to hear it! There’s danger out there on the water. I want them to be safe and sound, with no threats to them. I can’t let them put their lives at risk at sea. Oh, I could never, ever do that!'

'Very well, dear, it shan't be done.'

'Alright, dear, it won't be done.'

Next day, after a silence, she asked a question:

Next day, after a pause, she asked a question:

'If they were to go with you it would make a great deal of difference, I suppose, to the profit?'

'If they went with you, it would probably make a big difference to the profit?'

''Twould treble what I should get from the venture single-handed. Under my eye they would be as good as two more of myself.'

It would triple what I could get from the project alone. Under my watch, they would be as good as having two more of me.

Later on she said: 'Tell me more about this.'

'Well, the boys are almost as clever as master-mariners in handling a craft, upon my life! There isn't a more cranky place in the Northern Seas than about the sandbanks of this harbour, and they've practised here from their infancy. And they are so steady. I couldn't get their steadiness and their trustworthiness in half a dozen men twice their age.'

'Well, the boys are nearly as skilled as experienced sailors when it comes to managing a boat, I swear! There isn't a more unpredictable spot in the Northern Seas than around the sandbanks of this harbor, and they've been practicing here since they were kids. And they are incredibly steady. I couldn't find their level of steadiness and reliability in half a dozen men twice their age.'

'And is it very dangerous at sea; now, too, there are rumours of war?' she asked uneasily.

'Is it really dangerous at sea now, especially with all these rumors of war?' she asked nervously.

'O, well, there be risks. Still . . . '

'O, well, there are risks. Still . . . '

The idea grew and magnified, and the mother's heart was crushed and stifled by it. Emmy was growing too patronizing; it could not be borne. Shadrach's wife could not help nagging him about their comparative poverty. The young men, amiable as their father, when spoken to on the subject of a voyage of enterprise, were quite willing to embark; and though they, like their father, had no great love for the sea, they became quite enthusiastic when the proposal was detailed.

The idea expanded and intensified, weighing heavily on the mother's heart. Emmy was becoming too condescending; it was unbearable. Shadrach's wife couldn't stop complaining about their relative poverty. The young men, friendly like their father, were eager to discuss an adventurous voyage and, even though they didn't have much affection for the sea, they became quite excited when the plan was laid out.

Everything now hung upon their mother's assent. She withheld it long, but at last gave the word: the young men might accompany their father. Shadrach was unusually cheerful about it: Heaven had preserved him hitherto, and he had uttered his thanks. God would not forsake those who were faithful to him.

Everything now depended on their mother's approval. She delayed for a while but finally agreed: the young men could go with their father. Shadrach was unusually happy about it: Heaven had protected him so far, and he had expressed his gratitude. God would not abandon those who remained loyal to Him.

All that the Jolliffes possessed in the world was put into the enterprise. The grocery stock was pared down to the least that possibly could afford a bare sustenance to Joanna during the absence, which was to last through the usual 'New-f'nland spell.' How she would endure the weary time she hardly knew, for the boys had been with her formerly; but she nerved herself for the trial.

All that the Jolliffes owned in the world went into the venture. The grocery stock was reduced to the bare minimum needed to provide Joanna with basic sustenance during the absence, which was expected to last through the usual 'Newfie spell.' She wasn’t sure how she would get through the exhausting time, as the boys had been with her before; but she prepared herself for the challenge.

The ship was laden with boots and shoes, ready-made clothing, fishing- tackle, butter, cheese, cordage, sailcloth, and many other commodities; and was to bring back oil, furs, skins, fish, cranberries, and what else came to hand. But much trading to other ports was to be undertaken between the voyages out and homeward, and thereby much money made.

The ship was loaded with boots and shoes, ready-made clothes, fishing gear, butter, cheese, ropes, sailcloth, and many other goods; it was set to bring back oil, furs, skins, fish, cranberries, and whatever else they could find. However, there was a lot of trading to be done at other ports between the outbound and return trips, leading to a good amount of profit.

CHAPTER III

The brig sailed on a Monday morning in spring; but Joanna did not witness its departure. She could not bear the sight that she had been the means of bringing about. Knowing this, her husband told her overnight that they were to sail some time before noon next day hence when, awakening at five the next morning, she heard them bustling about downstairs, she did not hasten to descend, but lay trying to nerve herself for the parting, imagining they would leave about nine, as her husband had done on his previous voyage. When she did descend she beheld words chalked upon the sloping face of the bureau; but no husband or sons. In the hastily-scrawled lines Shadrach said they had gone off thus not to pain her by a leave-taking; and the sons had chalked under his words: 'Good-bye, mother!'

The brig set sail on a Monday morning in spring, but Joanna didn’t see it leave. She couldn’t stand the thought that she was the reason for its departure. Knowing this, her husband told her the night before that they would be leaving sometime before noon. So, when she woke up at five the next morning and heard them moving around downstairs, she didn’t rush down but lay in bed trying to gather the courage for the goodbye, thinking they would leave around nine, just like her husband had on his last trip. When she finally went downstairs, she saw words chalked on the slanted surface of the bureau, but there was no sign of her husband or sons. In the hurriedly written message, Shadrach explained they had left this way to avoid hurting her with a farewell, and the sons had added beneath his words: 'Goodbye, mother!'

She rushed to the quay, and looked down the harbour towards the blue rim of the sea, but she could only see the masts and bulging sails of the Joanna; no human figures. ''Tis I have sent them!' she said wildly, and burst into tears. In the house the chalked 'Good-bye' nearly broke her heart. But when she had re-entered the front room, and looked across at Emily's, a gleam of triumph lit her thin face at her anticipated release from the thraldom of subservience.

She rushed to the dock and gazed down the harbor at the blue edge of the sea, but all she could see were the masts and bulging sails of the Joanna; no people. "I sent them away!" she said frantically, and began to cry. In the house, the chalked 'Good-bye' almost shattered her heart. But when she went back into the front room and looked over at Emily's, a spark of triumph lit up her thin face at the thought

To do Emily Lester justice, her assumption of superiority was mainly a figment of Joanna's brain. That the circumstances of the merchant's wife were more luxurious than Joanna's, the former could not conceal; though whenever the two met, which was not very often now, Emily endeavoured to subdue the difference by every means in her power.

To give Emily Lester her due, her sense of superiority was mostly a creation of Joanna's mind. It was clear that the merchant's wife had a more comfortable life than Joanna, but whenever the two met, which wasn’t very often anymore, Emily tried to minimize that difference in every way she could.

The first summer lapsed away; and Joanna meagrely maintained herself by the shop, which now consisted of little more than a window and a counter. Emily was, in truth, her only large customer; and Mrs. Lester's kindly readiness to buy anything and everything without questioning the quality had a sting of bitterness in it, for it was the uncritical attitude of a patron, and almost of a donor. The long dreary winter moved on; the face of the bureau had been turned to the wall to protect the chalked words of farewell, for Joanna could never bring herself to rub them out; and she often glanced at them with wet eyes. Emily's handsome boys came home for the Christmas holidays; the University was talked of for them; and still Joanna subsisted as it were with held breath, like a person submerged. Only one summer more, and the 'spell' would end. Towards the close of the time Emily called on her quondam friend. She had heard that Joanna began to feel anxious; she had received no letter from husband or sons for some months. Emily's silks rustled arrogantly when, in response to Joanna's almost dumb invitation, she squeezed through the opening of the counter and into the parlour behind the shop.

The first summer passed; Joanna barely got by with the shop, which was now little more than a window and a counter. Emily was really her only big customer, and Mrs. Lester's willingness to buy anything and everything without questioning the quality felt bitter to Joanna, as it showed the uncritical attitude of a patron, almost like a charity giver. The long, dreary winter dragged on; the face of the bureau had been turned to the wall to protect the chalked words of farewell, as Joanna could never bring herself to erase them, and she often looked at them with tearful eyes. Emily's handsome boys came home for the Christmas holidays; university was being discussed for them; and still, Joanna lived almost like someone holding their breath, as if submerged. Just one more summer, and the "spell" would be over. Towards the end of the period, Emily visited her former friend. She had heard that Joanna was starting to feel anxious; she hadn’t received any letters from her husband or sons for several months. Emily’s silks rustled loudly as, in response to Joanna’s almost mute invitation, she squeezed through the opening of the counter and into the parlor behind the shop.

'You are all success, and I am all the other way!' said Joanna.

'You all are successful, and I'm the complete opposite!' said Joanna.

'But why do you think so?' said Emily. 'They are to bring back a fortune, I hear.'

'But why do you think that?' Emily asked. 'I hear they're going to bring back a fortune.'

'Ah! will they come? The doubt is more than a woman can bear. All three in one ship-think of that! And I have not heard of them for months!'

'Ah! Will they come? The uncertainty is more than anyone can handle. All three on one ship—can you imagine that? And I haven’t heard from them in months!'

'But the time is not up. You should not meet misfortune half-way.'

'But the time isn't up. You shouldn't meet misfortune halfway.'

'Nothing will repay me for the grief of their absence!'

'Nothing will make up for the pain of their absence!'

'Then why did you let them go? You were doing fairly well.'

'Then why did you let them go? You were doing pretty well.'

'I made them go!' she said, turning vehemently upon Emily. 'And I'll tell you why! I could not bear that we should be only muddling on, and you so rich and thriving! Now I have told you, and you may hate me if you will!'

"I made them leave!" she said, turning fiercely to Emily. "And I'll tell you why! I couldn't stand the thought of us just stumbling along while you were doing so well and thriving! Now I've said my piece, and you can hate me if you want!"

'I shall never hate you, Joanna.'

'I will never hate you, Joanna.'

And she proved the truth of her words afterwards. The end of autumn came, and the brig should have been in port; but nothing like the Joanna appeared in the channel between the sands. It was now really time to be uneasy. Joanna Jolliffe sat by the fire, and every gust of wind caused her a cold thrill. She had always feared and detested the sea; to her it was a treacherous, restless, slimy creature, glorying in the griefs of women. 'Still,' she said, 'they must come!'

And she later proved that what she said was true. The end of autumn arrived, and the ship should have been in port, but nothing like the Joanna was visible in the channel between the sands. It was definitely time to be worried. Joanna Jolliffe sat by the fire, and each gust of wind sent a chill down her spine. She had always been afraid of and hated the sea; to her, it was a treacherous, restless, slimy beast that thrived on the sorrows of women. "Still," she said, "they must come!"

She recalled to her mind that Shadrach had said before starting that if they returned safe and sound, with success crowning their enterprise, he would go as he had gone after his shipwreck, and kneel with his sons in the church, and offer sincere thanks for their deliverance. She went to church regularly morning and afternoon, and sat in the most forward pew, nearest the chancel-step. Her eyes were mostly fixed on that step, where Shadrach had knelt in the bloom of his young manhood: she knew to an inch the spot which his knees had pressed twenty winters before; his outline as he had knelt, his hat on the step beside him. God was good. Surely her husband must kneel there again: a son on each side as he had said; George just here, Jim just there. By long watching the spot as she worshipped it became as if she saw the three returned ones there kneeling; the two slim outlines of her boys, the more bulky form between them; their hands clasped, their heads shaped against the eastern wall. The fancy grew almost to an hallucination: she could never turn her worn eyes to the step without seeing them there.

She remembered that Shadrach had said before they left that if they came back safe and sound, with success in their mission, he would go, just like he did after his shipwreck, and kneel with his sons in church, offering heartfelt thanks for their safety. She went to church regularly, both morning and afternoon, and sat in the front pew, closest to the chancel step. Her gaze was mostly fixed on that step, where Shadrach had knelt during his youth: she knew the exact spot where his knees had pressed down twenty winters ago; she could picture his shape as he knelt, his hat resting on the step beside him. God was good. Surely her husband would kneel there again: a son on each side just as he had said; George right here, Jim right there. After watching that spot while she worshiped, it felt as if she could see the three of them there kneeling; the two slender figures of her boys and the bulkier form between them; their hands clasped, their heads silhouetted against the eastern wall. The thought became almost like a hallucination: she could never look at that step without seeing them there.

Nevertheless they did not come. Heaven was merciful, but it was not yet pleased to relieve her soul. This was her purgation for the sin of making them the slaves of her ambition. But it became more than purgation soon, and her mood approached despair. Months had passed since the brig had been due, but it had not returned.

Nevertheless, they did not come. Heaven was merciful, but it was not yet ready to ease her soul. This was her punishment for making them the slaves of her ambition. But it turned into more than just punishment soon, and her mood slipped into despair. Months had gone by since the brig was supposed to return, but it hadn’t come back.

Joanna was always hearing or seeing evidences of their arrival. When on the hill behind the port, whence a view of the open Channel could be obtained, she felt sure that a little speck on the horizon, breaking the eternally level waste of waters southward, was the truck of the Joana's mainmast. Or when indoors, a shout or excitement of any kind at the corner of the Town Cellar, where the High Street joined the Quay, caused her to spring to her feet and cry: ''Tis they!'

Joanna was always hearing or seeing signs of their arrival. When she was on the hill behind the port, where she could see the open Channel, she was certain that a tiny dot on the horizon, disrupting the endless expanse of water to the south, was the top of Joanna's mainmast. Or when she was indoors, any shout or commotion at the corner of the Town Cellar, where the High Street met the Quay, made her jump to her feet and exclaim, "It's them!"

But it was not. The visionary forms knelt every Sunday afternoon on the chancel-step, but not the real. Her shop had, as it were, eaten itself hollow. In the apathy which had resulted from her loneliness and grief she had ceased to take in the smallest supplies, and thus had sent away her last customer.

But it wasn’t. The imaginative figures gathered every Sunday afternoon on the chancel step, but not the genuine ones. Her shop had, in a way, devoured itself from within. In the indifference that came from her loneliness and sorrow, she had stopped stocking even the tiniest supplies, and as a result, had turned away her last customer.

In this strait Emily Lester tried by every means in her power to aid the afflicted woman; but she met with constant repulses.

In this situation, Emily Lester did everything she could to help the suffering woman, but she faced constant rejection.

'I don't like you! I can't bear to see you!' Joanna would whisper hoarsely when Emily came to her and made advances.

'I don't like you! I can't stand being around you!' Joanna would whisper hoarsely when Emily approached her and made advances.

'But I want to help and soothe you, Joanna,' Emily would say.

'But I want to help and comfort you, Joanna,' Emily would say.

'You are a lady, with a rich husband and fine sons! What can you want with a bereaved crone like me!'

'You’re a lady with a wealthy husband and great sons! What could you possibly want with a grieving old woman like me?'

'Joanna, I want this: I want you to come and live in my house, and not stay alone in this dismal place any longer.'

'Joanna, I want this: I want you to come and live in my house, and not stay alone in this dreary place any longer.'

'And suppose they come and don't find me at home? You wish to separate me and mine! No, I'll stay here. I don't like you, and I can't thank you, whatever kindness you do me!'

'What if they come and I’m not home? You want to separate me from my family! No, I’m staying here. I don’t like you, and I can’t thank you for any kindness you show me!'

However, as time went on Joanna could not afford to pay the rent of the shop and house without an income. She was assured that all hope of the return of Shadrach and his sons was vain, and she reluctantly consented to accept the asylum of the Lesters' house. Here she was allotted a room of her own on the second floor, and went and came as she chose, without contact with the family. Her hair greyed and whitened, deep lines channeled her forehead, and her form grew gaunt and stooping. But she still expected the lost ones, and when she met Emily on the staircase she would say morosely: 'I know why you've got me here! They'll come, and be disappointed at not finding me at home, and perhaps go away again; and then you'll be revenged for my taking Shadrach away from 'ee!'

However, as time passed, Joanna could no longer pay the rent for the shop and house without an income. She was told that any hope of Shadrach and his sons returning was pointless, and she reluctantly agreed to take shelter in the Lesters' house. There, she was given her own room on the second floor and came and went as she pleased, without interacting with the family. Her hair turned gray and white, deep lines formed on her forehead, and her figure became thin and hunched. But she still expected the lost ones, and when she saw Emily on the staircase, she would say gloomily: 'I know why you have me here! They'll come, and be disappointed to find me not at home, and maybe they'll leave again; and then you'll get your revenge for me taking Shadrach away from you!'

Emily Lester bore these reproaches from the grief-stricken soul. She was sure-all the people of Havenpool were sure-that Shadrach and his sons could not return. For years the vessel had been given up as lost.

Emily Lester endured these accusations from the heartbroken person. She was certain—all the people of Havenpool were certain—that Shadrach and his sons could not come back. For years, the ship had been considered lost.

Nevertheless, when awakened at night by any noise, Joanna would rise from bed and glance at the shop opposite by the light from the flickering lamp, to make sure it was not they.

Nevertheless, when she was awakened at night by any noise, Joanna would get out of bed and look at the shop across the street by the light of the flickering lamp, to make sure it wasn’t them.

It was a damp and dark December night, six years after the departure of the brig Joanna. The wind was from the sea, and brought up a fishy mist which mopped the face like moist flannel. Joanna had prayed her usual prayer for the absent ones with more fervour and confidence than she had felt for months, and had fallen asleep about eleven. It must have been between one and two when she suddenly started up. She had certainly heard steps in the street, and the voices of Shadrach and her sons calling at the door of the grocery shop. She sprang out of bed, and, hardly knowing what clothing she dragged on herself; hastened down Emily's large and carpeted staircase, put the candle on the hall-table, unfastened the bolts and chain, and stepped into the street. The mist, blowing up the street from the Quay, hindered her seeing the shop, although it was so near; but she had crossed to it in a moment. How was it? Nobody stood there. The wretched woman walked wildly up and down with her bare feet-there was not a soul. She returned and knocked with all her might at the door which had once been her own-they might have been admitted for the night, unwilling to disturb her till the morning.

It was a damp and dark December night, six years after the brig Joanna had left. The wind was coming from the sea, bringing a fishy mist that felt like cold, wet cloth against her face. Joanna had said her usual prayer for her loved ones with more intensity and hope than she had in months and had fallen asleep around eleven. It must have been between one and two when she suddenly woke up. She definitely heard footsteps in the street and the voices of Shadrach and her sons calling at the grocery shop door. She jumped out of bed, barely aware of what clothes she threw on, and rushed down Emily's large carpeted staircase, placed the candle on the hall table, unlatched the bolts and chain, and stepped outside. The mist blowing up the street from the Quay made it hard for her to see the shop, even though it was so close; but she crossed over in no time. What was going on? No one was there. The poor woman walked frantically up and down with her bare feet—there wasn’t a soul around. She went back and banged on the door that had once been hers—they might have been let in for the night, not wanting to wake her until morning.

It was not till several minutes had elapsed that the young man who now kept the shop looked out of an upper window, and saw the skeleton of something human standing below half-dressed.

It wasn't until several minutes had passed that the young man who was now running the shop looked out of an upper window and saw the half-dressed skeleton of something human standing below.

'Has anybody come?' asked the form.

'Has anyone arrived?' asked the form.

'O, Mrs. Jolliffe, I didn't know it was you,' said the young man kindly, for he was aware how her baseless expectations moved her. 'No; nobody has come.'

'O, Mrs. Jolliffe, I didn’t know it was you,' said the young man kindly, for he knew how her unfounded hopes affected her. 'No; nobody has come.'

June 1891.

THE MELANCHOLY HUSSAR OF THE GERMAN LEGION

CHAPTER I

Here stretch the downs, high and breezy and green, absolutely unchanged since those eventful days. A plough has never disturbed the turf, and the sod that was uppermost then is uppermost now. Here stood the camp; here are distinct traces of the banks thrown up for the horses of the cavalry, and spots where the midden-heaps lay are still to be observed. At night, when I walk across the lonely place, it is impossible to avoid hearing, amid the scourings of the wind over the grass-bents and thistles, the old trumpet and bugle calls, the rattle of the halters; to help seeing rows of spectral tents and the impedimenta of the soldiery. From within the canvases come guttural syllables of foreign tongues, and broken songs of the fatherland; for they were mainly regiments of the King's German Legion that slept round the tent-poles hereabout at that time.

Here stretch the hills, high and breezy and green, completely unchanged since those significant days. A plow has never disturbed the grass, and the ground that was on top then is on top now. Here stood the camp; there are clear signs of the mounds made for the cavalry's horses, and places where the waste piles used to be can still be seen. At night, when I walk across this quiet area, it’s impossible not to hear, amid the wind rustling over the grass and thistles, the old trumpet and bugle calls, the clinking of halters; it’s hard not to picture rows of ghostly tents and the gear of the soldiers. From inside the tents come guttural sounds of foreign languages and snippets of songs from back home; mainly, it was regiments of the King's German Legion that camped around the tent poles here at that time.

It was nearly ninety years ago. The British uniform of the period, with its immense epaulettes, queer cocked-hat, breeches, gaiters, ponderous cartridge-box, buckled shoes, and what not, would look strange and barbarous now. Ideas have changed; invention has followed invention. Soldiers were monumental objects then. A divinity still hedged kings here and there; and war was considered a glorious thing.

It was almost ninety years ago. The British uniform from that time, with its huge epaulettes, odd cocked hat, breeches, gaiters, heavy cartridge box, buckled shoes, and so on, would seem strange and primitive today. Ideas have shifted; one invention has led to another. Soldiers were seen as monumental figures back then. There was still a sense of divinity surrounding kings here and there; and war was regarded as something glorious.

Secluded old manor-houses and hamlets lie in the ravines and hollows among these hills, where a stranger had hardly ever been seen till the King chose to take the baths yearly at the sea-side watering-place a few miles to the south; as a consequence of which battalions descended in a cloud upon the open country around. Is it necessary to add that the echoes of many characteristic tales, dating from that picturesque time, still linger about here in more or less fragmentary form, to be caught by the attentive ear? Some of them I have repeated; most of them I have forgotten; one I have never repeated, and assuredly can never forget.

Secluded old mansions and small villages sit in the valleys and low spots among these hills, where hardly any outsider had been seen until the King started coming here every year for baths at the seaside resort a few miles to the south. As a result, troops descended like a cloud on the open land around. Is it necessary to mention that the echoes of many vivid stories from that charming time still linger here in more or less incomplete form, waiting to be heard by those who are listening closely? Some of them I’ve shared; most of them I’ve forgotten; one I’ve never shared and surely will never forget.

Phyllis told me the story with her own lips. She was then an old lady of seventy-five, and her auditor a lad of fifteen. She enjoined silence as to her share in the incident, till she should be 'dead, buried, and forgotten.' Her life was prolonged twelve years after the day of her narration, and she has now been dead nearly twenty. The oblivion which in her modesty and humility she courted for herself has only partially fallen on her, with the unfortunate result of inflicting an injustice upon her memory; since such fragments of her story as got abroad at the time, and have been kept alive ever since, are precisely those which are most unfavourable to her character.

Phyllis shared her story directly with me. At that time, she was a seventy-five-year-old woman, and I was a fifteen-year-old boy. She asked me to keep her involvement in the incident a secret until she was "dead, buried, and forgotten." She lived for another twelve years after sharing her story, and she has now been gone for nearly twenty years. The obscurity she sought due to her modesty and humility has only partially enveloped her, leading to an unfair representation of her memory; the parts of her story that spread at the time and have persisted since are the ones that are least favorable to her character.

It all began with the arrival of the York Hussars, one of the foreign regiments above alluded to. Before that day scarcely a soul had been seen near her father's house for weeks. When a noise like the brushing skirt of a visitor was heard on the doorstep, it proved to be a scudding leaf; when a carriage seemed to be nearing the door, it was her father grinding his sickle on the stone in the garden for his favourite relaxation of trimming the box-tree borders to the plots. A sound like luggage thrown down from the coach was a gun far away at sea; and what looked like a tall man by the gate at dusk was a yew bush cut into a quaint and attenuated shape. There is no such solitude in country places now as there was in those old days.

It all started with the arrival of the York Hussars, one of the foreign regiments mentioned earlier. Before that day, hardly anyone had been seen near her father's house for weeks. When a noise like someone approaching the door was heard, it turned out to be a leaf blowing by; when it seemed like a carriage was coming, it was just her father sharpening his sickle on the stone in the garden, enjoying his favorite pastime of trimming the box-tree borders. A sound that resembled luggage being dropped from a coach was actually a distant cannon shot at sea; and what looked like a tall man standing by the gate at dusk was just a yew bush shaped into an odd figure. There isn't the same kind of solitude in the countryside now as there was back in those days.

Yet all the while King George and his court were at his favourite sea- side resort, not more than five miles off.

Yet all the while, King George and his court were at his favorite seaside resort, not more than five miles away.

The daughter's seclusion was great, but beyond the seclusion of the girl lay the seclusion of the father. If her social condition was twilight, his was darkness. Yet he enjoyed his darkness, while her twilight oppressed her. Dr. Grove had been a professional man whose taste for lonely meditation over metaphysical questions had diminished his practice till it no longer paid him to keep it going; after which he had relinquished it and hired at a nominal rent the small, dilapidated, half farm half manor-house of this obscure inland nook, to make a sufficiency of an income which in a town would have been inadequate for their maintenance. He stayed in his garden the greater part of the day, growing more and more irritable with the lapse of time, and the increasing perception that he had wasted his life in the pursuit of illusions. He saw his friends less and less frequently. Phyllis became so shy that if she met a stranger anywhere in her short rambles she felt ashamed at his gaze, walked awkwardly, and blushed to her shoulders.

The daughter's isolation was significant, but beyond her solitude was the father's. If her social life was dim, his was pitch-black. However, he found comfort in his darkness, while her dimness weighed her down. Dr. Grove had been a professional whose love for deep thinking about philosophical questions had caused his practice to dwindle until it was no longer worth continuing. After that, he let it go and rented the small, run-down, half-farm, half-mansion in this obscure rural area for a minimal fee, trying to make enough money to survive, which wouldn't have been enough in a town. He spent most of his days in the garden, growing more irritable with time and increasingly aware that he had wasted his life chasing dreams. He met his friends less and less often. Phyllis became so shy that if she encountered a stranger during her brief walks, she felt embarrassed by their gaze, walked awkwardly, and blushed deeply.

Yet Phyllis was discovered even here by an admirer, and her hand most unexpectedly asked in marriage.

Yet Phyllis was found even here by an admirer, and her hand was unexpectedly requested in marriage.

The King, as aforesaid, was at the neighbouring town, where he had taken up his abode at Gloucester Lodge and his presence in the town naturally brought many county people thither. Among these idlers-many of whom professed to have connections and interests with the Court-was one Humphrey Gould, a bachelor; a personage neither young nor old; neither good-looking nor positively plain. Too steady-going to be 'a buck' (as fast and unmarried men were then called), he was an approximately fashionable man of a mild type. This bachelor of thirty found his way to the village on the down: beheld Phyllis; made her father's acquaintance in order to make hers; and by some means or other she sufficiently inflamed his heart to lead him in that direction almost daily; till he became engaged to marry her.

The King, as mentioned earlier, was in the nearby town, where he had settled at Gloucester Lodge, and his presence drew many locals to the area. Among these onlookers—many of whom claimed to have connections and interests at the Court—was a man named Humphrey Gould, a bachelor. He was neither young nor old, and not particularly good-looking but also not ugly. Too much of a steady guy to be a "buck" (the term for fast and single men back then), he was somewhat fashionable in a mild way. This thirty-year-old bachelor made his way to the village, saw Phyllis, got to know her father to meet her, and somehow she caught his interest enough to make him visit almost every day, eventually leading to their engagement.

As he was of an old local family, some of whose members were held in respect in the county, Phyllis, in bringing him to her feet, had accomplished what was considered a brilliant move for one in her constrained position. How she had done it was not quite known to Phyllis herself. In those days unequal marriages were regarded rather as a violation of the laws of nature than as a mere infringement of convention, the more modern view, and hence when Phyllis, of the watering-place bourgeoisie, was chosen by such a gentlemanly fellow, it was as if she were going to be taken to heaven, though perhaps the uninformed would have seen no great difference in the respective positions of the pair, the said Gould being as poor as a crow.

Since he came from an old local family, some members of which were respected in the county, Phyllis had achieved what people considered a smart move for someone in her limited situation by winning him over. How she managed it was a bit of a mystery even to Phyllis herself. Back then, unequal marriages were seen more as a breach of nature’s laws than just a break from social norms, the way people think today. So when Phyllis, from the middle-class of the resort town, was chosen by such a gentlemanly guy, it felt like she was being lifted to paradise, even though those less informed might not have noticed much difference in their respective standings, since Gould was as broke as could be.

This pecuniary condition was his excuse-probably a true one-for postponing their union, and as the winter drew nearer, and the King departed for the season, Mr. Humphrey Gould set out for Bath, promising to return to Phyllis in a few weeks. The winter arrived, the date of his promise passed, yet Gould postponed his coming, on the ground that he could not very easily leave his father in the city of their sojourn, the elder having no other relative near him. Phyllis, though lonely in the extreme, was content. The man who had asked her in marriage was a desirable husband for her in many ways; her father highly approved of his suit; but this neglect of her was awkward, if not painful, for Phyllis. Love him in the true sense of the word she assured me she never did, but she had a genuine regard for him; admired a certain methodical and dogged way in which he sometimes took his pleasure; valued his knowledge of what the Court was doing, had done, or was about to do; and she was not without a feeling of pride that he had chosen her when he might have exercised a more ambitious choice.

This financial situation was his excuse—probably a legitimate one—for delaying their union, and as winter approached, and the King left for the season, Mr. Humphrey Gould headed to Bath, promising to return to Phyllis in a few weeks. Winter arrived, the date of his promise passed, yet Gould kept putting off his return, claiming he couldn’t easily leave his father in the city where they were staying, as the elder had no other relatives nearby. Phyllis, though extremely lonely, was accepting. The man who had proposed to her was a desirable husband in many ways; her father was very supportive of their match; but his neglect was awkward, if not painful, for Phyllis. She assured me she never truly loved him, but she had a genuine fondness for him; she admired the methodical and determined way he sometimes pursued his interests; valued his insight into what the Court was doing, had done, or was about to do; and she felt a sense of pride that he chose her when he could have picked someone more ambitious.

But he did not come; and the spring developed. His letters were regular though formal; and it is not to be wondered that the uncertainty of her position, IRONlinked with the fact that there was not much passion in her thoughts of Humphrey, bred an indescribable dreariness in the heart of Phyllis Grove. The spring was soon summer, and the summer brought the King; but still no Humphrey Gould. All this while the engagement by letter was maintained intact.

But he never showed up, and spring went by. His letters were consistent but formal; it's not surprising that the uncertainty of her situation, combined with the fact that she didn’t feel much passion for Humphrey, created an indescribable gloom in Phyllis Grove's heart. Spring quickly turned into summer, and summer brought the King, yet there was still no Humphrey Gould. Throughout all this, the engagement through letters remained unbroken.

At this point of time a golden radiance flashed in upon the lives of people here, and charged all youthful thought with emotional interest. This radiance was the aforesaid York Hussars.

At this moment, a golden light burst into the lives of the people here, filling all young minds with emotional excitement. This light was the mentioned York Hussars.

CHAPTER II

The present generation has probably but a very dim notion of the celebrated York Hussars of ninety years ago. They were one of the regiments of the King's German Legion, and (though they somewhat degenerated later on) their brilliant uniform, their splendid horses, and above all, their foreign air and mustachios (rare appendages then), drew crowds of admirers of both sexes wherever they went. These with other regiments had come to encamp on the downs and pastures, because of the presence of the King in the neighbouring town.

The current generation probably has only a vague idea of the famous York Hussars from ninety years ago. They were one of the regiments of the King's German Legion, and (although they declined a bit later) their striking uniform, impressive horses, and especially their exotic appearance and mustaches (which were uncommon back then) attracted crowds of admirers of all kinds wherever they went. These and other regiments had come to camp on the hills and fields because the King was in the nearby town.

The spot was high and airy, and the view extensive, commanding the Isle of Portland in front, and reaching to St. Aldhelm's Head eastward, and almost to the Start on the west.

The place was elevated and breezy, with a wide view that overlooked the Isle of Portland directly ahead and stretched to St. Aldhelm's Head to the east, and almost to the Start to the west.

Phyllis, though not precisely a girl of the village, was as interested as any of them in this military investment. Her father's home stood somewhat apart, and on the highest point of ground to which the lane ascended, so that it was almost level with the top of the church tower in the lower part of the parish. Immediately from the outside of the garden-wall the grass spread away to a great distance, and it was crossed by a path which came close to the wall. Ever since her childhood it had been Phyllis's pleasure to clamber up this fence and sit on the top-a feat not so difficult as it may seem, the walls in this district being built of rubble, without mortar, so that there were plenty of crevices for small toes.

Phyllis, although not exactly a girl from the village, was just as interested as anyone else in this military setup. Her father's house was located a bit off to the side, on the highest point of land that the lane climbed, nearly level with the top of the church tower in the lower part of the parish. Right outside the garden wall, the grass stretched out for a long way, crossed by a path that ran close to the wall. Since she was a child, Phyllis had enjoyed climbing up this fence and sitting on top—something that wasn’t as hard as it might sound, since the walls in this area were built of loose stones without mortar, leaving plenty of gaps for little toes.

She was sitting up here one day, listlessly surveying the pasture without, when her attention was arrested by a solitary figure walking along the path. It was one of the renowned German Hussars, and he moved onward with his eyes on the ground, and with the manner of one who wished to escape company. His head would probably have been bent like his eyes but for his stiff neck-gear. On nearer view she perceived that his face was marked with deep sadness. Without observing her, he advanced by the footpath till it brought him almost immediately under the wall.

She was sitting up here one day, aimlessly looking over the pasture when she noticed a lone figure walking along the path. It was one of the famous German Hussars, and he walked on with his eyes on the ground, acting like he wanted to avoid company. His head would likely have been bent down like his eyes if it weren't for the stiff neck gear he wore. As he got closer, she could see that his face was filled with deep sadness. Without noticing her, he continued along the footpath until he was almost directly underneath the wall.

Phyllis was much surprised to see a fine, tall soldier in such a mood as this. Her theory of the military, and of the York Hussars in particular (derived entirely from hearsay, for she had never talked to a soldier in her life), was that their hearts were as gay as their accoutrements.

Phyllis was very surprised to see a tall, handsome soldier in such a mood. Her idea of the military, and of the York Hussars specifically (which came entirely from what she had heard, since she had never spoken to a soldier in her life), was that their spirits were as bright as their uniforms.

At this moment the Hussar lifted his eyes and noticed her on her perch, the white muslin neckerchief which covered her shoulders and neck where left bare by her low gown, and her white raiment in general, showing conspicuously in the bright sunlight of this summer day. He blushed a little at the suddenness of the encounter, and without halting a moment from his pace passed on.

At that moment, the Hussar looked up and saw her on her perch, the white muslin neckerchief draped over her shoulders and neck where her low-cut dress left her bare, and her white outfit overall standing out in the bright sunlight of that summer day. He felt a slight blush at the unexpected meeting and, without stopping for even a moment, continued on his way.

All that day the foreigner's face haunted Phyllis; its aspect was so striking, so handsome, and his eyes were so blue, and sad, and abstracted. It was perhaps only natural that on some following day at the same hour she should look over that wall again, and wait till he had passed a second time. On this occasion he was reading a letter, and at the sight of her his manner was that of one who had half expected or hoped to discover her. He almost stopped, smiled, and made a courteous salute. The end of the meeting was that they exchanged a few words. She asked him what he was reading, and he readily informed her that he was re-perusing letters from his mother in Germany; he did not get them often, he said, and was forced to read the old ones a great many times. This was all that passed at the present interview, but others of the same kind followed.

All that day, Phyllis couldn't stop thinking about the foreigner's face; it was so striking and handsome, with sad, abstracted blue eyes. It was only natural that a few days later, around the same time, she would lean over that wall again and wait for him to pass by. This time, he was reading a letter, and when he saw her, he seemed somewhat surprised, as if he had half expected or hoped to find her. He almost stopped, smiled, and gave a polite nod. They exchanged a few words. She asked him what he was reading, and he happily told her he was going over letters from his mother in Germany; he mentioned he didn't receive them often and had to read the old ones many times. That was all that happened during this meeting, but more like it followed.

Phyllis used to say that his English, though not good, was quite intelligible to her, so that their acquaintance was never hindered by difficulties of speech. Whenever the subject became too delicate, subtle, or tender, for such words of English as were at his command, the eyes no doubt helped out the tongue, and-though this was later on-the lips helped out the eyes. In short this acquaintance, unguardedly made, and rash enough on her part, developed and ripened. Like Desdemona, she pitied him, and learnt his history.

Phyllis used to say that his English, while not perfect, was pretty clear to her, so their friendship was never affected by language barriers. Whenever the topic turned too delicate, subtle, or emotional for the English words he knew, his eyes likely communicated what his tongue could not. Later on, his lips also helped express what was in his eyes. In short, this friendship, made without hesitation and somewhat impulsive on her part, grew and matured. Like Desdemona, she felt compassion for him and learned about his past.

His name was Matthaus Tina, and Saarbruck his native town, where his mother was still living. His age was twenty-two, and he had already risen to the grade of corporal, though he had not long been in the army. Phyllis used to assert that no such refined or well-educated young man could have been found in the ranks of the purely English regiments, some of these foreign soldiers having rather the graceful manner and presence of our native officers than of our rank and file.

His name was Matthaus Tina, and Saarbruck was his hometown, where his mother still lived. He was twenty-two, and he had already advanced to the rank of corporal, even though he hadn’t been in the army for long. Phyllis often claimed that no such refined or well-educated young man could be found in the ranks of the purely English regiments, as some of these foreign soldiers had a more graceful demeanor and presence akin to our native officers rather than our common soldiers.

She by degrees learnt from her foreign friend a circumstance about himself and his comrades which Phyllis would least have expected of the York Hussars. So far from being as gay as its uniform, the regiment was pervaded by a dreadful melancholy, a chronic home-sickness, which depressed many of the men to such an extent that they could hardly attend to their drill. The worst sufferers were the younger soldiers who had not been over here long. They hated England and English life; they took no interest whatever in King George and his island kingdom, and they only wished to be out of it and never to see it any more. Their bodies were here, but their hearts and minds were always far away in their dear fatherland, of which-brave men and stoical as they were in many ways-they would speak with tears in their eyes. One of the worst of the sufferers from this home-woe, as he called it in his own tongue, was Matthaus Tina, whose dreamy musing nature felt the gloom of exile still more intensely from the fact that he had left a lonely mother at home with nobody to cheer her.

She gradually learned from her foreign friend something about himself and his fellow soldiers that Phyllis would never have expected from the York Hussars. Instead of being as cheerful as their uniforms suggested, the regiment was filled with a terrible sadness, a constant homesickness that weighed down many of the men to the point where they could barely focus on their drills. The ones who struggled the most were the younger soldiers who hadn’t been here long. They despised England and English life; they took no interest in King George or his island kingdom, wishing only to leave and never return. Their bodies were present, but their hearts and minds were always far away in their beloved homeland, which—despite being brave and stoic in many ways—they would speak about with tears in their eyes. One of the most affected by this homesickness, as he called it in his own language, was Matthaus Tina, whose reflective nature felt the darkness of exile even more deeply because he had left a lonely mother at home with no one to comfort her.

Though Phyllis, touched by all this, and interested in his history, did not disdain her soldier's acquaintance, she declined (according to her own account, at least) to permit the young man to overstep the line of mere friendship for a long while-as long, indeed, as she considered herself likely to become the possession of another; though it is probable that she had lost her heart to Matthaus before she was herself aware. The stone wall of necessity made anything like intimacy difficult; and he had never ventured to come, or to ask to come, inside the garden, so that all their conversation had been overtly conducted across this boundary.

Though Phyllis, moved by all of this and intrigued by his past, didn't reject her soldier's friendship, she resisted (at least according to her own account) letting the young man cross the line from just friends for a long time—until she felt she might belong to someone else. However, it's likely she had already fallen for Matthaus before she realized it. The solid wall of necessity made any kind of closeness tough; he had never dared to come in or even ask to enter the garden, so all their conversations had openly taken place across this divide.

CHAPTER III

But news reached the village from a friend of Phyllis's father concerning Mr. Humphrey Gould, her remarkably cool and patient betrothed. This gentleman had been heard to say in Bath that he considered his overtures to Miss Phyllis Grove to have reached only the stage of a half-understanding; and in view of his enforced absence on his father's account, who was too great an invalid now to attend to his affairs, he thought it best that there should be no definite promise as yet on either side. He was not sure, indeed, that he might not cast his eyes elsewhere.

But news got to the village from a friend of Phyllis's father about Mr. Humphrey Gould, her surprisingly calm and patient fiancé. This guy had been overheard in Bath saying that he believed his attempts to win over Miss Phyllis Grove had only reached the stage of a half-understanding. Given his forced absence due to his father's health, who was now too unwell to handle his own affairs, he thought it best that neither side make any definite promises just yet. He wasn't even sure that he might not look for other options.

This account-though only a piece of hearsay, and as such entitled to no absolute credit-tallied so well with the infrequency of his letters and their lack of warmth, that Phyllis did not doubt its truth for one moment; and from that hour she felt herself free to bestow her heart as she should choose. Not so her father; he declared the whole story to be a fabrication. He had known Mr. Gould's family from his boyhood; and if there was one proverb which expressed the matrimonial aspect of that family well, it was 'Love me little, love me long.' Humphrey was an honourable man, who would not think of treating his engagement so lightly. 'Do you wait in patience,' he said; 'all will be right enough in time.'

This story—though just hearsay and not completely reliable—matched so perfectly with how rarely he wrote and the lack of warmth in his letters that Phyllis believed it without a doubt; from that moment on, she felt free to give her heart as she pleased. Her father, however, completely dismissed the story as nonsense. He had known Mr. Gould's family since he was a kid, and if there was one saying that captured the family's view on love, it was 'Love me little, love me long.' Humphrey was an honorable man who wouldn't take his engagement so lightly. 'Just be patient,' he said; 'everything will work out in time.'

From these words Phyllis at first imagined that her father was in correspondence with Mr. Gould; and her heart sank within her; for in spite of her original intentions she had been relieved to hear that her engagement had come to nothing. But she presently learnt that her father had heard no more of Humphrey Gould than she herself had done; while he would not write and address her affianced directly on the subject, lest it should be deemed an imputation on that bachelor's honour.

From these words, Phyllis initially thought that her father was in touch with Mr. Gould, and she felt a sense of dread; because despite her initial hopes, she was relieved to find out that her engagement had fallen apart. But she soon discovered that her father hadn’t heard any more about Humphrey Gould than she had; and he wouldn’t write to her fiancé directly about it, for fear it might be seen as a slight on that bachelor’s honor.

'You want an excuse for encouraging one or other of those foreign fellows to flatter you with his unmeaning attentions,' her father exclaimed, his mood having of late been a very unkind one towards her. 'I see more than I say. Don't you ever set foot outside that garden- fence without my permission. If you want to see the camp I'll take you myself some Sunday afternoon.'

'You just want a reason to let one of those foreign guys flatter you with his pointless attention,' her father exclaimed, sounding especially harsh towards her lately. 'I know more than I let on. Don’t you ever step outside that garden fence without my approval. If you want to see the camp, I’ll take you myself one Sunday afternoon.'

Phyllis had not the smallest intention of disobeying him in her actions, but she assumed herself to be independent with respect to her feelings. She no longer checked her fancy for the Hussar, though she was far from regarding him as her lover in the serious sense in which an Englishman might have been regarded as such. The young foreign soldier was almost an ideal being to her, with none of the appurtenances of an ordinary house-dweller; one who had descended she knew not whence, and would disappear she knew not whither; the subject of a fascinating dream-no more.

Phyllis had no intention of disobeying him with her actions, but she believed she was independent when it came to her feelings. She no longer held back her attraction to the Hussar, even though she didn't see him as her lover in the serious way an Englishman might be viewed. The young foreign soldier seemed almost like an ideal figure to her, without any of the trappings of a regular house dweller; someone who had come from who knows where and would vanish to who knows where; merely the subject of a captivating dream—nothing more.

They met continually now-mostly at dusk-during the brief interval between the going down of the sun and the minute at which the last trumpet-call summoned him to his tent. Perhaps her manner had become less restrained latterly; at any rate that of the Hussar was so; he had grown more tender every day, and at parting after these hurried interviews she reached down her hand from the top of the wall that he might press it. One evening he held it so long that she exclaimed, 'The wall is white, and somebody in the field may see your shape against it!'

They now met frequently—mostly at dusk—during the brief time between sunset and when the last trumpet call signaled him to return to his tent. Maybe her behavior had gotten less reserved recently; anyway, the Hussar's had definitely changed; he had become more affectionate each day, and when they parted after these quick meetings, she would reach down her hand from the top of the wall for him to hold. One evening, he held it for so long that she said, "The wall is white, and someone in the field might see your silhouette against it!"

He lingered so long that night that it was with the greatest difficulty that he could run across the intervening stretch of ground and enter the camp in time. On the next occasion of his awaiting her she did not appear in her usual place at the usual hour. His disappointment was unspeakably keen; he remained staring blankly at the spot, like a man in a trance. The trumpets and tattoo sounded, and still he did not go.

He stayed so late that night that he had a hard time getting across the open ground to make it back to camp on time. The next time he waited for her, she didn’t show up in her usual spot at the regular time. His disappointment was overwhelming; he stood there staring at the place, like someone in a daze. The trumpets and tattoo played, and still, he didn’t leave.

She had been delayed purely by an accident. When she arrived she was anxious because of the lateness of the hour, having heard as well as he the sounds denoting the closing of the camp. She implored him to leave immediately.

She had been delayed solely by an accident. When she arrived, she was anxious because it was getting late, having heard, just like him, the sounds signaling the closing of the camp. She begged him to leave right away.

'No,' he said gloomily. 'I shall not go in yet-the moment you come-I have thought of your coming all day.'

'No,' he said sadly. 'I won't go in yet—the moment you arrive—I've been thinking about your coming all day.'

'But you may be disgraced at being after time?'

'But you might feel embarrassed about being late?'

'I don't mind that. I should have disappeared from the world some time ago if it had not been for two persons-my beloved, here, and my mother in Saarbruck. I hate the army. I care more for a minute of your company than for all the promotion in the world.'

'I don't mind that. I should have disappeared from the world a while ago if it hadn't been for two people—my beloved, right here, and my mother in Saarbruck. I hate the army. I value a minute of your company more than any promotion in the world.'

Thus he stayed and talked to her, and told her interesting details of his native place, and incidents of his childhood, till she was in a simmer of distress at his recklessness in remaining. It was only because she insisted on bidding him good-night and leaving the wall that he returned to his quarters.

So he stayed and chatted with her, sharing interesting details about his hometown and stories from his childhood, until she was in a state of anxiety over his carelessness in staying. It was only because she insisted on saying goodnight and stepping away from the wall that he went back to his room.

The next time that she saw him he was without the stripes that had adorned his sleeve. He had been broken to the level of private for his lateness that night; and as Phyllis considered herself to be the cause of his disgrace her sorrow was great. But the position was now reversed; it was his turn to cheer her.

The next time she saw him, he was no longer wearing the stripes on his sleeve. He had been demoted to private for being late that night, and since Phyllis believed she was the reason for his downfall, she felt deeply upset. But now the roles had changed; it was his turn to lift her spirits.

'Don't grieve, meine Liebliche!' he said. 'I have got a remedy for whatever comes. First, even supposing I regain my stripes, would your father allow you to marry a non-commissioned officer in the York Hussars?'

'Don't be sad, my lovely!' he said. 'I have a solution for whatever happens. First, even if I get my stripes back, would your father let you marry a non-commissioned officer in the York Hussars?'

She flushed. This practical step had not been in her mind in relation to such an unrealistic person as he was; and a moment's reflection was enough for it. 'My father would not-certainly would not,' she answered unflinchingly. 'It cannot be thought of! My dear friend, please do forget me: I fear I am ruining you and your prospects!'

She blushed. This practical approach hadn’t crossed her mind in connection to someone as unrealistic as he was; a moment’s thought confirmed it. “My father would not—definitely would not,” she replied without hesitation. “It can’t even be considered! My dear friend, please just forget me: I’m afraid I’m ruining you and your future!”

'Not at all!' said he. 'You are giving this country of yours just sufficient interest to me to make me care to keep alive in it. If my dear land were here also, and my old parent, with you, I could be happy as I am, and would do my best as a soldier. But it is not so. And now listen. This is my plan. That you go with me to my own country, and be my wife there, and live there with my mother and me. I am not a Hanoverian, as you know, though I entered the army as such; my country is by the Saar, and is at peace with France, and if I were once in it I should be free.'

'Not at all!' he said. 'You’re giving your country just enough interest for me to want to stay alive here. If my beloved homeland were here too, and my old parent with you, I could be as happy as I am and would do my best as a soldier. But that’s not the case. Now listen. This is my plan. You come with me to my homeland, and be my wife there, living with my mother and me. I’m not a Hanoverian, as you know, even though I joined the army as one; my country is by the Saar and is at peace with France, and once I’m there, I would be free.'

'But how get there?' she asked. Phyllis had been rather amazed than shocked at his proposition. Her position in her father's house was growing irksome and painful in the extreme; his parental affection seemed to be quite dried up. She was not a native of the village, like all the joyous girls around her; and in some way Matthaus Tina had infected her with his own passionate longing for his country, and mother, and home.

'But how do we get there?' she asked. Phyllis was more amazed than shocked by his suggestion. Her situation in her father's house was becoming incredibly frustrating and painful; his parental affection seemed completely absent. Unlike all the cheerful girls around her, she wasn’t from the village, and in some way, Matthaus Tina had passed on his own intense yearning for his country, mother, and home to her.

'But how?' she repeated, finding that he did not answer. 'Will you buy your discharge?'

'But how?' she repeated, noticing that he didn't respond. 'Are you going to pay for your release?'

'Ah, no,' he said. 'That's impossible in these times. No; I came here against my will; why should I not escape? Now is the time, as we shall soon be striking camp, and I might see you no more. This is my scheme. I will ask you to meet me on the highway two miles off; on some calm night next week that may be appointed. There will be nothing unbecoming in it, or to cause you shame; you will not fly alone with me, for I will bring with me my devoted young friend Christoph, an Alsatian, who has lately joined the regiment, and who has agreed to assist in this enterprise. We shall have come from yonder harbour, where we shall have examined the boats, and found one suited to our purpose. Christoph has already a chart of the Channel, and we will then go to the harbour, and at midnight cut the boat from her moorings, and row away round the point out of sight; and by the next morning we are on the coast of France, near Cherbourg. The rest is easy, for I have saved money for the land journey, and can get a change of clothes. I will write to my mother, who will meet us on the way.'

'Oh, no,' he said. 'That’s impossible these days. No; I came here against my will; why shouldn’t I escape? Now is the time, as we’ll soon be packing up camp, and I might not see you again. Here’s my plan. I’ll ask you to meet me on the highway two miles away; we can set a calm night next week for that. There’s nothing inappropriate about it that would shame you; you won’t be running away with just me, because I’ll bring my loyal young friend Christoph, an Alsatian, who recently joined the regiment and has agreed to help with this plan. We’ll have come from that harbor, where we’ll check out the boats and find one that works for us. Christoph already has a map of the Channel, and then we’ll go to the harbor, and at midnight, we’ll cut the boat loose from its moorings and paddle away out of sight; by the next morning, we’ll be on the coast of France, near Cherbourg. The rest is simple, as I’ve saved money for the land trip and can get a change of clothes. I’ll write to my mother, who will meet us along the way.'

He added details in reply to her inquiries, which left no doubt in Phyllis's mind of the feasibility of the undertaking. But its magnitude almost appalled her; and it is questionable if she would ever have gone further in the wild adventure if, on entering the house that night, her father had not accosted her in the most significant terms.

He provided more information in response to her questions, which made it clear to Phyllis that the project was definitely possible. However, its scale nearly overwhelmed her, and it's uncertain whether she would have pursued the bold adventure further if, when she entered the house that night, her father hadn't addressed her in such serious terms.

'How about the York Hussars?' he said.

'What about the York Hussars?' he said.

'They are still at the camp; but they are soon going away, I believe.'

'They are still at the camp, but I think they’ll be leaving soon.'

'It is useless for you to attempt to cloak your actions in that way. You have been meeting one of those fellows; you have been seen walking with him-foreign barbarians, not much better than the French themselves! I have made up my mind-don't speak a word till I have done, please!-I have made up my mind that you shall stay here no longer while they are on the spot. You shall go to your aunt's.'

'It's pointless for you to try to hide what you've done. You've been meeting one of those guys; people have seen you walking with him—foreign outsiders, barely any better than the French! I've made my decision—don't say a word until I'm finished, please!—I've decided that you can't stay here any longer with them around. You're going to your aunt's.'

It was useless for her to protest that she had never taken a walk with any soldier or man under the sun except himself. Her protestations were feeble, too, for though he was not literally correct in his assertion, he was virtually only half in error.

It was pointless for her to argue that she had never gone for a walk with any soldier or man in the sunlight except him. Her protests were weak, too, because even though he wasn't exactly right in what he claimed, he was really only half wrong.

The house of her father's sister was a prison to Phyllis. She had quite recently undergone experience of its gloom; and when her father went on to direct her to pack what would be necessary for her to take, her heart died within her. In after years she never attempted to excuse her conduct during this week of agitation; but the result of her self- communing was that she decided to join in the scheme of her lover and his friend, and fly to the country which he had coloured with such lovely hues in her imagination. She always said that the one feature in his proposal which overcame her hesitation was the obvious purity and straightforwardness of his intentions. He showed himself to be so virtuous and kind; he treated her with a respect to which she had never before been accustomed; and she was braced to the obvious risks of the voyage by her confidence in him.

The house of her aunt felt like a prison to Phyllis. She had just recently experienced its gloom, and when her father told her to pack what she needed to take, she felt her heart sink. Years later, she never tried to justify her actions during that stressful week, but after reflecting on it, she chose to go along with her boyfriend and his friend’s plan to escape to the country he had painted so beautifully in her mind. She always said that the one part of his proposal that eased her doubts was the clear purity and honesty of his intentions. He was so virtuous and kind; he treated her with a respect she had never known before, and his character gave her the courage to face the obvious risks of the journey.

CHAPTER IV

It was on a soft, dark evening of the following week that they engaged in the adventure. Tina was to meet her at a point in the highway at which the lane to the village branched off. Christoph was to go ahead of them to the harbour where the boat lay, row it round the Nothe-or Look-out as it was called in those days-and pick them up on the other side of the promontory, which they were to reach by crossing the harbour-bridge on foot, and climbing over the Look-out hill.

It was on a calm, dark evening the following week that they set out on the adventure. Tina was supposed to meet her at a spot on the highway where the lane to the village split off. Christoph was going to head ahead of them to the harbor where the boat was docked, row it around the Nothe—or Look-out, as it was called back then—and pick them up on the other side of the promontory. They were to get there by walking across the harbor bridge and climbing over Look-out Hill.

As soon as her father had ascended to his room she left the house, and, bundle in hand, proceeded at a trot along the lane. At such an hour not a soul was afoot anywhere in the village, and she reached the junction of the lane with the highway unobserved. Here she took up her position in the obscurity formed by the angle of a fence, whence she could discern every one who approached along the turnpike-road, without being herself seen.

As soon as her father went up to his room, she left the house and, with a bundle in hand, jogged down the lane. At that hour, there was not a single person in the village, so she got to the junction of the lane and the highway without being noticed. She positioned herself in the shadows created by the angle of a fence, where she could see everyone coming along the main road without being seen herself.

She had not remained thus waiting for her lover longer than a minute-though from the tension of her nerves the lapse of even that short time was trying-when, instead of the expected footsteps, the stage-coach could be heard descending the hill. She knew that Tina would not show himself till the road was clear, and waited impatiently for the coach to pass. Nearing the corner where she was it slackened speed, and, instead of going by as usual, drew up within a few yards of her. A passenger alighted, and she heard his voice. It was Humphrey Gould's.

She had only been waiting for her lover for about a minute—though the tension in her nerves made even that brief time feel stressful—when, instead of the expected footsteps, she heard the stagecoach coming down the hill. She knew that Tina wouldn’t show up until the road was clear, so she waited impatiently for the coach to pass. As it approached the corner where she was, it slowed down and, instead of continuing on as usual, stopped just a few yards away from her. A passenger got off, and she recognized his voice. It was Humphrey Gould's.

He had brought a friend with him, and luggage. The luggage was deposited on the grass, and the coach went on its route to the royal watering-place.

He had brought a friend along with him, and some luggage. The luggage was set down on the grass, and the coach continued on its way to the royal watering spot.

'I wonder where that young man is with the horse and trap?' said her former admirer to his companion. 'I hope we shan't have to wait here long. I told him half-past nine o'clock precisely.'

'I wonder where that young guy is with the horse and cart?' said her former admirer to his friend. 'I hope we don't have to wait here too long. I told him exactly half-past nine.'

'Have you got her present safe?'

'Do you have her gift safe?'

'Phyllis's? O, yes. It is in this trunk. I hope it will please her.'

'Phyllis's? Oh, yes. It’s in this trunk. I hope she likes it.'

'Of course it will. What woman would not be pleased with such a handsome peace-offering?'

'Of course it will. What woman wouldn't be happy with such a handsome peace offering?'

'Well-she deserves it. I've treated her rather badly. But she has been in my mind these last two days much more than I should care to confess to everybody. Ah, well; I'll say no more about that. It cannot be that she is so bad as they make out. I am quite sure that a girl of her good wit would know better than to get entangled with any of those Hanoverian soldiers. I won't believe it of her, and there's an end on't.'

'Well, she deserves it. I've treated her pretty badly. But she's been on my mind these last two days a lot more than I'd like to admit. Ah, well; I won't say anything more about that. It can't be that she's as terrible as they say. I'm sure a girl with her sharp mind would know better than to get involved with any of those Hanoverian soldiers. I won't believe that about her, and that's that.'

More words in the same strain were casually dropped as the two men waited; words which revealed to her, as by a sudden illumination, the enormity of her conduct. The conversation was at length cut off by the arrival of the man with the vehicle. The luggage was placed in it, and they mounted, and were driven on in the direction from which she had just come.

More words in the same tone were casually exchanged as the two men waited; words that suddenly made her realize the seriousness of her actions. Eventually, their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the man with the vehicle. The luggage was loaded into it, and they got in and were driven off in the direction from which she had just come.

Phyllis was so conscience-stricken that she was at first inclined to follow them; but a moment's reflection led her to feel that it would only be bare justice to Matthaus to wait till he arrived, and explain candidly that she had changed her mind-difficult as the struggle would be when she stood face to face with him. She bitterly reproached herself for having believed reports which represented Humphrey Gould as false to his engagement, when, from what she now heard from his own lips, she gathered that he had been living full of trust in her. But she knew well enough who had won her love. Without him her life seemed a dreary prospect, yet the more she looked at his proposal the more she feared to accept it-so wild as it was, so vague, so venturesome. She had promised Humphrey Gould, and it was only his assumed faithlessness which had led her to treat that promise as nought. His solicitude in bringing her these gifts touched her; her promise must be kept, and esteem must take the place of love. She would preserve her self- respect. She would stay at home, and marry him, and suffer.

Phyllis felt so guilty that she initially wanted to follow them, but after a moment of thinking, she realized it would only be fair to Matthaus to wait for him to arrive and honestly explain that she had changed her mind—no matter how hard it would be when she faced him. She harshly blamed herself for believing the gossip that portrayed Humphrey Gould as unfaithful to his engagement when, from what she now heard from him directly, it became clear he had been full of trust in her. But she knew exactly who had captured her heart. Without him, her future seemed bleak, yet the more she considered his proposal, the more hesitant she became to accept it—so impulsive and unclear, so risky. She had made a promise to Humphrey Gould, and it was only the false claims about his faithfulness that had led her to dismiss that promise. His concern in bringing her these gifts moved her; she had to keep her promise, and respect had to replace love. She would maintain her self-respect. She would stay home, marry him, and endure it.

Phyllis had thus braced herself to an exceptional fortitude when, a few minutes later, the outline of Matthaus Tina appeared behind a field- gate, over which he lightly leapt as she stepped forward. There was no evading it, he pressed her to his breast.

Phyllis had prepared herself with remarkable strength when, a few minutes later, Matthaus Tina's figure appeared behind a field gate, which he easily jumped over as she moved closer. There was no escaping it; he pulled her to his chest.

'It is the first and last time!' she wildly thought as she stood encircled by his arms.

'It’s the first and last time!' she thought wildly as she stood wrapped in his arms.

How Phyllis got through the terrible ordeal of that night she could never clearly recollect. She always attributed her success in carrying out her resolve to her lover's honour, for as soon as she declared to him in feeble words that she had changed her mind, and felt that she could not, dared not, fly with him, he forbore to urge her, grieved as he was at her decision. Unscrupulous pressure on his part, seeing how romantically she had become attached to him, would no doubt have turned the balance in his favour. But he did nothing to tempt her unduly or unfairly.

How Phyllis got through the terrible ordeal of that night, she could never clearly remember. She always credited her ability to stick to her decision to her lover’s honor, because as soon as she told him in weak words that she had changed her mind and felt she couldn’t, wouldn’t, run away with him, he didn’t press her, even though he was upset by her choice. If he had used any dishonest pressure, knowing how romantically attached she had become to him, it might have swayed her in his favor. But he didn’t do anything to tempt her unfairly.

On her side, fearing for his safety, she begged him to remain. This, he declared, could not be. 'I cannot break faith with my friend,' said he. Had he stood alone he would have abandoned his plan. But Christoph, with the boat and compass and chart, was waiting on the shore; the tide would soon turn; his mother had been warned of his coming; go he must.

On her side, worried for his safety, she pleaded with him to stay. He said he couldn’t do that. "I can’t go back on my word to my friend," he told her. If he had been alone, he would have given up his plan. But Christoph was waiting on the shore with the boat, compass, and chart; the tide would change soon; his mother had been informed of his arrival; he had to leave.

Many precious minutes were lost while he tarried, unable to tear himself away. Phyllis held to her resolve, though it cost her many a bitter pang. At last they parted, and he went down the hill. Before his footsteps had quite died away she felt a desire to behold at least his outline once more, and running noiselessly after him regained view of his diminishing figure. For one moment she was sufficiently excited to be on the point of rushing forward and IRONlinking her fate with his. But she could not. The courage which at the critical instant failed Cleopatra of Egypt could scarcely be expected of Phyllis Grove.

Many precious minutes were wasted as he lingered, unable to pull himself away. Phyllis stuck to her decision, even though it caused her a lot of pain. Finally, they parted ways, and he walked down the hill. Before his footsteps had faded completely, she felt the urge to see at least his silhouette one more time, so she quietly ran after him and caught sight of his receding figure. For a moment, she was so excited that she almost ran forward and connected her life with his. But she couldn't. The bravery that failed Cleopatra of Egypt in a critical moment was hardly something to expect from Phyllis Grove.

A dark shape, similar to his own, joined him in the highway. It was Christoph, his friend. She could see no more; they had hastened on in the direction of the town and harbour, four miles ahead. With a feeling akin to despair she turned and slowly pursued her way homeward.

A dark figure, similar to his own, joined him on the highway. It was Christoph, his friend. She couldn’t see anything more; they had hurried on toward the town and harbor, four miles ahead. With a feeling close to despair, she turned and slowly made her way home.

Tattoo sounded in the camp; but there was no camp for her now. It was as dead as the camp of the Assyrians after the passage of the Destroying Angel.

Tattoo echoed in the camp, but there was no camp for her now. It was as lifeless as the camp of the Assyrians after the visit of the Destroying Angel.

She noiselessly entered the house, seeing nobody, and went to bed. Grief, which kept her awake at first, ultimately wrapped her in a heavy sleep. The next morning her father met her at the foot of the stairs.

She quietly entered the house, saw no one, and went to bed. Grief, which kept her awake at first, eventually enveloped her in a deep sleep. The next morning, her father met her at the bottom of the stairs.

'Mr. Gould is come!' he said triumphantly.

'Mr. Gould has arrived!' he said triumphantly.

Humphrey was staying at the inn, and had already called to inquire for her. He had brought her a present of a very handsome looking-glass in a frame of repousse silverwork, which her father held in his hand. He had promised to call again in the course of an hour, to ask Phyllis to walk with him.

Humphrey was staying at the inn and had already called to check on her. He brought her a beautiful mirror in a frame of embossed silver, which her father was holding. He promised to come back in about an hour to ask Phyllis to go for a walk with him.

Pretty mirrors were rarer in country-houses at that day than they are now, and the one before her won Phyllis's admiration. She looked into it, saw how heavy her eyes were, and endeavoured to brighten them. She was in that wretched state of mind which leads a woman to move mechanically onward in what she conceives to be her allotted path. Mr. Humphrey had, in his undemonstrative way, been adhering all along to the old understanding; it was for her to do the same, and to say not a word of her own lapse. She put on her bonnet and tippet, and when he arrived at the hour named she was at the door awaiting him.

Pretty mirrors were rarer in country houses back then than they are now, and the one in front of her caught Phyllis's attention. She looked into it, noticed how tired her eyes looked, and tried to brighten them up. She was in that awful state of mind that makes a woman move forward mechanically in what she thinks is her set path. Mr. Humphrey had, in his quiet way, been sticking to the old agreement all along; it was her turn to do the same and to say nothing about her own slip-up. She put on her bonnet and tippet, and when he arrived at the scheduled time, she was at the door waiting for him.

CHAPTER V

Phyllis thanked him for his beautiful gift; but the talking was soon entirely on Humphrey's side as they walked along. He told her of the latest movements of the world of fashion-a subject which she willingly discussed to the exclusion of anything more personal-and his measured language helped to still her disquieted heart and brain. Had not her own sadness been what it was she must have observed his embarrassment. At last he abruptly changed the subject.

Phyllis thanked him for his lovely gift, but soon the conversation was completely one-sided as they walked along. He filled her in on the latest trends in fashion—a topic she eagerly talked about, avoiding anything more personal—and his calm way of speaking helped ease her troubled mind. If she hadn’t been feeling down, she would have noticed his awkwardness. Finally, he suddenly changed the subject.

'I am glad you are pleased with my little present,' he said. 'The truth is that I brought it to propitiate 'ee, and to get you to help me out of a mighty difficulty.'

'I’m glad you like my little gift,' he said. 'The truth is that I brought it to win you over and to get you to help me out of a big problem.'

It was inconceivable to Phyllis that this independent bachelor-whom she admired in some respects-could have a difficulty.

It was unimaginable to Phyllis that this independent bachelor—whom she admired in some ways—could have a problem.

'Phyllis-I'll tell you my secret at once; for I have a monstrous secret to confide before I can ask your counsel. The case is, then, that I am married: yes, I have privately married a dear young belle; and if you knew her, and I hope you will, you would say everything in her praise. But she is not quite the one that my father would have chose for me-you know the paternal idea as well as I-and I have kept it secret. There will be a terrible noise, no doubt; but I think that with your help I may get over it. If you would only do me this good turn-when I have told my father, I mean-say that you never could have married me, you know, or something of that sort-'pon my life it will help to smooth the way vastly. I am so anxious to win him round to my point of view, and not to cause any estrangement.'

'Phyllis, I’ll share my secret with you right away because I have a huge secret I need to reveal before asking for your advice. Here it is: I’m married. Yes, I secretly married a wonderful young woman, and if you met her, which I hope you will, you’d have nothing but good things to say about her. But she’s not exactly the choice my father would have made for me—you understand how fathers can be—and I’ve kept it under wraps. There’s going to be a lot of drama, no doubt, but I think with your help, I can handle it. If you could do me this favor—after I tell my father, could you say that you could never have married me or something similar? Honestly, that would really help smooth things over. I’m so eager to get him to see my side and avoid any conflict.'

What Phyllis replied she scarcely knew, or how she counselled him as to his unexpected situation. Yet the relief that his announcement brought her was perceptible. To have confided her trouble in return was what her aching heart longed to do; and had Humphrey been a woman she would instantly have poured out her tale. But to him she feared to confess; and there was a real reason for silence, till a sufficient time had elapsed to allow her lover and his comrade to get out of harm's way.

What Phyllis replied, she barely knew, or how she advised him about his surprising situation. Yet the relief his announcement gave her was clear. She ached to share her troubles in return; if Humphrey had been a woman, she would have immediately opened up. But she was afraid to confess to him, and there was a good reason to stay silent until enough time had passed for her lover and his friend to be out of danger.

As soon as she reached home again she sought a solitary place, and spent the time in half regretting that she had not gone away, and in dreaming over the meetings with Matthaus Tina from their beginning to their end. In his own country, amongst his own countrywomen, he would possibly soon forget her, even to her very name.

As soon as she got home, she looked for a quiet spot and spent her time partly regretting that she hadn’t left and partly reminiscing about her encounters with Matthaus Tina from start to finish. In his own country, surrounded by his own women, he would probably forget her pretty quickly, even her name.

Her listlessness was such that she did not go out of the house for several days. There came a morning which broke in fog and mist, behind which the dawn could be discerned in greenish grey; and the outlines of the tents, and the rows of horses at the ropes. The smoke from the canteen fires drooped heavily.

Her apathy was so profound that she didn’t leave the house for several days. One morning arrived, shrouded in fog and mist, behind which the dawn could be seen in shades of greenish-gray; the shapes of the tents and the lines of horses tied up were visible. The smoke from the campfires hung in the air.

The spot at the bottom of the garden where she had been accustomed to climb the wall to meet Matthaus, was the only inch of English ground in which she took any interest; and in spite of the disagreeable haze prevailing she walked out there till she reached the well-known corner. Every blade of grass was weighted with little liquid globes, and slugs and snails had crept out upon the plots. She could hear the usual faint noises from the camp, and in the other direction the trot of farmers on the road to the town, for it was market-day. She observed that her frequent visits to this corner had quite trodden down the grass in the angle of the wall, and left marks of garden soil on the stepping-stones by which she had mounted to look over the top. Seldom having gone there till dusk, she had not considered that her traces might be visible by day. Perhaps it was these which had revealed her trysts to her father.

The spot at the bottom of the garden where she usually climbed the wall to meet Matthaus was the only piece of English ground she cared about. Despite the annoying haze hanging in the air, she walked over there until she reached the familiar corner. Every blade of grass was weighed down with tiny droplets, and slugs and snails had crawled out onto the patches. She could hear the usual faint sounds coming from the camp, and in the other direction, the clip-clop of farmers heading to town since it was market day. She noticed that her frequent visits to this corner had crushed the grass at the wall's angle and left marks of garden soil on the stepping stones she used to climb up and look over the top. Since she rarely went there until dusk, she hadn't thought that her traces might be visible during the day. Maybe it was these marks that had revealed her secret meetings to her father.

While she paused in melancholy regard, she fancied that the customary sounds from the tents were changing their character. Indifferent as Phyllis was to camp doings now, she mounted by the steps to the old place. What she beheld at first awed and perplexed her; then she stood rigid, her fingers hooked to the wall, her eyes staring out of her head, and her face as if hardened to stone.

While she paused, feeling sad, she imagined that the usual sounds from the tents were shifting. Even though Phyllis didn’t care about camp activities anymore, she climbed the steps to the old spot. What she saw first shocked and confused her; then she stood frozen, her fingers gripping the wall, her eyes wide, and her face looked like it had turned to stone.

On the open green stretching before her all the regiments in the camp were drawn up in line, in the mid-front of which two empty coffins lay on the ground. The unwonted sounds which she had noticed came from an advancing procession. It consisted of the band of the York Hussars playing a dead march; next two soldiers of that regiment in a mourning coach, guarded on each side, and accompanied by two priests. Behind came a crowd of rustics who had been attracted by the event. The melancholy procession marched along the front of the line, returned to the centre, and halted beside the coffins, where the two condemned men were blindfolded, and each placed kneeling on his coffin; a few minutes pause was now given, while they prayed.

On the open field in front of her, all the regiments in the camp were lined up, with two empty coffins positioned in the middle. The unusual sounds she had noticed came from a procession approaching. It included the band of the York Hussars playing a funeral march; following them were two soldiers from that regiment in a mourning carriage, flanked on either side and accompanied by two priests. Behind them was a group of local people drawn in by the event. The somber procession moved along the front of the line, returned to the center, and stopped beside the coffins, where the two condemned men were blindfolded and each made to kneel on his coffin; after a brief pause, they began to pray.

A firing-party of twenty-four men stood ready with levelled carbines. The commanding officer, who had his sword drawn, waved it through some cuts of the sword-exercise till he reached the downward stroke, whereat the firing-party discharged their volley. The two victims fell, one upon his face across his coffin, the other backwards.

A firing squad of twenty-four men stood ready with their rifles aimed. The commanding officer, with his sword drawn, demonstrated some moves from the sword drill until he made a downward cut, at which point the squad fired their shots. The two victims collapsed, one face down on his coffin, the other fell backwards.

As the volley resounded there arose a shriek from the wall of Dr. Grove's garden, and some one fell down inside; but nobody among the spectators without noticed it at the time. The two executed Hussars were Matthaus Tina and his friend Christoph. The soldiers on guard placed the bodies in the coffins almost instantly; but the colonel of the regiment, an Englishman, rode up and exclaimed in a stern voice: 'Turn them out-as an example to the men!'

As the gunfire echoed, a scream came from the wall of Dr. Grove's garden, and someone collapsed inside; however, none of the onlookers outside noticed it at that moment. The two fallen Hussars were Matthaus Tina and his friend Christoph. The soldiers on guard quickly put the bodies into coffins; but the colonel of the regiment, an Englishman, rode up and said in a harsh tone: 'Take them out — as a lesson for the men!'

The coffins were lifted endwise, and the dead Germans flung out upon their faces on the grass. Then all the regiments wheeled in sections, and marched past the spot in slow time. When the survey was over the corpses were again coffined, and borne away.

The coffins were lifted upright, and the deceased Germans were thrown face down on the grass. Then all the regiments turned in sections and marched past the spot in slow time. Once the observation was complete, the bodies were coffined again and taken away.

Meanwhile Dr. Grove, attracted by the noise of the volley, had rushed out into his garden, where he saw his wretched daughter lying motionless against the wall. She was taken indoors, but it was long before she recovered consciousness; and for weeks they despaired of her reason.

Meanwhile, Dr. Grove, drawn by the sound of the gunfire, hurried out into his garden, where he found his devastated daughter lying still against the wall. She was brought inside, but it took a long time for her to regain consciousness; and for weeks, they feared for her sanity.

It transpired that the luckless deserters from the York Hussars had cut the boat from her moorings in the adjacent harbour, according to their plan, and, with two other comrades who were smarting under ill-treatment from their colonel, had sailed in safety across the Channel. But mistaking their bearings they steered into Jersey, thinking that island the French coast. Here they were perceived to be deserters, and delivered up to the authorities. Matthaus and Christoph interceded for the other two at the court-martial, saying that it was entirely by the former's representations that these were induced to go. Their sentence was accordingly commuted to flogging, the death punishment being reserved for their leaders.

It turned out that the unfortunate deserters from the York Hussars had untied the boat from its mooring in the nearby harbor, just as they planned, and along with two other comrades who were suffering from mistreatment by their colonel, had safely sailed across the Channel. However, they misjudged their direction and ended up in Jersey, believing it to be the French coast. There, they were recognized as deserters and handed over to the authorities. Matthaus and Christoph pleaded for the other two at the court-martial, claiming that it was entirely due to Matthaus's urging that they were convinced to join. As a result, their sentence was changed to flogging, while the death penalty was reserved for their leaders.

The visitor to the well-known old Georgian watering-place, who may care to ramble to the neighbouring village under the hills, and examine the register of burials, will there find two entries in these words:-

The visitor to the famous old Georgian spa, who might want to stroll to the nearby village under the hills and check the burial register, will find two entries that read as follows:-

'Matth:-Tina (Corpl.) in His Majesty's Regmt. of York Hussars, and Shot for Desertion, was Buried June 30th, 1801, aged 22 years. Born in the town of Sarrbruk, Germany.

'Christoph Bless, belonging to His Majesty's Regmt. of York Hussars, who was Shot for Desertion, was Buried June 30th, 1801, aged 22 years. Born at Lothaargen, Alsatia.'

'Christoph Bless, part of His Majesty's Regiment of York Hussars, who was shot for desertion, was buried on June 30th, 1801, at the age of 22. He was born in Lothaargen, Alsatia.'

Their graves were dug at the back of the little church, near the wall. There is no memorial to mark the spot, but Phyllis pointed it out to me. While she lived she used to keep their mounds neat; but now they are overgrown with nettles, and sunk nearly flat. The older villagers, however, who know of the episode from their parents, still recollect the place where the soldiers lie. Phyllis lies near.

Their graves were dug at the back of the small church, close to the wall. There’s no memorial to mark the spot, but Phyllis pointed it out to me. While she was alive, she used to keep their mounds tidy; but now they’re overgrown with nettles and nearly sunken flat. However, the older villagers, who know about the episode from their parents, still remember the place where the soldiers are buried. Phyllis is buried nearby.

October 1889.

THE FIDDLER OF THE REELS

'Talking of Exhibitions, World's Fairs, and what not,' said the old gentleman, 'I would not go round the corner to see a dozen of them nowadays. The only exhibition that ever made, or ever will make, any impression upon my imagination was the first of the series, the parent of them all, and now a thing of old times-the Great Exhibition of 1851, in Hyde Park, London. None of the younger generation can realize the sense of novelty it produced in us who were then in our prime. A noun substantive went so far as to become an adjective in honour of the occasion. It was "exhibition" hat, "exhibition" razor-strop, "exhibition" watch; nay, even "exhibition" weather, "exhibition" spirits, sweethearts, babies, wives-for the time.

"Speaking of exhibitions, world's fairs, and all that," said the old gentleman, "I wouldn't bother to see a dozen of them these days. The only exhibition that ever made, or ever will make, a real impression on my imagination was the first of the series, the one that started it all, and is now a thing of the past—the Great Exhibition of 1851 in Hyde Park, London. None of the younger generation can grasp the sense of novelty it brought to us who were in our prime back then. A noun even became an adjective in honor of the event. There were 'exhibition' hats, 'exhibition' razor strops, 'exhibition' watches; even 'exhibition' weather, 'exhibition' spirits, sweethearts, babies, wives—at that time."

'For South Wessex, the year formed in many ways an extraordinary chronological frontier or transit-line, at which there occurred what one might call a precipice in Time. As in a geological "fault," we had presented to us a sudden bringing of ancient and modern into absolute contact, such as probably in no other single year since the Conquest was ever witnessed in this part of the country.'

'For South Wessex, the year marked an extraordinary timeline, where a significant shift in Time occurred. Much like a geological "fault," we experienced a sudden merging of the ancient and the modern in a way that probably hadn't been seen in this area since the Conquest.'

These observations led us onward to talk of the different personages, gentle and simple, who lived and moved within our narrow and peaceful horizon at that time; and of three people in particular, whose queer little history was oddly touched at points by the Exhibition, more concerned with it than that of anybody else who dwelt in those outlying shades of the world, Stickleford, Mellstock, and Egdon. First in prominence among these three came Wat Ollamoor-if that were his real name-whom the seniors in our party had known well.

These observations prompted us to discuss the various characters, both the kind and the simple, who lived and moved within our small and calm world back then; and about three people in particular, whose strange little story was oddly connected to the Exhibition, more so than anyone else who lived in those remote areas, Stickleford, Mellstock, and Egdon. Leading the way among these three was Wat Ollamoor—if that was actually his real name—whom the older members of our group knew well.

He was a woman's man, they said,-supremely so-externally little else. To men he was not attractive; perhaps a little repulsive at times. Musician, dandy, and company-man in practice; veterinary surgeon in theory, he lodged awhile in Mellstock village, coming from nobody knew where; though some said his first appearance in this neighbourhood had been as fiddle-player in a show at Greenhill Fair.

He was a ladies' man, they said—extremely so—with little else to offer on the outside. To men, he wasn't attractive; he might even be a bit off-putting at times. A musician, stylish guy, and socialite in practice; a veterinary surgeon in theory, he stayed for a bit in Mellstock village, coming from some unknown place; though some claimed he had first shown up in this area as a fiddle player in a performance at Greenhill Fair.

Many a worthy villager envied him his power over unsophisticated maidenhood-a power which seemed sometimes to have a touch of the weird and wizardly in it. Personally he was not ill-favoured, though rather un-English, his complexion being a rich olive, his rank hair dark and rather clammy-made still clammier by secret ointments, which, when he came fresh to a party, caused him to smell like 'boys'-love' (southernwood) steeped in lamp-oil. On occasion he wore curls-a double row-running almost horizontally around his head. But as these were sometimes noticeably absent, it was concluded that they were not altogether of Nature's making. By girls whose love for him had turned to hatred he had been nicknamed 'Mop,' from this abundance of hair, which was long enough to rest upon his shoulders; as time passed the name more and more prevailed.

Many villagers envied his influence over innocent young women—a power that sometimes seemed a bit strange and magical. He wasn’t unattractive, though he looked a bit un-British with his rich olive complexion and dark, slightly greasy hair, which became even greasier from the secret ointments he used. When he first arrived at a gathering, his scent reminded people of 'boys'-love' (southernwood) steeped in lamp oil. Occasionally, he wore curls—a double row that went almost horizontally around his head. However, since these curls sometimes seemed to be missing, it was assumed they weren’t entirely natural. Girls who had turned from loving him to hating him nicknamed him ‘Mop’ because of his thick hair, which was long enough to touch his shoulders; over time, this nickname became more common.

His fiddling possibly had the most to do with the fascination he exercised, for, to speak fairly, it could claim for itself a most peculiar and personal quality, like that in a moving preacher. There were tones in it which bred the immediate conviction that indolence and averseness to systematic application were all that lay between 'Mop' and the career of a second Paganini.

His fiddling likely had the biggest impact on the fascination he created, because, honestly, it had a unique and personal quality, similar to that of a passionate preacher. There were tones in his playing that immediately convinced you that laziness and a dislike for consistent effort were the only things standing in the way of 'Mop' becoming a second Paganini.

While playing he invariably closed his eyes; using no notes, and, as it were, allowing the violin to wander on at will into the most plaintive passages ever heard by rustic man. There was a certain lingual character in the supplicatory expressions he produced, which would well nigh have drawn an ache from the heart of a gate-post. He could make any child in the parish, who was at all sensitive to music, burst into tears in a few minutes by simply fiddling one of the old dance-tunes he almost entirely affected-country jigs, reels, and 'Favourite Quick Steps' of the last century-some mutilated remains of which even now reappear as nameless phantoms in new quadrilles and gallops, where they are recognized only by the curious, or by such old-fashioned and far- between people as have been thrown with men like Wat Ollamoor in their early life.

While playing, he always closed his eyes; using no sheet music and, in a way, letting the violin drift into the most mournful melodies ever heard by country folk. There was a unique quality to the pleading tones he created that could almost evoke sorrow from the heart of a wooden post. He could make any child in the parish, who was at all sensitive to music, burst into tears within minutes just by playing one of the old dance tunes he mostly favored—country jigs, reels, and 'Favorite Quick Steps' from the last century—some fragmented remnants of which still show up as nameless shadows in new quadrilles and gallops, recognized only by the curious or by those few old-fashioned individuals who have crossed paths with men like Wat Ollamoor in their youth.

His date was a little later than that of the old Mellstock quire-band which comprised the Dewys, Mail, and the rest-in fact, he did not rise above the horizon thereabout till those well-known musicians were disbanded as ecclesiastical functionaries. In their honest love of thoroughness they despised the new man's style. Theophilus Dewy (Reuben the tranter's younger brother) used to say there was no 'plumness' in it-no bowing, no solidity-it was all fantastical. And probably this was true. Anyhow, Mop had, very obviously, never bowed a note of church- music from his birth; he never once sat in the gallery of Mellstock church where the others had tuned their venerable psalmody so many hundreds of times; had never, in all likelihood, entered a church at all. All were devil's tunes in his repertory. 'He could no more play the Wold Hundredth to his true time than he could play the brazen serpent,' the tranter would say. (The brazen serpent was supposed in Mellstock to be a musical instrument particularly hard to blow.)

His timeline was a bit later than that of the old Mellstock choir band, which included the Dewys, Mail, and the others. In fact, he didn’t appear on the scene until those well-known musicians had stopped performing as church officials. Out of their genuine love for thoroughness, they looked down on the new guy's style. Theophilus Dewy (Reuben the tranter's younger brother) used to say there was no ‘plumness’ in it—no bowing, no depth; it was all just fanciful. And that was probably true. In any case, Mop had clearly never played a single note of church music in his life; he never once sat in the gallery of Mellstock church where the others had fine-tuned their age-old hymns hundreds of times. He likely had never even entered a church. All he had were tunes considered 'devil's tunes' in his repertoire. “He could no more play the Wold Hundredth properly than he could play the brazen serpent,” the tranter would say. (In Mellstock, the brazen serpent was thought to be a musical instrument especially difficult to play.)

Occasionally Mop could produce the aforesaid moving effect upon the souls of grown-up persons, especially young women of fragile and responsive organization. Such an one was Car'line Aspent. Though she was already engaged to be married before she met him, Car'line, of them all, was the most influenced by Mop Ollamoor's heart-stealing melodies, to her discomfort, nay, positive pain and ultimate injury. She was a pretty, invocating, weak-mouthed girl, whose chief defect as a companion with her sex was a tendency to peevishness now and then. At this time she was not a resident in Mellstock parish where Mop lodged, but lived some miles off at Stickleford, farther down the river.

Occasionally, Mop could create the aforementioned moving effect on the souls of adults, particularly sensitive young women. One such woman was Car'line Aspent. Although she was already engaged to be married before she met him, Car'line was the most affected by Mop Ollamoor's heart-stealing melodies, causing her discomfort, even pain, and ultimately harm. She was a pretty, charming, and somewhat fragile girl, whose main flaw as a companion to her female friends was a tendency to be a bit temperamental at times. At that time, she didn't live in Mellstock parish where Mop stayed, but resided several miles away in Stickleford, further down the river.

How and where she first made acquaintance with him and his fiddling is not truly known, but the story was that it either began or was developed on one spring evening, when, in passing through Lower Mellstock, she chanced to pause on the bridge near his house to rest herself, and languidly leaned over the parapet. Mop was standing on his door-step, as was his custom, spinning the insidious thread of semi- and demi-semi- quavers from the E string of his fiddle for the benefit of passers-by, and laughing as the tears rolled down the cheeks of the little children hanging around him. Car'line pretended to be engrossed with the rippling of the stream under the arches, but in reality she was listening, as he knew. Presently the aching of the heart seized her simultaneously with a wild desire to glide airily in the mazes of an infinite dance. To shake off the fascination she resolved to go on, although it would be necessary to pass him as he played. On stealthily glancing ahead at the performer, she found to her relief that his eyes were closed in abandonment to instrumentation, and she strode on boldly. But when closer her step grew timid, her tread convulsed itself more and more accordantly with the time of the melody, till she very nearly danced along. Gaining another glance at him when immediately opposite, she saw that one of his eyes was open, quizzing her as he smiled at her emotional state. Her gait could not divest itself of its compelled capers till she had gone a long way past the house; and Car'line was unable to shake off the strange infatuation for hours.

How and where she first met him and his music isn't really known, but the story goes that it either started or developed one spring evening when she happened to stop on the bridge near his house to rest and lazily leaned over the railing. Mop was standing on his doorstep, as usual, spinning the catchy notes of semi- and demi-semi-quavers from the E string of his fiddle for the people passing by, laughing as tears rolled down the cheeks of the little kids surrounding him. Car'line pretended to be absorbed in watching the rippling stream below, but in reality, she was listening, as he knew. Soon, she felt a deep longing in her heart that came with a wild desire to float gracefully in the rhythm of an endless dance. To shake off the spell, she decided to move on, even though she’d have to pass him while he played. When she cautiously glanced ahead at the musician, she was relieved to see his eyes closed, lost in the music, so she walked on confidently. But as she got closer, she became hesitant, her steps matching more and more with the rhythm of the melody until she was almost dancing. Stealing another look at him when she was right in front of him, she noticed one of his eyes was open, teasing her as he smiled at her obvious excitement. Her walk couldn't stop its involuntary twirls until she had gone quite far past his house, and Car'line couldn't shake off the strange infatuation for hours.

After that day, whenever there was to be in the neighbourhood a dance to which she could get an invitation, and where Mop Ollamoor was to be the musician, Car'line contrived to be present, though it sometimes involved a walk of several miles; for he did not play so often in Stickleford as elsewhere.

After that day, whenever there was a dance in the neighborhood where she could get an invitation, and where Mop Ollamoor was going to be the musician, Car'line made sure to be there, even if it meant walking several miles, since he didn’t play in Stickleford as often as he did in other places.

The next evidences of his influence over her were singular enough, and it would require a neurologist to fully explain them. She would be sitting quietly, any evening after dark, in the house of her father, the parish clerk, which stood in the middle of Stickleford village street, this being the highroad between Lower Mellstock and Moreford, five miles eastward. Here, without a moment's warning, and in the midst of a general conversation between her father, sister, and the young man before alluded to, who devotedly wooed her in ignorance of her infatuation, she would start from her seat in the chimney-corner as if she had received a galvanic shock, and spring convulsively towards the ceiling; then she would burst into tears, and it was not till some half- hour had passed that she grew calm as usual. Her father, knowing her hysterical tendencies, was always excessively anxious about this trait in his youngest girl, and feared the attack to be a species of epileptic fit. Not so her sister Julia. Julia had found out what was the cause. At the moment before the jumping, only an exceptionally sensitive ear situated in the chimney-nook could have caught from down the flue the beat of a man's footstep along the highway without. But it was in that footfall, for which she had been waiting, that the origin of Car'line's involuntary springing lay. The pedestrian was Mop Ollamoor, as the girl well knew; but his business that way was not to visit her; he sought another woman whom he spoke of as his Intended, and who lived at Moreford, two miles farther on. On one, and only one, occasion did it happen that Car'line could not control her utterance; it was when her sister alone chanced to be present. 'Oh-oh-oh-!' she cried. 'He's going to her, and not coming to me!'

The next signs of his influence on her were quite unusual, and it would take a neurologist to explain them fully. She would be sitting quietly on any evening after dark in her father's house, the parish clerk's place, which was located in the middle of Stickleford village street, the main road between Lower Mellstock and Moreford, five miles to the east. Without any warning, in the middle of a general conversation with her father, sister, and the young man mentioned earlier, who was trying to win her over without knowing about her obsession, she would suddenly jump from her seat in the corner as if she’d been shocked, and spring up towards the ceiling. Then she would burst into tears, and it wouldn’t be until about half an hour later that she would calm down as usual. Her father, aware of her hysterical tendencies, was always very worried about this behavior in his youngest daughter, fearing it might be a type of epileptic seizure. But her sister Julia had figured out what was happening. Just before Car'line would jump, only an exceptionally sensitive ear positioned in the chimney nook could have heard the sound of a man's footsteps on the road outside. It was in that footstep, which she had been waiting for, that the cause of Car'line's involuntary reaction lay. The walker was Mop Ollamoor, as the girl well knew; however, he was not coming to see her; he was on his way to another woman he referred to as his Intended, who lived in Moreford, two miles further on. There was only one occasion when Car'line couldn’t hold back her words; it happened when only her sister was there. 'Oh-oh-oh-!' she exclaimed. 'He's going to her, not coming to me!'

To do the fiddler justice he had not at first thought greatly of, or spoken much to, this girl of impressionable mould. But he had soon found out her secret, and could not resist a little by-play with her too easily hurt heart, as an interlude between his more serious performances at Moreford. The two became well acquainted, though only by stealth, hardly a soul in Stickleford except her sister, and her lover Ned Hipcroft, being aware of the attachment. Her father disapproved of her coldness to Ned; her sister, too, hoped she might get over this nervous passion for a man of whom so little was known. The ultimate result was that Car'line's manly and simple wooer Edward found his suit becoming practically hopeless. He was a respectable mechanic, in a far sounder position than Mop the nominal horse-doctor; but when, before leaving her, Ned put his flat and final question, would she marry him, then and there, now or never, it was with little expectation of obtaining more than the negative she gave him. Though her father supported him and her sister supported him, he could not play the fiddle so as to draw your soul out of your body like a spider's thread, as Mop did, till you felt as limp as withy-wind and yearned for something to cling to. Indeed, Hipcroft had not the slightest ear for music; could not sing two notes in tune, much less play them.

To give the fiddler his due, he initially didn’t think much of or talk to this girl who was easily influenced. But he soon discovered her secret and couldn’t resist a bit of playful teasing with her fragile heart, using it as a break between his more serious performances at Moreford. The two got to know each other well, but only in secret; hardly anyone in Stickleford, except her sister and her boyfriend Ned Hipcroft, knew about their connection. Her father didn’t approve of her being cold to Ned; her sister also hoped she would move past this nervous infatuation with a man they knew so little about. As a result, Car'line’s strong and straightforward suitor Edward found his chances nearly hopeless. He was a respectable mechanic, in a much better situation than Mop, the supposed horse doctor; but when Ned, before leaving her, asked her point-blank if she would marry him—there and then, now or never—he hardly expected anything more than the negative answer she gave him. Even though her father and sister were on his side, he couldn’t play the fiddle in a way that pulled your soul out of your body like a spider's thread, as Mop could, leaving you feeling weak and yearning for something to hold onto. In fact, Hipcroft didn’t have a good ear for music; he couldn’t sing two notes in tune, let alone play them.

The No he had expected and got from her, in spite of a preliminary encouragement, gave Ned a new start in life. It had been uttered in such a tone of sad entreaty that he resolved to persecute her no more; she should not even be distressed by a sight of his form in the distant perspective of the street and lane. He left the place, and his natural course was to London.

The "No" he received from her, despite some initial encouragement, gave Ned a fresh start in life. It was said in such a tone of sorrowful pleading that he decided not to bother her anymore; he wouldn’t even let her be upset by seeing him in the distance on the street or lane. He left the place, and his natural path took him to London.

The railway to South Wessex was in process of construction, but it was not as yet opened for traffic; and Hipcroft reached the capital by a six days' trudge on foot, as many a better man had done before him. He was one of the last of the artisan class who used that now extinct method of travel to the great centres of labour, so customary then from time immemorial.

The railway to South Wessex was under construction, but it wasn't open for travel yet; and Hipcroft made it to the capital after a six-day walk, just like many others before him. He was one of the last from the artisan class to use that now outdated way of getting to the major hubs of work, which had been common for ages.

In London he lived and worked regularly at his trade. More fortunate than many, his disinterested willingness recommended him from the first. During the ensuing four years he was never out of employment. He neither advanced nor receded in the modern sense; he improved as a workman, but he did not shift one jot in social position. About his love for Car'line he maintained a rigid silence. No doubt he often thought of her; but being always occupied, and having no relations at Stickleford, he held no communication with that part of the country, and showed no desire to return. In his quiet lodging in Lambeth he moved about after working-hours with the facility of a woman, doing his own cooking, attending to his stocking-heels, and shaping himself by degrees to a life-long bachelorhood. For this conduct one is bound to advance the canonical reason that time could not efface from his heart the image of little Car'line Aspent-and it may be in part true; but there was also the inference that his was a nature not greatly dependent upon the ministrations of the other sex for its comforts.

In London, he lived and worked regularly in his trade. More fortunate than many, his genuine willingness to help others set him apart from the start. During the next four years, he was never out of work. He neither progressed nor regressed in the modern sense; he got better at his job, but he didn't change his social standing at all. He kept a strict silence about his feelings for Car'line. No doubt he often thought of her, but always being busy and having no connections in Stickleford, he had no contact with that area and didn't show any desire to go back. In his quiet apartment in Lambeth, he moved around after work with the ease of a woman, cooking for himself, mending his socks, and gradually preparing himself for a life of being a bachelor. To explain this behavior, one could say that time couldn't erase the memory of little Car'line Aspent from his heart—and that might be partly true; but there was also the suggestion that he was the type of person who didn't rely much on the company of women for his comfort.

The fourth year of his residence as a mechanic in London was the year of the Hyde-Park Exhibition already mentioned, and at the construction of this huge glass-house, then unexampled in the world's history, he worked daily. It was an era of great hope and activity among the nations and industries. Though Hipcroft was, in his small way, a central man in the movement, he plodded on with his usual outward placidity. Yet for him, too, the year was destined to have its surprises, for when the bustle of getting the building ready for the opening day was past, the ceremonies had been witnessed, and people were flocking thither from all parts of the globe, he received a letter from Car'line. Till that day the silence of four years between himself and Stickleford had never been broken.

The fourth year of his time as a mechanic in London was the year of the Hyde Park Exhibition, which has already been mentioned. He worked every day on the construction of this massive glass structure, which was unprecedented in history. It was a time of great hope and energy among nations and industries. Although Hipcroft was, in his own small way, a key figure in this movement, he continued to work with his usual calm demeanor. However, this year had its surprises for him too. After the hustle of getting the building ready for the opening day settled down, the ceremonies took place, and people began to arrive from all over the world, he received a letter from Car'line. Until that day, there had been four long years of silence between him and Stickleford.

She informed her old lover, in an uncertain penmanship which suggested a trembling hand, of the trouble she had been put to in ascertaining his address, and then broached the subject which had prompted her to write. Four years ago, she said with the greatest delicacy of which she was capable, she had been so foolish as to refuse him. Her wilful wrong- headedness had since been a grief to her many times, and of late particularly. As for Mr. Ollamoor, he had been absent almost as long as Ned-she did not know where. She would gladly marry Ned now if he were to ask her again, and be a tender little wife to him till her life's end.

She told her old boyfriend, in shaky handwriting that suggested a nervous hand, about the effort she had made to find his address, and then she brought up the reason for her letter. Four years ago, she said as delicately as she could, she had been foolish enough to turn him down. Her stubbornness had caused her grief many times since, and especially lately. As for Mr. Ollamoor, he had been gone almost as long as Ned—she had no idea where he was. She would happily marry Ned now if he asked her again and would be a loving little wife to him for the rest of her life.

A tide of warm feeling must have surged through Ned Hipcroft's frame on receipt of this news, if we may judge by the issue. Unquestionably he loved her still, even if not to the exclusion of every other happiness. This from his Car'line, she who had been dead to him these many years, alive to him again as of old, was in itself a pleasant, gratifying thing. Ned had grown so resigned to, or satisfied with, his lonely lot, that he probably would not have shown much jubilation at anything. Still, a certain ardour of preoccupation, after his first surprise, revealed how deeply her confession of faith in him had stirred him. Measured and methodical in his ways, he did not answer the letter that day, nor the next, nor the next. He was having 'a good think.' When he did answer it, there was a great deal of sound reasoning mixed in with the unmistakable tenderness of his reply; but the tenderness itself was sufficient to reveal that he was pleased with her straightforward frankness; that the anchorage she had once obtained in his heart was renewable, if it had not been continuously firm.

A wave of warm feelings must have rushed through Ned Hipcroft when he got this news, judging by what followed. There’s no doubt he still loved her, even if it wasn't his only source of happiness. This message from his Car'line, who had been out of his life for many years but now felt alive to him again, was a nice and gratifying thing. Ned had become so resigned to his lonely life that he probably wouldn't have shown much excitement about anything. Still, a certain intensity of thought after his initial shock showed how deeply her faith in him had moved him. Being measured and methodical, he didn’t reply to the letter that day, nor the next, nor the one after that. He was taking his time to think it through. When he finally did respond, there was a lot of logical reasoning mixed with clear tenderness in his reply; but that tenderness alone showed he was happy with her honest openness and that the place she had once held in his heart was still there, if not always strong.

He told her-and as he wrote his lips twitched humorously over the few gentle words of raillery he indited among the rest of his sentences-that it was all very well for her to come round at this time of day. Why wouldn't she have him when he wanted her? She had no doubt learned that he was not married, but suppose his affections had since been fixed on another? She ought to beg his pardon. Still, he was not the man to forget her. But considering how he had been used, and what he had suffered, she could not quite expect him to go down to Stickleford and fetch her. But if she would come to him, and say she was sorry, as was only fair; why, yes, he would marry her, knowing what a good little woman she was at the core. He added that the request for her to come to him was a less one to make than it would have been when he first left Stickleford, or even a few months ago; for the new railway into South Wessex was now open, and there had just begun to be run wonderfully contrived special trains, called excursion-trains, on account of the Great Exhibition; so that she could come up easily alone.

He told her—and as he wrote, his lips curled up teasingly over the few lighthearted words he added among the rest of his sentences—that it was nice for her to show up at this time of day. Why wouldn't she come to him when he wanted her? She must have known he wasn’t married, but what if his feelings had since shifted to someone else? She should apologize. Still, he wasn't the type to forget her. But given how he’d been treated and what he had gone through, she couldn’t really expect him to go to Stickleford and fetch her. But if she came to him and said she was sorry, which was only fair; then yes, he would marry her, knowing what a good woman she really was at heart. He added that asking her to come to him was a less demanding request than it would have been when he first left Stickleford or even just a few months ago; because the new railway to South Wessex was now open, and they had just started running specially designed trains, called excursion trains, for the Great Exhibition; making it easy for her to travel up alone.

She said in her reply how good it was of him to treat her so generously, after her hot and cold treatment of him; that though she felt frightened at the magnitude of the journey, and was never as yet in a railway- train, having only seen one pass at a distance, she embraced his offer with all her heart; and would, indeed, own to him how sorry she was, and beg his pardon, and try to be a good wife always, and make up for lost time.

She mentioned in her response how nice it was of him to treat her so generously, especially after her inconsistent behavior toward him; that even though she felt scared about the size of the journey and had never been on a train, having only seen one pass by from a distance, she wholeheartedly accepted his offer. She would, in fact, admit to him how sorry she was, ask for his forgiveness, and strive to be a good wife from then on, making up for lost time.

The remaining details of when and where were soon settled, Car'line informing him, for her ready identification in the crowd, that she would be wearing 'my new sprigged-laylock cotton gown,' and Ned gaily responding that, having married her the morning after her arrival, he would make a day of it by taking her to the Exhibition. One early summer afternoon, accordingly, he came from his place of work, and hastened towards Waterloo Station to meet her. It was as wet and chilly as an English June day can occasionally be, but as he waited on the platform in the drizzle he glowed inwardly, and seemed to have something to live for again.

The remaining details of when and where were quickly sorted out, with Car'line letting him know, for her easy recognition in the crowd, that she would be wearing "my new sprigged-laylock cotton dress." Ned cheerfully replied that, having married her the morning after she arrived, he would make a day of it by taking her to the Exhibition. One early summer afternoon, he left work and rushed to Waterloo Station to meet her. It was as wet and chilly as an English June day can sometimes be, but as he waited on the platform in the drizzle, he felt warm inside and seemed to have something to live for again.

The 'excursion-train'-an absolutely new departure in the history of travel-was still a novelty on the Wessex line, and probably everywhere. Crowds of people had flocked to all the stations on the way up to witness the unwonted sight of so long a train's passage, even where they did not take advantage of the opportunity it offered. The seats for the humbler class of travellers in these early experiments in steam- locomotion, were open trucks, without any protection whatever from the wind and rain; and damp weather having set in with the afternoon, the unfortunate occupants of these vehicles were, on the train drawing up at the London terminus, found to be in a pitiable condition from their long journey; blue-faced, stiff-necked, sneezing, rain-beaten, chilled to the marrow, many of the men being hatless; in fact, they resembled people who had been out all night in an open boat on a rough sea, rather than inland excursionists for pleasure. The women had in some degree protected themselves by turning up the skirts of their gowns over their heads, but as by this arrangement they were additionally exposed about the hips, they were all more or less in a sorry plight.

The 'excursion train'—a completely new approach in the history of travel—was still a novelty on the Wessex line and likely everywhere else. Crowds of people had gathered at all the stations along the route to witness the unusual sight of such a long train passing by, even if they didn’t take the chance to ride it. The seats for the lower-class passengers in these early steam locomotion experiments were open trucks, offering no protection from the wind and rain. As damp weather set in during the afternoon, the unfortunate passengers in these cars were found in a miserable state when the train arrived at the London terminus after their long journey; they were pale, stiff-necked, sneezing, drenched, and chilled to the bone, with many men lacking hats. In fact, they looked more like people who had spent the whole night in an open boat on a rough sea than like tourists on a day trip. The women had somewhat protected themselves by pulling the skirts of their dresses over their heads, but this left them exposed at the hips, making them all look rather sorry for themselves.

In the bustle and crush of alighting forms of both sexes which followed the entry of the huge concatenation into the station, Ned Hipcroft soon discerned the slim little figure his eye was in search of, in the sprigged lilac, as described. She came up to him with a frightened smile-still pretty, though so damp, weather-beaten, and shivering from long exposure to the wind.

In the hustle and bustle of people getting off the train—both men and women—after the massive arrival at the station, Ned Hipcroft quickly spotted the slim figure he was looking for, dressed in the sprigged lilac as described. She approached him with a nervous smile—still pretty, despite being damp, weathered, and shivering from being out in the wind for so long.

'O Ned!' she sputtered, 'I-I-' He clasped her in his arms and kissed her, whereupon she burst into a flood of tears.

'O Ned!' she stammered, 'I-I-' He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her, causing her to break down in tears.

'You are wet, my poor dear! I hope you'll not get cold,' he said. And surveying her and her multifarious surrounding packages, he noticed that by the hand she led a toddling child-a little girl of three or so-whose hood was as clammy and tender face as blue as those of the other travellers.

'You're soaked, my poor dear! I hope you won't catch a cold,' he said. And looking at her and her many bags, he noticed that she was holding the hand of a small child—a little girl of about three—whose hood was damp and whose delicate face was as blue as those of the other travelers.

'Who is this-somebody you know?' asked Ned curiously.

'Who is this person you know?' asked Ned curiously.

'Yes, Ned. She's mine.'

"Yes, Ned. She's my girlfriend."

'Yours?'

'Is this yours?'

'Yes-my own!'

'Yes, it's mine!'

'Your own child?'

'Your child?'

'Yes!'

'Absolutely!'

'Well-as God's in-'

Well, as God is in-

'Ned, I didn't name it in my letter, because, you see, it would have been so hard to explain! I thought that when we met I could tell you how she happened to be born, so much better than in writing! I hope you'll excuse it this once, dear Ned, and not scold me, now I've come so many, many miles!'

'Ned, I didn’t mention it in my letter because, you know, it would have been too hard to explain! I thought I could tell you in person how she came to be, so much better than in writing! I hope you’ll forgive me this time, dear Ned, and not scold me since I've traveled so many miles!'

'This means Mr. Mop Ollamoor, I reckon!' said Hipcroft, gazing palely at them from the distance of the yard or two to which he had withdrawn with a start.

'This means Mr. Mop Ollamoor, I guess!' said Hipcroft, staring at them from a couple of yards away, where he had stepped back in surprise.

Car'line gasped. 'But he's been gone away for years!' she supplicated. 'And I never had a young man before! And I was so onlucky to be catched the first time, though some of the girls down there go on like anything!'

Car'line gasped. "But he's been gone for years!" she pleaded. "And I've never had a boyfriend before! I was so unlucky to get caught the first time, even though some of the girls down there act like it's no big deal!"

Ned remained in silence, pondering.

Ned stayed quiet, thinking.

'You'll forgive me, dear Ned?' she added, beginning to sob outright. 'I haven't taken 'ee in after all, because-because you can pack us back again, if you want to; though 'tis hundreds o' miles, and so wet, and night a-coming on, and I with no money!'

'You'll forgive me, dear Ned?' she added, starting to cry. 'I haven't taken you in after all, because—because you can send us back whenever you want; even though it’s hundreds of miles away, and it’s so wet, and night is coming, and I have no money!'

'What the devil can I do!' Hipcroft groaned.

'What the hell can I do!' Hipcroft groaned.

A more pitiable picture than the pair of helpless creatures presented was never seen on a rainy day, as they stood on the great, gaunt, puddled platform, a whiff of drizzle blowing under the roof upon them now and then; the pretty attire in which they had started from Stickleford in the early morning bemuddled and sodden, weariness on their faces, and fear of him in their eyes; for the child began to look as if she thought she too had done some wrong, remaining in an appalled silence till the tears rolled down her chubby cheeks.

A more pitiful sight than the two helpless creatures standing there was never seen on a rainy day, as they stood on the large, muddy platform, a gust of drizzle occasionally blowing under the roof onto them; the pretty clothes they had worn when they left Stickleford in the early morning were now dirty and soaked, exhaustion etched on their faces, and fear of him in their eyes; because the child seemed to think she had also done something wrong, staying silent in shock until tears rolled down her chubby cheeks.

'What's the matter, my little maid?' said Ned mechanically.

"What's wrong, my little maid?" Ned said automatically.

'I do want to go home!' she let out, in tones that told of a bursting heart. 'And my totties be cold, an' I shan't have no bread an' butter no more!'

'I really want to go home!' she exclaimed, her voice revealing her overwhelming emotions. 'And my little ones are cold, and I won't have any bread and butter anymore!'

'I don't know what to say to it all!' declared Ned, his own eye moist as he turned and walked a few steps with his head down; then regarded them again point blank. From the child escaped troubled breaths and silently welling tears.

"I don't know what to say about all this!" Ned said, his own eye watery as he turned and walked a few steps with his head down; then he looked at them directly again. The child let out shaky breaths and tears silently filled his eyes.

'Want some bread and butter, do 'ee?' he said, with factitious hardness.

"Want some bread and butter, huh?" he said, with a forced toughness.

'Ye-e-s!'

'Yesss!'

'Well, I daresay I can get 'ee a bit! Naturally, you must want some. And you, too, for that matter, Car'line.'

'Well, I can definitely get you some! Of course, you must want some. And you, too, Car'line.'

'I do feel a little hungered. But I can keep it off,' she murmured.

'I do feel a little hungry. But I can hold it in,' she murmured.

'Folk shouldn't do that,' he said gruffly. . . . 'There come along!' he caught up the child, as he added, 'You must bide here to-night, anyhow, I s'pose! What can you do otherwise? I'll get 'ee some tea and victuals; and as for this job, I'm sure I don't know what to say! This is the way out.'

"People shouldn't do that," he said gruffly. "Come on!" He scooped up the child and added, "You have to stay here tonight, I guess! What else can you do? I'll get you some tea and food; and as for this situation, I'm honestly not sure what to say! This is the way out."

They pursued their way, without speaking, to Ned's lodgings, which were not far off. There he dried them and made them comfortable, and prepared tea; they thankfully sat down. The ready-made household of which he suddenly found himself the head imparted a cosy aspect to his room, and a paternal one to himself. Presently he turned to the child and kissed her now blooming cheeks; and, looking wistfully at Car'line, kissed her also.

They continued on their way, silent, to Ned's place, which was nearby. Once there, he dried them off, made them comfortable, and brewed some tea; they gratefully sat down. The cozy home environment that he suddenly found himself overseeing made his room feel warm and inviting, and gave him a somewhat fatherly presence. After a moment, he turned to the child and kissed her rosy cheeks; then, gazing at Car'line with affection, he kissed her as well.

'I don't see how I can send 'ee back all them miles,' he growled, 'now you've come all the way o' purpose to join me. But you must trust me, Car'line, and show you've real faith in me. Well, do you feel better now, my little woman?'

'I don't see how I can send you back all those miles,' he grumbled, 'now that you've come all this way on purpose to join me. But you need to trust me, Car'line, and show that you really believe in me. So, do you feel better now, my little woman?'

The child nodded, her mouth being otherwise occupied.

The child nodded, her mouth busy.

'I did trust you, Ned, in coming; and I shall always!'

'I did trust you, Ned, by coming; and I always will!'

Thus, without any definite agreement to forgive her, he tacitly acquiesced in the fate that Heaven had sent him; and on the day of their marriage (which was not quite so soon as he had expected it could be, on account of the time necessary for banns) he took her to the Exhibition when they came back from church, as he had promised. While standing near a large mirror in one of the courts devoted to furniture, Car'line started, for in the glass appeared the reflection of a form exactly resembling Mop Ollamoor's-so exactly, that it seemed impossible to believe anybody but that artist in person to be the original. On passing round the objects which hemmed in Ned, her, and the child from a direct view, no Mop was to be seen. Whether he were really in London or not at that time was never known; and Car'line always stoutly denied that her readiness to go and meet Ned in town arose from any rumour that Mop had also gone thither; which denial there was no reasonable ground for doubting.

So, without any clear agreement to forgive her, he quietly accepted the fate that fate had given him; and on the day of their wedding (which didn’t happen as soon as he expected because of the time needed for the banns), he took her to the Exhibition after they returned from church, just as he promised. While standing near a large mirror in one of the furniture courts, Car'line jumped, because in the glass she saw someone who looked exactly like Mop Ollamoor—so much so that it seemed impossible for anyone else to be the original. When she moved around the objects that blocked a direct view of Ned, her, and the child, there was no sign of Mop. Whether he was actually in London at that time was never known; and Car'line always strongly insisted that her willingness to go and meet Ned in the city had nothing to do with any rumor that Mop had gone there too, and there was no reasonable doubt about her denial.

And then the year glided away, and the Exhibition folded itself up and became a thing of the past. The park trees that had been enclosed for six months were again exposed to the winds and storms, and the sod grew green anew. Ned found that Car'line resolved herself into a very good wife and companion, though she had made herself what is called cheap to him; but in that she was like another domestic article, a cheap tea-pot, which often brews better tea than a dear one. One autumn Hipcroft found himself with but little work to do, and a prospect of less for the winter. Both being country born and bred, they fancied they would like to live again in their natural atmosphere. It was accordingly decided between them that they should leave the pent-up London lodging, and that Ned should seek out employment near his native place, his wife and her daughter staying with Car'line's father during the search for occupation and an abode of their own.

Then the year drifted away, and the Exhibition wrapped up and became a thing of the past. The park trees that had been enclosed for six months were once again exposed to the winds and storms, and the grass grew green again. Ned discovered that Car'line turned out to be a very good wife and companion, even though she made herself what is called cheap to him; but in that way, she was like another household item, a cheap teapot that often brews better tea than an expensive one. One autumn, Hipcroft found himself with very little work to do and the prospect of even less in the winter. Since they were both from the countryside, they thought they would like to live again in their natural surroundings. It was ultimately decided that they would leave their cramped London apartment, and that Ned would look for work near his hometown while his wife and her daughter stayed with Car'line's father during the job search and the hunt for a place of their own.

Tinglings of pleasure pervaded Car'line's spasmodic little frame as she journeyed down with Ned to the place she had left two or three years before, in silence and under a cloud. To return to where she had once been despised, a smiling London wife with a distinct London accent, was a triumph which the world did not witness every day.

Tinglings of pleasure filled Car'line's shaky little body as she went down with Ned to the place she had left two or three years earlier, in silence and under a cloud. Going back to where she had once been looked down upon, now as a smiling London wife with a clear London accent, was a victory that the world didn't see every day.

The train did not stop at the petty roadside station that lay nearest to Stickleford, and the trio went on to Casterbridge. Ned thought it a good opportunity to make a few preliminary inquiries for employment at workshops in the borough where he had been known; and feeling cold from her journey, and it being dry underfoot and only dusk as yet, with a moon on the point of rising, Car'line and her little girl walked on toward Stickleford, leaving Ned to follow at a quicker pace, and pick her up at a certain half-way house, widely known as an inn.

The train didn't stop at the small roadside station closest to Stickleford, so the trio continued on to Casterbridge. Ned saw it as a great chance to ask around for job opportunities at the workshops in the borough where he had a reputation. Since she was feeling cold from the journey and it was still dry underfoot with just dusk settling in and a moon about to rise, Car'line and her little girl walked toward Stickleford, allowing Ned to catch up with them at a well-known halfway house that served as an inn.

The woman and child pursued the well-remembered way comfortably enough, though they were both becoming wearied. In the course of three miles they had passed Heedless-William's Pond, the familiar landmark by Bloom's End, and were drawing near the Quiet Woman Inn, a lone roadside hostel on the lower verge of the Egdon Heath, since and for many years abolished. In stepping up towards it Car'line heard more voices within than had formerly been customary at such an hour, and she learned that an auction of fat stock had been held near the spot that afternoon. The child would be the better for a rest as well as herself, she thought, and she entered.

The woman and child walked down the familiar path comfortably enough, even though they were both getting tired. In about three miles, they had passed Heedless-William's Pond, the well-known landmark by Bloom's End, and were getting closer to the Quiet Woman Inn, a lonely roadside inn at the edge of Egdon Heath, which had been out of business for many years. As Car'line approached, she heard more voices inside than usual for that time of day and found out that there had been an auction of livestock nearby that afternoon. She figured both she and the child could use a break, so she went in.

The guests and customers overflowed into the passage, and Car'line had no sooner crossed the threshold than a man whom she remembered by sight came forward with glass and mug in his hands towards a friend leaning against the wall; but, seeing her, very gallantly offered her a drink of the liquor, which was gin-and-beer hot, pouring her out a tumblerful and saying, in a moment or two: 'Surely, 'tis little Car'line Aspent that was-down at Stickleford?'

The guests and customers spilled into the hallway, and as soon as Car'line crossed the threshold, a man she recognized came over with a glass and mug in hand toward a friend leaning against the wall. However, upon seeing her, he graciously offered her a drink of the warm gin-and-beer, pouring her a tumblerful and saying after a moment, "Isn't that little Car'line Aspent who was down at Stickleford?"

She assented, and, though she did not exactly want this beverage, she drank it since it was offered, and her entertainer begged her to come in farther and sit down. Once within the room she found that all the persons present were seated close against the walls, and there being a chair vacant she did the same. An explanation of their position occurred the next moment. In the opposite corner stood Mop, rosining his bow and looking just the same as ever. The company had cleared the middle of the room for dancing, and they were about to dance again. As she wore a veil to keep off the wind she did not think he had recognized her, or could possibly guess the identity of the child; and to her satisfied surprise she found that she could confront him quite calmly-mistress of herself in the dignity her London life had given her. Before she had quite emptied her glass the dance was called, the dancers formed in two lines, the music sounded, and the figure began.

She agreed, and even though she didn’t really want the drink, she accepted it since it was offered, and her host urged her to come in further and have a seat. Once inside the room, she noticed that everyone present was sitting close to the walls, so she took a seat in the vacant chair. The reason for their arrangement became clear a moment later. In the opposite corner stood Mop, tuning his bow and looking the same as always. The group had cleared the center of the room for dancing, and they were about to start again. Because she wore a veil to block the wind, she figured he hadn’t recognized her and wouldn’t guess who the child was; to her pleasant surprise, she found that she could face him quite calmly—confident in the dignity her life in London had given her. Just before she finished her drink, the dance was called, the dancers lined up in two rows, the music started, and the dance began.

Then matters changed for Car'line. A tremor quickened itself to life in her, and her hand so shook that she could hardly set down her glass. It was not the dance nor the dancers, but the notes of that old violin which thrilled the London wife, these having still all the witchery that she had so well known of yore, and under which she had used to lose her power of independent will. How it all came back! There was the fiddling figure against the wall; the large, oily, mop-like head of him, and beneath the mop the face with closed eyes.

Then things changed for Car'line. A tremor awakened inside her, and her hand shook so badly that she could barely set down her glass. It wasn't the dance or the dancers, but the notes from that old violin that thrilled the London wife, having all the magic that she had once known so well, under which she used to lose her sense of independent will. Everything came flooding back! There was the fiddler standing against the wall; his large, greasy, mop-like head, and beneath the mop, the face with closed eyes.

After the first moments of paralyzed reverie the familiar tune in the familiar rendering made her laugh and shed tears simultaneously. Then a man at the bottom of the dance, whose partner had dropped away, stretched out his hand and beckoned to her to take the place. She did not want to dance; she entreated by signs to be left where she was, but she was entreating of the tune and its player rather than of the dancing man. The saltatory tendency which the fiddler and his cunning instrument had ever been able to start in her was seizing Car'line just as it had done in earlier years, possibly assisted by the gin-and-beer hot. Tired as she was she grasped her little girl by the hand, and plunging in at the bottom of the figure, whirled about with the rest. She found that her companions were mostly people of the neighbouring hamlets and farms-Bloom's End, Mellstock, Lewgate, and elsewhere; and by degrees she was recognized as she convulsively danced on, wishing that Mop would cease and let her heart rest from the aching he caused, and her feet also.

After a moment of stunned silence, the familiar melody played in a familiar way made her laugh and cry at the same time. Then a man at the edge of the dance, whose partner had stepped away, reached out his hand and signaled for her to join in. She didn’t want to dance; she gestured desperately to be left alone, but she was pleading with the music and its player more than with the dancing man. The urge to dance that the fiddler and his clever instrument always sparked in her was now taking hold of Car'line just like it had in the past, perhaps fueled by the hot gin and beer. Tired as she was, she took her little girl’s hand and jumped into the dance at the end of the line, spinning around with the others. She noticed that her fellow dancers were mostly from nearby villages and farms—Bloom's End, Mellstock, Lewgate, and others; gradually, she became recognized as she danced wildly, hoping that Mop would stop and let her heart rest from the ache he caused, as well as her tired feet.

After long and many minutes the dance ended, when she was urged to fortify herself with more gin-and-beer; which she did, feeling very weak and overpowered with hysteric emotion. She refrained from unveiling, to keep Mop in ignorance of her presence, if possible. Several of the guests having left, Car'line hastily wiped her lips and also turned to go; but, according to the account of some who remained, at that very moment a five-handed reel was proposed, in which two or three begged her to join.

After a long time, the dance finally ended, and she was encouraged to have some more gin-and-beer; she obliged, feeling weak and overwhelmed with emotion. She decided not to reveal herself, wanting to keep Mop unaware of her presence, if she could. With several guests having left, Car'line quickly wiped her lips and turned to leave as well; however, according to some who stayed, at that exact moment, someone suggested a five-handed reel, and two or three people asked her to join in.

She declined on the plea of being tired and having to walk to Stickleford, when Mop began aggressively tweedling 'My Fancy-Lad,' in D major, as the air to which the reel was to be footed. He must have recognized her, though she did not know it, for it was the strain of all seductive strains which she was least able to resist-the one he had played when she was leaning over the bridge at the date of their first acquaintance. Car'line stepped despairingly into the middle of the room with the other four.

She turned down the offer, saying she was tired and needed to walk to Stickleford. Just then, Mop started playing 'My Fancy-Lad' in D major, the tune for their dance. He must have recognized her, although she didn't realize it, because it was the most tempting melody she couldn't resist—the one he had played when she was leaning over the bridge the first time they met. Car'line stepped hopelessly into the center of the room with the other four.

Reels were resorted to hereabouts at this time by the more robust spirits, for the reduction of superfluous energy which the ordinary figure-dances were not powerful enough to exhaust. As everybody knows, or does not know, the five reelers stood in the form of a cross, the reel being performed by each line of three alternately, the persons who successively came to the middle place dancing in both directions. Car'line soon found herself in this place, the axis of the whole performance, and could not get out of it, the tune turning into the first part without giving her opportunity. And now she began to suspect that Mop did know her, and was doing this on purpose, though whenever she stole a glance at him his closed eyes betokened obliviousness to everything outside his own brain. She continued to wend her way through the figure of 8 that was formed by her course, the fiddler introducing into his notes the wild and agonizing sweetness of a living voice in one too highly wrought; its pathos running high and running low in endless variation, projecting through her nerves excruciating spasms, a sort of blissful torture. The room swam, the tune was endless; and in about a quarter of an hour the only other woman in the figure dropped out exhausted, and sank panting on a bench.

Reels were popular around here at this time among the more energetic folks, as the usual dances weren’t intense enough to wear them out. As everyone knows, or maybe doesn’t know, the five-reel dance was set up in a cross formation, with each line of three dancers taking turns in the center, dancing in both directions. Car'line soon found herself in that central spot, the focal point of the entire performance, and couldn’t escape it, as the music transitioned into the first part without giving her a chance to break free. Now she started to suspect that Mop was aware of her and was doing this on purpose, even though every time she stole a glance at him, his closed eyes suggested he was completely lost in his own thoughts. She kept moving through the figure-eight pattern created by her path, while the fiddler added the wild and bittersweet notes of a voice overly emotional; its highs and lows creating endless variations, sending painful spasms through her nerves, a kind of blissful torture. The room felt like it was spinning, the music seemed infinite; and in about fifteen minutes, the only other woman in the dance dropped out, exhausted, and sank panting onto a bench.

The reel instantly resolved itself into a four-handed one. Car'line would have given anything to leave off; but she had, or fancied she had, no power, while Mop played such tunes; and thus another ten minutes slipped by, a haze of dust now clouding the candles, the floor being of stone, sanded. Then another dancer fell out-one of the men-and went into the passage, in a frantic search for liquor. To turn the figure into a three-handed reel was the work of a second, Mop modulating at the same time into 'The Fairy Dance,' as better suited to the contracted movement, and no less one of those foods of love which, as manufactured by his bow, had always intoxicated her.

The reel quickly turned into a four-person dance. Car'line would have done anything to stop, but she believed she had no choice while Mop played those tunes. Another ten minutes passed, with a haze of dust clouding the candles, as the floor was made of sanded stone. Then one of the men dropped out and went into the hallway, frantically searching for alcohol. It took no time at all to switch the dance to a three-person reel, and Mop seamlessly transitioned into 'The Fairy Dance,' which was better suited for the smaller group and just as intoxicating as the melodies that his bow always created for her.

In a reel for three there was no rest whatever, and four or five minutes were enough to make her remaining two partners, now thoroughly blown, stamp their last bar and, like their predecessors, limp off into the next room to get something to drink. Car'line, half-stifled inside her veil, was left dancing alone, the apartment now being empty of everybody save herself, Mop, and their little girl.

In a reel for three, there was no break at all, and four or five minutes were enough to leave her remaining two partners, now completely exhausted, to finish their last bar and, like the others, shuffle off to the next room to grab a drink. Car'line, half-buried under her veil, ended up dancing alone, as the apartment was now empty except for her, Mop, and their little girl.

She flung up the veil, and cast her eyes upon him, as if imploring him to withdraw himself and his acoustic magnetism from the atmosphere. Mop opened one of his own orbs, as though for the first time, fixed it peeringly upon her, and smiling dreamily, threw into his strains the reserve of expression which he could not afford to waste on a big and noisy dance. Crowds of little chromatic subtleties, capable of drawing tears from a statue, proceeded straightway from the ancient fiddle, as if it were dying of the emotion which had been pent up within it ever since its banishment from some Italian city where it first took shape and sound. There was that in the look of Mop's one dark eye which said: 'You cannot leave off, dear, whether you would or no!' and it bred in her a paroxysm of desperation that defied him to tire her down.

She lifted the veil and looked at him, as if begging him to remove himself and his magnetic presence from the air. Mop opened one of his eyes, as if for the first time, fixed it intently on her, and smiling dreamily, infused his music with a depth of feeling he couldn’t waste on a loud dance. Waves of subtle emotions, capable of bringing tears to a statue, flowed directly from the old violin, as if it were dying from the feelings it had bottled up since it was cast out from some Italian city where it first came to life. There was something in the look of Mop's one dark eye that seemed to say: 'You can't stop, my dear, whether you want to or not!' and it sparked in her a desperate urge that challenged him to wear her down.

She thus continued to dance alone, defiantly as she thought, but in truth slavishly and abjectly, subject to every wave of the melody, and probed by the gimlet-like gaze of her fascinator's open eye; keeping up at the same time a feeble smile in his face, as a feint to signify it was still her own pleasure which led her on. A terrified embarrassment as to what she could say to him if she were to leave off, had its unrecognized share in keeping her going. The child, who was beginning to be distressed by the strange situation, came up and said: 'Stop, mother, stop, and let's go home!' as she seized Car'line's hand.

She kept dancing alone, thinking she was being defiant, but in reality, she was helpless and completely controlled by the music, feeling every shift in the melody, and affected by the intense gaze of her fascinator's open eye. At the same time, she maintained a weak smile on her face as a pretense to show that it was still her own enjoyment that kept her going. A deep, unrecognized embarrassment about what she could say to him if she stopped was also part of what made her keep going. The child, who was starting to feel upset by the strange situation, came over and said, "Stop, Mom, stop, and let's go home!" as she grabbed Car'line's hand.

Suddenly Car'line sank staggering to the floor; and rolling over on her face, prone she remained. Mop's fiddle thereupon emitted an elfin shriek of finality; stepping quickly down from the nine-gallon beer-cask which had formed his rostrum, he went to the little girl, who disconsolately bent over her mother.

Suddenly, Car'line collapsed onto the floor; turning over onto her face, she lay there. Mop's fiddle then let out a piercing scream of finality. Quickly stepping down from the nine-gallon beer cask that had been his podium, he went over to the little girl, who was sadly leaning over her mother.

The guests who had gone into the back-room for liquor and change of air, hearing something unusual, trooped back hitherward, where they endeavoured to revive poor, weak Car'line by blowing her with the bellows and opening the window. Ned, her husband, who had been detained in Casterbridge, as aforesaid, came along the road at this juncture, and hearing excited voices through the open casement, and to his great surprise, the mention of his wife's name, he entered amid the rest upon the scene. Car'line was now in convulsions, weeping violently, and for a long time nothing could be done with her. While he was sending for a cart to take her onward to Stickleford Hipcroft anxiously inquired how it had all happened; and then the assembly explained that a fiddler formerly known in the locality had lately revisited his old haunts, and had taken upon himself without invitation to play that evening at the inn.

The guests who had gone into the back room for drinks and some fresh air, hearing something unusual, rushed back to where they tried to revive poor, weak Car'line by fanning her with the bellows and opening the window. Ned, her husband, who had been held up in Casterbridge, came along the road at that moment, and hearing excited voices through the open window, and to his great surprise, the mention of his wife's name, he joined the scene. Car'line was now in convulsions, crying hard, and for a long time nothing could be done to help her. While he was sending for a cart to take her to Stickleford, Hipcroft anxiously asked how it had all happened; then the group explained that a fiddler who was once well-known in the area had recently returned to his old haunts and had taken it upon himself, without invitation, to play that evening at the inn.

Ned demanded the fiddler's name, and they said Ollamoor.

Ned asked for the fiddler's name, and they said Ollamoor.

'Ah!' exclaimed Ned, looking round him. 'Where is he, and where-where's my little girl?'

'Ah!' exclaimed Ned, looking around. 'Where is he, and where—where's my little girl?'

Ollamoor had disappeared, and so had the child. Hipcroft was in ordinary a quiet and tractable fellow, but a determination which was to be feared settled in his face now. 'Blast him!' he cried. 'I'll beat his skull in for'n, if I swing for it to-morrow!'

Ollamoor had vanished, and so had the kid. Hipcroft was usually a calm and easygoing guy, but now a fierce determination set on his face. 'Damn him!' he shouted. 'I’ll smash his skull for this, even if I end up paying for it tomorrow!'

He had rushed to the poker which lay on the hearth, and hastened down the passage, the people following. Outside the house, on the other side of the highway, a mass of dark heath-land rose sullenly upward to its not easily accessible interior, a ravined plateau, whereon jutted into the sky, at the distance of a couple of miles, the fir-woods of Mistover backed by the Yalbury coppices-a place of Dantesque gloom at this hour, which would have afforded secure hiding for a battery of artillery, much less a man and a child.

He rushed to the poker lying on the hearth and hurried down the hallway, with people following him. Outside the house, across the highway, a dark expanse of heathland rose gloomily upward to its hard-to-reach center, a ravine-like plateau, where the fir trees of Mistover loomed in the sky about two miles away, backed by the Yalbury woods—an area of Dantesque gloom at this hour, perfect for hiding a battery of artillery, let alone a man and a child.

Some other men plunged thitherward with him, and more went along the road. They were gone about twenty minutes altogether, returning without result to the inn. Ned sat down in the settle, and clasped his forehead with his hands.

Some other men followed him there, and more continued along the road. They were gone for about twenty minutes in total, returning empty-handed to the inn. Ned sat down on the bench and held his forehead with his hands.

'Well-what a fool the man is, and hev been all these years, if he thinks the child his, as a' do seem to!' they whispered. 'And everybody else knowing otherwise!'

'Well—what a fool the man is, and he has been all these years, if he thinks the child is his, as it does seem to!' they whispered. 'And everyone else knows differently!'

'No, I don't think 'tis mine!' cried Ned hoarsely, as he looked up from his hands. 'But she is mine, all the same! Ha'n't I nussed her? Ha'n't I fed her and teached her? Ha'n't I played wi' her? O, little Carry-gone with that rogue-gone!'

'No, I don't think it's mine!' cried Ned hoarsely, looking up from his hands. 'But she is mine, all the same! Haven't I cared for her? Haven't I fed her and taught her? Haven't I played with her? Oh, little Carry—gone with that scoundrel!'

'You ha'n't lost your mis'ess, anyhow,' they said to console him. 'She's throwed up the sperrits, and she is feeling better, and she's more to 'ee than a child that isn't yours.'

'You haven't lost your missus, anyway,' they said to comfort him. 'She's getting over the spirits, and she's feeling better, and she means more to you than a child who isn't yours.'

'She isn't! She's not so particular much to me, especially now she's lost the little maid! But Carry's everything!'

'She isn't! She's not that important to me, especially now that she’s lost the little maid! But Carry is everything!'

'Well, ver' like you'll find her to-morrow.'

'Well, you’ll definitely find her tomorrow.'

'Ah-but shall I? Yet he can't hurt her-surely he can't! Well-how's Car'line now? I am ready. Is the cart here?'

'Oh, but should I? He can't hurt her—he surely can't! So, how is Car'line now? I’m ready. Is the cart here?'

She was lifted into the vehicle, and they sadly lumbered on toward Stickleford. Next day she was calmer; but the fits were still upon her; and her will seemed shattered. For the child she appeared to show singularly little anxiety, though Ned was nearly distracted. It was nevertheless quite expected that the impish Mop would restore the lost one after a freak of a day or two; but time went on, and neither he nor she could be heard of, and Hipcroft murmured that perhaps he was exercising upon her some unholy musical charm, as he had done upon Car'line herself. Weeks passed, and still they could obtain no clue either to the fiddler's whereabouts or the girl's; and how he could have induced her to go with him remained a mystery.

She was put in the vehicle, and they sadly made their way to Stickleford. The next day she was calmer, but the episodes still troubled her, and her will seemed broken. She appeared to care very little about the child, even though Ned was nearly going out of his mind. However, everyone expected that the mischievous Mop would bring the lost one back after a day or two. But as time went on, neither he nor she could be found, and Hipcroft speculated that maybe he was using some sort of dark musical charm on her, just like he had done with Car'line. Weeks went by, and they still couldn’t find any trace of the fiddler or the girl, and how he had persuaded her to go with him remained a mystery.

Then Ned, who had obtained only temporary employment in the neighbourhood, took a sudden hatred toward his native district, and a rumour reaching his ears through the police that a somewhat similar man and child had been seen at a fair near London, he playing a violin, she dancing on stilts, a new interest in the capital took possession of Hipcroft with an intensity which would scarcely allow him time to pack before returning thither.

Then Ned, who had only found temporary work in the area, suddenly developed a strong dislike for his hometown. When he heard a rumor from the police that a similar man and child had been spotted at a fair near London—him playing the violin and her dancing on stilts—Hipcroft became intensely interested in the city, barely giving himself enough time to pack before heading back.

He did not, however, find the lost one, though he made it the entire business of his over-hours to stand about in by-streets in the hope of discovering her, and would start up in the night, saying, 'That rascal's torturing her to maintain him!' To which his wife would answer peevishly, 'Don't 'ee raft yourself so, Ned! You prevent my getting a bit o' rest! He won't hurt her!' and fall asleep again.

He didn’t find the lost one, even though he spent all his free time waiting in back streets, hoping to find her. He would suddenly wake up at night, saying, “That jerk is torturing her to keep him going!” His wife would respond irritably, “Don’t get so worked up, Ned! You’re keeping me from getting any rest! He won’t hurt her!” and then fall back asleep.

That Carry and her father had emigrated to America was the general opinion; Mop, no doubt, finding the girl a highly desirable companion when he had trained her to keep him by her earnings as a dancer. There, for that matter, they may be performing in some capacity now, though he must be an old scamp verging on threescore-and-ten, and she a woman of four-and-forty.

That Carry and her dad had moved to America was the common belief; Mop, for sure, found the girl a really appealing partner once he trained her to support him with her earnings as a dancer. In fact, they might be performing together in some way right now, even though he has to be a cheeky old man nearing seventy, and she’s a woman in her forties.

May 1893.

A TRADITION OF EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND FOUR

The widely discussed possibility of an invasion of England through a Channel tunnel has more than once recalled old Solomon Selby's story to my mind.

The often-talked-about idea of an invasion of England via a Channel tunnel has reminded me more than once of the old story of Solomon Selby.

The occasion on which I numbered myself among his audience was one evening when he was sitting in the yawning chimney-corner of the inn- kitchen, with some others who had gathered there, and I entered for shelter from the rain. Withdrawing the stem of his pipe from the dental notch in which it habitually rested, he leaned back in the recess behind him and smiled into the fire. The smile was neither mirthful nor sad, not precisely humorous nor altogether thoughtful. We who knew him recognized it in a moment: it was his narrative smile. Breaking off our few desultory remarks we drew up closer, and he thus began:-

The night I found myself in his audience was when he was sitting in the wide chimney corner of the inn's kitchen, with a few others who had gathered there, and I came in to take shelter from the rain. He pulled his pipe out from the spot where it usually rested, leaned back in the nook behind him, and smiled at the fire. The smile wasn't exactly happy or sad, not truly funny nor completely serious. We who knew him recognized it immediately: it was his storytelling smile. Pausing our random chatter, we moved in closer, and he started to speak:

'My father, as you mid know, was a shepherd all his life, and lived out by the Cove four miles yonder, where I was born and lived likewise, till I moved here shortly afore I was married. The cottage that first knew me stood on the top of the down, near the sea; there was no house within a mile and a half of it; it was built o' purpose for the farm-shepherd, and had no other use. They tell me that it is now pulled down, but that you can see where it stood by the mounds of earth and a few broken bricks that are still lying about. It was a bleak and dreary place in winter-time, but in summer it was well enough, though the garden never came to much, because we could not get up a good shelter for the vegetables and currant bushes; and where there is much wind they don't thrive.

'My father, as you may know, was a shepherd his entire life, and he lived out by the Cove four miles over there, where I was born and lived too, until I moved here right before I got married. The cottage that first knew me was on top of the hill, near the sea; there wasn’t another house within a mile and a half. It was built specifically for the farm shepherd and had no other purpose. I've been told that it has been torn down now, but you can still see where it stood by the mounds of earth and a few broken bricks that remain. It was a bleak and dreary place in winter, but in summer it was decent enough, though the garden never amounted to much because we couldn’t set up a good shelter for the vegetables and currant bushes; they don’t thrive where there’s a lot of wind.'

'Of all the years of my growing up the ones that bide clearest in my mind were eighteen hundred and three, four, and five. This was for two reasons: I had just then grown to an age when a child's eyes and ears take in and note down everything about him, and there was more at that date to bear in mind than there ever has been since with me. It was, as I need hardly tell ye, the time after the first peace, when Bonaparte was scheming his descent upon England. He had crossed the great Alp mountains, fought in Egypt, drubbed the Turks, the Austrians, and the Proossians, and now thought he'd have a slap at us. On the other side of the Channel, scarce out of sight and hail of a man standing on our English shore, the French army of a hundred and sixty thousand men and fifteen thousand horses had been brought together from all parts, and were drilling every day. Bonaparte had been three years a-making his preparations; and to ferry these soldiers and cannon and horses across he had contrived a couple of thousand flat-bottomed boats. These boats were small things, but wonderfully built. A good few of 'em were so made as to have a little stable on board each for the two horses that were to haul the cannon carried at the stern. To get in order all these, and other things required, he had assembled there five or six thousand fellows that worked at trades-carpenters, blacksmiths, wheelwrights, saddlers, and what not. O 'twas a curious time!

'Of all the years I grew up, the ones that stand out the most in my mind are 1803, 1804, and 1805. This is for two reasons: I had just reached an age when a child's eyes and ears take in and note everything around them, and there was more to remember during that time than there has been since for me. It was, as I hardly need to tell you, the period after the first peace, when Bonaparte was plotting his invasion of England. He had crossed the giant Alps, fought in Egypt, defeated the Turks, the Austrians, and the Prussians, and now he thought he’d take a shot at us. On the other side of the Channel, barely out of sight and sound of a person standing on our English shore, the French army of 160,000 men and 15,000 horses had been gathered from everywhere and was training every day. Bonaparte had spent three years preparing; to transport these soldiers, cannons, and horses across the water, he had arranged for a couple of thousand flat-bottomed boats. These boats were small, but incredibly well-made. Quite a few of them were designed with a little stable onboard for the two horses that would pull the cannons situated at the back. To organize all of this and other necessary things, he had gathered five or six thousand people working in various trades—carpenters, blacksmiths, wheelwrights, saddlers, and so on. Oh, it was a fascinating time!'

'Every morning Neighbour Boney would muster his multitude of soldiers on the beach, draw 'em up in line, practise 'em in the manoeuvre of embarking, horses and all, till they could do it without a single hitch. My father drove a flock of ewes up into Sussex that year, and as he went along the drover's track over the high downs thereabout he could see this drilling actually going on-the accoutrements of the rank and file glittering in the sun like silver. It was thought and always said by my uncle Job, sergeant of foot (who used to know all about these matters), that Bonaparte meant to cross with oars on a calm night. The grand query with us was, Where would my gentleman land? Many of the common people thought it would be at Dover; others, who knew how unlikely it was that any skilful general would make a business of landing just where he was expected, said he'd go either east into the River Thames, or west'ard to some convenient place, most likely one of the little bays inside the Isle of Portland, between the Beal and St. Alban's Head-and for choice the three-quarter-round Cove, screened from every mortal eye, that seemed made o' purpose, out by where we lived, and which I've climmed up with two tubs of brandy across my shoulders on scores o' dark nights in my younger days. Some had heard that a part o' the French fleet would sail right round Scotland, and come up the Channel to a suitable haven. However, there was much doubt upon the matter; and no wonder, for after-years proved that Bonaparte himself could hardly make up his mind upon that great and very particular point, where to land. His uncertainty came about in this wise, that he could get no news as to where and how our troops lay in waiting, and that his knowledge of possible places where flat-bottomed boats might be quietly run ashore, and the men they brought marshalled in order, was dim to the last degree. Being flat-bottomed, they didn't require a harbour for unshipping their cargo of men, but a good shelving beach away from sight, and with a fair open road toward London. How the question posed that great Corsican tyrant (as we used to call him), what pains he took to settle it, and, above all, what a risk he ran on one particular night in trying to do so, were known only to one man here and there; and certainly to no maker of newspapers or printer of books, or my account o't would not have had so many heads shaken over it as it has by gentry who only believe what they see in printed lines.

Every morning, Neighbor Boney would gather his troops on the beach, line them up, and practice getting on boats with their horses until they could do it flawlessly. That year, my dad drove a group of sheep up to Sussex, and as he followed the drover's route across the high hills, he could actually see the training happening—the soldiers' gear shining in the sun like silver. My uncle Job, a foot sergeant who knew all about this stuff, always said that Bonaparte planned to cross on a calm night using rowboats. The big question for us was, where would he land? Many folks thought it would be at Dover, while others, who understood that a smart general wouldn’t land exactly where he was expected, said he might go either east into the River Thames or west to a convenient spot, likely one of the small bays near the Isle of Portland, between Beal and St. Alban's Head—and preferably the three-quarter-round Cove, hidden from all eyes, which seemed perfectly made for it near where we lived. I’ve climbed up there with two barrels of brandy on my shoulders many times during dark nights in my youth. Some people heard that part of the French fleet would sail around Scotland and come down the Channel to a good landing spot. However, there was a lot of uncertainty about it; and no surprise, for later years showed that even Bonaparte struggled to decide where to land. His uncertainty stemmed from the fact that he couldn’t get any information on where our troops were stationed, and his understanding of possible landing spots where flat-bottomed boats could quietly come ashore, and the soldiers could disembark in order, was extremely limited. Being flat-bottomed, they didn’t need a harbor to unload their troops, just a gently sloping beach out of sight, with a clear path to London. How much that question tormented that great Corsican tyrant (as we used to call him), what effort he took to figure it out, and especially the risks he faced on one particular night trying to do so was known only to a few; certainly not to any newspaper makers or book printers, or my account of it wouldn’t have drawn so many skeptical looks from people who only trust what they see in print.

'The flocks my father had charge of fed all about the downs near our house, overlooking the sea and shore each way for miles. In winter and early spring father was up a deal at nights, watching and tending the lambing. Often he'd go to bed early, and turn out at twelve or one; and on the other hand, he'd sometimes stay up till twelve or one, and then turn in to bed. As soon as I was old enough I used to help him, mostly in the way of keeping an eye upon the ewes while he was gone home to rest. This is what I was doing in a particular month in either the year four or five-I can't certainly fix which, but it was long before I was took away from the sheepkeeping to be bound prentice to a trade. Every night at that time I was at the fold, about half a mile, or it may be a little more, from our cottage, and no living thing at all with me but the ewes and young lambs. Afeard? No; I was never afeard of being alone at these times; for I had been reared in such an out-step place that the lack o' human beings at night made me less fearful than the sight of 'em. Directly I saw a man's shape after dark in a lonely place I was frightened out of my senses.

The flocks my dad took care of grazed all around the hills near our house, with views of the sea and shore for miles. In winter and early spring, Dad was often up at night, watching over the lambs being born. He'd usually go to bed early and get up at midnight or one; other times, he might stay up until midnight or one and then finally go to sleep. As soon as I was old enough, I would help him, mostly by keeping an eye on the ewes while he went home to rest. This is what I was doing during a certain month in either the year four or five—I can't say for sure which, but it was long before I was taken away from sheepkeeping to become an apprentice. Every night around that time, I was at the fold, about half a mile, or maybe a bit more, from our cottage, with no one around but the ewes and young lambs. Was I scared? No, I was never scared being alone at night; I had grown up in such a remote place that the absence of people made me less afraid than their presence. The moment I saw a man's silhouette after dark in a lonely area, I was terrified out of my mind.

'One day in that month we were surprised by a visit from my uncle Job, the sergeant in the Sixty-first foot, then in camp on the downs above King George's watering-place, several miles to the west yonder. Uncle Job dropped in about dusk, and went up with my father to the fold for an hour or two. Then he came home, had a drop to drink from the tub of sperrits that the smugglers kept us in for housing their liquor when they'd made a run, and for burning 'em off when there was danger. After that he stretched himself out on the settle to sleep. I went to bed: at one o'clock father came home, and waking me to go and take his place, according to custom, went to bed himself. On my way out of the house I passed Uncle Job on the settle. He opened his eyes, and upon my telling him where I was going he said it was a shame that such a youngster as I should go up there all alone; and when he had fastened up his stock and waist-belt he set off along with me, taking a drop from the sperrit-tub in a little flat bottle that stood in the corner-cupboard.

One evening that month, we were surprised by a visit from my Uncle Job, the sergeant in the Sixty-first Foot, who was then camped on the hills above King George’s seaside resort, several miles to the west. Uncle Job arrived around dusk and spent an hour or two with my father in the sheepfold. After that, he came home, had a drink from the smuggler's spirits barrel that we stored for them when they made a run and for burning off when there was trouble. Then he stretched out on the settle to sleep. I went to bed; at one o'clock, my father came home, woke me up to take his place as usual, and went to bed himself. As I was leaving the house, I passed Uncle Job on the settle. He opened his eyes, and when I told him where I was going, he said it was a shame for someone as young as me to go up there all alone. After he secured his stock and waist-belt, he set off with me, taking a swig from the spirits barrel in a small flat bottle that was in the corner cupboard.

'By and by we drew up to the fold, saw that all was right, and then, to keep ourselves warm, curled up in a heap of straw that lay inside the thatched hurdles we had set up to break the stroke of the wind when there was any. To-night, however, there was none. It was one of those very still nights when, if you stand on the high hills anywhere within two or three miles of the sea, you can hear the rise and fall of the tide along the shore, coming and going every few moments like a sort of great snore of the sleeping world. Over the lower ground there was a bit of a mist, but on the hill where we lay the air was clear, and the moon, then in her last quarter, flung a fairly good light on the grass and scattered straw.

'Eventually, we reached the fold, made sure everything was fine, and then, to keep warm, we curled up in a pile of straw inside the thatched hurdles we had set up to shield us from the wind when it blew. Tonight, however, there was no wind. It was one of those quiet nights when, if you stand on the high hills within a couple of miles of the sea, you can hear the tide rising and falling along the shore, ebbing and flowing like a big snore from the sleeping world. There was a bit of mist over the lower ground, but on the hill where we were lying, the air was clear, and the moon, in her last quarter, cast a decent light on the grass and scattered straw.'

'While we lay there Uncle Job amused me by telling me strange stories of the wars he had served in and the wounds he had got. He had already fought the French in the Low Countries, and hoped to fight 'em again. His stories lasted so long that at last I was hardly sure that I was not a soldier myself, and had seen such service as he told of. The wonders of his tales quite bewildered my mind, till I fell asleep and dreamed of battle, smoke, and flying soldiers, all of a kind with the doings he had been bringing up to me.

While we lay there, Uncle Job entertained me with strange stories about the wars he had fought in and the injuries he had sustained. He had already battled the French in the Low Countries and was eager to face them again. His stories went on for so long that I almost believed I was a soldier myself and had experienced the things he described. The wonders of his tales completely confused me until I fell asleep and dreamed of battles, smoke, and soldiers flying, all similar to the events he had shared with me.

'How long my nap lasted I am not prepared to say. But some faint sounds over and above the rustle of the ewes in the straw, the bleat of the lambs, and the tinkle of the sheep-bell brought me to my waking senses. Uncle Job was still beside me; but he too had fallen asleep. I looked out from the straw, and saw what it was that had aroused me. Two men, in boat-cloaks, cocked hats, and swords, stood by the hurdles about twenty yards off.

'I'm not sure how long I napped. But some faint sounds, on top of the rustling of the ewes in the straw, the bleating of the lambs, and the tinkling of the sheepbell, brought me back to reality. Uncle Job was still next to me, but he had also fallen asleep. I peered out from the straw and saw what had woken me up. Two men, in long cloaks, tricorn hats, and swords, were standing by the hurdles about twenty yards away.'

'I turned my ear thitherward to catch what they were saying, but though I heard every word o't, not one did I understand. They spoke in a tongue that was not ours-in French, as I afterward found. But if I could not gain the meaning of a word, I was shrewd boy enough to find out a deal of the talkers' business. By the light o' the moon I could see that one of 'em carried a roll of paper in his hand, while every moment he spoke quick to his comrade, and pointed right and left with the other hand to spots along the shore. There was no doubt that he was explaining to the second gentleman the shapes and features of the coast. What happened soon after made this still clearer to me.

I turned my ear that way to catch what they were saying, but even though I heard every word, I didn't understand a single one. They were speaking a language that wasn't ours—in French, as I found out later. But even if I couldn't grasp the meaning of any words, I was clever enough to get a good sense of what the speakers were up to. By the light of the moon, I could see that one of them was holding a roll of paper in his hand, and he was quickly talking to his companion while pointing to different spots along the shore with his other hand. It was clear that he was explaining the shapes and features of the coast to the other guy. What happened shortly after made this even clearer to me.

'All this time I had not waked Uncle Job, but now I began to be afeared that they might light upon us, because uncle breathed so heavily through's nose. I put my mouth to his ear and whispered, "Uncle Job."

'All this time I hadn’t woken Uncle Job, but now I started to worry that they might find us, because Uncle was breathing so loudly through his nose. I leaned in close to his ear and whispered, "Uncle Job."

'"What is it, my boy?" he said, just as if he hadn't been asleep at all.

"What’s wrong, my boy?" he said, as if he hadn't been sleeping at all.

'"Hush!" says I. "Two French generals-"

"Hush!" I said. "Two French generals-"

'"French?" says he.

"French?" he asks.

'"Yes," says I. "Come to see where to land their army!"

"Yes," I said. "Come to see where to land their army!"

'I pointed 'em out; but I could say no more, for the pair were coming at that moment much nearer to where we lay. As soon as they got as near as eight or ten yards, the officer with a roll in his hand stooped down to a slanting hurdle, unfastened his roll upon it, and spread it out. Then suddenly he sprung a dark lantern open on the paper, and showed it to be a map.

'I pointed them out, but I couldn't say anything more because the two of them were getting closer to where we were lying. As soon as they were about eight or ten yards away, the officer with a roll in his hand bent down to a slanted hurdle, unfastened his roll from it, and spread it out. Then, suddenly, he opened a dark lantern on the paper and revealed that it was a map.'

'"What be they looking at?" I whispered to Uncle Job.

"What are they looking at?" I whispered to Uncle Job.

'"A chart of the Channel," says the sergeant (knowing about such things).

"A map of the Channel," the sergeant says, understanding these kinds of things.

'The other French officer now stooped likewise, and over the map they had a long consultation, as they pointed here and there on the paper, and then hither and thither at places along the shore beneath us. I noticed that the manner of one officer was very respectful toward the other, who seemed much his superior, the second in rank calling him by a sort of title that I did not know the sense of. The head one, on the other hand, was quite familiar with his friend, and more than once clapped him on the shoulder.

The other French officer bent down too, and over the map, they had a lengthy discussion, pointing at different spots on the paper and then at various places along the shore below us. I noticed that one officer treated the other with a lot of respect, as the one who was higher in rank addressed him with a title I didn’t understand. The higher-ranking officer, on the other hand, was quite friendly with his companion, even patting him on the shoulder more than once.

'Uncle Job had watched as well as I, but though the map had been in the lantern-light, their faces had always been in shade. But when they rose from stooping over the chart the light flashed upward, and fell smart upon one of 'em's features. No sooner had this happened than Uncle Job gasped, and sank down as if he'd been in a fit.

'Uncle Job had been watching just like I was, but even with the map lit by the lantern, their faces were always in shadow. But when they stood up from leaning over the chart, the light shot up and illuminated one of their features. As soon as that happened, Uncle Job gasped and collapsed as if he had been struck by something.'

'"What is it-what is it, Uncle Job?" said I.

"What is it—what is it, Uncle Job?" I asked.

'"O good God!" says he, under the straw.

"O good God!" he says, lying under the straw.

'"What?" says I.

“What?” I said.

'"Boney!" he groaned out.

"Boney!" he groaned.

'"Who?" says I.

"Who?" I say.

'"Bonaparty," he said. "The Corsican ogre. O that I had got but my new-flinted firelock, that there man should die! But I haven't got my new-flinted firelock, and that there man must live. So lie low, as you value your life!"

'"Bonaparty," he said. "The Corsican ogre. Oh, if only I had my new flintlock, that guy would be dead! But I don’t have my new flintlock, so that guy has to live. So keep your head down, if you care about your life!"'

'I did lie low, as you mid suppose. But I couldn't help peeping. And then I too, lad as I was, knew that it was the face of Bonaparte. Not know Boney? I should think I did know Boney. I should have known him by half the light o' that lantern. If I had seen a picture of his features once, I had seen it a hundred times. There was his bullet head, his short neck, his round yaller cheeks and chin, his gloomy face, and his great glowing eyes. He took off his hat to blow himself a bit, and there was the forelock in the middle of his forehead, as in all the draughts of him. In moving, his cloak fell a little open, and I could see for a moment his white-fronted jacket and one of his epaulets.

'I stayed hidden, as you might expect. But I couldn't resist taking a peek. And then, even though I was just a kid, I recognized Bonaparte's face. Not know Boney? Of course I knew Boney. I could have recognized him even in the dim light of that lantern. If I had seen a picture of his features once, I had seen it a hundred times. There was his bullet-shaped head, his short neck, his round yellow cheeks and chin, his serious expression, and his intense glowing eyes. He took off his hat to cool himself, and there was the forelock in the middle of his forehead, just like in all the drawings of him. As he moved, his cloak fell open a bit, and I caught a glimpse of his white-front jacket and one of his epaulets.

'But none of this lasted long. In a minute he and his general had rolled up the map, shut the lantern, and turned to go down toward the shore.

'But none of this lasted long. In a minute he and his general had rolled up the map, shut the lantern, and turned to head down toward the shore.

'Then Uncle Job came to himself a bit. "Slipped across in the night- time to see how to put his men ashore," he said. "The like o' that man's coolness eyes will never again see! Nephew, I must act in this, and immediate, or England's lost!"

'Then Uncle Job regained his composure a bit. "Slipped across in the nighttime to figure out how to get his men ashore," he said. "The calmness of that man’s eyes will never be seen again! Nephew, I must take action in this, and right away, or England's finished!"'

'When they were over the brow, we crope out, and went some little way to look after them. Half-way down they were joined by two others, and six or seven minutes brought them to the shore. Then, from behind a rock, a boat came out into the weak moonlight of the Cove, and they jumped in; it put off instantly, and vanished in a few minutes between the two rocks that stand at the mouth of the Cove as we all know. We climmed back to where we had been before, and I could see, a little way out, a larger vessel, though still not very large. The little boat drew up alongside, was made fast at the stern as I suppose, for the largest sailed away, and we saw no more.

'When they were over the hill, we crawled out and went a little way to check on them. Halfway down, they were joined by two others, and in six or seven minutes, they reached the shore. Then, from behind a rock, a boat emerged into the dim moonlight of the Cove, and they jumped in; it set off immediately and disappeared in a few minutes between the two rocks at the mouth of the Cove, as we all know. We climbed back to where we had been before, and I could see a little way out a larger vessel, though still not very big. The little boat pulled up alongside, was tied at the stern, I suppose, because the larger one sailed away, and we saw no more.'

'My uncle Job told his officers as soon as he got back to camp; but what they thought of it I never heard-neither did he. Boney's army never came, and a good job for me; for the Cove below my father's house was where he meant to land, as this secret visit showed. We coast-folk should have been cut down one and all, and I should not have sat here to tell this tale.'

'My uncle Job informed his officers as soon as he returned to camp, but I never found out what they thought, and neither did he. Boney's army never showed up, which was a relief for me since the Cove below my father's house was where he intended to land, as this secret visit made clear. We coastal folks would have been wiped out completely, and I wouldn’t be sitting here to share this story.'

We who listened to old Selby that night have been familiar with his simple grave-stone for these ten years past. Thanks to the incredulity of the age his tale has been seldom repeated. But if anything short of the direct testimony of his own eyes could persuade an auditor that Bonaparte had examined these shores for himself with a view to a practicable landing-place, it would have been Solomon Selby's manner of narrating the adventure which befell him on the down.

We who listened to old Selby that night have been familiar with his simple grave marker for the past ten years. Because people are so skeptical these days, his story has rarely been told again. But if anything less than the direct evidence of his own eyes could convince someone that Bonaparte had scouted these shores himself looking for a feasible landing spot, it would be the way Solomon Selby told the story of what happened to him on the down.

Christmas 1882.

A FEW CRUSTED CHARACTERS

It is a Saturday afternoon of blue and yellow autumn time, and the scene is the High Street of a well-known market-town. A large carrier's van stands in the quadrangular fore-court of the White Hart Inn, upon the sides of its spacious tilt being painted, in weather-beaten letters: 'Burthen, Carrier to Longpuddle.' These vans, so numerous hereabout, are a respectable, if somewhat lumbering, class of conveyance, much resorted to by decent travellers not overstocked with money, the better among them roughly corresponding to the old French diligences.

It's a Saturday afternoon in a crisp blue and yellow autumn, and we’re in the High Street of a well-known market town. A large carrier van is parked in the square in front of the White Hart Inn, its spacious cover bearing weathered letters that read: 'Burthen, Carrier to Longpuddle.' These vans, common in this area, are a respectable if somewhat clunky way to travel, often used by budget-conscious travelers, resembling the old French diligences.

The present one is timed to leave the town at four in the afternoon precisely, and it is now half-past three by the clock in the turret at the top of the street. In a few seconds errand-boys from the shops begin to arrive with packages, which they fling into the vehicle, and turn away whistling, and care for the packages no more. At twenty minutes to four an elderly woman places her basket upon the shafts, slowly mounts, takes up a seat inside, and folds her hands and her lips. She has secured her corner for the journey, though there is as yet no sign of a horse being put in, nor of a carrier. At the three-quarters, two other women arrive, in whom the first recognizes the postmistress of Upper Longpuddle and the registrar's wife, they recognizing her as the aged groceress of the same village. At five minutes to the hour there approach Mr. Profitt, the schoolmaster, in a soft felt hat, and Christopher Twink, the master-thatcher; and as the hour strikes there rapidly drop in the parish clerk and his wife, the seedsman and his aged father, the registrar; also Mr. Day, the world-ignored local landscape- painter, an elderly man who resides in his native place, and has never sold a picture outside it, though his pretensions to art have been nobly supported by his fellow-villagers, whose confidence in his genius has been as remarkable as the outer neglect of it, leading them to buy his paintings so extensively (at the price of a few shillings each, it is true) that every dwelling in the parish exhibits three or four of those admired productions on its walls.

The current vehicle is set to leave town at exactly four in the afternoon, and the clock in the turret at the top of the street shows it's now half-past three. In just a few seconds, delivery boys from the shops start arriving with packages, which they toss into the vehicle before whistling and walking away without a second thought. At twenty minutes to four, an elderly woman places her basket on the shafts, slowly climbs aboard, takes a seat inside, and folds her hands and lips. She has claimed her spot for the journey, even though there's no sign of a horse being hitched up or a driver yet. At three-quarters past, two other women arrive, and the first recognizes them as the postmistress of Upper Longpuddle and the registrar's wife, who recognize her as the elderly grocer from the same village. At five minutes to the hour, Mr. Profitt, the schoolmaster, wearing a soft felt hat, and Christopher Twink, the master-thatcher, approach. As the hour strikes, the parish clerk and his wife, the seedsman and his elderly father, and the registrar quickly join, along with Mr. Day, the overlooked local landscape painter, an older man who has always lived in his hometown and has never sold a painting outside it. Despite this, his artistic aspirations have been strongly supported by his fellow villagers, whose faith in his talent has been as striking as the general indifference to it. They've bought his paintings extensively (for just a few shillings each, it’s true), so every house in the parish displays three or four of those well-liked pieces on its walls.

Burthen, the carrier, is by this time seen bustling round the vehicle; the horses are put in, the proprietor arranges the reins and springs up into his seat as if he were used to it-which he is.

Burthen, the carrier, is now seen bustling around the vehicle; the horses are hitched up, the owner adjusts the reins and hops up into his seat as if he’s done it many times before—which he has.

'Is everybody here?' he asks preparatorily over his shoulder to the passengers within.

'Is everyone here?' he asks over his shoulder to the passengers inside.

As those who were not there did not reply in the negative the muster was assumed to be complete, and after a few hitches and hindrances the van with its human freight was got under way. It jogged on at an easy pace till it reached the bridge which formed the last outpost of the town. The carrier pulled up suddenly.

As those who weren't there didn't respond with a "no," it was assumed that the muster was complete, and after a few delays and obstacles, the van with its human cargo was set in motion. It moved at a comfortable pace until it reached the bridge that marked the last boundary of the town. The carrier suddenly stopped.

'Bless my soul!' he said, 'I've forgot the curate!'

'Oh my goodness!' he said, 'I completely forgot about the curate!'

All who could do so gazed from the little back window of the van, but the curate was not in sight.

All those who could looked out the small back window of the van, but the curate was nowhere to be seen.

'Now I wonder where that there man is?' continued the carrier.

'Now I wonder where that guy is?' continued the carrier.

'Poor man, he ought to have a living at his time of life.'

'Poor guy, he should have a job at his age.'

'And he ought to be punctual,' said the carrier. '"Four o'clock sharp is my time for starting," I said to 'en. And he said, "I'll be there." Now he's not here, and as a serious old church-minister he ought to be as good as his word. Perhaps Mr. Flaxton knows, being in the same line of life?' He turned to the parish clerk.

'He should be on time,' said the carrier. '"Four o'clock sharp is when I start," I told him. And he said, "I'll be there." Now he's not here, and as a serious old church minister, he should keep his promise. Maybe Mr. Flaxton knows, since he's in the same line of work?' He turned to the parish clerk.

'I was talking an immense deal with him, that's true, half an hour ago,' replied that ecclesiastic, as one of whom it was no erroneous supposition that he should be on intimate terms with another of the cloth. 'But he didn't say he would be late.'

'I was talking a lot with him, that's true, half an hour ago,' replied that churchman, as it's a fair guess that he would be close with another member of the clergy. 'But he didn't mention he would be late.'

The discussion was cut off by the appearance round the corner of the van of rays from the curate's spectacles, followed hastily by his face and a few white whiskers, and the swinging tails of his long gaunt coat. Nobody reproached him, seeing how he was reproaching himself; and he entered breathlessly and took his seat.

The conversation was interrupted by the sight of the curate's glasses gleaming around the corner of the van, quickly followed by his face, a few white whiskers, and the swaying tails of his long, thin coat. No one blamed him, noticing how much he was blaming himself; he came in, out of breath, and took his seat.

'Now be we all here?' said the carrier again. They started a second time, and moved on till they were about three hundred yards out of the town, and had nearly reached the second bridge, behind which, as every native remembers, the road takes a turn and travellers by this highway disappear finally from the view of gazing burghers.

'Are we all here now?' the carrier asked again. They set off once more and continued until they were about three hundred yards out of town, almost reaching the second bridge. Behind that bridge, as every local knows, the road takes a turn and travelers on this highway ultimately vanish from the sight of onlooking townsfolk.

'Well, as I'm alive!' cried the postmistress from the interior of the conveyance, peering through the little square back-window along the road townward.

'Well, I can't believe it!' exclaimed the postmistress from inside the vehicle, looking through the small square back window at the road leading to town.

'What?' said the carrier.

"What's up?" said the carrier.

'A man hailing us!'

"A guy calling us!"

Another sudden stoppage. 'Somebody else?' the carrier asked.

Another sudden stop. "Someone else?" the carrier asked.

'Ay, sure!' All waited silently, while those who could gaze out did so.

'Ay, sure!' Everyone waited quietly, while those who could look outside did so.

'Now, who can that be?' Burthen continued. 'I just put it to ye, neighbours, can any man keep time with such hindrances? Bain't we full a'ready? Who in the world can the man be?'

'Now, who could that be?' Burthen continued. 'I ask you, neighbors, can anyone keep track of time with all these obstacles? Aren't we already full? Who in the world could that guy be?'

'He's a sort of gentleman,' said the schoolmaster, his position commanding the road more comfortably than that of his comrades.

'He's kind of a gentleman,' said the schoolmaster, his position allowing him to oversee the road more comfortably than his peers.

The stranger, who had been holding up his umbrella to attract their notice, was walking forward leisurely enough, now that he found, by their stopping, that it had been secured. His clothes were decidedly not of a local cut, though it was difficult to point out any particular mark of difference. In his left hand he carried a small leather travelling bag. As soon as he had overtaken the van he glanced at the inscription on its side, as if to assure himself that he had hailed the right conveyance, and asked if they had room.

The stranger, who had been holding up his umbrella to get their attention, was walking forward at a relaxed pace now that he saw they had stopped and it was in place. His clothes were clearly not typical for the area, although it was hard to identify exactly what set them apart. In his left hand, he carried a small leather travel bag. Once he reached the van, he looked at the inscription on the side, as if to confirm that he had found the right vehicle, and asked if they had space.

The carrier replied that though they were pretty well laden he supposed they could carry one more, whereupon the stranger mounted, and took the seat cleared for him within. And then the horses made another move, this time for good, and swung along with their burden of fourteen souls all told.

The driver responded that even though they were quite full, he thought they could fit one more passenger. The stranger then got on and took the seat that was cleared for him inside. After that, the horses took off again, this time for real, and moved along with their load of a total of fourteen people.

'You bain't one of these parts, sir?' said the carrier. 'I could tell that as far as I could see 'ee.'

'You aren’t from around here, are you, sir?’ said the carrier. ‘I could tell that from the moment I saw you.’

'Yes, I am one of these parts,' said the stranger.

'Yes, I’m one of these parts,' said the stranger.

'Oh? H'm.'

'Oh? Hmm.'

The silence which followed seemed to imply a doubt of the truth of the new-comer's assertion. 'I was speaking of Upper Longpuddle more particular,' continued the carrier hardily, 'and I think I know most faces of that valley.'

The quiet that followed suggested that there was some skepticism about the newcomer’s claim. “I was talking specifically about Upper Longpuddle,” the carrier said confidently, “and I believe I recognize most of the faces from that valley.”

'I was born at Longpuddle, and nursed at Longpuddle, and my father and grandfather before me,' said the passenger quietly.

'I was born in Longpuddle, raised in Longpuddle, just like my father and grandfather before me,' said the passenger calmly.

'Why, to be sure,' said the aged groceress in the background, 'it isn't John Lackland's son-never-it can't be-he who went to foreign parts five- and-thirty years ago with his wife and family? Yet-what do I hear?-that's his father's voice!'

'Of course,' said the elderly grocer in the background, 'it can't be John Lackland's son—no way—it can't be him—he left for foreign lands thirty-five years ago with his wife and kids. But wait—what am I hearing? That's his father's voice!'

'That's the man,' replied the stranger. 'John Lackland was my father, and I am John Lackland's son. Five-and-thirty years ago, when I was a boy of eleven, my parents emigrated across the seas, taking me and my sister with them. Kytes's boy Tony was the one who drove us and our belongings to Casterbridge on the morning we left; and his was the last Longpuddle face I saw. We sailed the same week across the ocean, and there we've been ever since, and there I've left those I went with-all three.'

'That's the guy,' replied the stranger. 'John Lackland was my dad, and I am John Lackland's son. Thirty-five years ago, when I was eleven, my parents moved across the sea, taking me and my sister with them. Kytes's son Tony was the one who drove us and our stuff to Casterbridge the morning we left; he was the last Longpuddle face I saw. We sailed the same week across the ocean, and we've been there ever since, and I've left everyone I went with—all three of them.'

'Alive or dead?'

'Dead,' he replied in a low voice. 'And I have come back to the old place, having nourished a thought-not a definite intention, but just a thought-that I should like to return here in a year or two, to spend the remainder of my days.'

'Dead,' he replied quietly. 'And I’ve returned to this old place, having entertained a thought—not a clear plan, just a thought—that I would like to come back here in a year or two, to spend the rest of my days.'

'Married man, Mr. Lackland?'

'Married guy, Mr. Lackland?'

'No.'

'And have the world used 'ee well, sir-or rather John, knowing 'ee as a child? In these rich new countries that we hear of so much, you've got rich with the rest?'

'And has the world treated you well, sir—or rather John, knowing you as a child? In these wealthy new countries that we hear so much about, you've become wealthy like everyone else?'

'I am not very rich,' Mr. Lackland said. 'Even in new countries, you know, there are failures. The race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong; and even if it sometimes is, you may be neither swift nor strong. However, that's enough about me. Now, having answered your inquiries, you must answer mine; for being in London, I have come down here entirely to discover what Longpuddle is looking like, and who are living there. That was why I preferred a seat in your van to hiring a carriage for driving across.'

"I’m not very wealthy," Mr. Lackland said. "Even in new places, you know, there can be failures. The race doesn’t always go to the fastest, nor the battle to the strongest; and even if it sometimes does, you might not be fast or strong. Anyway, that’s enough about me. Now that I’ve answered your questions, it’s your turn to answer mine; since I’m in London, I came all the way down here to see what Longpuddle is like and who lives there. That’s why I chose a seat in your van instead of hiring a carriage to get across."

'Well, as for Longpuddle, we rub on there much as usual. Old figures have dropped out o' their frames, so to speak it, and new ones have been put in their places. You mentioned Tony Kytes as having been the one to drive your family and your goods to Casterbridge in his father's waggon when you left. Tony is, I believe, living still, but not at Longpuddle. He went away and settled at Lewgate, near Mellstock, after his marriage. Ah, Tony was a sort o' man!'

'Well, as for Longpuddle, we go on there pretty much as usual. Old faces have dropped out of their frames, so to speak, and new ones have taken their places. You mentioned Tony Kytes as the one who drove your family and your belongings to Casterbridge in his father's wagon when you left. Tony is, I believe, still alive, but not in Longpuddle. He left and settled in Lewgate, near Mellstock, after he got married. Ah, Tony was quite a character!'

'His character had hardly come out when I knew him.'

'His character barely showed when I met him.'

'No. But 'twas well enough, as far as that goes-except as to women. I shall never forget his courting-never!'

'No. But it was good enough, as far as that goes—except when it comes to women. I will never forget his dating—never!'

The returned villager waited silently, and the carrier went on:-

The returning villager waited quietly, and the carrier continued:

TONY KYTES, THE ARCH-DECEIVER

'I shall never forget Tony's face. 'Twas a little, round, firm, tight face, with a seam here and there left by the smallpox, but not enough to hurt his looks in a woman's eye, though he'd had it badish when he was a boy. So very serious looking and unsmiling 'a was, that young man, that it really seemed as if he couldn't laugh at all without great pain to his conscience. He looked very hard at a small speck in your eye when talking to 'ee. And there was no more sign of a whisker or beard on Tony Kytes's face than on the palm of my hand. He used to sing "The Tailor's Breeches" with a religious manner, as if it were a hymn:-

'I will never forget Tony's face. It was a small, round, firm, tight face, with a few scars left by smallpox, but not enough to make him unattractive in a woman's eyes, even though he had it pretty bad as a kid. He looked so serious and unsmiling that it really seemed like he couldn't laugh at all without feeling guilty. He stared intently at a tiny speck in your eye when he talked to you. And there was no sign of stubble or a beard on Tony Kytes's face, just like the palm of my hand. He used to sing "The Tailor's Breeches" with such a serious tone that it felt like a hymn:

'"O the petticoats went off, and the breeches they went on!"

"O, the petticoats came off, and the pants came on!"

and all the rest of the scandalous stuff. He was quite the women's favourite, and in return for their likings he loved 'em in shoals.

and all the other scandalous stuff. He was definitely a favorite among women, and in return for their affection, he loved them in droves.

'But in course of time Tony got fixed down to one in particular, Milly Richards, a nice, light, small, tender little thing; and it was soon said that they were engaged to be married. One Saturday he had been to market to do business for his father, and was driving home the waggon in the afternoon. When he reached the foot of the very hill we shall be going over in ten minutes who should he see waiting for him at the top but Unity Sallet, a handsome girl, one of the young women he'd been very tender toward before he'd got engaged to Milly.

'But over time, Tony became serious about one person in particular, Milly Richards, a sweet, petite, gentle girl; it wasn't long before people started saying they were engaged to be married. One Saturday, he had gone to the market to handle business for his father and was driving the wagon home in the afternoon. When he got to the bottom of the very hill we’ll be crossing in ten minutes, who should he see waiting for him at the top but Unity Sallet, a beautiful girl, one of the young women he had been quite affectionate toward before he got engaged to Milly.'

'As soon as Tony came up to her she said, "My dear Tony, will you give me a lift home?"

'As soon as Tony approached her, she said, "My dear Tony, would you give me a ride home?"'

'"That I will, darling," said Tony. "You don't suppose I could refuse 'ee?"

"Of course I will, darling," said Tony. "Do you think I could say no to you?"

'She smiled a smile, and up she hopped, and on drove Tony.

She smiled and jumped up, and Tony drove on.

'"Tony," she says, in a sort of tender chide, "why did ye desert me for that other one? In what is she better than I? I should have made 'ee a finer wife, and a more loving one too. 'Tisn't girls that are so easily won at first that are the best. Think how long we've known each other-ever since we were children almost-now haven't we, Tony?"

'"Tony," she says, in a kind of gentle reproach, "why did you leave me for that other girl? What does she have that I don't? I would have been a better wife for you, and more loving too. It's not the girls who are easily won at first who are the best. Think about how long we've known each other—since we were almost kids, right? Haven't we, Tony?"'

'"Yes, that we have," says Tony, a-struck with the truth o't.

"Yes, we do," says Tony, struck by the truth of it.

'"And you've never seen anything in me to complain of, have ye, Tony? Now tell the truth to me?"

"And you've never seen anything to complain about in me, have you, Tony? Now tell me the truth?"

'"I never have, upon my life," says Tony.

"I never have, I swear," says Tony.

'"And-can you say I'm not pretty, Tony? Now look at me!"

"And—can you say I'm not pretty, Tony? Now look at me!"

'He let his eyes light upon her for a long while. "I really can't," says he. "In fact, I never knowed you was so pretty before!"

He gazed at her for a long time. "I really can't," he says. "Honestly, I never realized you were this pretty before!"

'"Prettier than she?"

"Prettier than her?"

'What Tony would have said to that nobody knows, for before he could speak, what should he see ahead, over the hedge past the turning, but a feather he knew well-the feather in Milly's hat-she to whom he had been thinking of putting the question as to giving out the banns that very week.

'What Tony would have said to that nobody knows, because before he could speak, what did he see ahead, over the hedge past the turn, but a feather he recognized well—the feather in Milly's hat—who he had been thinking about asking the question regarding announcing the banns that very week.'

'"Unity," says he, as mild as he could, "here's Milly coming. Now I shall catch it mightily if she sees 'ee riding here with me; and if you get down she'll be turning the corner in a moment, and, seeing 'ee in the road, she'll know we've been coming on together. Now, dearest Unity, will ye, to avoid all unpleasantness, which I know ye can't bear any more than I, will ye lie down in the back part of the waggon, and let me cover you over with the tarpaulin till Milly has passed? It will all be done in a minute. Do!-and I'll think over what we've said; and perhaps I shall put a loving question to you after all, instead of to Milly. 'Tisn't true that it is all settled between her and me."

"Unity," he said as gently as he could, "Milly is on her way. I'm going to be in big trouble if she spots you riding here with me; and if you get down, she'll turn the corner any second, and seeing you in the road, she'll realize we were together. Now, my dear Unity, will you, to keep everything smooth—since I know you can't stand any unpleasantness more than I can—lie down in the back of the wagon and let me cover you with the tarp until Milly passes? It will only take a minute. Please do! And I'll think about what we've talked about; maybe I'll even ask you something sweet instead of Milly. It's not true that everything is settled between her and me."

'Well, Unity Sallet agreed, and lay down at the back end of the waggon, and Tony covered her over, so that the waggon seemed to be empty but for the loose tarpaulin; and then he drove on to meet Milly.

'Well, Unity Sallet agreed and lay down at the back of the wagon, and Tony covered her up so that the wagon looked empty except for the loose tarpaulin; then he drove off to meet Milly.'

'"My dear Tony!" cries Milly, looking up with a little pout at him as he came near. "How long you've been coming home! Just as if I didn't live at Upper Longpuddle at all! And I've come to meet you as you asked me to do, and to ride back with you, and talk over our future home-since you asked me, and I promised. But I shouldn't have come else, Mr. Tony!"

'"My dear Tony!" Milly exclaims, looking up at him with a slight pout as he approaches. "You’ve taken forever to get home! As if I don’t live at Upper Longpuddle! I came to meet you like you asked me to, to ride back with you, and discuss our future home—since you asked and I promised. But I wouldn’t have come otherwise, Mr. Tony!"'

'"Ay, my dear, I did ask ye-to be sure I did, now I think of it-but I had quite forgot it. To ride back with me, did you say, dear Milly?"

'"Yes, my dear, I did ask you—to be sure I did, now that I think of it—but I completely forgot. You said you wanted to ride back with me, dear Milly?"'

'"Well, of course! What can I do else? Surely you don't want me to walk, now I've come all this way?"

'"Well, of course! What else can I do? Surely you don't expect me to walk now that I've come all this way?"'

'"O no, no! I was thinking you might be going on to town to meet your mother. I saw her there-and she looked as if she might be expecting 'ee."

"O no, no! I thought you might be going into town to see your mother. I saw her there, and she looked like she might be waiting for you."

'"O no; she's just home. She came across the fields, and so got back before you."

"O no; she's just home. She walked across the fields, so she got back before you."

'"Ah! I didn't know that," says Tony. And there was no help for it but to take her up beside him.

'"Oh! I didn't know that," says Tony. And there was no choice but to take her up beside him.

'They talked on very pleasantly, and looked at the trees, and beasts, and birds, and insects, and at the ploughmen at work in the fields, till presently who should they see looking out of the upper window of a house that stood beside the road they were following, but Hannah Jolliver, another young beauty of the place at that time, and the very first woman that Tony had fallen in love with-before Milly and before Unity, in fact-the one that he had almost arranged to marry instead of Milly. She was a much more dashing girl than Milly Richards, though he'd not thought much of her of late. The house Hannah was looking from was her aunt's.

They chatted happily, admiring the trees, animals, birds, and insects, as well as the farmers working in the fields, until they spotted Hannah Jolliver peeking out from the upper window of a house alongside the road they were walking on. Hannah was another local beauty at the time and the very first woman Tony had ever fallen for—before Milly and before Unity, actually—the one he had almost agreed to marry instead of Milly. She was a much bolder girl than Milly Richards, even though he hadn't really thought about her much lately. The house Hannah was in belonged to her aunt.

'"My dear Milly-my coming wife, as I may call 'ee," says Tony in his modest way, and not so loud that Unity could overhear, "I see a young woman alooking out of window, who I think may accost me. The fact is, Milly, she had a notion that I was wishing to marry her, and since she's discovered I've promised another, and a prettier than she, I'm rather afeard of her temper if she sees us together. Now, Milly, would you do me a favour-my coming wife, as I may say?"

'"My dear Milly—my future wife, as I might call you," Tony says in his modest way, speaking softly so Unity can't overhear. "I see a young woman looking out of the window, and I think she might come up to me. The thing is, Milly, she thought I wanted to marry her, and now that she knows I've promised to marry someone else, who’s prettier than she is, I'm a bit worried about her temper if she sees us together. So, Milly, would you do me a favor—my future wife, as I might say?"'

'"Certainly, dearest Tony," says she.

"Of course, my dear Tony," she says.

'"Then would ye creep under the empty sacks just here in the front of the waggon, and hide there out of sight till we've passed the house? She hasn't seen us yet. You see, we ought to live in peace and good- will since 'tis almost Christmas, and 'twill prevent angry passions rising, which we always should do."

'"Then would you crawl under the empty sacks right here in front of the wagon and hide out of sight until we've passed the house? She hasn't seen us yet. You see, we should try to live in peace and goodwill since it's almost Christmas, and that will help prevent any angry feelings from bubbling up, which is something we should always aim for."

'"I don't mind, to oblige you, Tony," Milly said; and though she didn't care much about doing it, she crept under, and crouched down just behind the seat, Unity being snug at the other end. So they drove on till they got near the road-side cottage. Hannah had soon seen him coming, and waited at the window, looking down upon him. She tossed her head a little disdainful and smiled off-hand.

"I don't mind helping you out, Tony," Milly said; and even though she wasn't really into it, she crawled under and huddled just behind the seat, while Unity was cozy at the other end. They drove on until they reached the roadside cottage. Hannah had seen him coming and was waiting at the window, looking down at him. She tossed her head a bit dismissively and gave a casual smile.

'"Well, aren't you going to be civil enough to ask me to ride home with you!" she says, seeing that he was for driving past with a nod and a smile.

'"Well, aren't you going to be polite enough to ask me to ride home with you?" she says, noticing that he was about to drive past with just a nod and a smile.

'"Ah, to be sure! What was I thinking of?" said Tony, in a flutter. "But you seem as if you was staying at your aunt's?"

'"Ah, for sure! What was I thinking?" said Tony, all flustered. "But you seem like you're staying at your aunt's?"'

'"No, I am not," she said. "Don't you see I have my bonnet and jacket on? I have only called to see her on my way home. How can you be so stupid, Tony?"

"No, I’m not," she said. "Can’t you see I have my bonnet and jacket on? I just stopped by to see her on my way home. How can you be so dense, Tony?"

'"In that case-ah-of course you must come along wi' me," says Tony, feeling a dim sort of sweat rising up inside his clothes. And he reined in the horse, and waited till she'd come downstairs, and then helped her up beside him. He drove on again, his face as long as a face that was a round one by nature well could be.

"In that case, of course you have to come with me," says Tony, feeling a slight sweat building up under his clothes. He stopped the horse and waited for her to come downstairs, then helped her up next to him. He drove on again, his face looking as long as it could be for someone who was naturally round.

'Hannah looked round sideways into his eyes. "This is nice, isn't it, Tony?" she says. "I like riding with you."

'Hannah turned to look into his eyes. "This is nice, right, Tony?" she says. "I like riding with you."

'Tony looked back into her eyes. "And I with you," he said after a while. In short, having considered her, he warmed up, and the more he looked at her the more he liked her, till he couldn't for the life of him think why he had ever said a word about marriage to Milly or Unity while Hannah Jolliver was in question. So they sat a little closer and closer, their feet upon the foot-board and their shoulders touching, and Tony thought over and over again how handsome Hannah was. He spoke tenderer and tenderer, and called her "dear Hannah" in a whisper at last.

'Tony looked back into her eyes. "And I feel the same," he said after a moment. In short, after thinking about her, he opened up, and the more he looked at her, the more he liked her, until he couldn't understand why he had ever mentioned marriage to Milly or Unity while Hannah Jolliver was in the picture. So they sat a little closer together, their feet on the foot-board and their shoulders touching, and Tony kept thinking over and over again about how beautiful Hannah was. He spoke more softly and softly, finally whispering "dear Hannah."

'"You've settled it with Milly by this time, I suppose," said she.

"You've sorted things out with Milly by now, I guess," she said.

'"N-no, not exactly."

"No, not really."

'"What? How low you talk, Tony."

"What? Why are you talking so low, Tony?"

'"Yes-I've a kind of hoarseness. I said, not exactly."

'"Yes, I have a bit of hoarseness. I said, not exactly."'

'"I suppose you mean to?"

"I guess you plan to?"

'"Well, as to that-" His eyes rested on her face, and hers on his. He wondered how he could have been such a fool as not to follow up Hannah. "My sweet Hannah!" he bursts out, taking her hand, not being really able to help it, and forgetting Milly and Unity, and all the world besides. "Settled it? I don't think I have!"

'"Well, about that-" His eyes lingered on her face, and hers on his. He wondered how he could have been so foolish not to pursue Hannah. "My dear Hannah!" he exclaimed, taking her hand, unable to help himself, and forgetting Milly, Unity, and everyone else in the world. "Have I settled it? I don't think I have!"'

'"Hark!" says Hannah.

"Hey!" says Hannah.

'"What?" says Tony, letting go her hand.

"What?" Tony says, releasing her hand.

'"Surely I heard a sort of little screaming squeak under those sacks? Why, you've been carrying corn, and there's mice in this waggon, I declare!" She began to haul up the tails of her gown.

"Surely I heard a kind of small screaming squeak under those sacks? Why, you've been carrying corn, and there are mice in this wagon, I swear!" She started to pull up the tails of her dress.

'"Oh no; 'tis the axle," said Tony in an assuring way. "It do go like that sometimes in dry weather."

"Oh no; it's the axle," Tony said reassuringly. "It does that sometimes in dry weather."

'"Perhaps it was . . . Well, now, to be quite honest, dear Tony, do you like her better than me? Because-because, although I've held off so independent, I'll own at last that I do like 'ee, Tony, to tell the truth; and I wouldn't say no if you asked me-you know what."

'"Maybe it was . . . Well, to be honest, Tony, do you like her more than me? Because, even though I’ve tried to act all independent, I’ll finally admit that I do like you, Tony, to be truthful; and I wouldn’t say no if you asked me—you know what I mean."'

'Tony was so won over by this pretty offering mood of a girl who had been quite the reverse (Hannah had a backward way with her at times, if you can mind) that he just glanced behind, and then whispered very soft, "I haven't quite promised her, and I think I can get out of it, and ask you that question you speak of."

'Tony was so taken by this sweet, charming side of a girl who had been the complete opposite (Hannah could be a bit difficult at times, if you remember) that he just looked back for a moment and then whispered softly, "I haven't fully committed to her, and I think I can get out of it and ask you that question you mentioned."

'"Throw over Milly?-all to marry me! How delightful!" broke out Hannah, quite loud, clapping her hands.

"'Throw over Milly? Just to marry me? How wonderful!" Hannah exclaimed loudly, clapping her hands.

'At this there was a real squeak-an angry, spiteful squeak, and afterward a long moan, as if something had broke its heart, and a movement of the empty sacks.

'At this, there was a loud squeak—an angry, spiteful squeak—and then a long moan, as if something had broken its heart, along with a rustle of the empty sacks.'

'"Something's there!" said Hannah, starting up.

"There's something there!" said Hannah, sitting up.

'"It's nothing, really," says Tony in a soothing voice, and praying inwardly for a way out of this. "I wouldn't tell 'ee at first, because I wouldn't frighten 'ee. But, Hannah, I've really a couple of ferrets in a bag under there, for rabbiting, and they quarrel sometimes. I don't wish it knowed, as 'twould be called poaching. Oh, they can't get out, bless ye-you are quite safe! And-and-what a fine day it is, isn't it, Hannah, for this time of year? Be you going to market next Saturday? How is your aunt now?" And so on, says Tony, to keep her from talking any more about love in Milly's hearing.

"It's nothing, really," Tony says in a calming voice, hoping for a way out of this. "I didn’t want to tell you at first because I didn’t want to scare you. But, Hannah, I actually have a couple of ferrets in a bag down there for rabbit hunting, and they sometimes fight. I don’t want anyone to know, as it would be considered poaching. Oh, they can't escape, I promise—you’re completely safe! And—and isn’t it a lovely day for this time of year, Hannah? Are you going to the market next Saturday? How is your aunt doing now?" And so on, Tony says, to keep her from talking any more about love while Milly is listening.

'But he found his work cut out for him, and wondering again how he should get out of this ticklish business, he looked about for a chance. Nearing home he saw his father in a field not far off, holding up his hand as if he wished to speak to Tony.

'But he realized he had a tough job ahead of him, and as he pondered how to escape this tricky situation, he searched for an opportunity. Approaching home, he noticed his father in a nearby field, raising his hand as if he wanted to talk to Tony.'

'"Would you mind taking the reins a moment, Hannah," he said, much relieved, "while I go and find out what father wants?"

'"Could you take the reins for a minute, Hannah?" he said, feeling much relieved, "while I go find out what Dad needs?"

'She consented, and away he hastened into the field, only too glad to get breathing time. He found that his father was looking at him with rather a stern eye.

'She agreed, and he quickly rushed into the field, more than happy to get some breathing room. He noticed that his father was watching him with a rather serious look.'

'"Come, come, Tony," says old Mr. Kytes, as soon as his son was alongside him, "this won't do, you know."

'"Come on, Tony," says old Mr. Kytes as soon as his son joins him, "this isn't right, you know."'

'"What?" says Tony.

"What?" says Tony.

'"Why, if you mean to marry Milly Richards, do it, and there's an end o't. But don't go driving about the country with Jolliver's daughter and making a scandal. I won't have such things done."

"Why, if you're planning to marry Milly Richards, just go ahead and do it, and that's that. But don't go driving around the countryside with Jolliver's daughter and causing a scandal. I won't allow that."

'"I only asked her-that is, she asked me, to ride home."

"I only asked her—that is, she asked me—if I could give her a ride home."

'"She? Why, now, if it had been Milly, 'twould have been quite proper; but you and Hannah Jolliver going about by yourselves-"

"She? Well, if it had been Milly, that would have been totally fine; but you and Hannah Jolliver going around by yourselves—"

'"Milly's there too, father."

"Milly's there too, Dad."

'"Milly? Where?"

"Milly? Where is she?"

'"Under the corn-sacks! Yes, the truth is, father, I've got rather into a nunny-watch, I'm afeard! Unity Sallet is there too-yes, at the other end, under the tarpaulin. All three are in that waggon, and what to do with 'em I know no more than the dead! The best plan is, as I'm thinking, to speak out loud and plain to one of 'em before the rest, and that will settle it; not but what 'twill cause 'em to kick up a bit of a miff, for certain. Now which would you marry, father, if you was in my place?"

'"Under the corn sacks! Yeah, the truth is, Dad, I've really gotten into a bit of a mess, I'm afraid! Unity Sallet is there too—yep, at the other end, under the tarp. All three are in that wagon, and I have no idea what to do with them! The best plan, I think, is to just be straightforward and talk to one of them first, and that should do the trick; although it will definitely cause some fuss for sure. Now, if you were in my shoes, which one would you marry, Dad?"'

'"Whichever of 'em did not ask to ride with thee."

'"Whichever of them didn't ask to ride with you."'

'"That was Milly, I'm bound to say, as she only mounted by my invitation. But Milly-"

'"That was Milly, I have to say, since she only came up here because I invited her. But Milly-"

"Then stick to Milly, she's the best . . . But look at that!"

"Then stick with Milly, she's the best . . . But check that out!"

'His father pointed toward the waggon. "She can't hold that horse in. You shouldn't have left the reins in her hands. Run on and take the horse's head, or there'll be some accident to them maids!"

'His father pointed at the wagon. "She can't control that horse. You shouldn't have left the reins with her. Hurry and take the horse's head, or someone will get hurt!"'

'Tony's horse, in fact, in spite of Hannah's tugging at the reins, had started on his way at a brisk walking pace, being very anxious to get back to the stable, for he had had a long day out. Without another word Tony rushed away from his father to overtake the horse.

'Tony's horse, despite Hannah tugging at the reins, had started moving at a quick walking pace, eager to get back to the stable after a long day out. Without saying another word, Tony dashed away from his father to catch up with the horse.'

'Now of all things that could have happened to wean him from Milly there was nothing so powerful as his father's recommending her. No; it could not be Milly, after all. Hannah must be the one, since he could not marry all three. This he thought while running after the waggon. But queer things were happening inside it.

'Now, of all the things that could have happened to pull him away from Milly, nothing was more powerful than his father suggesting her. No; it couldn’t be Milly, after all. It had to be Hannah, since he couldn’t marry all three. He thought this while chasing after the wagon. But strange things were happening inside it.'

'It was, of course, Milly who had screamed under the sack-bags, being obliged to let off her bitter rage and shame in that way at what Tony was saying, and never daring to show, for very pride and dread o' being laughed at, that she was in hiding. She became more and more restless, and in twisting herself about, what did she see but another woman's foot and white stocking close to her head. It quite frightened her, not knowing that Unity Sallet was in the waggon likewise. But after the fright was over she determined to get to the bottom of all this, and she crept and crept along the bed of the waggon, under the tarpaulin, like a snake, when lo and behold she came face to face with Unity.

'Of course, it was Milly who screamed under the sack-bags, having to release her bitter anger and shame in that way because of what Tony was saying, and she couldn't dare to show, out of pride and fear of being mocked, that she was hiding. She became increasingly restless, and as she twisted around, she noticed another woman's foot and white stocking close to her head. It startled her, not knowing that Unity Sallet was in the wagon too. But once the shock wore off, she decided to figure out what was going on, so she crept along the bed of the wagon, under the tarpaulin, like a snake, and suddenly found herself face to face with Unity.'

'"Well, if this isn't disgraceful!" says Milly in a raging whisper to Unity.

'"Well, if this isn't disgraceful!" Milly says in a furious whisper to Unity.

'"'Tis," says Unity, "to see you hiding in a young man's waggon like this, and no great character belonging to either of ye!"

'"It is," Unity says, "to see you hiding in a young man's wagon like this, and no great reputation belonging to either of you!"'

'"Mind what you are saying!" replied Milly, getting louder. "I am engaged to be married to him, and haven't I a right to be here? What right have you, I should like to know? What has he been promising you? A pretty lot of nonsense, I expect! But what Tony says to other women is all mere wind, and no concern to me!"

"Watch what you're saying!" Milly shot back, raising her voice. "I'm engaged to him, and don't I have a right to be here? What right do you have, I'd like to know? What has he been promising you? Probably just a bunch of nonsense! But whatever Tony says to other women is just talk, and it doesn't concern me!"

'"Don't you be too sure!" says Unity. "He's going to have Hannah, and not you, nor me either; I could hear that."

"Don't get too confident!" Unity says. "He's going to choose Hannah, not you or me; I could tell."

'Now at these strange voices sounding from under the cloth Hannah was thunderstruck a'most into a swound; and it was just at this time that the horse moved on. Hannah tugged away wildly, not knowing what she was doing; and as the quarrel rose louder and louder Hannah got so horrified that she let go the reins altogether. The horse went on at his own pace, and coming to the corner where we turn round to drop down the hill to Lower Longpuddle he turned too quick, the off wheels went up the bank, the waggon rose sideways till it was quite on edge upon the near axles, and out rolled the three maidens into the road in a heap.

Now, when Hannah heard those strange voices coming from under the cloth, she was nearly struck into unconsciousness. Just then, the horse started to move. Hannah tugged at the reins wildly, not even realizing what she was doing; as the argument got louder and louder, she became so terrified that she completely let go of the reins. The horse continued on its own, and when it reached the corner where we turn to go down the hill to Lower Longpuddle, it turned too quickly. The outside wheels went up the bank, the wagon tipped sideways until it was almost on its edge on the near axles, and out tumbled the three maidens into the road in a heap.

'When Tony came up, frightened and breathless, he was relieved enough to see that neither of his darlings was hurt, beyond a few scratches from the brambles of the hedge. But he was rather alarmed when he heard how they were going on at one another.

'When Tony arrived, scared and out of breath, he felt relieved to see that neither of his loved ones was hurt, aside from a few scratches from the thorny hedge. However, he was somewhat worried when he heard how they were arguing with each other.'

'"Don't ye quarrel, my dears-don't ye!" says he, taking off his hat out of respect to 'em. And then he would have kissed them all round, as fair and square as a man could, but they were in too much of a taking to let him, and screeched and sobbed till they was quite spent.

"Don't argue, my dears—don't!" he says, taking off his hat out of respect for them. Then he would have kissed each of them, as fairly and squarely as a man could, but they were too upset to let him, and they screamed and sobbed until they were completely worn out.

'"Now I'll speak out honest, because I ought to," says Tony, as soon as he could get heard. "And this is the truth," says he. "I've asked Hannah to be mine, and she is willing, and we are going to put up the banns next-"

'"Now I'll be straight with you, because I should," Tony says, as soon as he can be heard. "And this is the truth," he continues. "I've asked Hannah to be with me, and she said yes, and we’re going to announce the banns next—"'

'Tony had not noticed that Hannah's father was coming up behind, nor had he noticed that Hannah's face was beginning to bleed from the scratch of a bramble. Hannah had seen her father, and had run to him, crying worse than ever.

'Tony hadn’t noticed that Hannah’s dad was approaching from behind, nor had he seen that Hannah’s face was starting to bleed from a scratch caused by a thorny bush. Hannah had spotted her dad and ran to him, crying harder than before.'

'"My daughter is not willing, sir!" says Mr. Jolliver hot and strong. "Be you willing, Hannah? I ask ye to have spirit enough to refuse him, if yer virtue is left to 'ee and you run no risk?"

'"My daughter isn't interested, sir!" Mr. Jolliver says emphatically. "Are you willing, Hannah? I'm asking you to have the courage to reject him, if you still value your virtue and there's no risk to you?"'

'"She's as sound as a bell for me, that I'll swear!" says Tony, flaring up. "And so's the others, come to that, though you may think it an onusual thing in me!"

'"She's as reliable as they come, I swear!" says Tony, getting worked up. "And so are the others, for that matter, even if you think it's unusual for me!"'

'"I have spirit, and I do refuse him!" says Hannah, partly because her father was there, and partly, too, in a tantrum because of the discovery, and the scratch on her face. "Little did I think when I was so soft with him just now that I was talking to such a false deceiver!"

"I have my pride, and I won't accept him!" says Hannah, partly because her father was there, and partly because she's having a fit over the discovery and the scratch on her face. "I never thought that when I was being so nice to him just now, I was talking to such a fake deceiver!"

'"What, you won't have me, Hannah?" says Tony, his jaw hanging down like a dead man's.

"What, you won't take me, Hannah?" Tony says, his jaw dropping like a dead man's.

'"Never-I would sooner marry no-nobody at all!" she gasped out, though with her heart in her throat, for she would not have refused Tony if he had asked her quietly, and her father had not been there, and her face had not been scratched by the bramble. And having said that, away she walked upon her father's arm, thinking and hoping he would ask her again.

'"Never—I would rather marry nobody at all!" she gasped, even though her heart was racing because she wouldn't have turned Tony down if he had asked her quietly, her father wasn't there, and her face wasn't scratched by the bramble. After saying that, she walked away on her father's arm, thinking and hoping he would ask her again.'

'Tony didn't know what to say next. Milly was sobbing her heart out; but as his father had strongly recommended her he couldn't feel inclined that way. So he turned to Unity.

'Tony didn't know what to say next. Milly was crying her heart out; but since his father had strongly recommended her, he couldn't feel that way. So he turned to Unity.'

'"Well, will you, Unity dear, be mine?" he says.

'"Well, will you, Unity dear, be mine?" he asks.'

'"Take her leavings? Not I!" says Unity. "I'd scorn it!" And away walks Unity Sallet likewise, though she looked back when she'd gone some way, to see if he was following her.

'"Take her leftovers? Not me!" says Unity. "I'd never do that!" And off goes Unity Sallet too, although she looked back after she'd walked a bit to see if he was following her.

'So there at last were left Milly and Tony by themselves, she crying in watery streams, and Tony looking like a tree struck by lightning.

'So finally, Milly and Tony were left alone, she crying in heavy streams, and Tony looking like a tree that had been struck by lightning.'

'"Well, Milly," he says at last, going up to her, "it do seem as if fate had ordained that it should be you and I, or nobody. And what must be must be, I suppose. Hey, Milly?"

'"Well, Milly," he finally says, walking over to her, "it really does feel like fate has decided that it should be just you and me, or no one at all. And what has to happen, has to happen, I guess. Hey, Milly?"'

'"If you like, Tony. You didn't really mean what you said to them?"

"If you want, Tony. You didn't actually mean what you said to them?"

'"Not a word of it!" declares Tony, bringing down his fist upon his palm.

'"Not a word of it!" Tony exclaims, slapping his palm with his fist.

'And then he kissed her, and put the waggon to rights, and they mounted together; and their banns were put up the very next Sunday. I was not able to go to their wedding, but it was a rare party they had, by all account. Everybody in Longpuddle was there almost; you among the rest, I think, Mr. Flaxton?' The speaker turned to the parish clerk.

'And then he kissed her, fixed up the wagon, and they got on together; their wedding announcements were posted the very next Sunday. I couldn't attend their wedding, but it was supposed to be a fantastic celebration. Almost everyone in Longpuddle was there; you were there too, I believe, Mr. Flaxton?' The speaker looked at the parish clerk.

'I was,' said Mr. Flaxton. 'And that party was the cause of a very curious change in some other people's affairs; I mean in Steve Hardcome's and his cousin James's.'

'I was,' said Mr. Flaxton. 'And that party caused a very strange shift in some other people's lives; I mean in Steve Hardcome's and his cousin James's.'

'Ah! the Hardcomes,' said the stranger. 'How familiar that name is to me! What of them?'

'Ah! the Hardcomes,' said the stranger. 'That name sounds so familiar to me! What about them?'

The clerk cleared his throat and began:-

The clerk cleared his throat and started:

THE HISTORY OF THE HARDCOMES

'Yes, Tony's was the very best wedding-randy that ever I was at; and I've been at a good many, as you may suppose'-turning to the newly- arrived one-'having as a church-officer, the privilege to attend all christening, wedding, and funeral parties-such being our Wessex custom.

'Yes, Tony's was the best wedding celebration I've ever been to; and I've been to quite a few, as you can imagine'—turning to the newcomer—'since, as a church officer, I have the privilege of attending all christenings, weddings, and funerals—such is our Wessex custom.'

''Twas on a frosty night in Christmas week, and among the folk invited were the said Hardcomes o' Climmerston-Steve and James-first cousins, both of them small farmers, just entering into business on their own account. With them came, as a matter of course, their intended wives, two young women of the neighbourhood, both very pretty and sprightly maidens, and numbers of friends from Abbot's-Cernel, and Weatherbury, and Mellstock, and I don't know where-a regular houseful.

It was a cold night during Christmas week, and among the guests were the Hardcomes from Climmerston—Steve and James—first cousins and both small farmers just starting their own businesses. Along with them came their fiancées, two young women from the neighborhood who were both very pretty and lively, as well as a bunch of friends from Abbot's-Cernel, Weatherbury, Mellstock, and I don't know where else—a full house.

'The kitchen was cleared of furniture for dancing, and the old folk played at "Put" and "All-fours" in the parlour, though at last they gave that up to join in the dance. The top of the figure was by the large front window of the room, and there were so many couples that the lower part of the figure reached through the door at the back, and into the darkness of the out-house; in fact, you couldn't see the end of the row at all, and 'twas never known exactly how long that dance was, the lowest couples being lost among the faggots and brushwood in the out- house.

The kitchen was cleared of furniture for dancing, and the older folks played "Put" and "All-fours" in the parlor, but eventually, they gave that up to join the dance. The top of the line was by the large front window of the room, and there were so many couples that the lower part of the line extended through the back door and into the darkness of the storage area; in fact, you couldn't see the end of the line at all, and it was never known exactly how long that dance went on, with the last couples lost among the sticks and brush in the storage area.

'When we had danced a few hours, and the crowns of we taller men were swelling into lumps with bumping the beams of the ceiling, the first fiddler laid down his fiddle-bow, and said he should play no more, for he wished to dance. And in another hour the second fiddler laid down his, and said he wanted to dance too; so there was only the third fiddler left, and he was a' old, veteran man, very weak in the wrist. However, he managed to keep up a faltering tweedle-dee; but there being no chair in the room, and his knees being as weak as his wrists, he was obliged to sit upon as much of the little corner-table as projected beyond the corner-cupboard fixed over it, which was not a very wide seat for a man advanced in years.

After we had danced for a few hours, and the heads of the taller guys were bumping against the ceiling beams, the first fiddler put down his bow and said he wouldn’t play anymore because he wanted to dance. An hour later, the second fiddler set down his bow too, saying he wanted to dance as well; that left just the third fiddler, an old veteran who had weak wrists. Still, he managed to keep up a shaky tune, but since there was no chair in the room, and his knees were as weak as his wrists, he had to sit on part of the little corner table that stuck out beyond the corner cupboard above it, which wasn’t a very comfortable seat for an older man.

'Among those who danced most continually were the two engaged couples, as was natural to their situation. Each pair was very well matched, and very unlike the other. James Hardcome's intended was called Emily Darth, and both she and James were gentle, nice-minded, in-door people, fond of a quiet life. Steve and his chosen, named Olive Pawle, were different; they were of a more bustling nature, fond of racketing about and seeing what was going on in the world. The two couples had arranged to get married on the same day, and that not long thence; Tony's wedding being a sort of stimulant, as is often the case; I've noticed it professionally many times.

'Among those who danced the most were the two engaged couples, which was natural for their situation. Each pair was well-matched and very different from the other. James Hardcome's fiancée was named Emily Darth, and both she and James were gentle, kind-hearted, indoor people who enjoyed a quiet life. Steve and his fiancée, Olive Pawle, were different; they were more energetic, loving to be out and about, experiencing what was happening in the world. The two couples had planned to get married on the same day, not long from now; Tony's wedding served as a bit of a boost, as is often the case; I've noticed this in my profession many times.'

'They danced with such a will as only young people in that stage of courtship can dance; and it happened that as the evening wore on James had for his partner Stephen's plighted one, Olive, at the same time that Stephen was dancing with James's Emily. It was noticed that in spite o' the exchange the young men seemed to enjoy the dance no less than before. By and by they were treading another tune in the same changed order as we had noticed earlier, and though at first each one had held the other's mistress strictly at half-arm's length, lest there should be shown any objection to too close quarters by the lady's proper man, as time passed there was a little more closeness between 'em; and presently a little more closeness still.

They danced with such enthusiasm that only young people in that stage of dating can. As the evening went on, James ended up dancing with Stephen's fiancée, Olive, while Stephen was dancing with James's Emily. It was clear that despite the switch, the young men seemed to enjoy the dance just as much as before. Eventually, they were dancing to another tune in the same switched partners as we had seen earlier, and although at first each of them kept the other's girlfriend at a safe distance, to avoid any objections from the lady's proper partner, as time went on, they moved a little closer to each other; and soon, they moved even closer still.

'The later it got the more did each of the two cousins dance with the wrong young girl, and the tighter did he hold her to his side as he whirled her round; and, what was very remarkable, neither seemed to mind what the other was doing. The party began to draw towards its end, and I saw no more that night, being one of the first to leave, on account of my morning's business. But I learnt the rest of it from those that knew.

'The later it got, the more each of the two cousins danced with the wrong girl, and the tighter he held her to his side as he twirled her around; and, surprisingly, neither seemed to care what the other was doing. The party started winding down, and I didn’t see anything more that night since I was one of the first to leave because of my early morning plans. But I found out the rest from those who were there.'

'After finishing a particularly warming dance with the changed partners, as I've mentioned, the two young men looked at one another, and in a moment or two went out into the porch together.

'After finishing a particularly enjoyable dance with their new partners, as I mentioned, the two young men looked at each other, and after a moment, stepped out onto the porch together.'

'"James," says Steve, "what were you thinking of when you were dancing with my Olive?"

"James," says Steve, "what were you thinking when you were dancing with my Olive?"

'"Well," said James, "perhaps what you were thinking of when you were dancing with my Emily."

"Well," James said, "maybe that’s what you had in mind when you were dancing with my Emily."

'"I was thinking," said Steve, with some hesitation, "that I wouldn't mind changing for good and all!"

"I was thinking," said Steve, a bit unsure, "that I wouldn't mind changing for good!"

'"It was what I was feeling likewise," said James.

"It was how I felt too," said James.

'"I willingly agree to it, if you think we could manage it."

"I’m totally on board with that, if you think we can handle it."

'"So do I. But what would the girls say?"

"So do I. But what would the girls think?"

'"'Tis my belief," said Steve, "that they wouldn't particularly object. Your Emily clung as close to me as if she already belonged to me, dear girl."

"'I believe,' said Steve, 'that they wouldn't really mind. Your Emily held on to me as if she already belonged to me, dear girl.'"

'"And your Olive to me," says James. "I could feel her heart beating like a clock."

"And your Olive to me," says James. "I could feel her heart pounding like a clock."

'Well, they agreed to put it to the girls when they were all four walking home together. And they did so. When they parted that night the exchange was decided on-all having been done under the hot excitement of that evening's dancing. Thus it happened that on the following Sunday morning, when the people were sitting in church with mouths wide open to hear the names published as they had expected, there was no small amazement to hear them coupled the wrong way, as it seemed. The congregation whispered, and thought the parson had made a mistake; till they discovered that his reading of the names was verily the true way. As they had decided, so they were married, each one to the other's original property.

'Well, they agreed to ask the girls when all four of them were walking home together. And they did. When they parted that night, they had decided on the exchange—all fueled by the excitement of that evening’s dancing. So, it happened that the following Sunday morning, while the congregation was sitting in church, eagerly waiting to hear the names announced as they expected, there was quite a surprise when the names were paired differently than they thought. The congregation whispered, thinking the pastor had made a mistake, until they realized that he was actually reading the names correctly. As they had decided, they were married, each to the other's original partner.'

'Well, the two couples lived on for a year or two ordinarily enough, till the time came when these young people began to grow a little less warm to their respective spouses, as is the rule of married life; and the two cousins wondered more and more in their hearts what had made 'em so mad at the last moment to marry crosswise as they did, when they might have married straight, as was planned by nature, and as they had fallen in love. 'Twas Tony's party that had done it, plain enough, and they half wished they had never gone there. James, being a quiet, fireside, perusing man, felt at times a wide gap between himself and Olive, his wife, who loved riding and driving and out-door jaunts to a degree; while Steve, who was always knocking about hither and thither, had a very domestic wife, who worked samplers, and made hearthrugs, scarcely ever wished to cross the threshold, and only drove out with him to please him.

Well, the two couples lived together for a year or two without any major issues, until the time came when the young people started to feel a little less affectionate toward their spouses, as often happens in married life. The two cousins began to wonder more and more in their hearts what had made them so crazy at the last moment to marry against the natural order, when they could have married the right way, as was meant to be, and as they had originally fallen in love. It was clear that Tony's party was the cause of this, and they half wished they had never gone. James, being a quiet, home-loving, bookish man, sometimes felt a significant distance between himself and Olive, his wife, who had a strong passion for riding, driving, and outdoor adventures. Meanwhile, Steve, who was always moving around from place to place, had a very domestic wife who worked on crafts, made hearth rugs, and rarely wanted to leave the house, only going out with him to please him.

'However, they said very little about this mismating to any of their acquaintances, though sometimes Steve would look at James's wife and sigh, and James would look at Steve's wife and do the same. Indeed, at last the two men were frank enough towards each other not to mind mentioning it quietly to themselves, in a long-faced, sorry-smiling, whimsical sort of way, and would shake their heads together over their foolishness in upsetting a well-considered choice on the strength of an hour's fancy in the whirl and wildness of a dance. Still, they were sensible and honest young fellows enough, and did their best to make shift with their lot as they had arranged it, and not to repine at what could not now be altered or mended.

However, they didn't say much about this mismatched pairing to anyone they knew, though sometimes Steve would glance at James's wife and sigh, and James would do the same when looking at Steve's wife. Eventually, the two men became open enough with each other to quietly acknowledge it, sharing a long-faced, sorry-smiling, whimsical kind of moment as they shook their heads together over their foolishness in disrupting a well-thought-out decision based on an hour's whim during a dance's excitement. Still, they were sensible and honest young men, doing their best to make the most of their situation as they had planned it and not to complain about what could no longer be changed or fixed.

'So things remained till one fine summer day they went for their yearly little outing together, as they had made it their custom to do for a long while past. This year they chose Budmouth-Regis as the place to spend their holiday in; and off they went in their best clothes at nine o'clock in the morning.

'So things stayed the same until one beautiful summer day when they went on their annual little trip together, which they had been doing for a long time. This year, they decided to spend their vacation in Budmouth-Regis; they set off in their best clothes at nine o'clock in the morning.'

'When they had reached Budmouth-Regis they walked two and two along the shore-their new boots going squeakity-squash upon the clammy velvet sands. I can seem to see 'em now! Then they looked at the ships in the harbour; and then went up to the Look-out; and then had dinner at an inn; and then again walked two and two, squeakity-squash, upon the velvet sands. As evening drew on they sat on one of the public seats upon the Esplanade, and listened to the band; and then they said "What shall we do next?"

'When they reached Budmouth-Regis, they walked two by two along the shore, their new boots making a squeaky sound on the damp, soft sands. I can still picture them! Then they looked at the ships in the harbor, went up to the Look-out, had dinner at an inn, and then walked two by two again, making that same squeaky sound on the soft sands. As evening approached, they sat on one of the public benches on the Esplanade, listened to the band, and then said, "What should we do next?"

'"Of all things," said Olive (Mrs. James Hardcome, that is), "I should like to row in the bay! We could listen to the music from the water as well as from here, and have the fun of rowing besides."

'"Of all things," said Olive (Mrs. James Hardcome, that is), "I would really love to row in the bay! We could enjoy the music from the water as well as from here, and have the fun of rowing too."'

'"The very thing; so should I," says Stephen, his tastes being always like hers.

"The very thing; I should too," says Stephen, since his tastes are always like hers.

Here the clerk turned to the curate.

Here, the clerk turned to the curate.

'But you, sir, know the rest of the strange particulars of that strange evening of their lives better than anybody else, having had much of it from their own lips, which I had not; and perhaps you'll oblige the gentleman?'

'But you, sir, know the rest of the unusual details of that odd evening in their lives better than anyone else, having heard much of it straight from them, which I haven't; and maybe you'll share it with the gentleman?'

'Certainly, if it is wished,' said the curate. And he took up the clerk's tale:-

'Sure, if that's what you want,' said the curate. And he picked up the clerk's tale:

'Stephen's wife hated the sea, except from land, and couldn't bear the thought of going into a boat. James, too, disliked the water, and said that for his part he would much sooner stay on and listen to the band in the seat they occupied, though he did not wish to stand in his wife's way if she desired a row. The end of the discussion was that James and his cousin's wife Emily agreed to remain where they were sitting and enjoy the music, while they watched the other two hire a boat just beneath, and take their water-excursion of half an hour or so, till they should choose to come back and join the sitters on the Esplanade; when they would all start homeward together.

'Stephen's wife hated the sea, except from the shore, and couldn't stand the thought of getting into a boat. James also disliked the water and said that he would much rather stay and listen to the band in the seat they occupied, although he didn't want to hold his wife back if she wanted to row. In the end, James and his cousin’s wife Emily decided to stay where they were and enjoy the music while they watched the other two rent a boat just below and take their half-hour water excursion until they chose to come back and rejoin them on the Esplanade; then they would all head home together.'

'Nothing could have pleased the other two restless ones better than this arrangement; and Emily and James watched them go down to the boatman below and choose one of the little yellow skiffs, and walk carefully out upon the little plank that was laid on trestles to enable them to get alongside the craft. They saw Stephen hand Olive in, and take his seat facing her; when they were settled they waved their hands to the couple watching them, and then Stephen took the pair of sculls and pulled off to the tune beat by the band, she steering through the other boats skimming about, for the sea was as smooth as glass that evening, and pleasure-seekers were rowing everywhere.

'Nothing could have made the other two restless ones happier than this arrangement; Emily and James watched them head down to the boatman below, choose one of the little yellow boats, and carefully walk out onto the small plank set on trestles to get alongside the craft. They saw Stephen help Olive in and take his seat opposite her; once they were settled, they waved to the couple watching them, and then Stephen picked up the oars and set off to the rhythm created by the band, while she steered through the other boats gliding around, as the sea was as smooth as glass that evening, and people looking for fun were rowing everywhere.'

'"How pretty they look moving on, don't they?" said Emily to James (as I've been assured). "They both enjoy it equally. In everything their likings are the same."

"Don't they look so pretty as they move along?" Emily said to James (as I've been told). "They both enjoy it just as much. Their tastes are the same in every way."

'"That's true," said James.

"That's true," James said.

'"They would have made a handsome pair if they had married," said she.

"They would have been a good-looking couple if they had gotten married," she said.

'"Yes," said he. "'Tis a pity we should have parted 'em"

"Yes," he said. "It's a shame we should have separated them."

'"Don't talk of that, James," said she. "For better or for worse we decided to do as we did, and there's an end of it."

'"Don't talk about that, James," she said. "For better or for worse, we decided to do what we did, and that's final."'

'They sat on after that without speaking, side by side, and the band played as before; the people strolled up and down; and Stephen and Olive shrank smaller and smaller as they shot straight out to sea. The two on shore used to relate how they saw Stephen stop rowing a moment, and take off his coat to get at his work better; but James's wife sat quite still in the stern, holding the tiller-ropes by which she steered the boat. When they had got very small indeed she turned her head to shore.

They sat there in silence, side by side, while the band continued to play; people walked by, and Stephen and Olive seemed to shrink smaller and smaller as they moved further out to sea. Those onshore would later say they saw Stephen pause to take off his coat for easier work while rowing, but James's wife remained still at the back, holding the tiller ropes to steer the boat. When they had become quite small, she turned her head towards the shore.

'"She is waving her handkerchief to us," said Stephen's wife, who thereupon pulled out her own, and waved it as a return signal.

'"She’s waving her handkerchief at us," said Stephen’s wife, who then pulled out her own and waved it back as a reply.'

'The boat's course had been a little awry while Mrs. James neglected her steering to wave her handkerchief to her husband and Mrs. Stephen; but now the light skiff went straight onward again, and they could soon see nothing more of the two figures it contained than Olive's light mantle and Stephen's white shirt sleeves behind.

'The boat's path had been slightly off while Mrs. James distractedly waved her handkerchief to her husband and Mrs. Stephen; but now the small boat was back on track, and soon the only things visible were Olive's light coat and the white sleeves of Stephen's shirt behind her.'

'The two on the shore talked on. "'Twas very curious-our changing partners at Tony Kytes's wedding," Emily declared. "Tony was of a fickle nature by all account, and it really seemed as if his character had infected us that night. Which of you two was it that first proposed not to marry as we were engaged?"

'The two on the shore continued their conversation. "It was really strange—our swapping partners at Tony Kytes’s wedding," Emily said. "Tony was known for being fickle, and it honestly felt like his personality rubbed off on us that night. Which one of you two suggested not marrying since we were engaged?"

'"H'm-I can't remember at this moment," says James. "We talked it over, you know; and no sooner said than done."

"Hmm—I can't recall right now," says James. "We discussed it, you know; and as soon as we said it, we did it."

'"'Twas the dancing," said she. "People get quite crazy sometimes in a dance."

"'It was the dancing,' she said. 'People can get pretty wild sometimes when they dance.'"

'"They do," he owned.

"They do," he admitted.

'"James-do you think they care for one another still?" asks Mrs. Stephen.

'"James, do you think they still care for each other?" asks Mrs. Stephen.

'James Hardcome mused and admitted that perhaps a little tender feeling might flicker up in their hearts for a moment now and then. "Still, nothing of any account," he said.

'James Hardcome thought to himself and acknowledged that maybe a bit of affection could spark in their hearts occasionally. "Still, nothing significant," he said.

'"I sometimes think that Olive is in Steve's mind a good deal," murmurs Mrs. Stephen; "particularly when she pleases his fancy by riding past our window at a gallop on one of the draught-horses . . . I never could do anything of that sort; I could never get over my fear of a horse."

'"I sometimes think that Olive is often on Steve's mind," Mrs. Stephen whispers; "especially when she catches his eye by galloping past our window on one of the draft horses... I could never do anything like that; I've never been able to overcome my fear of horses."'

'"And I am no horseman, though I pretend to be on her account," murmured James Hardcome. "But isn't it almost time for them to turn and sweep round to the shore, as the other boating folk have done? I wonder what Olive means by steering away straight to the horizon like that? She has hardly swerved from a direct line seaward since they started."

"And I’m not really a horseman, even though I’m pretending to be for her sake," murmured James Hardcome. "But isn’t it almost time for them to turn and head back to the shore, like the other boaters have? I’m curious what Olive is thinking by steering straight out to the horizon like that. She hasn’t really veered from a direct line out to sea since they began."

'"No doubt they are talking, and don't think of where they are going," suggests Stephen's wife.

"No doubt they're talking, and not thinking about where they're going," suggests Stephen's wife.

'"Perhaps so," said James. "I didn't know Steve could row like that."

'"Maybe," James said. "I didn't know Steve could row like that."'

'"O yes," says she. "He often comes here on business, and generally has a pull round the bay."

"O yes," she says. "He often comes here for work, and usually goes for a spin around the bay."

'"I can hardly see the boat or them," says James again; "and it is getting dark."

"I can barely see the boat or them," James says again, "and it's getting dark."

'The heedless pair afloat now formed a mere speck in the films of the coming night, which thickened apace, till it completely swallowed up their distant shapes. They had disappeared while still following the same straight course away from the world of land-livers, as if they were intending to drop over the sea-edge into space, and never return to earth again.

'The careless couple on the water now looked like a tiny dot in the approaching night, which quickly became denser, until it completely engulfed their distant figures. They had vanished while still heading straight away from the world of those on land, as if they intended to plunge off the edge of the sea into the void, never to return to earth again.'

'The two on the shore continued to sit on, punctually abiding by their agreement to remain on the same spot till the others returned. The Esplanade lamps were lit one by one, the bandsmen folded up their stands and departed, the yachts in the bay hung out their riding lights, and the little boats came back to shore one after another, their hirers walking on to the sands by the plank they had climbed to go afloat; but among these Stephen and Olive did not appear.

'The two on the shore kept sitting, sticking to their agreement to stay in the same spot until the others returned. The Esplanade lamps turned on one by one, the musicians packed up their stands and left, the yachts in the bay displayed their riding lights, and the small boats returned to shore one after another, their renters walking onto the sand via the planks they had used to go afloat; however, Stephen and Olive were not among them.'

'"What a time they are!" said Emily. "I am getting quite chilly. I did not expect to have to sit so long in the evening air."

"What a time it is!" said Emily. "I’m getting pretty chilly. I didn’t expect to have to sit out here for so long in the evening air."

'Thereupon James Hardcome said that he did not require his overcoat, and insisted on lending it to her.

'Then James Hardcome said that he didn’t need his overcoat and insisted on lending it to her.'

'He wrapped it round Emily's shoulders.

He draped it around Emily's shoulders.

'"Thank you, James," she said. "How cold Olive must be in that thin jacket!"

"Thank you, James," she said. "Olive must be freezing in that light jacket!"

'He said he was thinking so too. "Well, they are sure to be quite close at hand by this time, though we can't see 'em. The boats are not all in yet. Some of the rowers are fond of paddling along the shore to finish out their hour of hiring."

He said he was thinking the same thing. "Well, they must be really close by now, even though we can't see them. The boats aren't all here yet. Some of the rowers like to paddle along the shore to use up the rest of their hour."

'"Shall we walk by the edge of the water," said she, "to see if we can discover them?"

"Should we walk by the water's edge," she asked, "to see if we can find them?"

'He assented, reminding her that they must not lose sight of the seat, lest the belated pair should return and miss them, and be vexed that they had not kept the appointment.

He agreed, reminding her that they needed to keep an eye on the seat, so the late couple wouldn't come back and miss them, getting upset that they hadn't kept their appointment.

'They walked a sentry beat up and down the sands immediately opposite the seat; and still the others did not come. James Hardcome at last went to the boatman, thinking that after all his wife and cousin might have come in under shadow of the dusk without being perceived, and might have forgotten the appointment at the bench.

'They were pacing back and forth on the sand right in front of the seat, and still the others hadn’t arrived. James Hardcome finally approached the boatman, thinking that maybe his wife and cousin had come in unnoticed as night fell and might have forgotten their meeting at the bench.'

'"All in?" asked James.

"All in?" James asked.

'"All but one boat," said the lessor. "I can't think where that couple is keeping to. They might run foul of something or other in the dark."

'"All but one boat," said the lessor. "I can't figure out where that couple is hiding. They could bump into something in the dark."'

'Again Stephen's wife and Olive's husband waited, with more and more anxiety. But no little yellow boat returned. Was it possible they could have landed further down the Esplanade?

'Again, Stephen's wife and Olive's husband waited, growing more and more anxious. But no little yellow boat came back. Could it be that they landed further down the Esplanade?

'"It may have been done to escape paying," said the boat-owner. "But they didn't look like people who would do that."

"It might have been done to avoid paying," said the boat owner. "But they didn't seem like the type to do that."

'James Hardcome knew that he could found no hope on such a reason as that. But now, remembering what had been casually discussed between Steve and himself about their wives from time to time, he admitted for the first time the possibility that their old tenderness had been revived by their face-to-face position more strongly than either had anticipated at starting-the excursion having been so obviously undertaken for the pleasure of the performance only,-and that they had landed at some steps he knew of further down toward the pier, to be longer alone together.

James Hardcome realized that he couldn't find any hope in that reasoning. But now, thinking back on the casual conversations he had shared with Steve about their wives, he considered for the first time that their old feelings might have been rekindled by their in-person meeting more intensely than either had expected at the start—since the trip had clearly been taken just for the sake of the performance—and that they had ended up at a few steps he recognized further down toward the pier to spend more time alone together.

'Still he disliked to harbour the thought, and would not mention its existence to his companion. He merely said to her, "Let us walk further on."

'Still, he didn't like to entertain the thought and wouldn't bring it up with his companion. He simply said to her, "Let's walk a bit further."'

'They did so, and lingered between the boat-stage and the pier till Stephen Hardcome's wife was uneasy, and was obliged to accept James's offered arm. Thus the night advanced. Emily was presently so worn out by fatigue that James felt it necessary to conduct her home; there was, too, a remote chance that the truants had landed in the harbour on the other side of the town, or elsewhere, and hastened home in some unexpected way, in the belief that their consorts would not have waited so long.

They did so and hung around between the boat dock and the pier until Stephen Hardcome's wife became anxious and had to take James's arm. As the night went on, Emily soon became so exhausted that James thought it was necessary to take her home; there was also a slim chance that the runaways had landed in the harbor on the other side of town or somewhere else and had hurried home in some unexpected way, thinking their companions wouldn’t have waited so long.

'However, he left a direction in the town that a lookout should be kept, though this was arranged privately, the bare possibility of an elopement being enough to make him reticent; and, full of misgivings, the two remaining ones hastened to catch the last train out of Budmouth-Regis; and when they got to Casterbridge drove back to Upper Longpuddle.'

'However, he instructed that a lookout should be maintained in the town, though this was organized privately since the mere chance of a secret getaway made him hesitant. Filled with doubts, the last two rushed to catch the final train out of Budmouth-Regis, and when they arrived in Casterbridge, they drove back to Upper Longpuddle.'

'Along this very road as we do now,' remarked the parish clerk.

'Right along this road, just like we are now,' said the parish clerk.

'To be sure-along this very road,' said the curate. 'However, Stephen and Olive were not at their homes; neither had entered the village since leaving it in the morning. Emily and James Hardcome went to their respective dwellings to snatch a hasty night's rest, and at daylight the next morning they drove again to Casterbridge and entered the Budmouth train, the line being just opened.

'For sure—along this very road,' said the curate. 'However, Stephen and Olive weren't at home; neither had they returned to the village since leaving in the morning. Emily and James Hardcome went to their respective homes to quickly grab some sleep, and at dawn the next morning they drove back to Casterbridge and boarded the Budmouth train, which had just opened.'

'Nothing had been heard of the couple there during this brief absence. In the course of a few hours some young men testified to having seen such a man and woman rowing in a frail hired craft, the head of the boat kept straight to sea; they had sat looking in each other's faces as if they were in a dream, with no consciousness of what they were doing, or whither they were steering. It was not till late that day that more tidings reached James's ears. The boat had been found drifting bottom upward a long way from land. In the evening the sea rose somewhat, and a cry spread through the town that two bodies were cast ashore in Lullstead Bay, several miles to the eastward. They were brought to Budmouth, and inspection revealed them to be the missing pair. It was said that they had been found tightly locked in each other's arms, his lips upon hers, their features still wrapt in the same calm and dream- like repose which had been observed in their demeanour as they had glided along.

'Nothing had been heard of the couple during their brief absence. In a few hours, some young men claimed to have seen a man and woman rowing in a fragile rented boat, heading straight out to sea; they had been gazing into each other's eyes as if in a dream, unaware of what they were doing or where they were going. It wasn't until late that day that more news reached James. The boat had been found drifting upside down far from shore. In the evening, the sea started to get rough, and a shout went through the town that two bodies had washed up on the shore at Lullstead Bay, several miles to the east. They were brought to Budmouth, and examination revealed them to be the missing couple. It was said that they had been found tightly locked in each other's arms, his lips on hers, their faces still wrapped in the same calm, dreamlike serenity that had been noticed in their behavior as they had drifted along.'

'Neither James nor Emily questioned the original motives of the unfortunate man and woman in putting to sea. They were both above suspicion as to intention. Whatever their mutual feelings might have led them on to, underhand behaviour was foreign to the nature of either. Conjecture pictured that they might have fallen into tender reverie while gazing each into a pair of eyes that had formerly flashed for him and her alone, and, unwilling to avow what their mutual sentiments were, they had continued thus, oblivious of time and space, till darkness suddenly overtook them far from land. But nothing was truly known. It had been their destiny to die thus. The two halves, intended by Nature to make the perfect whole, had failed in that result during their lives, though "in their death they were not divided." Their bodies were brought home, and buried on one day. I remember that, on looking round the churchyard while reading the service, I observed nearly all the parish at their funeral.'

'Neither James nor Emily questioned the original motives of the unfortunate man and woman who set out to sea. They were both seen as having pure intentions. No matter what feelings they might have developed, sneaky behavior was not in either of their natures. It was speculated that they might have drifted into a sweet daydream while gazing into each other's eyes, which once belonged only to them, and, reluctant to confess their feelings, they remained lost in the moment, unaware of time and space, until darkness suddenly caught up with them far from shore. But the truth remained a mystery. It was their fate to die this way. The two halves that Nature intended to make a perfect whole failed to achieve that during their lives, though “in their death they were not divided.” Their bodies were brought home and buried on the same day. I remember that as I looked around the churchyard while reading the service, I noticed nearly everyone from the parish at their funeral.'

'It was so, sir,' said the clerk.

'The remaining two,' continued the curate (whose voice had grown husky while relating the lovers' sad fate), 'were a more thoughtful and far- seeing, though less romantic, couple than the first. They were now mutually bereft of a companion, and found themselves by this accident in a position to fulfil their destiny according to Nature's plan and their own original and calmly-formed intention. James Hardcome took Emily to wife in the course of a year and a half; and the marriage proved in every respect a happy one. I solemnized the service, Hardcome having told me, when he came to give notice of the proposed wedding, the story of his first wife's loss almost word for word as I have told it to you.'

'The remaining two,' the curate continued (his voice had become hoarse while he shared the lovers' tragic fate), 'were a more thoughtful and forward-looking couple, even if they weren't as romantic as the first. They had both lost their partners and found themselves in a position to fulfill their destiny according to Nature's plan and their own original and carefully considered intention. James Hardcome married Emily within a year and a half, and their marriage turned out to be a happy one in every way. I officiated the ceremony, as Hardcome had recounted to me, almost exactly as I've shared it with you, the story of his first wife's loss, when he came to announce the upcoming wedding.'

'And are they living in Longpuddle still?' asked the new-comer.

'Are they still living in Longpuddle?' asked the newcomer.

'O no, sir,' interposed the clerk. 'James has been dead these dozen years, and his mis'ess about six or seven. They had no children. William Privett used to be their odd man till he died.'

'O no, sir,' interrupted the clerk. 'James has been dead for about twelve years, and his wife for around six or seven. They didn't have any kids. William Privett used to be their odd man until he passed away.'

'Ah-William Privett! He dead too?-dear me!' said the other. 'All passed away!'

'Oh, William Privett! Is he dead too? Oh dear!' said the other. 'They're all gone!'

'Yes, sir. William was much older than I. He'd ha' been over eighty if he had lived till now.'

'Yes, sir. William was much older than me. He would have been over eighty if he had lived until now.'

'There was something very strange about William's death-very strange indeed!' sighed a melancholy man in the back of the van. It was the seedsman's father, who had hitherto kept silence.

'There was something really odd about William's death—really odd indeed!' sighed a sad man in the back of the van. It was the seedsman's father, who had been silent until now.

'And what might that have been?' asked Mr. Lackland.

'And what could that have been?' asked Mr. Lackland.

THE SUPERSTITIOUS MAN'S STORY

'William, as you may know, was a curious, silent man; you could feel when he came near 'ee; and if he was in the house or anywhere behind your back without your seeing him, there seemed to be something clammy in the air, as if a cellar door was opened close by your elbow. Well, one Sunday, at a time that William was in very good health to all appearance, the bell that was ringing for church went very heavy all of a sudden; the sexton, who told me o't, said he'd not known the bell go so heavy in his hand for years-it was just as if the gudgeons wanted oiling. That was on the Sunday, as I say. During the week after, it chanced that William's wife was staying up late one night to finish her ironing, she doing the washing for Mr. and Mrs. Hardcome. Her husband had finished his supper and gone to bed as usual some hour or two before. While she ironed she heard him coming down stairs; he stopped to put on his boots at the stair-foot, where he always left them, and then came on into the living-room where she was ironing, passing through it towards the door, this being the only way from the staircase to the outside of the house. No word was said on either side, William not being a man given to much speaking, and his wife being occupied with her work. He went out and closed the door behind him. As her husband had now and then gone out in this way at night before when unwell, or unable to sleep for want of a pipe, she took no particular notice, and continued at her ironing. This she finished shortly after, and as he had not come in she waited awhile for him, putting away the irons and things, and preparing the table for his breakfast in the morning. Still he did not return, but supposing him not far off, and wanting to get to bed herself, tired as she was, she left the door unbarred and went to the stairs, after writing on the back of the door with chalk: Mind and do the door (because he was a forgetful man).

William, as you might know, was a quiet, curious guy; you could feel his presence when he was near. If he was in the house or somewhere behind you without you noticing, the air seemed a bit chilly, like when a cellar door is opened right next to you. One Sunday, when William appeared to be in great health, the church bell suddenly started ringing heavily. The sexton, who mentioned it to me, said he hadn't felt the bell so heavy in years—it was as if it needed some oil. That was on a Sunday. During the following week, William's wife was up late one night finishing her ironing because she was doing the laundry for Mr. and Mrs. Hardcome. Her husband had already finished dinner and gone to bed a couple of hours earlier. While she was ironing, she heard him coming down the stairs; he paused to put on his boots at the bottom of the stairs, where he always left them, and then walked into the living room where she was working, heading toward the door, which was the only way out of the house from the staircase. They didn't say anything to each other since William wasn't much of a talker, and his wife was focused on her task. He went outside and closed the door behind him. Since her husband had occasionally done this at night when he was feeling unwell or couldn't sleep without a smoke, she didn't think much of it and continued ironing. She finished her job a little while later and, noticing he hadn't returned, waited a bit for him. She put away the irons and got everything ready for his breakfast for the morning. When he still didn't come back, assuming he was nearby and wanting to get to bed herself because she was tired, she left the door unlatched and went to the stairs, writing on the back of the door with chalk: "Remember to shut the door" (because he was absent-minded).

'To her great surprise, and I might say alarm, on reaching the foot of the stairs his boots were standing there as they always stood when he had gone to rest; going up to their chamber she found him in bed sleeping as sound as a rock. How he could have got back again without her seeing or hearing him was beyond her comprehension. It could only have been by passing behind her very quietly while she was bumping with the iron. But this notion did not satisfy her: it was surely impossible that she should not have seen him come in through a room so small. She could not unravel the mystery, and felt very queer and uncomfortable about it. However, she would not disturb him to question him then, and went to bed herself.

To her great surprise, and I might say alarm, when she reached the bottom of the stairs, his boots were exactly where they always were when he had gone to bed. Going up to their room, she found him asleep in bed, sound as a rock. How he could have come back without her noticing or hearing him was beyond her understanding. The only way must have been to slip past her very quietly while she was busy with the iron. But that idea didn't satisfy her; it was hard to believe she wouldn’t have seen him enter a space that small. She couldn’t figure out the mystery and felt very strange and uneasy about it. However, she decided not to wake him to ask questions and went to bed herself.

'He rose and left for his work very early the next morning, before she was awake, and she waited his return to breakfast with much anxiety for an explanation, for thinking over the matter by daylight made it seem only the more startling. When he came in to the meal he said, before she could put her question, "What's the meaning of them words chalked on the door?"

He got up and left for work early the next morning, before she was awake, and she anxiously waited for him to come back for breakfast so she could ask for an explanation. Thinking it over in the daylight made it seem even more shocking. When he came in for the meal, he asked before she could say anything, "What do those words on the door mean?"

'She told him, and asked him about his going out the night before. William declared that he had never left the bedroom after entering it, having in fact undressed, lain down, and fallen asleep directly, never once waking till the clock struck five, and he rose up to go to his labour.

'She asked him about going out the night before. William insisted that he never left the bedroom after entering it. In fact, he had undressed, laid down, and fallen asleep right away, never waking up until the clock struck five when he got up to go to work.'

'Betty Privett was as certain in her own mind that he did go out as she was of her own existence, and was little less certain that he did not return. She felt too disturbed to argue with him, and let the subject drop as though she must have been mistaken. When she was walking down Longpuddle street later in the day she met Jim Weedle's daughter Nancy, and said, "Well, Nancy, you do look sleepy to-day!"

Betty Privett was just as sure in her own mind that he had gone out as she was of her own existence, and she was almost equally sure that he hadn’t come back. She felt too unsettled to argue with him, so she let the topic go as if she had been mistaken. Later that day, while walking down Longpuddle Street, she ran into Jim Weedle's daughter, Nancy, and said, "Well, Nancy, you look really sleepy today!"

'"Yes, Mrs. Privett," says Nancy. "Now don't tell anybody, but I don't mind letting you know what the reason o't is. Last night, being Old Midsummer Eve, some of us went to church porch, and didn't get home till near one."

'"Yeah, Mrs. Privett," says Nancy. "Now, don't tell anyone, but I'll let you in on the reason. Last night, being the night before Midsummer, some of us went to the church porch and didn't get home until almost one."'

'"Did ye?" says Mrs. Privett. "Old Midsummer yesterday was it? Faith I didn't think whe'r 'twas Midsummer or Michaelmas; I'd too much work to do."

'"Did you?" says Mrs. Privett. "Was yesterday really Midsummer? Honestly, I didn't even think about whether it was Midsummer or Michaelmas; I had too much work to do."'

'"Yes. And we were frightened enough, I can tell 'ee, by what we saw."

"Yes. And we were scared enough, I can tell you, by what we saw."

'"What did ye see?"

"What did you see?"

'(You may not remember, sir, having gone off to foreign parts so young, that on Midsummer Night it is believed hereabout that the faint shapes of all the folk in the parish who are going to be at death's door within the year can be seen entering the church. Those who get over their illness come out again after a while; those that are doomed to die do not return.)

'(You might not recall, sir, since you left for distant lands at such a young age, that on Midsummer Night, it’s believed around here that the faint outlines of everyone in the parish who is facing death within the year can be seen entering the church. Those who recover from their illness come out again after some time; those who are destined to die do not return.)'

'"What did you see?" asked William's wife.

"What did you see?" asked William's wife.

'"Well," says Nancy, backwardly-"we needn't tell what we saw, or who we saw."

"Well," says Nancy, looking back, "we don’t have to say what we saw or who we saw."

'"You saw my husband," says Betty Privett, in a quiet way.

"You saw my husband," says Betty Privett, quietly.

'"Well, since you put it so," says Nancy, hanging fire, "we-thought we did see him; but it was darkish, and we was frightened, and of course it might not have been he."

"Well, since you put it that way," says Nancy, hesitating, "we thought we saw him; but it was kind of dark, and we were scared, and of course it might not have been him."

'"Nancy, you needn't mind letting it out, though 'tis kept back in kindness. And he didn't come out of church again: I know it as well as you."

"Nancy, you shouldn’t worry about saying it, even though it’s being held back out of kindness. And he didn’t come out of church again: I know that just as well as you do."

'Nancy did not answer yes or no to that, and no more was said. But three days after, William Privett was mowing with John Chiles in Mr. Hardcome's meadow, and in the heat of the day they sat down to eat their bit o' nunch under a tree, and empty their flagon. Afterwards both of 'em fell asleep as they sat. John Chiles was the first to wake, and as he looked towards his fellow-mower he saw one of those great white miller's-souls as we call 'em-that is to say, a miller-moth-come from William's open mouth while he slept, and fly straight away. John thought it odd enough, as William had worked in a mill for several years when he was a boy. He then looked at the sun, and found by the place o't that they had slept a long while, and as William did not wake, John called to him and said it was high time to begin work again. He took no notice, and then John went up and shook him, and found he was dead.

'Nancy didn't answer yes or no to that, and no more was said. But three days later, William Privett was mowing with John Chiles in Mr. Hardcome's meadow, and in the heat of the day, they sat down to eat their bit of lunch under a tree and finish off their drink. Afterwards, both of them fell asleep as they sat. John Chiles was the first to wake, and as he looked over at his fellow mower, he saw one of those big white moths—what we call a miller's-soul—fly out from William's open mouth while he slept and fly away. John thought it was strange since William had worked in a mill for several years when he was a kid. He then checked the sun and realized they had been asleep for a long time, so since William didn't wake up, John called to him, saying it was high time to get back to work. When he got no response, John went up and shook him, only to find he was dead.'

'Now on that very day old Philip Hookhorn was down at Longpuddle Spring dipping up a pitcher of water; and as he turned away, who should he see coming down to the spring on the other side but William, looking very pale and odd. This surprised Philip Hookhorn very much, for years before that time William's little son-his only child-had been drowned in that spring while at play there, and this had so preyed upon William's mind that he'd never been seen near the spring afterwards, and had been known to go half a mile out of his way to avoid the place. On inquiry, it was found that William in body could not have stood by the spring, being in the mead two miles off; and it also came out that the time at which he was seen at the spring was the very time when he died.'

'On that same day, old Philip Hookhorn was at Longpuddle Spring filling a pitcher with water. As he turned to leave, he saw William approaching the spring from the other side, looking very pale and strange. This shocked Philip Hookhorn because years earlier, William’s only child had drowned in that spring while playing there, and the tragedy had haunted William so much that he had never been seen near the spring since. In fact, he was known to go out of his way to avoid the area. When Philip asked around, it turned out that William couldn’t have been at the spring, as he was two miles away in the meadow; and it became clear that the moment he was seen at the spring was the exact time of his death.'

'A rather melancholy story,' observed the emigrant, after a minute's silence.

'A pretty sad story,' said the emigrant after a moment of silence.

'Yes, yes. Well, we must take ups and downs together,' said the seedsman's father.

'Yes, yes. Well, we have to deal with the ups and downs together,' said the seedsman's father.

'You don't know, Mr. Lackland, I suppose, what a rum start that was between Andrey Satchel and Jane Vallens and the pa'son and clerk o' Scrimpton?' said the master-thatcher, a man with a spark of subdued liveliness in his eye, who had hitherto kept his attention mainly upon small objects a long way ahead, as he sat in front of the van with his feet outside. 'Theirs was a queerer experience of a pa'son and clerk than some folks get, and may cheer 'ee up a little after this dampness that's been flung over yer soul.'

'You don't know, Mr. Lackland, I guess, what a strange beginning that was between Andrey Satchel and Jane Vallens and the pastor and clerk of Scrimpton?' said the master-thatcher, a man with a glint of restrained energy in his eye, who had been mostly focused on small objects far ahead as he sat in front of the van with his feet dangling outside. 'Their experience with a pastor and clerk was weirder than what some people get, and it might lift your spirits a bit after this gloom that's settled over you.'

The returned one replied that he knew nothing of the history, and should be happy to hear it, quite recollecting the personality of the man Satchel.

The person who came back said that he didn't know anything about the history and would be glad to hear it, clearly remembering who the man Satchel was.

'Ah no; this Andrey Satchel is the son of the Satchel that you knew; this one has not been married more than two or three years, and 'twas at the time o' the wedding that the accident happened that I could tell 'ee of, or anybody else here, for that matter.'

'Oh no; this Andrey Satchel is the son of the Satchel you knew; this one hasn't been married more than two or three years, and it was at the time of the wedding that the accident happened that I could tell you about, or anyone else here, for that matter.'

'No, no; you must tell it, neighbour, if anybody,' said several; a request in which Mr. Lackland joined, adding that the Satchel family was one he had known well before leaving home.

'No, no; you have to tell it, neighbor, if anyone,' said several people; a request in which Mr. Lackland joined, adding that he had known the Satchel family well before leaving home.

'I'll just mention, as you be a stranger,' whispered the carrier to Lackland, 'that Christopher's stories will bear pruning.'

"I'll just say, since you're a stranger," the carrier whispered to Lackland, "that Christopher's stories could use some trimming."

The emigrant nodded.

The immigrant nodded.

'Well, I can soon tell it,' said the master-thatcher, schooling himself to a tone of actuality. 'Though as it has more to do with the pa'son and clerk than with Andrey himself, it ought to be told by a better churchman than I.'

'Well, I can tell you that pretty quickly,' said the master-thatcher, adjusting his tone to sound more serious. 'But since it relates more to the pastor and the clerk than to Andrey himself, it should really be shared by someone more qualified from the church than I.'

ANDREY SATCHEL AND THE PARSON AND CLERK

'It all arose, you must know, from Andrey being fond of a drop of drink at that time-though he's a sober enough man now by all account, so much the better for him. Jane, his bride, you see, was somewhat older than Andrey; how much older I don't pretend to say; she was not one of our parish, and the register alone may be able to tell that. But, at any rate, her being a little ahead of her young man in mortal years, coupled with other bodily circumstances-'

'It all started, you should know, because Andrey had a penchant for drinking back then—though he's pretty much a straight shooter now, which is great for him. Jane, his wife, as you can see, was a bit older than Andrey; I can't say exactly how much older; she wasn't from our parish, and only the registry might have that answer. But anyway, her being slightly older than her young man, along with other physical factors—'

('Ah, poor thing!' sighed the women.)

'-made her very anxious to get the thing done before he changed his mind; and 'twas with a joyful countenance (they say) that she, with Andrey and his brother and sister-in-law, marched off to church one November morning as soon as 'twas day a'most, to be made one with Andrey for the rest of her life. He had left our place long before it was light, and the folks that were up all waved their lanterns at him, and flung up their hats as he went.

'-made her very anxious to get it done before he changed his mind; and with a joyful expression (they say) she, along with Andrey and his brother and sister-in-law, set off to church one November morning just about dawn, to unite with Andrey for the rest of her life. He had left our place long before it was light, and the people who were up all waved their lanterns at him and tossed their hats in the air as he went.'

'The church of her parish was a mile and more from the houses, and, as it was a wonderful fine day for the time of year, the plan was that as soon as they were married they would make out a holiday by driving straight off to Port Bredy, to see the ships and the sea and the sojers, instead of coming back to a meal at the house of the distant relation she lived wi', and moping about there all the afternoon.

'The church in her parish was over a mile away from the houses, and since it was a beautiful day for this time of year, the plan was that as soon as they got married, they would celebrate by driving straight to Port Bredy to see the ships, the sea, and the soldiers, instead of going back for a meal at the house of the distant relative she lived with and feeling down there all afternoon.'

'Well, some folks noticed that Andrey walked with rather wambling steps to church that morning; the truth o't was that his nearest neighbour's child had been christened the day before, and Andrey, having stood godfather, had stayed all night keeping up the christening, for he had said to himself, "Not if I live to be thousand shall I again be made a godfather one day, and a husband the next, and perhaps a father the next, and therefore I'll make the most of the blessing." So that when he started from home in the morning he had not been in bed at all. The result was, as I say, that when he and his bride-to-he walked up the church to get married, the pa'son (who was a very strict man inside the church, whatever he was outside) looked hard at Andrey, and said, very sharp:

"Well, some people noticed that Andrey walked with a bit of a wobble to church that morning; the truth was that his neighbor's child had been baptized the day before, and Andrey, having been the godfather, stayed up all night celebrating the baptism. He thought to himself, 'If I live to be a thousand, I'll probably never be made a godfather one day, a husband the next, and maybe a father the day after, so I should make the most of this blessing.' So when he left home that morning, he hadn't gotten any sleep at all. As a result, when he and his bride-to-be walked up the aisle to get married, the priest (who was very strict inside the church, no matter what he was like outside) looked closely at Andrey and said very sharply:"

'"How's this, my man? You are in liquor. And so early, too. I'm ashamed of you!"

'"What's up with you, man? You're already drinking. And it's so early! I'm embarrassed for you!"'

'"Well, that's true, sir," says Andrey. "But I can walk straight enough for practical purposes. I can walk a chalk line," he says (meaning no offence), "as well as some other folk: and-" (getting hotter)-"I reckon that if you, Pa'son Billy Toogood, had kept up a christening all night so thoroughly as I have done, you wouldn't be able to stand at all; d—- me if you would!"

'"Well, that's true, sir," says Andrey. "But I can walk just fine for practical purposes. I can walk a straight line," he says (not meaning any offense), "as well as some other people: and-" (getting more worked up)-"I bet that if you, Pastor Billy Toogood, had spent all night at a christening like I have, you wouldn't be able to stand at all; damn me if you would!"'

'This answer made Pa'son Billy-as they used to call him-rather spitish, not to say hot, for he was a warm-tempered man if provoked, and he said, very decidedly: "Well, I cannot marry you in this state; and I will not! Go home and get sober!" And he slapped the book together like a rat- trap.

'This answer made Pa'son Billy—what they used to call him—quite irritable, if not angry, because he was a warm-tempered guy when pushed, and he said, very firmly: "Well, I can’t marry you in this condition; and I won’t! Go home and get sober!" And he slammed the book shut like a rat trap.'

'Then the bride burst out crying as if her heart would break, for very fear that she would lose Andrey after all her hard work to get him, and begged and implored the pa'son to go on with the ceremony. But no.

'Then the bride started crying as if her heart would break, terrified that she would lose Andrey after all her effort to win him over, and begged the pastor to continue with the ceremony. But no.'

'"I won't be a party to your solemnizing matrimony with a tipsy man," says Mr. Toogood. "It is not right and decent. I am sorry for you, my young woman, but you'd better go home again. I wonder how you could think of bringing him here drunk like this!"

"I won't be a part of your wedding with a drunk guy," says Mr. Toogood. "It's not right or proper. I'm sorry for you, young woman, but you should go home. I can't believe you thought it was a good idea to bring him here like this!"

'"But if-if he don't come drunk he won't come at all, sir!" she says, through her sobs.

'"But if he doesn't come drunk, he won't come at all, sir!" she says, through her sobs.'

'"I can't help that," says the pa'son; and plead as she might, it did not move him. Then she tried him another way.

"I can't help that," says the preacher; and no matter how much she pleaded, it didn't change his mind. So she tried a different approach.

'"Well, then, if you'll go home, sir, and leave us here, and come back to the church in an hour or two, I'll undertake to say that he shall be as sober as a judge," she cries. "We'll bide here, with your permission; for if he once goes out of this here church unmarried, all Van Amburgh's horses won't drag him back again!"

"Well, if you'll go home now and leave us here, then come back to the church in an hour or two, I promise he'll be as sober as a judge," she says. "We'll stay here, with your permission, because if he leaves this church unmarried, no amount of Van Amburgh's horses will bring him back!"

'"Very well," says the parson. "I'll give you two hours, and then I'll return."

'"Alright," says the parson. "I'll give you two hours, and then I'll come back."'

'"And please, sir, lock the door, so that we can't escape!" says she.

"And please, sir, lock the door so we can't escape!" she says.

'"Yes," says the parson.

"Yes," says the pastor.

'"And let nobody know that we are here."

'"And let no one know that we are here."'

'The pa'son then took off his clane white surplice, and went away; and the others consulted upon the best means for keeping the matter a secret, which it was not a very hard thing to do, the place being so lonely, and the hour so early. The witnesses, Andrey's brother and brother's wife, neither one o' which cared about Andrey's marrying Jane, and had come rather against their will, said they couldn't wait two hours in that hole of a place, wishing to get home to Longpuddle before dinner-time. They were altogether so crusty that the clerk said there was no difficulty in their doing as they wished. They could go home as if their brother's wedding had actually taken place and the married couple had gone onward for their day's pleasure jaunt to Port Bredy as intended, he, the clerk, and any casual passer-by would act as witnesses when the pa'son came back.

The pastor then took off his clean white robe and left; the others discussed the best way to keep the matter a secret, which wasn’t too difficult since the place was so remote and it was still early. The witnesses, Andrey’s brother and his brother’s wife, neither of whom were particularly interested in Andrey marrying Jane and who had come almost against their will, said they couldn’t wait two hours in that miserable spot, wanting to get home to Longpuddle before dinner. They were all so grumpy that the clerk said there was no problem with them doing what they wanted. They could leave as if their brother’s wedding had actually happened and the newlyweds had gone off for their day trip to Port Bredy as planned; he, the clerk, and any random passerby would act as witnesses when the pastor returned.

'This was agreed to, and away Andrey's relations went, nothing loath, and the clerk shut the church door and prepared to lock in the couple. The bride went up and whispered to him, with her eyes a-streaming still.

'This was agreed upon, and Andrey's relatives left willingly, while the clerk closed the church door and got ready to lock in the couple. The bride approached and whispered to him, her eyes still streaming with tears.'

'"My dear good clerk," she says, "if we bide here in the church, folk may see us through the winders, and find out what has happened; and 'twould cause such a talk and scandal that I never should get over it: and perhaps, too, dear Andrey might try to get out and leave me! Will ye lock us up in the tower, my dear good clerk?" she says. "I'll tole him in there if you will."

'"My dear good clerk," she says, "if we stay here in the church, people might see us through the windows and find out what happened; and it would create such gossip and scandal that I’d never recover from it: and maybe, dear Andrey might try to escape and leave me! Will you lock us up in the tower, my dear good clerk?" she says. "I'll tell him to go in there if you will."'

'The clerk had no objection to do this to oblige the poor young woman, and they toled Andrey into the tower, and the clerk locked 'em both up straightway, and then went home, to return at the end of the two hours.

'The clerk had no problem helping the poor young woman, and they led Andrey into the tower, where the clerk locked them both up right away and then went home, planning to return after two hours.'

'Pa'son Toogood had not been long in his house after leaving the church when he saw a gentleman in pink and top-boots ride past his windows, and with a sudden flash of heat he called to mind that the hounds met that day just on the edge of his parish. The pa'son was one who dearly loved sport, and much he longed to be there.

'Pa'son Toogood hadn't been at home long after leaving the church when he saw a guy in pink and tall boots ride past his windows. Suddenly, he remembered that the hounds were meeting that day right on the edge of his parish. The pa'son was someone who really loved sports, and he wished he could be there.

'In short, except o' Sundays and at tide-times in the week, Pa'son Billy was the life o' the Hunt. 'Tis true that he was poor, and that he rode all of a heap, and that his black mare was rat-tailed and old, and his tops older, and all over of one colour, whitey-brown, and full o' cracks. But he'd been in at the death of three thousand foxes. And-being a bachelor man-every time he went to bed in summer he used to open the bed at bottom and crawl up head foremost, to mind 'em of the coming winter and the good sport he'd have, and the foxes going to earth. And whenever there was a christening at the Squire's, and he had dinner there afterwards, as he always did, he never failed to christen the chiel over again in a bottle of port wine.

'In short, except on Sundays and during certain times in the week, Parson Billy was the life of the Hunt. It’s true that he was poor, and that he rode a lot, and that his black mare was rat-tailed and old, and his riding clothes even older, all of one color—washed-out brown and full of cracks. But he had been present at the death of three thousand foxes. And since he was a bachelor, every time he went to bed in summer, he would open the bottom of the bed and crawl in headfirst to remind himself of the coming winter and the good sport he’d have, with the foxes going to ground. And whenever there was a christening at the Squire’s, and he had dinner there afterwards, which he always did, he never missed the chance to re-christen the kid with a bottle of port wine.'

'Now the clerk was the parson's groom and gardener and jineral manager, and had just got back to his work in the garden when he, too, saw the hunting man pass, and presently saw lots more of 'em, noblemen and gentry, and then he saw the hounds, the huntsman, Jim Treadhedge, the whipper-in, and I don't know who besides. The clerk loved going to cover as frantical as the pa'son, so much so that whenever he saw or heard the pack he could no more rule his feelings than if they were the winds of heaven. He might be bedding, or he might be sowing-all was forgot. So he throws down his spade and rushes in to the pa'son, who was by this time as frantical to go as he.

Now the clerk was the parson's groom and gardener and general manager, and had just gotten back to his work in the garden when he also saw the hunting man pass by, and soon saw a lot more of them—noblemen and gentry. Then he spotted the hounds, the huntsman, Jim Treadhedge, the whipper-in, and others he didn't recognize. The clerk loved going to cover just as much as the parson did, so much so that whenever he saw or heard the pack, he couldn’t control his excitement any more than if it were the winds of heaven. He could be bedding or sowing—none of that mattered. So he dropped his spade and rushed in to the parson, who was by then just as eager to go as he was.

'"That there mare of yours, sir, do want exercise bad, very bad, this morning!" the clerk says, all of a tremble. "Don't ye think I'd better trot her round the downs for an hour, sir?"

'"That mare of yours really needs some exercise, sir, badly, this morning!" the clerk says, all shaky. "Don’t you think I should take her for a quick run around the downs for an hour, sir?"'

'"To be sure, she does want exercise badly. I'll trot her round myself," says the parson.

"Of course, she really wants to get some exercise. I'll take her for a walk myself," says the parson.

'"Oh-you'll trot her yerself? Well, there's the cob, sir. Really that cob is getting oncontrollable through biding in a stable so long! If you wouldn't mind my putting on the saddle-"

'"Oh, you're going to walk her yourself? Well, there's the horse, sir. Honestly, that horse is becoming uncontrollable from being stuck in a stable for so long! If you wouldn't mind me putting on the saddle-"

'"Very well. Take him out, certainly," says the pa'son, never caring what the clerk did so long as he himself could get off immediately. So, scrambling into his riding-boots and breeches as quick as he could, he rode off towards the meet, intending to be back in an hour. No sooner was he gone than the clerk mounted the cob, and was off after him. When the pa'son got to the meet, he found a lot of friends, and was as jolly as he could be: the hounds found a'most as soon as they threw off, and there was great excitement. So, forgetting that he had meant to go back at once, away rides the pa'son with the rest o' the hunt, all across the fallow ground that lies between Lippet Wood and Green's Copse; and as he galloped he looked behind for a moment, and there was the clerk close to his heels.

"Sure, take him out," says the pastor, not caring what the clerk did as long as he could leave right away. So, scrambling into his riding boots and pants as quickly as he could, he rode off to the meet, planning to be back in an hour. No sooner had he left than the clerk hopped on the cob and took off after him. When the pastor arrived at the meet, he found a bunch of friends and was as cheerful as he could be: the hounds picked up the scent almost immediately after they were released, and there was a lot of excitement. Forgetting that he intended to return right away, the pastor rode off with the rest of the hunt, across the fallow land between Lippet Wood and Green's Copse; and as he galloped, he glanced back for a moment and saw the clerk right on his tail.

'"Ha, ha, clerk-you here?" he says.

'"Ha, ha, clerk—you here?" he says.'

'"Yes, sir, here be I," says t'other.

'"Yes, sir, here I am," says the other.

'"Fine exercise for the horses!"

"Great workout for the horses!"

'"Ay, sir-hee, hee!" says the clerk.

'"Yeah, sir—hee, hee!" says the clerk.

'So they went on and on, into Green's Copse, then across to Higher Jirton; then on across this very turnpike-road to Climmerston Ridge, then away towards Yalbury Wood: up hill and down dale, like the very wind, the clerk close to the pa'son, and the pa'son not far from the hounds. Never was there a finer run knowed with that pack than they had that day; and neither pa'son nor clerk thought one word about the unmarried couple locked up in the church tower waiting to get j'ined.

'So they kept going and going, into Green's Copse, then over to Higher Jirton; then across this very turnpike road to Climmerston Ridge, and then off toward Yalbury Wood: up hill and down dale, like the wind, the clerk right by the parson, and the parson not far from the hounds. Never was there a better run known with that pack than what they had that day; and neither the parson nor the clerk gave a thought to the unmarried couple locked up in the church tower waiting to get joined.'

'"These hosses of yours, sir, will be much improved by this!" says the clerk as he rode along, just a neck behind the pa'son. "'Twas a happy thought of your reverent mind to bring 'em out to-day. Why, it may be frosty in a day or two, and then the poor things mid not be able to leave the stable for weeks."

'"These horses of yours, sir, will be much better for this!" says the clerk as he rode along, just a neck behind the parson. "It was a great idea of your reverent mind to bring them out today. It might get frosty in a day or two, and then the poor things might not be able to leave the stable for weeks."'

'"They may not, they may not, it is true. A merciful man is merciful to his beast," says the pa'son.

"'They might not, they might not, that's true. A compassionate person cares for their animal,' says the pastor."

'"Hee, hee!" says the clerk, glancing sly into the pa'son's eye.

"Hee, hee!" says the clerk, glancing slyly into the parson's eye.

'"Ha, ha!" says the pa'son, a-glancing back into the clerk's. "Halloo!" he shouts, as he sees the fox break cover at that moment.

'"Ha, ha!" the pastor says, glancing back at the clerk's. "Hello!" he shouts as he sees the fox come out of hiding at that moment.

'"Halloo!" cries the clerk. "There he goes! Why, dammy, there's two foxes-"

'"Hey!" shouts the clerk. "Look at him go! Wow, there are two foxes—"'

'"Hush, clerk, hush! Don't let me hear that word again! Remember our calling."

'"Hush, clerk, hush! Don't let me hear that word again! Remember our job."'

'"True, sir, true. But really, good sport do carry away a man so, that he's apt to forget his high persuasion!" And the next minute the corner of the clerk's eye shot again into the corner of the pa'son's, and the pa'son's back again to the clerk's. "Hee, hee!" said the clerk.

'"True, sir, true. But honestly, good fun can really get to a person, making him forget his great intentions!" And in the next moment, the clerk's eye flicked once more to the corner of the parson's, and the parson's back to the clerk's. "Hee, hee!" chuckled the clerk.

'"Ha, ha!" said Pa'son Toogood.

"Ha, ha!" said Pastor Toogood.

'"Ah, sir," says the clerk again, "this is better than crying Amen to your Ever-and-ever on a winter's morning!"

'"Oh, sir," says the clerk again, "this is so much better than just saying Amen to your Forever-and-ever on a winter morning!"'

'"Yes, indeed, clerk! To everything there's a season," says Pa'son Toogood, quite pat, for he was a learned Christian man when he liked, and had chapter and ve'se at his tongue's end, as a pa'son should.

'"Yes, indeed, clerk! There's a time for everything," says Parson Toogood, perfectly on point, as he was a knowledgeable Christian man when he wanted to be, and had chapter and verse at his fingertips, as a parson should.'

'At last, late in the day, the hunting came to an end by the fox running into a' old woman's cottage, under her table, and up the clock-case. The pa'son and clerk were among the first in at the death, their faces a-staring in at the old woman's winder, and the clock striking as he'd never been heard to strik' before. Then came the question of finding their way home.

'Finally, late in the day, the hunt ended when the fox ran into an old woman's cottage, underneath her table, and up into the clock case. The pastor and clerk were among the first to arrive at the scene, their faces staring through the old woman's window, as the clock chimed in a way it had never done before. Then came the issue of figuring out how to get home.'

'Neither the pa'son nor the clerk knowed how they were going to do this, for their beasts were wellnigh tired down to the ground. But they started back-along as well as they could, though they were so done up that they could only drag along at a' amble, and not much of that at a time.

'Neither the parson nor the clerk knew how they were going to manage this, because their animals were nearly worn out. But they started back as best as they could, even though they were so exhausted that they could only move along at a slow pace, and not for very long at a time.'

'"We shall never, never get there!" groaned Mr. Toogood, quite bowed down.

"We're never going to get there!" groaned Mr. Toogood, feeling completely defeated.

'"Never!" groans the clerk. "'Tis a judgment upon us for our iniquities!"

'"Never!" groans the clerk. "It's a judgment on us for our wrongdoings!"'

'"I fear it is," murmurs the pa'son.

"I think it is," whispers the pastor.

'Well, 'twas quite dark afore they entered the pa'sonage gate, having crept into the parish as quiet as if they'd stole a hammer, little wishing their congregation to know what they'd been up to all day long. And as they were so dog-tired, and so anxious about the horses, never once did they think of the unmarried couple. As soon as ever the horses had been stabled and fed, and the pa'son and clerk had had a bit and a sup theirselves, they went to bed.

'Well, it was pretty dark before they entered the parsonage gate, having slipped into the parish as quietly as if they’d stolen a hammer, not wanting their congregation to know what they’d been up to all day. And since they were so exhausted and worried about the horses, they didn't even think about the unmarried couple. As soon as the horses were stabled and fed, and the parson and clerk had a bite to eat and a drink themselves, they went to bed.

'Next morning when Pa'son Toogood was at breakfast, thinking of the glorious sport he'd had the day before, the clerk came in a hurry to the door and asked to see him.

'The next morning while Parson Toogood was having breakfast, reminiscing about the amazing time he'd had the day before, the clerk rushed in and asked to see him.'

'"It has just come into my mind, sir, that we've forgot all about the couple that we was to have married yesterday!"

"It just occurred to me, sir, that we completely forgot about the couple we were supposed to marry yesterday!"

'The half-chawed victuals dropped from the pa'son's mouth as if he'd been shot. "Bless my soul," says he, "so we have! How very awkward!"

'The half-eaten food fell from the parson's mouth as if he’d been shot. "Goodness," he said, "so we have! How very awkward!"

'"It is, sir; very. Perhaps we've ruined the 'ooman!"

"It is, sir; very much. Maybe we've ruined the woman!"

'"Ah-to be sure-I remember! She ought to have been married before."

'"Ah, for sure—I remember! She should have been married before."'

'"If anything has happened to her up in that there tower, and no doctor or nuss-"

"If anything has happened to her up in that tower, and no doctor or nurse—"

('Ah-poor thing!' sighed the women.)

('Oh, poor thing!' sighed the women.)

'"-'twill be a quarter-sessions matter for us, not to speak of the disgrace to the Church!"

'"-It will be a quarter-sessions issue for us, not to mention the shame it would bring to the Church!"'

'"Good God, clerk, don't drive me wild!" says the pa'son. "Why the hell didn't I marry 'em, drunk or sober!" (Pa'sons used to cuss in them days like plain honest men.) "Have you been to the church to see what happened to them, or inquired in the village?"

'"Good God, clerk, don’t drive me crazy!" says the pastor. "Why the hell didn’t I marry them, drunk or sober!" (Pastors used to curse back then like regular, honest people.) "Have you been to the church to find out what happened to them, or asked around in the village?"

'"Not I, sir! It only came into my head a moment ago, and I always like to be second to you in church matters. You could have knocked me down with a sparrer's feather when I thought o't, sir; I assure 'ee you could!"

'"Not me, sir! It just popped into my head a moment ago, and I always prefer to follow your lead in church matters. You could have knocked me over with a sparrow's feather when I thought of it, sir; I promise you could!"'

'Well, the parson jumped up from his breakfast, and together they went off to the church.

'Well, the pastor jumped up from his breakfast, and they both headed to the church.'

'"It is not at all likely that they are there now," says Mr. Toogood, as they went; "and indeed I hope they are not. They be pretty sure to have 'scaped and gone home."

'"It's really unlikely that they’re there now," says Mr. Toogood as they walk along; "and honestly, I hope they're not. They probably managed to escape and made it home."'

'However, they opened the church-hatch, entered the churchyard, and looking up at the tower, there they seed a little small white face at the belfry-winder, and a little small hand waving. 'Twas the bride.

'However, they opened the church hatch, entered the churchyard, and looking up at the tower, they saw a small white face at the belfry window, and a little hand waving. It was the bride.'

'"God my life, clerk," says Mr. Toogood, "I don't know how to face 'em!" And he sank down upon a tombstone. "How I wish I hadn't been so cussed particular!"

'"God, my life, clerk," says Mr. Toogood, "I have no idea how to face them!" And he sank down onto a tombstone. "How I wish I hadn't been so damn particular!"'

'"Yes-'twas a pity we didn't finish it when we'd begun," the clerk said. "Still, since the feelings of your holy priestcraft wouldn't let ye, the couple must put up with it."

'"Yeah, it’s a shame we didn’t finish it when we started," the clerk said. "Still, since your holy priesthood wouldn't allow it, the couple has to deal with it."'

'"True, clerk, true! Does she look as if anything premature had took place?"

'"True, clerk, true! Does she look like anything untimely has happened?"'

'"I can't see her no lower down than her arm-pits, sir."

"I can't see her any lower than her armpits, sir."

'"Well-how do her face look?"

"Well, how does her face look?"

'"It do look mighty white!"

"It looks really white!"

'"Well, we must know the worst! Dear me, how the small of my back do ache from that ride yesterday! . . . But to more godly business!"

"Well, we need to face the truth! Oh my, my lower back is killing me from that ride yesterday! ... But let's get back to something more important!"

'They went on into the church, and unlocked the tower stairs, and immediately poor Jane and Andrey busted out like starved mice from a cupboard, Andrey limp and sober enough now, and his bride pale and cold, but otherwise as usual.

They went into the church, unlocked the tower stairs, and immediately poor Jane and Andrey burst out like starving mice from a cupboard, Andrey looking limp and sober now, and his bride pale and cold, but otherwise just like always.

'"What," says the pa'son, with a great breath of relief, "you haven't been here ever since?"

"What," says the pastor, with a big sigh of relief, "you haven't been here the whole time?"

'"Yes, we have, sir!" says the bride, sinking down upon a seat in her weakness. "Not a morsel, wet or dry, have we had since! It was impossible to get out without help, and here we've stayed!"

'"Yes, we have, sir!" says the bride, sinking down onto a seat in her weakness. "We haven't eaten a single thing, wet or dry, since then! It was impossible to get out without help, and we've just been stuck here!"'

'"But why didn't you shout, good souls?" said the pa'son.

"But why didn't you shout, good people?" said the pastor.

'"She wouldn't let me," says Andrey.

"She wouldn't let me," says Andrey.

'"Because we were so ashamed at what had led to it," sobs Jane. "We felt that if it were noised abroad it would cling to us all our lives! Once or twice Andrey had a good mind to toll the bell, but then he said: "No; I'll starve first. I won't bring disgrace on my name and yours, my dear." And so we waited and waited, and walked round and round; but never did you come till now!"

"Because we were so ashamed of what led to this," Jane cries. "We felt that if it got out, it would follow us for the rest of our lives! Once or twice, Andrey almost rang the bell, but then he said, 'No; I'd rather starve. I won’t bring shame on my name and yours, my dear.' And so we waited and waited, walking in circles; but you never came until now!"

'"To my regret!" says the parson. "Now, then, we will soon get it over."

'"To my regret!" says the pastor. "Alright, we’ll get this done quickly."'

'"I-I should like some victuals," said Andrey, "'twould gie me courage if it is only a crust o' bread and a' onion; for I am that leery that I can feel my stomach rubbing against my backbone."

"I- I would like some food," said Andrey, "it would give me courage even if it's just a piece of bread and an onion; because I am so hungry that I can feel my stomach pressing against my backbone."

'"I think we had better get it done," said the bride, a bit anxious in manner; "since we are all here convenient, too!"

"I think we should get it done," said the bride, a little anxious in her tone; "since we’re all conveniently here, too!"

'Andrey gave way about the victuals, and the clerk called in a second witness who wouldn't be likely to gossip about it, and soon the knot was tied, and the bride looked smiling and calm forthwith, and Andrey limper than ever.

'Andrey stepped back regarding the food, and the clerk brought in a second witness who wouldn't spread any rumors, and soon the deal was done. The bride looked happy and relaxed right away, while Andrey appeared more awkward than ever.'

'"Now," said Pa'son Toogood, "you two must come to my house, and have a good lining put to your insides before you go a step further."

'"Now," said Pa'son Toogood, "you two need to come to my house and get a good meal in you before you go any further."'

'They were very glad of the offer, and went out of the churchyard by one path while the pa'son and clerk went out by the other, and so did not attract notice, it being still early. They entered the rectory as if they'd just come back from their trip to Port Bredy; and then they knocked in the victuals and drink till they could hold no more.

They were really happy about the offer and left the churchyard on one path while the pastor and clerk took another, so they didn't draw any attention since it was still early. They walked into the rectory as if they had just returned from their trip to Port Bredy, and then they piled up the food and drinks until they couldn't fit in any more.

'It was a long while before the story of what they had gone through was known, but it was talked of in time, and they themselves laugh over it now; though what Jane got for her pains was no great bargain after all. 'Tis true she saved her name.'

'It took a while before the story of what they went through became known, but eventually, people talked about it, and they laugh about it now; even though what Jane got for her efforts wasn’t much of a deal after all. It's true she saved her reputation.'

'Was that the same Andrey who went to the squire's house as one of the Christmas fiddlers?' asked the seedsman.

'No, no,' replied Mr. Profitt, the schoolmaster. 'It was his father did that. Ay, it was all owing to his being such a man for eating and drinking.' Finding that he had the ear of the audience, the schoolmaster continued without delay:-

'No, no,' replied Mr. Profitt, the schoolmaster. 'It was his father who did that. Yeah, it was all because he was such a big eater and drinker.' Noticing that he had the audience's attention, the schoolmaster continued without hesitation:

OLD ANDREY'S EXPERIENCE AS A MUSICIAN

'I was one of the choir-boys at that time, and we and the players were to appear at the manor-house as usual that Christmas week, to play and sing in the hall to the squire's people and visitors (among 'em being the archdeacon, Lord and Lady Baxby, and I don't know who); afterwards going, as we always did, to have a good supper in the servants' hall. Andrew knew this was the custom, and meeting us when we were starting to go, he said to us: "Lord, how I should like to join in that meal of beef, and turkey, and plum-pudding, and ale, that you happy ones be going to just now! One more or less will make no difference to the squire. I am too old to pass as a singing boy, and too bearded to pass as a singing girl; can ye lend me a fiddle, neighbours, that I may come with ye as a bandsman?"

'I was one of the choir boys back then, and we were set to perform at the manor house like we did every Christmas week, singing and playing in the hall for the squire's family and their guests (including the archdeacon, Lord and Lady Baxby, and I can’t remember who else). Afterward, we would head to the servants' hall for a nice supper. Andrew was aware of this tradition, and when he saw us getting ready to leave, he said, "Oh, how I wish I could join that feast of beef, turkey, plum pudding, and ale that you lucky ones are heading to right now! One more or less won’t matter to the squire. I’m too old to pass as a choir boy and too bearded to be seen as a choir girl; can you lend me a fiddle, neighbors, so I can come with you as a musician?"'

'Well, we didn't like to be hard upon him, and lent him an old one, though Andrew knew no more of music than the Cerne Giant; and armed with the instrument he walked up to the squire's house with the others of us at the time appointed, and went in boldly, his fiddle under his arm. He made himself as natural as he could in opening the music-books and moving the candles to the best points for throwing light upon the notes; and all went well till we had played and sung "While shepherds watch," and "Star, arise," and "Hark the glad sound." Then the squire's mother, a tall gruff old lady, who was much interested in church-music, said quite unexpectedly to Andrew: "My man, I see you don't play your instrument with the rest. How is that?"

'Well, we didn’t want to be too hard on him, so we lent him an old one, even though Andrew knew as much about music as the Cerne Giant. Armed with the instrument, he walked up to the squire's house with the rest of us at the scheduled time, and entered confidently with his fiddle under his arm. He tried to appear as casual as possible while opening the music books and adjusting the candles to shine best on the notes. Everything went smoothly until we played and sang "While shepherds watch," "Star, arise," and "Hark the glad sound." Then the squire's mother, a tall, stern old lady who was really into church music, suddenly said to Andrew: "My man, I see you’re not playing your instrument along with the others. Why is that?"

'Every one of the choir was ready to sink into the earth with concern at the fix Andrew was in. We could see that he had fallen into a cold sweat, and how he would get out of it we did not know.

'Everyone in the choir was ready to sink into the ground with worry about the situation Andrew was in. We could see that he had broken out in a cold sweat, and we had no idea how he would get out of it.'

'"I've had a misfortune, mem," he says, bowing as meek as a child. "Coming along the road I fell down and broke my bow."

'"I've had some bad luck, ma'am," he says, bowing as submissively as a child. "While I was walking down the road, I tripped and broke my bow."'

'"Oh, I am sorry to hear that," says she. "Can't it be mended?"

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," she says. "Can it be fixed?"

'"Oh no, mem," says Andrew. "'Twas broke all to splinters."

"Oh no, ma'am," says Andrew. "It was broken into a bunch of pieces."

'"I'll see what I can do for you," says she.

"I'll see what I can do for you," she says.

'And then it seemed all over, and we played "Rejoice, ye drowsy mortals all," in D and two sharps. But no sooner had we got through it than she says to Andrew,

'And then it seemed all over, and we played "Rejoice, you sleepy mortals all," in D and two sharps. But no sooner had we finished it than she said to Andrew,

'"I've sent up into the attic, where we have some old musical instruments, and found a bow for you." And she hands the bow to poor wretched Andrew, who didn't even know which end to take hold of. "Now we shall have the full accompaniment," says she.

"I went up into the attic, where we have some old musical instruments, and found a bow for you." She hands the bow to poor confused Andrew, who didn't even know which end to hold. "Now we’ll have the full accompaniment," she says.

'Andrew's face looked as if it were made of rotten apple as he stood in the circle of players in front of his book; for if there was one person in the parish that everybody was afraid of, 'twas this hook-nosed old lady. However, by keeping a little behind the next man he managed to make pretence of beginning, sawing away with his bow without letting it touch the strings, so that it looked as if he were driving into the tune with heart and soul. 'Tis a question if he wouldn't have got through all right if one of the squire's visitors (no other than the archdeacon) hadn't noticed that he held the fiddle upside down, the nut under his chin, and the tail-piece in his hand; and they began to crowd round him, thinking 'twas some new way of performing.

Andrew's face looked like a rotten apple as he stood in the circle of players in front of his book; for if there was one person in the parish that everyone was afraid of, it was this hook-nosed old lady. However, by staying a little behind the next person, he managed to pretend to start, sawing away with his bow without letting it touch the strings, making it seem like he was pouring his heart and soul into the tune. It's a question whether he would have gotten through all right if one of the squire's visitors (none other than the archdeacon) hadn't noticed that he was holding the fiddle upside down, with the nut under his chin and the tailpiece in his hand; and they began to gather around him, thinking it was some new way to perform.

'This revealed everything; the squire's mother had Andrew turned out of the house as a vile impostor, and there was great interruption to the harmony of the proceedings, the squire declaring he should have notice to leave his cottage that day fortnight. However, when we got to the servants' hall there sat Andrew, who had been let in at the back door by the orders of the squire's wife, after being turned out at the front by the orders of the squire, and nothing more was heard about his leaving his cottage. But Andrew never performed in public as a musician after that night; and now he's dead and gone, poor man, as we all shall be!'

'This revealed everything; the squire's mother had Andrew kicked out of the house as a horrible impostor, and it really disrupted the flow of things, with the squire saying he should be given notice to leave his cottage in two weeks. However, when we got to the servants' hall, there sat Andrew, who had been let in through the back door on the orders of the squire's wife after being thrown out at the front by the squire, and nothing more was said about him leaving his cottage. But Andrew never performed publicly as a musician after that night; and now he's dead and gone, poor man, as we all shall be!'

'I had quite forgotten the old choir, with their fiddles and bass- viols,' said the home-comer, musingly. 'Are they still going on the same as of old?'

'I had completely forgotten about the old choir, with their fiddles and bass viols,' said the person returning home, thoughtfully. 'Are they still doing things the same way as before?'

'Bless the man!' said Christopher Twink, the master-thatcher; 'why, they've been done away with these twenty year. A young teetotaler plays the organ in church now, and plays it very well; though 'tis not quite such good music as in old times, because the organ is one of them that go with a winch, and the young teetotaler says he can't always throw the proper feeling into the tune without wellnigh working his arms off.'

'Bless the man!' said Christopher Twink, the master-thatcher; 'why, they've been gone for twenty years. A young teetotaler plays the organ in church now, and he plays it pretty well; though it's not quite the same quality of music as before, because the organ is one of those that you have to crank, and the young teetotaler says he can't always inject the right feeling into the tune without nearly working his arms off.'

'Why did they make the change, then?'

'Well, partly because of fashion, partly because the old musicians got into a sort of scrape. A terrible scrape 'twas too-wasn't it, John? I shall never forget it-never! They lost their character as officers of the church as complete as if they'd never had any character at all.'

'Well, partly because of fashion, partly because the old musicians got into a bit of trouble. It was a serious mess, wasn’t it, John? I’ll never forget it—never! They completely lost their standing as church officers, as if they never had any standing at all.'

'That was very bad for them.'

'That was really bad for them.'

'Yes.' The master-thatcher attentively regarded past times as if they lay about a mile off, and went on:-

'Yes.' The master-thatcher thoughtfully looked back at the past as if it were just a mile away, and continued:-

ABSENT-MINDEDNESS IN A PARISH CHOIR

'It happened on Sunday after Christmas-the last Sunday ever they played in Longpuddle church gallery, as it turned out, though they didn't know it then. As you may know, sir, the players formed a very good band-almost as good as the Mellstock parish players that were led by the Dewys; and that's saying a great deal. There was Nicholas Puddingcome, the leader, with the first fiddle; there was Timothy Thomas, the bass- viol man; John Biles, the tenor fiddler; Dan'l Hornhead, with the serpent; Robert Dowdle, with the clarionet; and Mr. Nicks, with the oboe-all sound and powerful musicians, and strong-winded men-they that blowed. For that reason they were very much in demand Christmas week for little reels and dancing parties; for they could turn a jig or a hornpipe out of hand as well as ever they could turn out a psalm, and perhaps better, not to speak irreverent. In short, one half-hour they could be playing a Christmas carol in the squire's hall to the ladies and gentlemen, and drinking tea and coffee with 'em as modest as saints; and the next, at The Tinker's Arms, blazing away like wild horses with the "Dashing White Sergeant" to nine couple of dancers and more, and swallowing rum-and-cider hot as flame.

It happened on the Sunday after Christmas—the last Sunday they ever played in the Longpuddle church gallery, though they didn’t know it at the time. As you might know, sir, the players formed a really good band—almost as good as the Mellstock parish players led by the Dewys; and that’s saying a lot. There was Nicholas Puddingcome, the leader, with the first fiddle; there was Timothy Thomas, the bass viol player; John Biles, the tenor fiddler; Dan'l Hornhead, with the serpent; Robert Dowdle, with the clarinet; and Mr. Nicks, with the oboe—all solid and powerful musicians, and strong-winded guys who could blow. Because of that, they were in high demand during Christmas week for little reels and dance parties; they could whip up a jig or a hornpipe on the spot just as well as they could play a psalm, and maybe even better, no disrespect intended. In short, one half-hour they could be playing a Christmas carol in the squire's hall for the ladies and gentlemen, drinking tea and coffee with them as modest as saints; and the next, at The Tinker's Arms, letting loose with the "Dashing White Sergeant" for nine couples of dancers and more, while downing rum-and-cider that was hot as fire.

'Well, this Christmas they'd been out to one rattling randy after another every night, and had got next to no sleep at all. Then came the Sunday after Christmas, their fatal day. 'Twas so mortal cold that year that they could hardly sit in the gallery; for though the congregation down in the body of the church had a stove to keep off the frost, the players in the gallery had nothing at all. So Nicholas said at morning service, when 'twas freezing an inch an hour, "Please the Lord I won't stand this numbing weather no longer: this afternoon we'll have something in our insides to make us warm, if it cost a king's ransom."

Well, this Christmas they had been out every night partying hard and barely got any sleep. Then came the Sunday after Christmas, their fateful day. It was so incredibly cold that year that they could barely sit in the gallery; even though the congregation in the main part of the church had a stove to keep the chill away, the people in the gallery had nothing at all. So Nicholas said during the morning service, when it felt like it was freezing an inch an hour, "By the grace of God, I can't stand this numbing weather any longer: this afternoon we’re going to have something warm inside us, even if it costs a fortune."

'So he brought a gallon of hot brandy and beer, ready mixed, to church with him in the afternoon, and by keeping the jar well wrapped up in Timothy Thomas's bass-viol bag it kept drinkably warm till they wanted it, which was just a thimbleful in the Absolution, and another after the Creed, and the remainder at the beginning o' the sermon. When they'd had the last pull they felt quite comfortable and warm, and as the sermon went on-most unfortunately for 'em it was a long one that afternoon-they fell asleep, every man jack of 'em; and there they slept on as sound as rocks.

So he brought a gallon of hot brandy and beer, already mixed, to church with him in the afternoon. By wrapping the jar in Timothy Thomas's bass-viol bag, it stayed drinkably warm until they needed it, which was just a thimbleful during the Absolution, another after the Creed, and the rest at the start of the sermon. After the last sip, they felt comfortable and warm, but unfortunately for them, the sermon was long that afternoon, and they all fell asleep—every single one of them. And there they slept soundly like rocks.

''Twas a very dark afternoon, and by the end of the sermon all you could see of the inside of the church were the pa'son's two candles alongside of him in the pulpit, and his spaking face behind 'em. The sermon being ended at last, the pa'son gie'd out the Evening Hymn. But no choir set about sounding up the tune, and the people began to turn their heads to learn the reason why, and then Levi Limpet, a boy who sat in the gallery, nudged Timothy and Nicholas, and said, "Begin! begin!"

It was a really dark afternoon, and by the end of the sermon, all you could see inside the church were the two candles next to the pastor in the pulpit and his speaking face behind them. Finally, after the sermon ended, the pastor announced the Evening Hymn. But no choir started singing the tune, and the people began to look around to find out why. Then Levi Limpet, a boy sitting in the gallery, nudged Timothy and Nicholas and said, "Start! Start!"

'"Hey? what?" says Nicholas, starting up; and the church being so dark and his head so muddled he thought he was at the party they had played at all the night before, and away he went, bow and fiddle, at "The Devil among the Tailors," the favourite jig of our neighbourhood at that time. The rest of the band, being in the same state of mind and nothing doubting, followed their leader with all their strength, according to custom. They poured out that there tune till the lower bass notes of "The Devil among the Tailors" made the cobwebs in the roof shiver like ghosts; then Nicholas, seeing nobody moved, shouted out as he scraped (in his usual commanding way at dances when the folk didn't know the figures), "Top couples cross hands! And when I make the fiddle squeak at the end, every man kiss his pardner under the mistletoe!"

"Hey? What?" Nicholas said, waking up. The church was so dark and his head was so foggy that he thought he was still at the party they'd been at all night. He jumped right in, bow and fiddle, playing "The Devil among the Tailors," the favorite jig of our neighborhood back then. The rest of the band, feeling the same way and not questioning anything, followed their leader with all their energy, as was their custom. They played that tune until the deep bass notes of "The Devil among the Tailors" made the cobwebs in the ceiling tremble like ghosts. Then Nicholas, noticing no one moved, shouted out, as he usually did at dances when people didn't know the steps, "Top couples cross hands! And when I make the fiddle squeak at the end, every man kiss his partner under the mistletoe!"

'The boy Levi was so frightened that he bolted down the gallery stairs and out homeward like lightning. The pa'son's hair fairly stood on end when he heard the evil tune raging through the church, and thinking the choir had gone crazy he held up his hand and said: "Stop, stop, stop! Stop, stop! What's this?" But they didn't hear'n for the noise of their own playing, and the more he called the louder they played.

The boy Levi was so scared that he ran down the gallery stairs and dashed home like lightning. The pastor was taken aback when he heard the disturbing tune blaring through the church, and thinking the choir had lost their minds, he raised his hand and said, "Stop, stop, stop! Stop, stop! What’s going on?" But they didn’t hear him over the noise of their own playing, and the more he shouted, the louder they played.

'Then the folks came out of their pews, wondering down to the ground, and saying: "What do they mean by such wickedness! We shall be consumed like Sodom and Gomorrah!"

'Then the people got out of their pews, wandering down to the ground, and saying: "What do they mean by such wickedness! We will be destroyed like Sodom and Gomorrah!"'

'Then the squire came out of his pew lined wi' green baize, where lots of lords and ladies visiting at the house were worshipping along with him, and went and stood in front of the gallery, and shook his fist in the musicians' faces, saying, "What! In this reverent edifice! What!"

'Then the squire stepped out of his green-felt pew, where many lords and ladies visiting the house were worshipping with him, and he went and stood in front of the gallery, shaking his fist in the musicians' faces, saying, "What! In this holy place! What!"'

'And at last they heard'n through their playing, and stopped.

'And at last they heard it through their playing, and stopped.'

'"Never such an insulting, disgraceful thing-never!" says the squire, who couldn't rule his passion.

'"Never such an insulting, disgraceful thing—never!" says the squire, who couldn't control his anger.

'"Never!" says the pa'son, who had come down and stood beside him.

'"Never!" says the pastor, who had come down and stood beside him.'

'"Not if the Angels of Heaven," says the squire (he was a wickedish man, the squire was, though now for once he happened to be on the Lord's side)-"not if the Angels of Heaven come down," he says, "shall one of you villanous players ever sound a note in this church again; for the insult to me, and my family, and my visitors, and God Almighty, that you've a-perpetrated this afternoon!"

'"Not even if the Angels of Heaven," says the squire (he was a bit of a wicked man, the squire was, though this time he happened to be on the Lord's side) - "not even if the Angels of Heaven come down," he says, "will any of you villainous players ever play a note in this church again; for the insult to me, my family, my guests, and God Almighty that you've committed this afternoon!"'

'Then the unfortunate church band came to their senses, and remembered where they were; and 'twas a sight to see Nicholas Pudding come and Timothy Thomas and John Biles creep down the gallery stairs with their fiddles under their arms, and poor Dan'l Hornhead with his serpent, and Robert Dowdle with his clarionet, all looking as little as ninepins; and out they went. The pa'son might have forgi'ed 'em when he learned the truth o't, but the squire would not. That very week he sent for a barrel-organ that would play two-and-twenty new psalm-tunes, so exact and particular that, however sinful inclined you was, you could play nothing but psalm-tunes whatsomever. He had a really respectable man to turn the winch, as I said, and the old players played no more.'

Then the unfortunate church band came to their senses and remembered where they were; and it was quite a sight to see Nicholas Pudding, Timothy Thomas, and John Biles creeping down the gallery stairs with their fiddles under their arms, along with poor Dan'l Hornhead with his serpent, and Robert Dowdle with his clarinet, all looking as small as ninepins; and out they went. The pastor might have forgiven them when he learned the truth of it, but the squire wouldn’t. That very week he ordered a barrel organ that could play twenty-two new psalm tunes, so accurate and specific that, no matter how sinful you might be, you could only play psalm tunes. He even had a truly respectable guy to turn the crank, as I mentioned, and the old players played no more.

'And, of course, my old acquaintance, the annuitant, Mrs. Winter, who always seemed to have something on her mind, is dead and gone?' said the home-comer, after a long silence.

Nobody in the van seemed to recollect the name.

Nobody in the van seemed to remember the name.

'O yes, she must be dead long since: she was seventy when I as a child knew her,' he added.

'O yeah, she must have died a long time ago: she was seventy when I knew her as a child,' he added.

'I can recollect Mrs. Winter very well, if nobody else can,' said the aged groceress. 'Yes, she's been dead these five-and-twenty year at least. You knew what it was upon her mind, sir, that gave her that hollow-eyed look, I suppose?'

'I can remember Mrs. Winter very well, if no one else can,' said the elderly grocer. 'Yes, she's been dead for at least twenty-five years. You knew what was on her mind, sir, that gave her that hollow-eyed look, I suppose?'

'It had something to do with a son of hers, I think I once was told. But I was too young to know particulars.'

'It had something to do with one of her sons, I think I was told once. But I was too young to understand the details.'

The groceress sighed as she conjured up a vision of days long past. 'Yes,' she murmured, 'it had all to do with a son.' Finding that the van was still in a listening mood, she spoke on:-

The grocer woman sighed as she recalled days gone by. 'Yeah,' she murmured, 'it was all about a son.' Noticing that the van was still paying attention, she continued talking:-

THE WINTERS AND THE PALMLEYS

'To go back to the beginning-if one must-there were two women in the parish when I was a child, who were to a certain extent rivals in good looks. Never mind particulars, but in consequence of this they were at daggers-drawn, and they did not love each other any better when one of them tempted the other's lover away from her and married him. He was a young man of the name of Winter, and in due time they had a son.

To go back to the beginning—if one has to—there were two women in the neighborhood when I was a kid, who were somewhat rivals in looks. Never mind the details, but because of this, they were always at odds, and they didn't like each other any more when one of them stole the other's boyfriend and married him. His name was Winter, and eventually, they had a son.

'The other woman did not marry for many years: but when she was about thirty a quiet man named Palmley asked her to be his wife, and she accepted him. You don't mind when the Palmleys were Longpuddle folk, but I do well. She had a son also, who was, of course, nine or ten years younger than the son of the first. The child proved to be of rather weak intellect, though his mother loved him as the apple of her eye.

'The other woman didn’t get married for many years; however, when she turned about thirty, a quiet guy named Palmley asked her to marry him, and she said yes. You might not care that the Palmleys were from Longpuddle, but I do. She also had a son, who was, of course, nine or ten years younger than the first son. The child turned out to be rather slow, but his mother loved him like crazy.'

'This woman's husband died when the child was eight years old, and left his widow and boy in poverty. Her former rival, also a widow now, but fairly well provided for, offered for pity's sake to take the child as errand-boy, small as he was, her own son, Jack, being hard upon seventeen. Her poor neighbour could do no better than let the child go there. And to the richer woman's house little Palmley straightway went.

'This woman's husband passed away when their child was eight, leaving her and the boy in poverty. Her former rival, who was also a widow now but was relatively well-off, offered out of pity to take the child as an errand boy, despite his young age, since her own son, Jack, was nearly seventeen. The poor neighbor had no better options and agreed to let the child go there. So little Palmley went straight to the richer woman's house.'

'Well, in some way or other-how, it was never exactly known-the thriving woman, Mrs. Winter, sent the little boy with a message to the next village one December day, much against his will. It was getting dark, and the child prayed to be allowed not to go, because he would be afraid coming home. But the mistress insisted, more out of thoughtlessness than cruelty, and the child went. On his way back he had to pass through Yalbury Wood, and something came out from behind a tree and frightened him into fits. The child was quite ruined by it; he became quite a drivelling idiot, and soon afterward died.

'Well, in one way or another—how it happened was never exactly known—the successful woman, Mrs. Winter, sent the little boy with a message to the next village one December day, much to his displeasure. It was getting dark, and the child prayed not to go because he would be scared coming home. But the mistress insisted, more out of thoughtlessness than cruelty, and the child went. On his way back, he had to pass through Yalbury Wood, and something jumped out from behind a tree and scared him to death. The child was completely devastated by it; he became a total wreck, and soon afterward, he died.'

'Then the other woman had nothing left to live for, and vowed vengeance against that rival who had first won away her lover, and now had been the cause of her bereavement. This last affliction was certainly not intended by her thriving acquaintance, though it must be owned that when it was done she seemed but little concerned. Whatever vengeance poor Mrs. Palmley felt, she had no opportunity of carrying it out, and time might have softened her feelings into forgetfulness of her supposed wrongs as she dragged on her lonely life. So matters stood when, a year after the death of the child, Mrs. Palmley's niece, who had been born and bred in the city of Exonbury, came to live with her.

Then the other woman had nothing left to live for and vowed to get back at the rival who had first taken her lover and now caused her sadness. This last blow was definitely not intended by her flourishing acquaintance, though it's true that when it happened, she seemed hardly affected. Whatever revenge poor Mrs. Palmley might have felt, she had no way to act on it, and time could have softened her feelings into forgetting her supposed wrongs as she continued her lonely life. So that's how things stood when, a year after the child's death, Mrs. Palmley's niece, who had grown up in the city of Exonbury, came to live with her.

'This young woman-Miss Harriet Palmley-was a proud and handsome girl, very well brought up, and more stylish and genteel than the people of our village, as was natural, considering where she came from. She regarded herself as much above Mrs. Winter and her son in position as Mrs. Winter and her son considered themselves above poor Mrs. Palmley. But love is an unceremonious thing, and what in the world should happen but that young Jack Winter must fall wofully and wildly in love with Harriet Palmley almost as soon as he saw her.

This young woman—Miss Harriet Palmley—was a proud and beautiful girl, very well raised, and more fashionable and refined than the people in our village, which made sense given her background. She saw herself as being far above Mrs. Winter and her son in status, just as Mrs. Winter and her son saw themselves as above poor Mrs. Palmley. But love is a straightforward thing, and what could possibly happen but that young Jack Winter fell head over heels in love with Harriet Palmley almost the moment he saw her.

'She, being better educated than he, and caring nothing for the village notion of his mother's superiority to her aunt, did not give him much encouragement. But Longpuddle being no very large world, the two could not help seeing a good deal of each other while she was staying there, and, disdainful young woman as she was, she did seem to take a little pleasure in his attentions and advances.

'She was better educated than he was and didn’t care about the village idea that his mother was superior to her aunt, so she didn’t encourage him much. However, since Longpuddle wasn’t a very big place, they ended up seeing quite a bit of each other while she was there, and despite her disdainful attitude, she seemed to find a little pleasure in his attention and interest.'

'One day when they were picking apples together, he asked her to marry him. She had not expected anything so practical as that at so early a time, and was led by her surprise into a half-promise; at any rate she did not absolutely refuse him, and accepted some little presents that he made her.

'One day when they were picking apples together, he asked her to marry him. She hadn’t expected anything so serious at that point, and her surprise led her to give a sort of half-promise; at the very least, she didn’t completely reject him and accepted a few small gifts he gave her.'

'But he saw that her view of him was rather as a simple village lad than as a young man to look up to, and he felt that he must do something bold to secure her. So he said one day, "I am going away, to try to get into a better position than I can get here." In two or three weeks he wished her good-bye, and went away to Monksbury, to superintend a farm, with a view to start as a farmer himself; and from there he wrote regularly to her, as if their marriage were an understood thing.

'But he realized that she saw him more as a simple village guy than as a young man to admire, and he felt he needed to do something bold to win her over. So one day he said, "I'm leaving to try to find a better opportunity than what I have here." In two or three weeks, he said goodbye to her and went off to Monksbury to manage a farm, with plans to become a farmer himself; and from there he wrote to her regularly, as if their marriage was a given.'

'Now Harriet liked the young man's presents and the admiration of his eyes; but on paper he was less attractive to her. Her mother had been a school-mistress, and Harriet had besides a natural aptitude for pen-and- ink work, in days when to be a ready writer was not such a common thing as it is now, and when actual handwriting was valued as an accomplishment in itself. Jack Winter's performances in the shape of love-letters quite jarred her city nerves and her finer taste, and when she answered one of them, in the lovely running hand that she took such pride in, she very strictly and loftily bade him to practise with a pen and spelling-book if he wished to please her. Whether he listened to her request or not nobody knows, but his letters did not improve. He ventured to tell her in his clumsy way that if her heart were more warm towards him she would not be so nice about his handwriting and spelling; which indeed was true enough.

'Now Harriet liked the young man's gifts and the way he admired her, but on paper he was less appealing to her. Her mother had been a schoolteacher, and Harriet had a natural talent for writing, back when being a good writer wasn’t as common as it is now, and actual handwriting was considered a skill in itself. Jack Winter's attempts at love letters really grated on her nerves and her refined taste, so when she replied to one of them with the beautiful cursive she took pride in, she firmly and haughtily told him to practice with a pen and a spelling book if he wanted to impress her. Whether he followed her advice or not, no one knows, but his letters didn’t get any better. He awkwardly tried to tell her that if her feelings for him were warmer, she wouldn’t fuss so much about his handwriting and spelling, which was indeed true enough.'

'Well, in Jack's absence the weak flame that had been set alight in Harriet's heart soon sank low, and at last went out altogether. He wrote and wrote, and begged and prayed her to give a reason for her coldness; and then she told him plainly that she was town born, and he was not sufficiently well educated to please her.

'Well, while Jack was away, the weak flame that had been lit in Harriet's heart quickly faded and eventually went out completely. He wrote and wrote, begging her to explain her coldness; finally, she told him straightforwardly that she was from the city and found him not educated enough to meet her standards.'

'Jack Winter's want of pen-and-ink training did not make him less thin- skinned than others; in fact, he was terribly tender and touchy about anything. This reason that she gave for finally throwing him over grieved him, shamed him, and mortified him more than can be told in these times, the pride of that day in being able to write with beautiful flourishes, and the sorrow at not being able to do so, raging so high. Jack replied to her with an angry note, and then she hit back with smart little stings, telling him how many words he had misspelt in his last letter, and declaring again that this alone was sufficient justification for any woman to put an end to an understanding with him. Her husband must be a better scholar.

'Jack Winter's lack of formal writing training didn’t make him any less sensitive than others; in fact, he was extremely sensitive and reactive about everything. The reason she gave for finally ending their relationship deeply hurt him, embarrassed him, and humiliated him beyond words, as the pride of that era lay in being able to write with elegant flourishes, while the anguish of not being able to do so was overwhelming. Jack responded to her with an angry note, and she retaliated with sharp little insults, pointing out how many words he had misspelled in his last letter and insisting once again that this alone was enough reason for any woman to end her relationship with him. Her husband must be a better scholar.'

'He bore her rejection of him in silence, but his suffering was sharp-all the sharper in being untold. She communicated with Jack no more; and as his reason for going out into the world had been only to provide a home worthy of her, he had no further object in planning such a home now that she was lost to him. He therefore gave up the farming occupation by which he had hoped to make himself a master-farmer, and left the spot to return to his mother.

He took her rejection silently, but his pain was intense—especially because he kept it to himself. She no longer spoke to Jack; and since his only reason for venturing into the world was to create a home deserving of her, he found no reason to continue planning for that home now that she was gone. As a result, he abandoned the farming work he had hoped would make him a successful farmer and left the place to go back to his mother.

'As soon as he got back to Longpuddle he found that Harriet had already looked wi' favour upon another lover. He was a young road-contractor, and Jack could not but admit that his rival was both in manners and scholarship much ahead of him. Indeed, a more sensible match for the beauty who had been dropped into the village by fate could hardly have been found than this man, who could offer her so much better a chance than Jack could have done, with his uncertain future and narrow abilities for grappling with the world. The fact was so clear to him that he could hardly blame her.

'As soon as he got back to Longpuddle, he found that Harriet had already taken notice of another guy. He was a young road contractor, and Jack had to admit that his rival was much better than him in manners and intelligence. In fact, it was hard to find a more suitable match for the beauty who had unexpectedly come to the village than this guy, who could offer her a much better future than Jack could, with his uncertain prospects and limited skills to navigate the world. The reality was so obvious to him that he could hardly blame her.'

'One day by accident Jack saw on a scrap of paper the handwriting of Harriet's new beloved. It was flowing like a stream, well spelt, the work of a man accustomed to the ink-bottle and the dictionary, of a man already called in the parish a good scholar. And then it struck all of a sudden into Jack's mind what a contrast the letters of this young man must make to his own miserable old letters, and how ridiculous they must make his lines appear. He groaned and wished he had never written to her, and wondered if she had ever kept his poor performances. Possibly she had kept them, for women are in the habit of doing that, he thought, and whilst they were in her hands there was always a chance of his honest, stupid love-assurances to her being joked over by Harriet with her present lover, or by anybody who should accidentally uncover them.

One day, by chance, Jack saw a scrap of paper with the handwriting of Harriet's new boyfriend. It was flowing and well-spelled, showing the work of a guy who was used to writing and knew his way around a dictionary, someone already regarded in the community as a good scholar. Suddenly, it hit Jack how much his own terrible handwriting must contrast with this young man's elegant letters, and how silly his words must look in comparison. He sighed and wished he had never written to her, and he wondered if she had ever kept his poor attempts. She probably had, he thought, because women often do that. And as long as they were in her possession, there was always a chance that Harriet might laugh about his honest but foolish love notes with her current boyfriend, or with anyone who might stumble upon them.

'The nervous, moody young man could not bear the thought of it, and at length decided to ask her to return them, as was proper when engagements were broken off. He was some hours in framing, copying, and recopying the short note in which he made his request, and having finished it he sent it to her house. His messenger came back with the answer, by word of mouth, that Miss Palmley bade him say she should not part with what was hers, and wondered at his boldness in troubling her.

The anxious, unpredictable young man couldn't stand the thought of it, so he finally decided to ask her to give them back, as is appropriate when a relationship ends. He spent several hours drafting, rewriting, and refining the short note in which he made his request, and after finishing it, he sent it to her house. His messenger returned with the response, relayed verbally, that Miss Palmley said she wouldn't part with what was hers and was surprised by his audacity in bothering her.

'Jack was much affronted at this, and determined to go for his letters himself. He chose a time when he knew she was at home, and knocked and went in without much ceremony; for though Harriet was so high and mighty, Jack had small respect for her aunt, Mrs. Palmley, whose little child had been his boot-cleaner in earlier days. Harriet was in the room, this being the first time they had met since she had jilted him. He asked for his letters with a stern and bitter look at her.

Jack was really upset about this and decided to get his letters himself. He picked a time when he knew she was at home and knocked before walking in without much formality. Even though Harriet acted all high and mighty, Jack didn’t have much respect for her aunt, Mrs. Palmley, whose little kid had cleaned his boots back in the day. Harriet was in the room; this was their first meeting since she had dumped him. He asked for his letters while giving her a stern and bitter look.

'At first she said he might have them for all that she cared, and took them out of the bureau where she kept them. Then she glanced over the outside one of the packet, and suddenly altering her mind, she told him shortly that his request was a silly one, and slipped the letters into her aunt's work-box, which stood open on the table, locking it, and saying with a bantering laugh that of course she thought it best to keep 'em, since they might be useful to produce as evidence that she had good cause for declining to marry him.

At first, she said he could have them if he wanted, and took them out of the drawer where she kept them. Then she glanced at the outside of one of the envelopes, and suddenly changed her mind. She told him flatly that his request was ridiculous, and slipped the letters into her aunt's open sewing box on the table, locking it. With a teasing laugh, she added that she thought it was better to keep them since they might be useful to show she had a good reason for saying no to marrying him.

'He blazed up hot. "Give me those letters!" he said. "They are mine!"

"He got really fired up. 'Give me those letters!' he shouted. 'They're mine!'"

'"No, they are not," she replied; "they are mine."

"No, they're not," she replied; "they're mine."

'"Whos'ever they are I want them back," says he. "I don't want to be made sport of for my penmanship: you've another young man now! he has your confidence, and you pour all your tales into his ear. You'll be showing them to him!"

'"Whoever they are, I want them back," he says. "I don’t want to be mocked for my handwriting: you have another young man now! He has your trust, and you share all your stories with him. You’ll be showing them to him!"'

'"Perhaps," said my lady Harriet, with calm coolness, like the heartless woman that she was.

"Maybe," said my lady Harriet, with a cool calmness, just like the heartless woman she was.

'Her manner so maddened him that he made a step towards the work-box, but she snatched it up, locked it in the bureau, and turned upon him triumphant. For a moment he seemed to be going to wrench the key of the bureau out of her hand; but he stopped himself, and swung round upon his heel and went away.

'Her behavior frustrated him so much that he took a step toward the work box, but she quickly grabbed it, locked it in the cabinet, and faced him with a victorious expression. For a moment, it looked like he was going to snatch the key from her hand, but he stopped himself, turned on his heel, and walked away.'

'When he was out-of-doors alone, and it got night, he walked about restless, and stinging with the sense of being beaten at all points by her. He could not help fancying her telling her new lover or her acquaintances of this scene with himself, and laughing with them over those poor blotted, crooked lines of his that he had been so anxious to obtain. As the evening passed on he worked himself into a dogged resolution to have them back at any price, come what might.

'When he was outside alone at night, he paced around restlessly, feeling overwhelmed by the sense that she had beaten him at every turn. He couldn't help imagining her sharing this story with her new lover or friends, laughing about those messy, imperfect lines he had desperately wanted to get right. As the evening went on, he steeled himself with a determined resolution to get them back at any cost, no matter what.'

'At the dead of night he came out of his mother's house by the back door, and creeping through the garden hedge went along the field adjoining till he reached the back of her aunt's dwelling. The moon struck bright and flat upon the walls, 'twas said, and every shiny leaf of the creepers was like a little looking-glass in the rays. From long acquaintance Jack knew the arrangement and position of everything in Mrs. Palmley's house as well as in his own mother's. The back window close to him was a casement with little leaded squares, as it is to this day, and was, as now, one of two lighting the sitting-room. The other, being in front, was closed up with shutters, but this back one had not even a blind, and the moonlight as it streamed in showed every article of the furniture to him outside. To the right of the room is the fireplace, as you may remember; to the left was the bureau at that time; inside the bureau was Harriet's work-box, as he supposed (though it was really her aunt's), and inside the work-box were his letters. Well, he took out his pocket-knife, and without noise lifted the leading of one of the panes, so that he could take out the glass, and putting his hand through the hole he unfastened the casement, and climbed in through the opening. All the household-that is to say, Mrs. Palmley, Harriet, and the little maid-servant-were asleep. Jack went straight to the bureau, so he said, hoping it might have been unfastened again-it not being kept locked in ordinary-but Harriet had never unfastened it since she secured her letters there the day before. Jack told afterward how he thought of her asleep upstairs, caring nothing for him, and of the way she had made sport of him and of his letters; and having advanced so far, he was not to be hindered now. By forcing the large blade of his knife under the flap of the bureau, he burst the weak lock; within was the rosewood work-box just as she had placed it in her hurry to keep it from him. There being no time to spare for getting the letters out of it then, he took it under his arm, shut the bureau, and made the best of his way out of the house, latching the casement behind him, and refixing the pane of glass in its place.

'In the dead of night, he slipped out of his mom's house through the back door, sneaking through the garden hedge and along the adjoining field until he reached the back of his aunt's place. The moon shone brightly against the walls, and every shiny leaf of the vines sparkled in the light. Jack was familiar with the layout and positioning of everything in Mrs. Palmley's house, just like he was in his mom's. The back window near him was a casement with small leaded squares, just like it is today, and it was one of two windows providing light to the sitting room. The front window was shut tight with shutters, but this back window didn't even have a blind, so the moonlight streaming in illuminated every piece of furniture for him to see from outside. To the right of the room was the fireplace, as you might recall; to the left was the bureau at that time; inside the bureau was Harriet's work-box, or so he thought (though it was actually her aunt's), and inside the work-box were his letters. He took out his pocket knife and quietly popped the lead of one of the panes so he could remove the glass. Once he reached through the hole, he unfastened the casement and climbed in through the opening. The whole household—that is to say, Mrs. Palmley, Harriet, and the little maid—was asleep. Jack went straight to the bureau, hoping it might have been left unlatched again, since it wasn't usually locked, but Harriet hadn't unlatched it since she secured her letters there the day before. Jack later recalled how he thought of her sleeping upstairs, not caring about him, and how she had made fun of him and his letters; having come this far, he wasn't going to stop now. By forcing the large blade of his knife under the flap of the bureau, he broke the weak lock; inside was the rosewood work-box just as she had left it in her haste to keep it away from him. With no time to spare for retrieving the letters, he tucked it under his arm, closed the bureau, and hurriedly exited the house, latching the casement behind him and resetting the pane of glass in place.'

'Winter found his way back to his mother's as he had come, and being dog-tired, crept upstairs to bed, hiding the box till he could destroy its contents. The next morning early he set about doing this, and carried it to the linhay at the back of his mother's dwelling. Here by the hearth he opened the box, and began burning one by one the letters that had cost him so much labour to write and shame to think of, meaning to return the box to Harriet, after repairing the slight damage he had caused it by opening it without a key, with a note-the last she would ever receive from him-telling her triumphantly that in refusing to return what he had asked for she had calculated too surely upon his submission to her whims.

'Winter made his way back to his mom's house like he had before, and being completely exhausted, he crept upstairs to bed, hiding the box until he could get rid of its contents. The next morning, he got to work on this and took it to the linhay behind his mom's place. There, by the hearth, he opened the box and started burning the letters one by one that had taken him so much effort to write and caused him so much shame to think about. He planned to return the box to Harriet, after fixing the minor damage he had done by opening it without a key, along with a note—the last one she would ever get from him—telling her proudly that by refusing to give back what he had asked for, she had miscalculated his willingness to submit to her demands.'

'But on removing the last letter from the box he received a shock; for underneath it, at the very bottom, lay money-several golden guineas-"Doubtless Harriet's pocket-money," he said to himself; though it was not, but Mrs. Palmley's. Before he had got over his qualms at this discovery he heard footsteps coming through the house-passage to where he was. In haste he pushed the box and what was in it under some brushwood which lay in the linhay; but Jack had been already seen. Two constables entered the out-house, and seized him as he knelt before the fireplace, securing the work-box and all it contained at the same moment. They had come to apprehend him on a charge of breaking into the dwelling-house of Mrs. Palmley on the night preceding; and almost before the lad knew what had happened to him they were leading him along the lane that connects that end of the village with this turnpike-road, and along they marched him between 'em all the way to Casterbridge jail.

But when he took off the last letter from the box, he was shocked to find money at the very bottom—several golden guineas. "This must be Harriet's pocket money," he thought to himself, although it actually belonged to Mrs. Palmley. Before he could shake off his unease about this discovery, he heard footsteps coming through the house passage toward him. In a hurry, he pushed the box and its contents under some brushwood in the linhay, but Jack had already been spotted. Two constables walked into the out-house and arrested him as he knelt by the fireplace, also taking the work-box and everything inside it at the same time. They had come to charge him with breaking into Mrs. Palmley's house the night before; almost before the boy realized what was happening, they were leading him down the lane that connects that part of the village to the turnpike road, marching him all the way to Casterbridge jail.

'Jack's act amounted to night burglary-though he had never thought of it-and burglary was felony, and a capital offence in those days. His figure had been seen by some one against the bright wall as he came away from Mrs. Palmley's back window, and the box and money were found in his possession, while the evidence of the broken bureau-lock and tinkered window-pane was more than enough for circumstantial detail. Whether his protestation that he went only for his letters, which he believed to be wrongfully kept from him, would have availed him anything if supported by other evidence I do not know; but the one person who could have borne it out was Harriet, and she acted entirely under the sway of her aunt. That aunt was deadly towards Jack Winter. Mrs. Palmley's time had come. Here was her revenge upon the woman who had first won away her lover, and next ruined and deprived her of her heart's treasure-her little son. When the assize week drew on, and Jack had to stand his trial, Harriet did not appear in the case at all, which was allowed to take its course, Mrs. Palmley testifying to the general facts of the burglary. Whether Harriet would have come forward if Jack had appealed to her is not known; possibly she would have done it for pity's sake; but Jack was too proud to ask a single favour of a girl who had jilted him; and he let her alone. The trial was a short one, and the death sentence was passed.

Jack's actions amounted to nighttime burglary—even though he had never considered it that way—and burglary was a serious crime and a capital offense back then. Someone had seen him against the bright wall as he left Mrs. Palmley's back window, and the box and money were found in his possession, while the evidence of the broken bureau lock and messed-up window pane was more than enough for circumstantial proof. I’m not sure if his claim that he just went to get his letters, which he believed had been wrongfully kept from him, would have helped him if there had been more evidence; but the one person who could have backed him up was Harriet, and she was completely under her aunt's influence. That aunt felt deadly towards Jack Winter. Mrs. Palmley’s moment had come. This was her revenge on the woman who had first stolen her lover and then ruined and taken away her heart's treasure—her little son. As the trial week approached, and Jack had to face his trial, Harriet didn’t appear in the case at all, which was allowed to proceed, with Mrs. Palmley testifying to the basic facts of the burglary. Whether Harriet would have stepped up if Jack had asked her is unknown; maybe she would have done it out of pity; but Jack was too proud to ask a girl who had rejected him for any favor, so he left her alone. The trial was brief, and the death sentence was handed down.

'The day o' young Jack's execution was a cold dusty Saturday in March. He was so boyish and slim that they were obliged in mercy to hang him in the heaviest fetters kept in the jail, lest his heft should not break his neck, and they weighed so upon him that he could hardly drag himself up to the drop. At that time the gover'ment was not strict about burying the body of an executed person within the precincts of the prison, and at the earnest prayer of his poor mother his body was allowed to be brought home. All the parish waited at their cottage doors in the evening for its arrival: I remember how, as a very little girl, I stood by my mother's side. About eight o'clock, as we hearkened on our door-stones in the cold bright starlight, we could hear the faint crackle of a waggon from the direction of the turnpike-road. The noise was lost as the waggon dropped into a hollow, then it was plain again as it lumbered down the next long incline, and presently it entered Longpuddle. The coffin was laid in the belfry for the night, and the next day, Sunday, between the services, we buried him. A funeral sermon was preached the same afternoon, the text chosen being, "He was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow." . . . Yes, they were cruel times!

The day of young Jack's execution was a cold, dusty Saturday in March. He was so youthful and thin that they had to hang him in the heaviest chains available in the jail, just in case his weight wouldn’t break his neck, and they were so heavy that he could barely drag himself up to the drop. At that time, the government wasn’t very strict about burying the body of an executed person within the prison grounds, and at the desperate request of his poor mother, his body was allowed to be brought home. The entire parish waited at their cottage doors in the evening for its arrival: I remember standing next to my mother as a tiny girl. Around eight o'clock, as we listened on our doorsteps in the cold, bright starlight, we could hear the faint crackle of a wagon coming from the direction of the turnpike road. The sound faded as the wagon dropped into a hollow, then it became clear again as it creaked down the next long hill, and soon it entered Longpuddle. The coffin was placed in the belfry for the night, and the next day, Sunday, between the services, we buried him. A funeral sermon was delivered that same afternoon, with the chosen text being, "He was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow." . . . Yes, those were harsh times!

'As for Harriet, she and her lover were married in due time; but by all account her life was no jocund one. She and her good-man found that they could not live comfortably at Longpuddle, by reason of her connection with Jack's misfortunes, and they settled in a distant town, and were no more heard of by us; Mrs. Palmley, too, found it advisable to join 'em shortly after. The dark-eyed, gaunt old Mrs. Winter, remembered by the emigrant gentleman here, was, as you will have foreseen, the Mrs. Winter of this story; and I can well call to mind how lonely she was, how afraid the children were of her, and how she kept herself as a stranger among us, though she lived so long.'

'As for Harriet, she and her partner got married eventually; but by all accounts, her life wasn't happy. She and her husband realized they couldn't live comfortably in Longpuddle because of her ties to Jack's troubles, so they moved to a faraway town and we never heard from them again. Mrs. Palmley also thought it was best to join them shortly after. The dark-eyed, thin old Mrs. Winter, remembered by the emigrant gentleman here, was, as you might have guessed, the Mrs. Winter of this story; and I can clearly remember how lonely she was, how frightened the children were of her, and how she kept herself distant from us, even though she lived with us for so long.'

'Longpuddle has had her sad experiences as well as her sunny ones,' said Mr. Lackland.

'Longpuddle has had her share of sad experiences as well as her happy ones,' said Mr. Lackland.

'Yes, yes. But I am thankful to say not many like that, though good and bad have lived among us.'

'Yes, yes. But I'm grateful to say that not many are like that, although both good and bad have lived among us.'

'There was Georgy Crookhill-he was one of the shady sort, as I have reason to know,' observed the registrar, with the manner of a man who would like to have his say also.

'There was Georgy Crookhill—he was definitely one of those shady characters, as I know all too well,' the registrar noted, with the attitude of someone who wanted to express his opinion too.

'I used to hear what he was as a boy at school.'

'I used to hear what he was like as a kid in school.'

'Well, as he began so he went on. It never got so far as a hanging matter with him, to be sure; but he had some narrow escapes of penal servitude; and once it was a case of the biter bit.'

'Well, just as he started, he kept going. It never got to the point of a hanging situation for him, that's for sure; but he faced some close calls with hard labor; and once, he found himself in a situation where the tables were turned.'

INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF MR. GEORGE CROOKHILL

'One day,' the registrar continued, 'Georgy was ambling out of Melchester on a miserable screw, the fair being just over, when he saw in front of him a fine-looking young farmer riding out of the town in the same direction. He was mounted on a good strong handsome animal, worth fifty guineas if worth a crown. When they were going up Bissett Hill, Georgy made it his business to overtake the young farmer. They passed the time o' day to one another; Georgy spoke of the state of the roads, and jogged alongside the well-mounted stranger in very friendly conversation. The farmer had not been inclined to say much to Georgy at first, but by degrees he grew quite affable too-as friendly as Georgy was toward him. He told Crookhill that he had been doing business at Melchester fair, and was going on as far as Shottsford-Forum that night, so as to reach Casterbridge market the next day. When they came to Woodyates Inn they stopped to bait their horses, and agreed to drink together; with this they got more friendly than ever, and on they went again. Before they had nearly reached Shottsford it came on to rain, and as they were now passing through the village of Trantridge, and it was quite dark, Georgy persuaded the young farmer to go no further that night; the rain would most likely give them a chill. For his part he had heard that the little inn here was comfortable, and he meant to stay. At last the young farmer agreed to put up there also; and they dismounted, and entered, and had a good supper together, and talked over their affairs like men who had known and proved each other a long time. When it was the hour for retiring they went upstairs to a double-bedded room which Georgy Crookhill had asked the landlord to let them share, so sociable were they.

"One day," the registrar continued, "Georgy was strolling out of Melchester on a dismal horse, the fair just having ended, when he spotted a good-looking young farmer riding out of town in the same direction. He was on a strong, handsome horse, worth fifty guineas if it was worth anything at all. As they were climbing Bissett Hill, Georgy decided to catch up with the young farmer. They exchanged pleasantries; Georgy talked about the condition of the roads and kept pace with the well-mounted stranger in a friendly chat. The farmer wasn’t very talkative at first, but gradually became just as friendly as Georgy. He informed Crookhill that he had been conducting business at the Melchester fair and was heading to Shottsford-Forum that night to reach the Casterbridge market the next day. When they reached Woodyates Inn, they stopped to rest their horses and agreed to have a drink together; with that, they became even friendlier and continued on their way. Just before they got to Shottsford, it started to rain, and as they passed through the village of Trantridge, it was quite dark. Georgy convinced the young farmer not to go any further that night; the rain might make them ill. He mentioned he had heard that the little inn here was comfortable and planned to stay. Eventually, the young farmer agreed to stay there too; they dismounted, went inside, had a good supper together, and chatted about their lives like men who had known each other for a long time. When it was time to retire, they went upstairs to a double-bedded room that Georgy Crookhill had asked the landlord to let them share, feeling so sociable."

'Before they fell asleep they talked across the room about one thing and another, running from this to that till the conversation turned upon disguises, and changing clothes for particular ends. The farmer told Georgy that he had often heard tales of people doing it; but Crookhill professed to be very ignorant of all such tricks; and soon the young farmer sank into slumber.

'Before they fell asleep, they chatted from across the room about various topics, jumping from one thing to another until the conversation shifted to disguises and changing outfits for specific purposes. The farmer told Georgy that he had often heard stories about people doing that; but Crookhill claimed to know nothing about such tricks; and soon the young farmer drifted off to sleep.'

'Early in the morning, while the tall young farmer was still asleep (I tell the story as 'twas told me), honest Georgy crept out of his bed by stealth, and dressed himself in the farmer's clothes, in the pockets of the said clothes being the farmer's money. Now though Georgy particularly wanted the farmer's nice clothes and nice horse, owing to a little transaction at the fair which made it desirable that he should not be too easily recognized, his desires had their bounds: he did not wish to take his young friend's money, at any rate more of it than was necessary for paying his bill. This he abstracted, and leaving the farmer's purse containing the rest on the bedroom table, went downstairs. The inn folks had not particularly noticed the faces of their customers, and the one or two who were up at this hour had no thought but that Georgy was the farmer; so when he had paid the bill very liberally, and said he must be off, no objection was made to his getting the farmer's horse saddled for himself; and he rode away upon it as if it were his own.

Early in the morning, while the tall young farmer was still asleep (I’m telling this story as I heard it), honest Georgy quietly got out of bed and put on the farmer's clothes, which had the farmer's money in the pockets. Even though Georgy really wanted the farmer's nice clothes and horse, because of a little incident at the fair that made it better if he wasn’t recognized too easily, he did have limits: he didn’t want to take too much of his young friend's money, just what he needed to pay his bill. He took that amount and left the farmer's purse with the rest of the money on the bedroom table before heading downstairs. The inn staff hadn't really paid attention to their customers' faces, and the few who were up at that hour thought Georgy was the farmer. So, when he paid the bill generously and said he had to leave, no one objected when he had the farmer's horse saddled for himself; he rode away as if it was his own.

'About half an hour after the young farmer awoke, and looking across the room saw that his friend Georgy had gone away in clothes which didn't belong to him, and had kindly left for himself the seedy ones worn by Georgy. At this he sat up in a deep thought for some time, instead of hastening to give an alarm. "The money, the money is gone," he said to himself, "and that's bad. But so are the clothes."

'About half an hour after the young farmer woke up, he looked across the room and saw that his friend Georgy had left in clothes that didn’t belong to him, kindly leaving behind his old, worn-out ones. He sat up in deep thought for a while instead of rushing to raise the alarm. "The money, the money is gone," he told himself, "and that's bad. But so are the clothes."

'He then looked upon the table and saw that the money, or most of it, had been left behind.

'He then looked at the table and saw that the money, or most of it, had been left behind.'

'"Ha, ha, ha!" he cried, and began to dance about the room. "Ha, ha, ha!" he said again, and made beautiful smiles to himself in the shaving glass and in the brass candlestick; and then swung about his arms for all the world as if he were going through the sword exercise.

"Ha, ha, ha!" he exclaimed, starting to dance around the room. "Ha, ha, ha!" he said again, smiling brightly at himself in the mirror and in the brass candlestick; then he flailed his arms as if he were practicing a sword routine.

'When he had dressed himself in Georgy's clothes and gone downstairs, he did not seem to mind at all that they took him for the other; and even when he saw that he had been left a bad horse for a good one, he was not inclined to cry out. They told him his friend had paid the bill, at which he seemed much pleased, and without waiting for breakfast he mounted Georgy's horse and rode away likewise, choosing the nearest by- lane in preference to the high-road, without knowing that Georgy had chosen that by-lane also.

When he put on Georgy's clothes and went downstairs, he didn’t seem to care at all that people mistook him for him. Even when he realized he had been given a poor horse instead of a good one, he didn't feel like complaining. They told him his friend had settled the bill, which made him really happy, and without waiting for breakfast, he got on Georgy's horse and rode off, picking the nearest back road instead of the main road, not realizing that Georgy had also chosen that same back road.

'He had not trotted more than two miles in the personal character of Georgy Crookhill when, suddenly rounding a bend that the lane made thereabout, he came upon a man struggling in the hands of two village constables. It was his friend Georgy, the borrower of his clothes and horse. But so far was the young farmer from showing any alacrity in rushing forward to claim his property that he would have turned the poor beast he rode into the wood adjoining, if he had not been already perceived.

He hadn’t gone more than two miles as Georgy Crookhill when, suddenly rounding a bend in the lane, he saw a man struggling in the grip of two village constables. It was his friend Georgy, who had borrowed his clothes and horse. But instead of rushing forward to claim his belongings, the young farmer seemed so reluctant that he would have turned the poor horse he was riding into the nearby woods if he hadn’t already been noticed.

'"Help, help, help!" cried the constables. "Assistance in the name of the Crown!"

'"Help, help, help!" shouted the officers. "We need assistance in the name of the Crown!"'

'The young farmer could do nothing but ride forward. "What's the matter?" he inquired, as coolly as he could.

'The young farmer could do nothing but ride forward. "What's wrong?" he asked, trying to sound as calm as possible.'

'"A deserter-a deserter!" said they. "One who's to be tried by court- martial and shot without parley. He deserted from the Dragoons at Cheltenham some days ago, and was tracked; but the search-party can't find him anywhere, and we told 'em if we met him we'd hand him on to 'em forthwith. The day after he left the barracks the rascal met a respectable farmer and made him drunk at an inn, and told him what a fine soldier he would make, and coaxed him to change clothes, to see how well a military uniform would become him. This the simple farmer did; when our deserter said that for a joke he would leave the room and go to the landlady, to see if she would know him in that dress. He never came back, and Farmer Jollice found himself in soldier's clothes, the money in his pockets gone, and, when he got to the stable, his horse gone too."

'"A deserter—a deserter!" they exclaimed. "One who's going to be tried by court-martial and shot without hesitation. He deserted from the Dragoons at Cheltenham a few days ago and was tracked down; but the search party can't find him anywhere, and we told them if we saw him, we'd turn him in right away. The day after he left the barracks, that rascal met a decent farmer, got him drunk at an inn, and bragged about how great a soldier he would make. He convinced the farmer to swap clothes to see how good a military uniform would look on him. The gullible farmer went along with it, and then our deserter said he would step out of the room for a joke to see if the landlady would recognize him in that outfit. He never came back, and Farmer Jollice found himself in a soldier's uniform, his money gone from his pockets, and when he got to the stable, his horse was gone too."'

'"A scoundrel!" says the young man in Georgy's clothes. "And is this the wretched caitiff?" (pointing to Georgy).

'"A scoundrel!" says the young man in Georgy's clothes. "And is this the wretched loser?" (pointing to Georgy).

'"No, no!" cries Georgy, as innocent as a babe of this matter of the soldier's desertion. "He's the man! He was wearing Farmer Jollice's suit o' clothes, and he slept in the same room wi' me, and brought up the subject of changing clothes, which put it into my head to dress myself in his suit before he was awake. He's got on mine!"

"No, no!" Georgy exclaims, completely unaware of the soldier's desertion. "He's the one! He was wearing Farmer Jollice's clothes, and he slept in the same room as me, and he brought up the idea of changing clothes, which made me think of putting on his suit before he woke up. He's wearing mine!"

'"D'ye hear the villain?" groans the tall young man to the constables. "Trying to get out of his crime by charging the first innocent man with it that he sees! No, master soldier-that won't do!"

'"Do you hear the crook?" groans the tall young man to the police. "He's trying to escape his crime by blaming the first innocent person he sees! No, master soldier—that's not going to work!"'

'"No, no! That won't do!" the constables chimed in. "To have the impudence to say such as that, when we caught him in the act almost! But, thank God, we've got the handcuffs on him at last."

"No, no! That won't work!" the police officers said. "Having the nerve to say that when we caught him red-handed! But, thank God, we've finally put the handcuffs on him."

'"We have, thank God," said the tall young man. "Well, I must move on. Good luck to ye with your prisoner!" And off he went, as fast as his poor jade would carry him.

"We have, thank God," said the tall young man. "Well, I have to keep going. Good luck with your prisoner!" And off he went, as fast as his poor horse would take him.

'The constables then, with Georgy handcuffed between 'em, and leading the horse, marched off in the other direction, toward the village where they had been accosted by the escort of soldiers sent to bring the deserter back, Georgy groaning: "I shall be shot, I shall be shot!" They had not gone more than a mile before they met them.

'The constables, with Georgy handcuffed between them and leading the horse, walked off in the opposite direction, heading toward the village where they had encountered the group of soldiers sent to bring the deserter back, Georgy moaning, "I’m going to be shot, I’m going to be shot!" They hadn’t gone more than a mile before they met them.'

'"Hoi, there!" says the head constable.

"Hey there!" says the head constable.

'"Hoi, yerself!" says the corporal in charge.

'"Hey, you!" says the corporal in charge.

'"We've got your man," says the constable.

"We've got your guy," says the officer.

'"Where?" says the corporal.

"Where?" asks the corporal.

'"Here, between us," said the constable. "Only you don't recognize him out o' uniform."

"Here, between us," the constable said. "It's just that you don't recognize him out of uniform."

'The corporal looked at Georgy hard enough; then shook his head and said he was not the absconder.

'The corporal looked at Georgy intently; then shook his head and said he wasn't the fugitive.'

'"But the absconder changed clothes with Farmer Jollice, and took his horse; and this man has 'em, d'ye see!"

"But the runaway switched clothes with Farmer Jollice and took his horse; and this guy has them, you see!"

'"'Tis not our man," said the soldiers. "He's a tall young fellow with a mole on his right cheek, and a military bearing, which this man decidedly has not."

"'It's not our man," said the soldiers. "He's a tall young guy with a mole on his right cheek and a military demeanor, which this guy definitely does not have."'

'"I told the two officers of justice that 'twas the other!" pleaded Georgy. "But they wouldn't believe me."

"I told the two police officers that it was the other one!" Georgy pleaded. "But they wouldn't believe me."

'And so it became clear that the missing dragoon was the tall young farmer, and not Georgy Crookhill-a fact which Farmer Jollice himself corroborated when he arrived on the scene. As Georgy had only robbed the robber, his sentence was comparatively light. The deserter from the Dragoons was never traced: his double shift of clothing having been of the greatest advantage to him in getting off; though he left Georgy's horse behind him a few miles ahead, having found the poor creature more hindrance than aid.'

'And so it became clear that the missing dragoon was the tall young farmer, not Georgy Crookhill—a fact that Farmer Jollice himself confirmed when he got there. Since Georgy had only stolen from the robber, his sentence was relatively light. The deserter from the Dragoons was never found; his change of clothes helped him escape, although he left Georgy's horse a few miles ahead because he found the poor animal more of a burden than a help.'

The man from abroad seemed to be less interested in the questionable characters of Longpuddle and their strange adventures than in the ordinary inhabitants and the ordinary events, though his local fellow- travellers preferred the former as subjects of discussion. He now for the first time asked concerning young persons of the opposite sex-or rather those who had been young when he left his native land. His informants, adhering to their own opinion that the remarkable was better worth telling than the ordinary, would not allow him to dwell upon the simple chronicles of those who had merely come and gone. They asked him if he remembered Netty Sargent.

The man from abroad seemed more interested in the everyday people and events than in the shady characters of Longpuddle and their bizarre adventures, even though his local travel companions preferred to discuss the latter. For the first time, he asked about young women—or rather, those who had been young when he left his home country. His informants, believing that remarkable stories were more worth sharing than ordinary ones, wouldn’t let him focus on the simple tales of those who had just come and gone. They asked him if he remembered Netty Sargent.

'Netty Sargent-I do, just remember her. She was a young woman living with her uncle when I left, if my childish recollection may be trusted.'

'Netty Sargent—I do remember her. She was a young woman living with her uncle when I left, if I can trust my childhood memories.'

'That was the maid. She was a oneyer, if you like, sir. Not any harm in her, you know, but up to everything. You ought to hear how she got the copyhold of her house extended. Oughtn't he, Mr. Day?'

'That was the maid. She was a schemer, if you will, sir. No harm in her, you know, but always up to something. You should hear how she got her house's copyhold extended. Shouldn't he, Mr. Day?'

'He ought,' replied the world-ignored old painter.

'He should,' replied the overlooked old painter.

'Tell him, Mr. Day. Nobody can do it better than you, and you know the legal part better than some of us.'

'Tell him, Mr. Day. No one can do it better than you, and you know the legal stuff better than some of us.'

Day apologized, and began:-

Day said sorry and started:

NETTY SARGENT'S COPYHOLD

'She continued to live with her uncle, in the lonely house by the copse, just as at the time you knew her; a tall spry young woman. Ah, how well one can remember her black hair and dancing eyes at that time, and her sly way of screwing up her mouth when she meant to tease ye! Well, she was hardly out of short frocks before the chaps were after her, and by long and by late she was courted by a young man whom perhaps you did not know-Jasper Cliff was his name-and, though she might have had many a better fellow, he so greatly took her fancy that 'twas Jasper or nobody for her. He was a selfish customer, always thinking less of what he was going to do than of what he was going to gain by his doings. Jasper's eyes might have been fixed upon Netty, but his mind was upon her uncle's house; though he was fond of her in his way-I admit that.

She kept living with her uncle in the lonely house by the woods, just like when you knew her; a tall, lively young woman. Ah, how clearly I remember her black hair and sparkling eyes back then, and the playful way she would pucker her lips when she wanted to tease you! Well, she was hardly out of short dresses before the guys were after her, and before long, she was being courted by a young man you might not know—his name was Jasper Cliff—and even though she could have had many better suitors, she was so taken with him that it was Jasper or nobody for her. He was a selfish guy, always more focused on what he could gain than on what he was going to do. Jasper's eyes were on Netty, but his mind was on her uncle's house; though I admit he was fond of her in his own way.

'This house, built by her great-great-grandfather, with its garden and little field, was copyhold-granted upon lives in the old way, and had been so granted for generations. Her uncle's was the last life upon the property; so that at his death, if there was no admittance of new lives, it would all fall into the hands of the lord of the manor. But 'twas easy to admit-a slight "fine," as 'twas called, of a few pounds, was enough to entitle him to a new deed o' grant by the custom of the manor; and the lord could not hinder it.

This house, built by her great-great-grandfather, along with its garden and small field, was granted as a copyhold based on lives in the traditional way, and this arrangement had lasted for generations. Her uncle was the last person on the property; so when he passed away, if no new lives were admitted, everything would revert to the lord of the manor. However, it was simple to admit a new life—a small "fine" of just a few pounds was enough to secure a new deed of grant according to the manor's custom, and the lord couldn't prevent it.

'Now there could be no better provision for his niece and only relative than a sure house over her head, and Netty's uncle should have seen to the renewal in time, owing to the peculiar custom of forfeiture by the dropping of the last life before the new fine was paid; for the Squire was very anxious to get hold of the house and land; and every Sunday when the old man came into the church and passed the Squire's pew, the Squire would say, "A little weaker in his knees, a little crookeder in his back-and the readmittance not applied for: ha! ha! I shall be able to make a complete clearing of that corner of the manor some day!"

Now, there could be no better setup for his niece and only relative than a secure home over her head, and Netty's uncle should have taken care of the renewal in time, due to the unique custom of losing the property if the last life ended before the new fine was paid; because the Squire was very eager to acquire the house and land. Every Sunday, when the old man walked into the church and passed the Squire's pew, the Squire would say, "A little weaker in his knees, a little more bent in his back—and no request for readmittance: ha! ha! I’ll be able to clear that corner of the manor someday!"

''Twas extraordinary, now we look back upon it, that old Sargent should have been so dilatory; yet some people are like it; and he put off calling at the Squire's agent's office with the fine week after week, saying to himself, "I shall have more time next market-day than I have now." One unfortunate hindrance was that he didn't very well like Jasper Cliff; and as Jasper kept urging Netty, and Netty on that account kept urging her uncle, the old man was inclined to postpone the re- liveing as long as he could, to spite the selfish young lover. At last old Mr. Sargent fell ill, and then Jasper could bear it no longer: he produced the fine-money himself, and handed it to Netty, and spoke to her plainly.

It was unusual, looking back now, for old Sargent to be so slow; yet some people are just like that. He kept putting off a visit to the Squire's agent's office with the fine, week after week, telling himself, "I'll have more time next market day than I do now." One unfortunate reason was that he didn't really like Jasper Cliff; and since Jasper kept pushing Netty, she in turn kept pushing her uncle, the old man was inclined to delay the re-levying as long as possible just to spite the selfish young suitor. Finally, old Mr. Sargent fell ill, and then Jasper couldn't take it anymore: he took out the fine money himself, handed it to Netty, and spoke to her directly.

'"You and your uncle ought to know better. You should press him more. There's the money. If you let the house and ground slip between ye, I won't marry; hang me if I will! For folks won't deserve a husband that can do such things."

"You and your uncle should know better. You need to push him more. Here’s the money. If you let the house and land slip away from you, I won’t marry; I swear I won’t! Because people don’t deserve a husband who can do things like that."

'The worried girl took the money and went home, and told her uncle that it was no house no husband for her. Old Mr. Sargent pooh-poohed the money, for the amount was not worth consideration, but he did now bestir himself; for he saw she was bent upon marrying Jasper, and he did not wish to make her unhappy, since she was so determined. It was much to the Squire's annoyance that he found Sargent had moved in the matter at last; but he could not gainsay it, and the documents were prepared (for on this manor the copy-holders had writings with their holdings, though on some manors they had none). Old Sargent being now too feeble to go to the agent's house, the deed was to be brought to his house signed, and handed over as a receipt for the money; the counterpart to be signed by Sargent, and sent back to the Squire.

The worried girl took the money and went home, telling her uncle that there would be no house and no husband for her. Old Mr. Sargent dismissed the money, as it wasn't a significant amount, but he did start to take action; he saw that she was determined to marry Jasper, and he didn't want to make her unhappy since she was so set on it. The Squire was quite annoyed to find that Sargent had finally taken action, but he couldn't argue against it, so the documents were prepared (since in this manor, the copy-holders had written agreements with their holdings, although some manors didn’t). Since Old Sargent was now too weak to go to the agent's house, the deed was to be brought to his house, signed, and handed over as a receipt for the money; the counterpart would be signed by Sargent and sent back to the Squire.

'The agent had promised to call on old Sargent for this purpose at five o'clock, and Netty put the money into her desk to have it close at hand. While doing this she heard a slight cry from her uncle, and turning round, saw that he had fallen forward in his chair. She went and lifted him, but he was unconscious; and unconscious he remained. Neither medicine nor stimulants would bring him to himself. She had been told that he might possibly go off in that way, and it seemed as if the end had come. Before she had started for a doctor his face and extremities grew quite cold and white, and she saw that help would be useless. He was stone-dead.

'The agent had promised to visit old Sargent for this purpose at five o'clock, and Netty put the money into her desk to keep it handy. While doing this, she heard a faint cry from her uncle and turned around to see that he had collapsed forward in his chair. She rushed over and lifted him, but he was unconscious; and he stayed that way. Neither medicine nor stimulants could bring him back. She had been warned that he might pass away like this, and it seemed that his time had come. Before she could head out for a doctor, his face and extremities turned completely cold and pale, and she realized that help would be pointless. He was dead.'

'Netty's situation rose upon her distracted mind in all its seriousness. The house, garden, and field were lost-by a few hours-and with them a home for herself and her lover. She would not think so meanly of Jasper as to suppose that he would adhere to the resolution declared in a moment of impatience; but she trembled, nevertheless. Why could not her uncle have lived a couple of hours longer, since he had lived so long? It was now past three o'clock; at five the agent was to call, and, if all had gone well, by ten minutes past five the house and holding would have been securely hers for her own and Jasper's lives, these being two of the three proposed to be added by paying the fine. How that wretched old Squire would rejoice at getting the little tenancy into his hands! He did not really require it, but constitutionally hated these tiny copyholds and leaseholds and freeholds, which made islands of independence in the fair, smooth ocean of his estates.

Netty's situation hit her distracted mind with all its seriousness. The house, garden, and field were lost—in just a few hours—and along with them, a home for herself and her lover. She didn’t think so poorly of Jasper to believe he would stick to the decision he made in a moment of frustration; yet she felt uneasy regardless. Why couldn’t her uncle have lived just a couple of hours longer, since he had made it this far? It was now past three o'clock; the agent was set to arrive at five, and if everything had gone well, by ten minutes after five, the house and land would securely belong to her and Jasper for their lifetimes, as long as they paid the fine to add those two lives to the agreement. How that miserable old Squire would delight in getting his hands on that little property! He didn’t really need it, but he had a deep-seated dislike for those small copyholds, leaseholds, and freeholds that created little pockets of independence in the smooth, vast sea of his estates.

'Then an idea struck into the head of Netty how to accomplish her object in spite of her uncle's negligence. It was a dull December afternoon: and the first step in her scheme-so the story goes, and I see no reason to doubt it-'

'Then an idea popped into Netty's head about how to achieve her goal despite her uncle's neglect. It was a dreary December afternoon, and the first step in her plan—so the story goes, and I have no reason to doubt it—'

''Tis true as the light,' affirmed Christopher Twink. 'I was just passing by.'

''It's true as the light,' affirmed Christopher Twink. 'I was just passing by.'

'The first step in her scheme was to fasten the outer door, to make sure of not being interrupted. Then she set to work by placing her uncle's small, heavy oak table before the fire; then she went to her uncle's corpse, sitting in the chair as he had died-a stuffed arm-chair, on casters, and rather high in the seat, so it was told me-and wheeled the chair, uncle and all, to the table, placing him with his back toward the window, in the attitude of bending over the said oak table, which I knew as a boy as well as I know any piece of furniture in my own house. On the table she laid the large family Bible open before him, and placed his forefinger on the page; and then she opened his eyelids a bit, and put on him his spectacles, so that from behind he appeared for all the world as if he were reading the Scriptures. Then she unfastened the door and sat down, and when it grew dark she lit a candle, and put it on the table beside her uncle's book.

The first step in her plan was to lock the outer door to ensure she wouldn’t be disturbed. Then she moved her uncle’s small, heavy oak table in front of the fire. Next, she went to her uncle’s body, sitting in the chair he had died in—a stuffed armchair on wheels, which was somewhat high, as I’ve been told—and rolled the chair, with him still in it, to the table, positioning him with his back to the window, appearing to bend over the oak table, which I recognized from my childhood just like any piece of furniture in my own home. She laid the large family Bible open in front of him and placed his forefinger on the page; then she slightly opened his eyelids and put his glasses on him so that from behind, he looked for all the world like he was reading the Scriptures. After that, she unlocked the door and sat down, and when it got dark, she lit a candle and set it on the table next to her uncle's book.

'Folk may well guess how the time passed with her till the agent came, and how, when his knock sounded upon the door, she nearly started out of her skin-at least that's as it was told me. Netty promptly went to the door.

'People could probably imagine how the time went by for her until the agent arrived, and how, when he knocked on the door, she almost jumped out of her skin—at least, that's what I was told. Netty quickly went to the door.

'"I am sorry, sir," she says, under her breath; "my uncle is not so well to-night, and I'm afraid he can't see you."

"I’m sorry, sir," she says quietly, "my uncle isn’t feeling well tonight, and I’m afraid he can’t see you."

'"H'm!-that's a pretty tale," says the steward. "So I've come all this way about this trumpery little job for nothing!"

"H'm!-that’s a nice story," says the steward. "So I've come all this way for this petty little task for nothing!"

'"O no, sir-I hope not," says Netty. "I suppose the business of granting the new deed can be done just the same?"

'"Oh no, sir - I hope not," says Netty. "I guess the process of granting the new deed can be done the same way?"'

'"Done? Certainly not. He must pay the renewal money, and sign the parchment in my presence."

'"Done? Absolutely not. He has to pay the renewal fee and sign the document in front of me."'

'She looked dubious. "Uncle is so dreadful nervous about law business," says she, "that, as you know, he's put it off and put it off for years; and now to-day really I've feared it would verily drive him out of his mind. His poor three teeth quite chattered when I said to him that you would be here soon with the parchment writing. He always was afraid of agents, and folks that come for rent, and such-like."

She looked uncertain. "Uncle is so incredibly anxious about legal matters," she said, "that, as you know, he's been putting it off for years; and today I really worried it might drive him crazy. His poor three teeth were chattering when I told him you would be here soon with the document. He’s always been scared of agents and people who come for rent and that sort of thing."

'"Poor old fellow-I'm sorry for him. Well, the thing can't be done unless I see him and witness his signature."

"Poor guy—I'm really sorry for him. Well, it can't be done unless I meet him and see his signature."

'"Suppose, sir, that you see him sign, and he don't see you looking at him? I'd soothe his nerves by saying you weren't strict about the form of witnessing, and didn't wish to come in. So that it was done in your bare presence it would be sufficient, would it not? As he's such an old, shrinking, shivering man, it would be a great considerateness on your part if that would do?"

'"Imagine, sir, that you see him sign, and he doesn’t know you’re watching him? I’d calm his nerves by saying you weren't particular about the witnessing process and didn’t want to interfere. So as long as it was done right in front of you, that should be enough, right? Since he’s such an old, timid, trembling man, it would be very considerate of you if that would work?"'

'"In my bare presence would do, of course-that's all I come for. But how can I be a witness without his seeing me?"

"In my bare presence would be enough, of course—that's all I came for. But how can I be a witness without him seeing me?"

'"Why, in this way, sir; if you'll oblige me by just stepping here." She conducted him a few yards to the left, till they were opposite the parlour window. The blind had been left up purposely, and the candle- light shone out upon the garden bushes. Within the agent could see, at the other end of the room, the back and side of the old man's head, and his shoulders and arm, sitting with the book and candle before him, and his spectacles on his nose, as she had placed him.

"Just like this, sir; if you wouldn't mind stepping over here." She led him a few steps to the left, so they were in front of the parlor window. The blind had been left up on purpose, and the candlelight illuminated the garden bushes. From where the agent stood, he could see the back and side of the old man's head, his shoulders, and arm, as he sat with the book and candle in front of him, wearing the spectacles she had set on his nose.

'"He's reading his Bible, as you see, sir," she says, quite in her meekest way.

"He's reading his Bible, as you can see, sir," she says, quite in her meekest way.

'"Yes. I thought he was a careless sort of man in matters of religion?"

'"Yes. I thought he was pretty careless when it came to religion?"'

'"He always was fond of his Bible," Netty assured him. "Though I think he's nodding over it just at this moment However, that's natural in an old man, and unwell. Now you could stand here and see him sign, couldn't you, sir, as he's such an invalid?"

"He always loved his Bible," Netty reassured him. "Though I think he's dozing off over it right now. But that's normal for an old man who's not feeling well. Now you could stand here and see him sign, couldn't you, sir, since he's such an invalid?"

'"Very well," said the agent, lighting a cigar. "You have ready by you the merely nominal sum you'll have to pay for the admittance, of course?"

"Sure," said the agent, lighting a cigar. "You have the small amount you need to pay for admission, right?"

'"Yes," said Netty. "I'll bring it out." She fetched the cash, wrapped in paper, and handed it to him, and when he had counted it the steward took from his breast pocket the precious parchments and gave one to her to be signed.

'"Yes," said Netty. "I'll bring it out." She grabbed the cash, wrapped in paper, and handed it to him. After he counted it, the steward took the valuable documents from his breast pocket and gave one to her to sign.'

'"Uncle's hand is a little paralyzed," she said. "And what with his being half asleep, too, really I don't know what sort of a signature he'll be able to make."

'"Uncle's hand is a bit numb," she said. "And since he's half asleep, I honestly don't know what kind of signature he'll be able to come up with."'

'"Doesn't matter, so that he signs."

'"Doesn't matter, as long as he signs."'

'"Might I hold his hand?"

"Can I hold his hand?"

'"Ay, hold his hand, my young woman-that will be near enough."

'"Yeah, hold his hand, my young lady—that should be close enough."'

'Netty re-entered the house, and the agent continued smoking outside the window. Now came the ticklish part of Netty's performance. The steward saw her put the inkhorn-"horn," says I in my old-fashioned way-the inkstand, before her uncle, and touch his elbow as to arouse him, and speak to him, and spread out the deed; when she had pointed to show him where to sign she dipped the pen and put it into his hand. To hold his hand she artfully stepped behind him, so that the agent could only see a little bit of his head, and the hand she held; but he saw the old man's hand trace his name on the document. As soon as 'twas done she came out to the steward with the parchment in her hand, and the steward signed as witness by the light from the parlour window. Then he gave her the deed signed by the Squire, and left; and next morning Netty told the neighbours that her uncle was dead in his bed.'

Netty went back inside the house while the agent kept smoking by the window. Now came the tricky part of Netty's plan. The steward watched her place the inkwell in front of her uncle, gently touch his elbow to wake him, and speak to him as she laid out the deed. When she pointed to where he needed to sign, she dipped the pen and placed it in his hand. To hold his hand, she cleverly stepped behind him so the agent could only see a bit of his head and the hand she was holding. But he saw the old man's hand writing his name on the document. Once it was done, she exited to the steward with the parchment in her hand, and he signed as a witness by the light from the parlor window. Then he gave her the deed signed by the Squire and left; the next morning, Netty told the neighbors that her uncle had died in his bed.

'She must have undressed him and put him there.'

'She must have taken off his clothes and laid him there.'

'She must. Oh, that girl had a nerve, I can tell ye! Well, to cut a long story short, that's how she got back the house and field that were, strictly speaking, gone from her; and by getting them, got her a husband.

'She has to. Oh, that girl had some nerve, I can tell you! Well, to make a long story short, that's how she got back the house and field that were, technically speaking, gone from her; and by getting them, she got herself a husband.'

'Every virtue has its reward, they say. Netty had hers for her ingenious contrivance to gain Jasper. Two years after they were married he took to beating her-not hard, you know; just a smack or two, enough to set her in a temper, and let out to the neighbours what she had done to win him, and how she repented of her pains. When the old Squire was dead, and his son came into the property, this confession of hers began to be whispered about. But Netty was a pretty young woman, and the Squire's son was a pretty young man at that time, and wider-minded than his father, having no objection to little holdings; and he never took any proceedings against her.'

'They say every virtue has its reward. Netty had hers for her clever plan to win Jasper. Two years after they got married, he started hitting her—not hard, just a smack or two, enough to make her angry and to let the neighbors know what she had done to get him and how sorry she was for her efforts. After the old Squire died and his son inherited the estate, her confession started to get whispered about. But Netty was a beautiful young woman, and the Squire's son was a handsome young man at the time, more open-minded than his father and not opposed to small holdings; so he never took any action against her.'

There was now a lull in the discourse, and soon the van descended the hill leading into the long straggling village. When the houses were reached the passengers dropped off one by one, each at his or her own door. Arrived at the inn, the returned emigrant secured a bed, and having eaten a light meal, sallied forth upon the scene he had known so well in his early days. Though flooded with the light of the rising moon, none of the objects wore the attractiveness in this their real presentation that had ever accompanied their images in the field of his imagination when he was more than two thousand miles removed from them. The peculiar charm attaching to an old village in an old country, as seen by the eyes of an absolute foreigner, was lowered in his case by magnified expectations from infantine memories. He walked on, looking at this chimney and that old wall, till he came to the churchyard, which he entered.

There was a pause in the conversation, and soon the van went down the hill into the long, sprawling village. When they reached the houses, the passengers got off one by one, each at their own door. Once at the inn, the returning emigrant got a room and had a light meal before heading out to the familiar scenes of his youth. Even though the rising moon lit up the surroundings, nothing looked as appealing in reality as it had in his imagination when he was over two thousand miles away. The unique charm of an old village in a foreign country didn’t have the same magic for him because his childhood memories had raised his expectations. He continued walking, glancing at this chimney and that old wall, until he arrived at the churchyard, which he entered.

The head-stones, whitened by the moon, were easily decipherable; and now for the first time Lackland began to feel himself amid the village community that he had left behind him five-and-thirty years before. Here, besides the Sallets, the Darths, the Pawles, the Privetts, the Sargents, and others of whom he had just heard, were names he remembered even better than those: the Jickses, and the Crosses, and the Knights, and the Olds. Doubtless representatives of these families, or some of them, were yet among the living; but to him they would all be as strangers. Far from finding his heart ready-supplied with roots and tendrils here, he perceived that in returning to this spot it would be incumbent upon him to re-establish himself from the beginning, precisely as though he had never known the place, nor it him. Time had not condescended to wait his pleasure, nor local life his greeting.

The gravestones, glowing white in the moonlight, were easy to read; and for the first time, Lackland started to feel connected to the village community he had left behind thirty-five years ago. Here, besides the Sallets, the Darths, the Pawles, the Privetts, the Sargents, and others he had just heard about, were names he remembered even better: the Jickses, the Crosses, the Knights, and the Olds. Surely, some representatives of these families were still alive, but to him, they would all seem like strangers. Instead of feeling a sense of belonging and familiarity, he realized that returning to this place meant he had to start over, just as if he had never known it or it had never known him. Time hadn’t paused for him, nor had the local life welcomed him back.

The figure of Mr. Lackland was seen at the inn, and in the village street, and in the fields and lanes about Upper Longpuddle, for a few days after his arrival, and then, ghost-like, it silently disappeared. He had told some of the villagers that his immediate purpose in coming had been fulfilled by a sight of the place, and by conversation with its inhabitants: but that his ulterior purpose-of coming to spend his latter days among them-would probably never be carried out. It is now a dozen or fifteen years since his visit was paid, and his face has not again been seen.

The figure of Mr. Lackland was spotted at the inn, in the village street, and in the fields and lanes around Upper Longpuddle for a few days after he arrived, and then, like a ghost, he silently vanished. He had told some of the villagers that his immediate goal for coming had been achieved by seeing the place and talking to its residents, but that his long-term goal—of spending his later years with them—would probably never happen. It has now been about twelve to fifteen years since his visit, and his face has not been seen again.

March 1891.

A GROUP OF NOBLE DAMES

That is to say: The First Countess of Wessex; Barbara of the House of Grebe; The Marchioness of Stonehenge; Lady Mottifont Squire Petrick's Lady; The Lady Icenway Anna, Lady Baxby; The Lady Penelope; The Duchess of Hamptonshire; and The Honorable Laura

'. . . Store of Ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence.'-L'Allegro.

'. . . Store of Ladies, whose bright eyes Shower influence.'-L'Allegro.

With a map of wessex

With a map of Wessex

By Thomas Hardy

CONTENTS

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PREFACE

DAME THE FIRST-THE FIRST COUNTESS OF WESSEX

DAME THE SECOND-BARBARA OF THE HOUSE OF GREBE

DAME THE THIRD-THE MARCHIONESS OF STONEHENGE

DAME THE FOURTH-LADY MOTTISFONT

DAME THE FIFTH-THE LADY ICENWAY

DAME THE SIXTH-SQUIRE PETRICK'S LADY

DAME THE SEVENTH-ANNA, LADY BAXBY

DAME THE EIGHTH-THE LADY PENELOPE

DAME THE NINTH-THE DUCHESS OF HAMPTONSHIRE

DAME THE TENTH-THE HONOURABLE LAURA

PREFACE

The pedigrees of our county families, arranged in diagrams on the pages of county histories, mostly appear at first sight to be as barren of any touch of nature as a table of logarithms. But given a clue-the faintest tradition of what went on behind the scenes, and this dryness as of dust may be transformed into a palpitating drama. More, the careful comparison of dates alone-that of birth with marriage, of marriage with death, of one marriage, birth, or death with a kindred marriage, birth, or death-will often effect the same transformation, and anybody practised in raising images from such genealogies finds himself unconsciously filling into the framework the motives, passions, and personal qualities which would appear to be the single explanation possible of some extraordinary conjunction in times, events, and personages that occasionally marks these reticent family records.

The family trees of our county families, laid out in diagrams in county histories, usually seem as lifeless as a table of logarithms at first glance. But with just a hint—a slight tradition of what happened behind the scenes—and this dryness can become a vivid drama. Furthermore, simply comparing dates—birth with marriage, marriage with death, and the relationships between these events—can often create the same transformation. Anyone experienced in extracting stories from these genealogies finds themselves instinctively filling in the details: the motives, passions, and personal traits that would seem to explain the unusual connections in time, events, and people that sometimes stand out in these quiet family records.

Out of such pedigrees and supplementary material most of the following stories have arisen and taken shape.

Out of these backgrounds and additional material, most of the following stories have come about and been developed.

I would make this preface an opportunity of expressing my sense of the courtesy and kindness of several bright-eyed Noble Dames yet in the flesh, who, since the first publication of these tales in periodicals, six or seven years ago, have given me interesting comments and conjectures on such of the narratives as they have recognized to be connected with their own families, residences, or traditions; in which they have shown a truly philosophic absence of prejudice in their regard of those incidents whose relation has tended more distinctly to dramatize than to eulogize their ancestors. The outlines they have also given of other singular events in their family histories for use in a second "Group of Noble Dames," will, I fear, never reach the printing- press through me; but I shall store them up in memory of my informants' good nature.

I want to take this opportunity to thank the several kind and bright-eyed Noble Women who are still with us. Since I first published these stories in magazines six or seven years ago, they’ve shared thoughtful comments and ideas about the narratives they recognized as connected to their families, homes, or traditions. They’ve shown a genuinely open-minded attitude towards the events that highlight rather than celebrate their ancestors. The insights they've provided about other unique events in their family histories for a second "Group of Noble Dames" might never make it to print through me, but I’ll cherish them as a reminder of my informants’ generosity.

T. H.

June 1896.

DAME THE FIRST-THE FIRST COUNTESS OF WESSEX

By the Local Historian

King's-Hintock Court (said the narrator, turning over his memoranda for reference)-King's-Hintock Court is, as we know, one of the most imposing of the mansions that overlook our beautiful Blackmoor or Blakemore Vale. On the particular occasion of which I have to speak this building stood, as it had often stood before, in the perfect silence of a calm clear night, lighted only by the cold shine of the stars. The season was winter, in days long ago, the last century having run but little more than a third of its length. North, south, and west, not a casement was unfastened, not a curtain undrawn; eastward, one window on the upper floor was open, and a girl of twelve or thirteen was leaning over the sill. That she had not taken up the position for purposes of observation was apparent at a glance, for she kept her eyes covered with her hands.

King's-Hintock Court (the narrator said, flipping through his notes for reference) - King's-Hintock Court is, as we know, one of the most impressive mansions that overlooks our beautiful Blackmoor or Blakemore Vale. On the particular occasion I need to discuss, this building stood, as it often had before, in the complete stillness of a calm, clear night, illuminated only by the cold light of the stars. The season was winter, in days long gone, with the last century having barely passed a third of its length. To the north, south, and west, not a window was unlocked, not a curtain drawn; to the east, one window on the upper floor was open, and a girl about twelve or thirteen was leaning over the sill. It was clear at a glance that she hadn't taken up this position to observe anything, as she kept her eyes covered with her hands.

The room occupied by the girl was an inner one of a suite, to be reached only by passing through a large bedchamber adjoining. From this apartment voices in altercation were audible, everything else in the building being so still. It was to avoid listening to these voices that the girl had left her little cot, thrown a cloak round her head and shoulders, and stretched into the night air.

The room the girl was in was an inner one of a suite, accessible only by going through a large bedroom next to it. From that bedroom, raised voices could be heard, while the rest of the building was silent. To escape from those voices, the girl had left her small bed, thrown a cloak over her head and shoulders, and stepped out into the night air.

But she could not escape the conversation, try as she would. The words reached her in all their painfulness, one sentence in masculine tones, those of her father, being repeated many times.

But she couldn't avoid the conversation, no matter how hard she tried. The words hit her with all their harshness, one sentence in her father's deep voice echoing repeatedly.

'I tell 'ee there shall be no such betrothal! I tell 'ee there sha'n't! A child like her!'

'I’m telling you there will be no such engagement! I’m telling you there won’t be! A child like her!'

She knew the subject of dispute to be herself. A cool feminine voice, her mother's, replied:

She knew the argument was about her. A calm feminine voice, her mother’s, answered:

'Have done with you, and be wise. He is willing to wait a good five or six years before the marriage takes place, and there's not a man in the county to compare with him.'

'Move on and be smart. He’s ready to wait a solid five or six years before the wedding happens, and there’s no one in the county who compares to him.'

'It shall not be! He is over thirty. It is wickedness.'

'It can't be! He's over thirty. That's just wrong.'

'He is just thirty, and the best and finest man alive-a perfect match for her.'

'He's only thirty, and the best and greatest guy around—a perfect match for her.'

'He is poor!'

'He's broke!'

'But his father and elder brothers are made much of at Court-none so constantly at the palace as they; and with her fortune, who knows? He may be able to get a barony.'

'But his father and older brothers are very well-regarded at Court—no one spends as much time at the palace as they do; and with her wealth, who knows? He might be able to secure a barony.'

'I believe you are in love with en yourself!'

'I believe you are in love with yourself!'

'How can you insult me so, Thomas! And is it not monstrous for you to talk of my wickedness when you have a like scheme in your own head? You know you have. Some bumpkin of your own choosing-some petty gentleman who lives down at that outlandish place of yours, Falls-Park-one of your pot-companions' sons-'

'How can you insult me like that, Thomas! And isn’t it outrageous for you to talk about my wrongdoing when you have a similar plan in your own mind? You know you do. Some country bumpkin of your choosing—some small-time gentleman who lives in that strange place of yours, Falls-Park—one of your drinking buddies' sons—'

There was an outburst of imprecation on the part of her husband in lieu of further argument. As soon as he could utter a connected sentence he said: 'You crow and you domineer, mistress, because you are heiress- general here. You are in your own house; you are on your own land. But let me tell 'ee that if I did come here to you instead of taking you to me, it was done at the dictates of convenience merely. H—-! I'm no beggar! Ha'n't I a place of my own? Ha'n't I an avenue as long as thine? Ha'n't I beeches that will more than match thy oaks? I should have lived in my own quiet house and land, contented, if you had not called me off with your airs and graces. Faith, I'll go back there; I'll not stay with thee longer! If it had not been for our Betty I should have gone long ago!'

There was an outburst of insults from her husband instead of further arguing. As soon as he could form a complete sentence, he said: "You strut around and act superior, my lady, because you’re the sole heiress here. You’re in your own house; you’re on your own land. But let me tell you, if I came here to you instead of taking you home with me, it was just out of convenience. Hell! I’m no beggar! Don’t I have my own place? Don’t I have an avenue as long as yours? Don’t I have beeches that are more impressive than your oaks? I would have lived happily in my own quiet house and land if you hadn’t lured me away with your airs and graces. Honestly, I’ll go back there; I won’t stay with you any longer! If it hadn’t been for our Betty, I would have left a long time ago!"

After this there were no more words; but presently, hearing the sound of a door opening and shutting below, the girl again looked from the window. Footsteps crunched on the gravel-walk, and a shape in a drab greatcoat, easily distinguishable as her father, withdrew from the house. He moved to the left, and she watched him diminish down the long east front till he had turned the corner and vanished. He must have gone round to the stables.

After that, there were no more words; but soon, hearing a door open and close downstairs, the girl looked out the window again. Footsteps crunched on the gravel path, and a figure in a dull overcoat, clearly her father, stepped out of the house. He turned to the left, and she watched him walk away down the long east side until he turned the corner and disappeared. He must have gone around to the stables.

She closed the window and shrank into bed, where she cried herself to sleep. This child, their only one, Betty, beloved ambitiously by her mother, and with uncalculating passionateness by her father, was frequently made wretched by such episodes as this; though she was too young to care very deeply, for her own sake, whether her mother betrothed her to the gentleman discussed or not.

She closed the window and curled up in bed, crying herself to sleep. This child, their only one, Betty, deeply cherished by her mother and with pure, unfiltered love from her father, often felt miserable from episodes like this; although she was too young to really care about whether her mother promised her to the man they were talking about or not.

The Squire had often gone out of the house in this manner, declaring that he would never return, but he had always reappeared in the morning. The present occasion, however, was different in the issue: next day she was told that her father had ridden to his estate at Falls-Park early in the morning on business with his agent, and might not come back for some days.

The Squire had often left the house like this, saying he wouldn’t come back, but he always showed up again in the morning. This time, though, it turned out differently: the next day, she was informed that her father had gone to his estate at Falls-Park early in the morning to meet with his agent and might not return for several days.

Falls-Park was over twenty miles from King's-Hintock Court, and was altogether a more modest centre-piece to a more modest possession than the latter. But as Squire Dornell came in view of it that February morning, he thought that he had been a fool ever to leave it, though it was for the sake of the greatest heiress in Wessex. Its classic front, of the period of the second Charles, derived from its regular features a dignity which the great, battlemented, heterogeneous mansion of his wife could not eclipse. Altogether he was sick at heart, and the gloom which the densely-timbered park threw over the scene did not tend to remove the depression of this rubicund man of eight-and-forty, who sat so heavily upon his gelding. The child, his darling Betty: there lay the root of his trouble. He was unhappy when near his wife, he was unhappy when away from his little girl; and from this dilemma there was no practicable escape. As a consequence he indulged rather freely in the pleasures of the table, became what was called a three bottle man, and, in his wife's estimation, less and less presentable to her polite friends from town.

Falls Park was over twenty miles from King's Hintock Court and was a much simpler centerpiece for a more modest estate than the latter. But as Squire Dornell approached it that February morning, he thought he had been foolish to ever leave, even for the sake of the wealthiest heiress in Wessex. Its classic facade, from the time of the second Charles, had a dignity that his wife’s grand, battlemented, mismatched mansion could never overshadow. All in all, he felt sick at heart, and the gloomy atmosphere created by the dense trees in the park only deepened the sadness of this rosy-cheeked man of forty-eight, who sat heavily on his horse. The child, his beloved Betty, was the source of his pain. He was unhappy when he was near his wife and equally unhappy when he was away from his little girl; there was no way to escape this dilemma. As a result, he indulged a bit too much in the pleasures of food and drink, becoming known as a three-bottle man, and in his wife's eyes, he was becoming less and less acceptable to her sophisticated friends from the city.

He was received by the two or three old servants who were in charge of the lonely place, where a few rooms only were kept habitable for his use or that of his friends when hunting; and during the morning he was made more comfortable by the arrival of his faithful servant Tupcombe from King's-Hintock. But after a day or two spent here in solitude he began to feel that he had made a mistake in coming. By leaving King's-Hintock in his anger he had thrown away his best opportunity of counteracting his wife's preposterous notion of promising his poor little Betty's hand to a man she had hardly seen. To protect her from such a repugnant bargain he should have remained on the spot. He felt it almost as a misfortune that the child would inherit so much wealth. She would be a mark for all the adventurers in the kingdom. Had she been only the heiress to his own unassuming little place at Falls, how much better would have been her chances of happiness!

He was welcomed by the couple of old servants who managed the lonely place, where only a few rooms were kept livable for him or his friends when they went hunting. During the morning, he felt more at ease with the arrival of his loyal servant Tupcombe from King’s Hintock. But after spending a couple of days in solitude, he started to realize he had made a mistake by coming here. By leaving King’s Hintock in his anger, he had lost his best chance to counter his wife’s ridiculous idea of promising his poor little Betty’s hand to a man she barely knew. To protect her from such a terrible deal, he should have stayed put. He almost saw it as a misfortune that the child would inherit so much wealth. She would become a target for all the fortune-seekers in the kingdom. If she had only been the heiress to his humble little place at Falls, her chances of happiness would have been so much better!

His wife had divined truly when she insinuated that he himself had a lover in view for this pet child. The son of a dear deceased friend of his, who lived not two miles from where the Squire now was, a lad a couple of years his daughter's senior, seemed in her father's opinion the one person in the world likely to make her happy. But as to breathing such a scheme to either of the young people with the indecent haste that his wife had shown, he would not dream of it; years hence would be soon enough for that. They had already seen each other, and the Squire fancied that he noticed a tenderness on the youth's part which promised well. He was strongly tempted to profit by his wife's example, and forestall her match-making by throwing the two young people together there at Falls. The girl, though marriageable in the views of those days, was too young to be in love, but the lad was fifteen, and already felt an interest in her.

His wife had been right when she hinted that he had a romantic interest in mind for their beloved daughter. The son of a dear, deceased friend of his, who lived just two miles away, a boy a couple of years older than their daughter, seemed to him the perfect person to make her happy. However, he wouldn't dream of mentioning such a plan to either of the young people with the inappropriate eagerness his wife had shown; there would be plenty of time for that in the years to come. They had already met, and the Squire thought he noticed a fondness from the young man that boded well. He was very tempted to follow his wife's lead and bring the two young people together at Falls to get ahead of her matchmaking. The girl, while considered of marriageable age in those days, was too young to truly be in love, but the boy was fifteen and already showed interest in her.

Still better than keeping watch over her at King's Hintock, where she was necessarily much under her mother's influence, would it be to get the child to stay with him at Falls for a time, under his exclusive control. But how accomplish this without using main force? The only possible chance was that his wife might, for appearance' sake, as she had done before, consent to Betty paying him a day's visit, when he might find means of detaining her till Reynard, the suitor whom his wife favoured, had gone abroad, which he was expected to do the following week. Squire Dornell determined to return to King's-Hintock and attempt the enterprise. If he were refused, it was almost in him to pick up Betty bodily and carry her off.

Still better than keeping an eye on her at King's Hintock, where she was really under her mother's influence, would be getting the child to stay with him at Falls for a while, under his complete control. But how could he do this without using force? The only chance he had was that his wife might, for appearances' sake, like she had before, allow Betty to spend a day with him, during which he could find a way to keep her there until Reynard, the suitor his wife favored, had gone abroad, which was expected to happen the following week. Squire Dornell decided to head back to King's Hintock and try to make this plan work. If he was turned down, he might just pick Betty up and carry her off.

The journey back, vague and Quixotic as were his intentions, was performed with a far lighter heart than his setting forth. He would see Betty, and talk to her, come what might of his plan.

The journey back, as unclear and fanciful as his intentions were, was done with a much lighter heart than when he first set out. He would see Betty and talk to her, no matter what happened with his plan.

So he rode along the dead level which stretches between the hills skirting Falls-Park and those bounding the town of Ivell, trotted through that borough, and out by the King's-Hintock highway, till, passing the villages he entered the mile-long drive through the park to the Court. The drive being open, without an avenue, the Squire could discern the north front and door of the Court a long way off, and was himself visible from the windows on that side; for which reason he hoped that Betty might perceive him coming, as she sometimes did on his return from an outing, and run to the door or wave her handkerchief.

So he rode along the flat land that stretches between the hills surrounding Falls-Park and those bordering the town of Ivell, trotted through that town, and continued along the King's-Hintock road, until he passed the villages and entered the mile-long drive through the park to the Court. The drive was open, without a line of trees, so the Squire could see the north front and door of the Court from a long distance away, and he was also visible from the windows on that side; for this reason, he hoped that Betty might see him coming, as she sometimes did when he returned from an outing, and run to the door or wave her handkerchief.

But there was no sign. He inquired for his wife as soon as he set foot to earth.

But there was no sign. He asked about his wife as soon as he touched the ground.

'Mistress is away. She was called to London, sir.'

'And Mistress Betty?' said the Squire blankly.

'And what about Mistress Betty?' said the Squire, looking confused.

'Gone likewise, sir, for a little change. Mistress has left a letter for you.'

'Also gone, sir, for a little change. The mistress left a letter for you.'

The note explained nothing, merely stating that she had posted to London on her own affairs, and had taken the child to give her a holiday. On the fly-leaf were some words from Betty herself to the same effect, evidently written in a state of high jubilation at the idea of her jaunt. Squire Dornell murmured a few expletives, and submitted to his disappointment. How long his wife meant to stay in town she did not say; but on investigation he found that the carriage had been packed with sufficient luggage for a sojourn of two or three weeks.

The note didn’t explain anything, just said that she had gone to London for her own reasons and had taken the child to give her a break. On the flyleaf were some words from Betty herself saying the same thing, clearly written in a state of great excitement about her trip. Squire Dornell muttered a few cursed words and accepted his disappointment. She didn’t mention how long she planned to stay in the city, but when he looked into it, he discovered that the carriage was packed with enough luggage for a stay of two or three weeks.

King's-Hintock Court was in consequence as gloomy as Falls-Park had been. He had lost all zest for hunting of late, and had hardly attended a meet that season. Dornell read and re-read Betty's scrawl, and hunted up some other such notes of hers to look over, this seeming to be the only pleasure there was left for him. That they were really in London he learnt in a few days by another letter from Mrs. Dornell, in which she explained that they hoped to be home in about a week, and that she had had no idea he was coming back to King's-Hintock so soon, or she would not have gone away without telling him.

King's-Hintock Court was just as dark as Falls-Park had been. He had lost all interest in hunting lately and hadn’t attended a single meet that season. Dornell read and re-read Betty's note, searching for some other similar messages from her to look through, as this seemed to be the only enjoyment left for him. He found out they were actually in London a few days later through another letter from Mrs. Dornell, in which she explained that they hoped to be back home in about a week, and that she had no idea he was returning to King's-Hintock so soon, or she wouldn’t have left without letting him know.

Squire Dornell wondered if, in going or returning, it had been her plan to call at the Reynards' place near Melchester, through which city their journey lay. It was possible that she might do this in furtherance of her project, and the sense that his own might become the losing game was harassing.

Squire Dornell wondered if, on her way there or back, she had intended to stop by the Reynards' place near Melchester, since their journey passed through that city. It was possible she would make this stop to support her plans, and the thought that he might end up losing was bothering him.

He did not know how to dispose of himself, till it occurred to him that, to get rid of his intolerable heaviness, he would invite some friends to dinner and drown his cares in grog and wine. No sooner was the carouse decided upon than he put it in hand; those invited being mostly neighbouring landholders, all smaller men than himself, members of the hunt; also the doctor from Evershead, and the like-some of them rollicking blades whose presence his wife would not have countenanced had she been at home. 'When the cat's away-!' said the Squire.

He didn't know how to handle himself until he realized that to shake off his overwhelming weight, he would invite some friends over for dinner and drown his worries in drinks. As soon as the party was planned, he got right to it; those invited were mostly nearby landowners, all smaller than him, members of the hunt; also the doctor from Evershead, and similar folks—some of them rowdy characters whose presence his wife would have disapproved of if she had been home. "When the cat's away…!" said the Squire.

They arrived, and there were indications in their manner that they meant to make a night of it. Baxby of Sherton Castle was late, and they waited a quarter of an hour for him, he being one of the liveliest of Dornell's friends; without whose presence no such dinner as this would be considered complete, and, it may be added, with whose presence no dinner which included both sexes could be conducted with strict propriety. He had just returned from London, and the Squire was anxious to talk to him-for no definite reason; but he had lately breathed the atmosphere in which Betty was.

They arrived, and you could tell from their vibe that they planned to enjoy the night. Baxby of Sherton Castle was running late, and they waited for him for about fifteen minutes since he was one of Dornell's most lively friends; without him, a dinner like this would feel incomplete, and honestly, no mixed-gender dinner could really be carried out properly without him there. He had just come back from London, and the Squire was eager to chat with him—for no particular reason; he had recently been in the same scene as Betty.

At length they heard Baxby driving up to the door, whereupon the host and the rest of his guests crossed over to the dining-room. In a moment Baxby came hastily in at their heels, apologizing for his lateness.

At last, they heard Baxby pulling up to the door, so the host and the other guests went into the dining room. Moments later, Baxby rushed in behind them, apologizing for being late.

'I only came back last night, you know,' he said; 'and the truth o't is, I had as much as I could carry.' He turned to the Squire. 'Well, Dornell-so cunning Reynard has stolen your little ewe lamb? Ha, ha!'

'I just got back last night, you know,' he said; 'and to be honest, I had as much as I could handle.' He turned to the Squire. 'Well, Dornell—clever Reynard has taken your little ewe lamb? Ha, ha!'

'What?' said Squire Dornell vacantly, across the dining-table, round which they were all standing, the cold March sunlight streaming in upon his full-clean shaven face.

'What?' Squire Dornell said blankly, across the dining table, where they were all standing, the cold March sunlight pouring onto his freshly shaven face.

'Surely th'st know what all the town knows?-you've had a letter by this time?-that Stephen Reynard has married your Betty? Yes, as I'm a living man. It was a carefully-arranged thing: they parted at once, and are not to meet for five or six years. But, Lord, you must know!'

'Surely you know what everyone in town knows? You must have received a letter by now—that Stephen Reynard has married your Betty? Yes, I swear it's true. It was all planned out: they separated right after the wedding and aren't supposed to see each other for five or six years. But, come on, you must know!'

A thud on the floor was the only reply of the Squire. They quickly turned. He had fallen down like a log behind the table, and lay motionless on the oak boards.

A thud on the floor was the only response from the Squire. They quickly turned. He had fallen down like a log behind the table and lay still on the oak boards.

Those at hand hastily bent over him, and the whole group were in confusion. They found him to be quite unconscious, though puffing and panting like a blacksmith's bellows. His face was livid, his veins swollen, and beads of perspiration stood upon his brow.

Those nearby quickly leaned over him, and the whole group was in a state of panic. They discovered that he was completely unconscious, yet gasping for air like a blacksmith's bellows. His face was pale, his veins were bulging, and beads of sweat dotted his forehead.

'What's happened to him?' said several.

"What's happened to him?" several people asked.

'An apoplectic fit,' said the doctor from Evershead, gravely.

'An apoplectic fit,' said the doctor from Evershead, seriously.

He was only called in at the Court for small ailments, as a rule, and felt the importance of the situation. He lifted the Squire's head, loosened his cravat and clothing, and rang for the servants, who took the Squire upstairs.

He was usually only called to the Court for minor issues and understood the significance of the moment. He raised the Squire's head, loosened his tie and clothes, and rang for the servants, who then took the Squire upstairs.

There he lay as if in a drugged sleep. The surgeon drew a basin-full of blood from him, but it was nearly six o'clock before he came to himself. The dinner was completely disorganized, and some had gone home long ago; but two or three remained.

There he lay as if in a deep sleep. The surgeon collected a basin full of blood from him, but it was nearly six o'clock before he started to come around. The dinner was totally in chaos, and some people had left long ago; but two or three stayed behind.

'Bless my soul,' Baxby kept repeating, 'I didn't know things had come to this pass between Dornell and his lady! I thought the feast he was spreading to-day was in honour of the event, though privately kept for the present! His little maid married without his knowledge!'

'Bless my soul,' Baxby kept saying, 'I didn't realize things had gotten to this point between Dornell and his lady! I thought the feast he was throwing today was in celebration of the event, even if it was being kept quiet for now! His little maid got married without him knowing!'

As soon as the Squire recovered consciousness he gasped: ''Tis abduction! 'Tis a capital felony! He can be hung! Where is Baxby? I am very well now. What items have ye heard, Baxby?'

As soon as the Squire regained consciousness, he gasped, "It's abduction! It's a serious crime! He could be hanged! Where is Baxby? I'm feeling fine now. What have you heard, Baxby?"

The bearer of the untoward news was extremely unwilling to agitate Dornell further, and would say little more at first. But an hour after, when the Squire had partially recovered and was sitting up, Baxby told as much as he knew, the most important particular being that Betty's mother was present at the marriage, and showed every mark of approval. 'Everything appeared to have been done so regularly that I, of course, thought you knew all about it,' he said.

The person delivering the bad news was really hesitant to upset Dornell any more and didn't say much at first. But an hour later, when the Squire was feeling a bit better and sitting up, Baxby shared what he knew, the key point being that Betty's mother was at the wedding and seemed completely on board. "Everything seemed to have gone so smoothly that I just assumed you already knew all about it," he said.

'I knew no more than the underground dead that such a step was in the wind! A child not yet thirteen! How Sue hath outwitted me! Did Reynard go up to Lon'on with 'em, d'ye know?'

'I knew no more than the underground dead that such a step was coming! A child not yet thirteen! How Sue has outsmarted me! Do you know if Reynard went up to London with them?'

'I can't say. All I know is that your lady and daughter were walking along the street, with the footman behind 'em; that they entered a jeweller's shop, where Reynard was standing; and that there, in the presence o' the shopkeeper and your man, who was called in on purpose, your Betty said to Reynard-so the story goes: 'pon my soul I don't vouch for the truth of it-she said, "Will you marry me?" or, "I want to marry you: will you have me-now or never?" she said.'

'I can't say. All I know is that your lady and daughter were walking down the street, with the footman behind them; that they went into a jeweler's shop, where Reynard was standing; and that there, in front of the shopkeeper and your man, who was called in for this, your Betty said to Reynard—so the story goes: I swear I can't guarantee it's true—she said, "Will you marry me?" or, "I want to marry you: will you take me—now or never?" she said.'

'What she said means nothing,' murmured the Squire, with wet eyes. 'Her mother put the words into her mouth to avoid the serious consequences that would attach to any suspicion of force. The words be not the child's: she didn't dream of marriage-how should she, poor little maid! Go on.'

'What she said means nothing,' murmured the Squire, with tearful eyes. 'Her mother put those words in her mouth to dodge the serious consequences that would come from any suspicion of coercion. Those words aren't the child's own; she didn't even think of marriage—how could she, poor little girl! Go on.'

'Well, be that as it will, they were all agreed apparently. They bought the ring on the spot, and the marriage took place at the nearest church within half-an-hour.'

'Well, whatever the case, they all seemed to agree. They bought the ring right then and there, and the wedding happened at the nearest church within thirty minutes.'

A day or two later there came a letter from Mrs. Dornell to her husband, written before she knew of his stroke. She related the circumstances of the marriage in the gentlest manner, and gave cogent reasons and excuses for consenting to the premature union, which was now an accomplished fact indeed. She had no idea, till sudden pressure was put upon her, that the contract was expected to be carried out so soon, but being taken half unawares, she had consented, having learned that Stephen Reynard, now their son-in-law, was becoming a great favourite at Court, and that he would in all likelihood have a title granted him before long. No harm could come to their dear daughter by this early marriage- contract, seeing that her life would be continued under their own eyes, exactly as before, for some years. In fine, she had felt that no other such fair opportunity for a good marriage with a shrewd courtier and wise man of the world, who was at the same time noted for his excellent personal qualities, was within the range of probability, owing to the rusticated lives they led at King's-Hintock. Hence she had yielded to Stephen's solicitation, and hoped her husband would forgive her. She wrote, in short, like a woman who, having had her way as to the deed, is prepared to make any concession as to words and subsequent behaviour.

A day or two later, Mrs. Dornell wrote a letter to her husband before she found out about his stroke. She described the circumstances of the marriage in the gentlest way and provided solid reasons and excuses for agreeing to the early union, which was now a reality. She had no idea, until she was suddenly pressured, that the contract was expected to be finalized so soon. But caught off guard, she agreed, having learned that Stephen Reynard, now their son-in-law, was becoming quite popular at Court and would likely receive a title soon. No harm would come to their dear daughter from this early marriage contract, since her life would continue to be overseen by them just as before for a few more years. Ultimately, she felt that another opportunity for a favorable marriage with a clever courtier and wise man, noted for his good character, was unlikely given their quiet life in King's-Hintock. Therefore, she had given in to Stephen's request and hoped her husband would forgive her. In short, she wrote like someone who, having gotten her way regarding the action, was ready to make any concessions in terms of words and future behavior.

All this Dornell took at its true value, or rather, perhaps, at less than its true value. As his life depended upon his not getting into a passion, he controlled his perturbed emotions as well as he was able, going about the house sadly and utterly unlike his former self. He took every precaution to prevent his wife knowing of the incidents of his sudden illness, from a sense of shame at having a heart so tender; a ridiculous quality, no doubt, in her eyes, now that she had become so imbued with town ideas. But rumours of his seizure somehow reached her, and she let him know that she was about to return to nurse him. He thereupon packed up and went off to his own place at Falls-Park.

All of this Dornell took at its true worth, or maybe even less than that. Since his life depended on him not losing his temper, he managed his troubled emotions as best as he could, moving around the house sadly and completely unlike his usual self. He did everything he could to keep his wife from finding out about the details of his sudden illness, feeling embarrassed about having such a sensitive heart; a silly trait, no doubt, in her eyes, considering how influenced she had become by urban views. But somehow news of his condition reached her, and she let him know that she was coming back to take care of him. So, he packed up and headed back to his place at Falls-Park.

Here he lived the life of a recluse for some time. He was still too unwell to entertain company, or to ride to hounds or elsewhither; but more than this, his aversion to the faces of strangers and acquaintances, who knew by that time of the trick his wife had played him, operated to hold him aloof.

Here, he lived as a recluse for a while. He was still too unwell to have visitors or go riding with the hunt or anywhere else; but more than that, his dislike for the faces of strangers and acquaintances—who by then knew about the trick his wife had pulled on him—kept him isolated.

Nothing could influence him to censure Betty for her share in the exploit. He never once believed that she had acted voluntarily. Anxious to know how she was getting on, he despatched the trusty servant Tupcombe to Evershead village, close to King's-Hintock, timing his journey so that he should reach the place under cover of dark. The emissary arrived without notice, being out of livery, and took a seat in the chimney-corner of the Sow-and-Acorn.

Nothing could make him criticize Betty for her role in the incident. He never believed for a second that she had acted on her own. Eager to find out how she was doing, he sent his loyal servant Tupcombe to Evershead village, near King's-Hintock, planning the trip so that he would arrive there after dark. The messenger showed up unannounced, dressed casually, and took a seat in the corner of the Sow-and-Acorn.

The conversation of the droppers-in was always of the nine days' wonder-the recent marriage. The smoking listener learnt that Mrs. Dornell and the girl had returned to King's-Hintock for a day or two, that Reynard had set out for the Continent, and that Betty had since been packed off to school. She did not realize her position as Reynard's child-wife-so the story went-and though somewhat awe-stricken at first by the ceremony, she had soon recovered her spirits on finding that her freedom was in no way to be interfered with.

The chat among the drop-ins was all about the recent marriage, which was the talk of the town. The guy listening in learned that Mrs. Dornell and the girl had gone back to King's-Hintock for a couple of days, that Reynard had headed off to the Continent, and that Betty had been sent off to school. She didn’t fully grasp her role as Reynard’s child-wife—at least, that’s how the story went—and while she was a bit overwhelmed by the wedding at first, she quickly perked up when she realized that her freedom wasn’t going to be affected at all.

After that, formal messages began to pass between Dornell and his wife, the latter being now as persistently conciliating as she was formerly masterful. But her rustic, simple, blustering husband still held personally aloof. Her wish to be reconciled-to win his forgiveness for her stratagem-moreover, a genuine tenderness and desire to soothe his sorrow, which welled up in her at times, brought her at last to his door at Falls-Park one day.

After that, formal messages started flowing between Dornell and his wife, who was now as consistently appeasing as she had once been dominant. However, her straightforward, rough-edged husband still kept his distance. Her desire to make amends—to earn his forgiveness for her trick—and a real compassion and need to ease his pain, which sometimes overwhelmed her, finally led her to his door at Falls-Park one day.

They had not met since that night of altercation, before her departure for London and his subsequent illness. She was shocked at the change in him. His face had become expressionless, as blank as that of a puppet, and what troubled her still more was that she found him living in one room, and indulging freely in stimulants, in absolute disobedience to the physician's order. The fact was obvious that he could no longer be allowed to live thus uncouthly.

They hadn’t seen each other since that night of conflict, before she left for London and he got sick. She was taken aback by how much he had changed. His face had gone blank, like a puppet’s, and what bothered her even more was discovering that he was living in just one room and was openly using stimulants, completely ignoring the doctor’s orders. It was clear that he couldn’t continue living so carelessly.

So she sympathized, and begged his pardon, and coaxed. But though after this date there was no longer such a complete estrangement as before, they only occasionally saw each other, Dornell for the most part making Falls his headquarters still.

So she felt sorry for him, apologized, and tried to soothe him. But even though after this point there wasn't the same level of distance as before, they only saw each other occasionally, with Dornell mostly still using Falls as his main base.

Three or four years passed thus. Then she came one day, with more animation in her manner, and at once moved him by the simple statement that Betty's schooling had ended; she had returned, and was grieved because he was away. She had sent a message to him in these words: 'Ask father to come home to his dear Betty.'

Three or four years went by like this. Then one day she came, showing more energy in her demeanor, and immediately touched him with the simple news that Betty's schooling was over; she had come back and was upset because he wasn’t there. She had sent him a message saying: 'Ask Dad to come home to his dear Betty.'

'Ah! Then she is very unhappy!' said Squire Dornell.

'Oh! So she's really unhappy!' said Squire Dornell.

His wife was silent.

His wife didn't say anything.

''Tis that accursed marriage!' continued the Squire.

''It's that cursed marriage!' continued the Squire.

Still his wife would not dispute with him. 'She is outside in the carriage,' said Mrs. Dornell gently.

Still, his wife wouldn't argue with him. "She’s outside in the carriage," Mrs. Dornell said softly.

'What-Betty?'

'What, Betty?'

'Yes.'

Yes.

'Why didn't you tell me?' Dornell rushed out, and there was the girl awaiting his forgiveness, for she supposed herself, no less than her mother, to be under his displeasure.

'Why didn't you tell me?' Dornell exclaimed, and there was the girl waiting for his forgiveness, as she believed, just like her mother, that she was in his bad graces.

Yes, Betty had left school, and had returned to King's-Hintock. She was nearly seventeen, and had developed to quite a young woman. She looked not less a member of the household for her early marriage-contract, which she seemed, indeed, to have almost forgotten. It was like a dream to her; that clear cold March day, the London church, with its gorgeous pews, and green-baize linings, and the great organ in the west gallery-so different from their own little church in the shrubbery of King's-Hintock Court-the man of thirty, to whose face she had looked up with so much awe, and with a sense that he was rather ugly and formidable; the man whom, though they corresponded politely, she had never seen since; one to whose existence she was now so indifferent that if informed of his death, and that she would never see him more, she would merely have replied, 'Indeed!' Betty's passions as yet still slept.

Yes, Betty had left school and returned to King's-Hintock. She was nearly seventeen and had grown into quite a young woman. She didn’t look any less like a member of the household because of her early marriage contract, which she seemed to have almost forgotten. It felt like a dream to her; that clear, cold March day, the London church with its fancy pews and green baize linings, and the big organ in the west gallery—so different from their own little church in the trees of King's-Hintock Court—the man in his thirties whom she had looked up to with so much awe and thought was somewhat ugly and intimidating; the man she had never seen since, even though they corresponded politely; the man whose existence she was now so indifferent to that if she were told he had died and she would never see him again, she would simply reply, 'Really!’ Betty's feelings were still dormant.

'Hast heard from thy husband lately?' said Squire Dornell, when they were indoors, with an ironical laugh of fondness which demanded no answer.

"Haven't you heard from your husband lately?" said Squire Dornell, when they were indoors, with a sarcastic laugh of affection that didn’t require a response.

The girl winced, and he noticed that his wife looked appealingly at him. As the conversation went on, and there were signs that Dornell would express sentiments that might do harm to a position which they could not alter, Mrs. Dornell suggested that Betty should leave the room till her father and herself had finished their private conversation; and this Betty obediently did.

The girl flinched, and he saw that his wife was looking at him with an appealing expression. As the conversation continued, and it seemed like Dornell was about to say something that could jeopardize a situation they couldn't change, Mrs. Dornell proposed that Betty should leave the room until she and her father had finished their private talk. Betty complied without hesitation.

Dornell renewed his animadversions freely. 'Did you see how the sound of his name frightened her?' he presently added. 'If you didn't, I did. Zounds! what a future is in store for that poor little unfortunate wench o' mine! I tell 'ee, Sue, 'twas not a marriage at all, in morality, and if I were a woman in such a position, I shouldn't feel it as one. She might, without a sign of sin, love a man of her choice as well now as if she were chained up to no other at all. There, that's my mind, and I can't help it. Ah, Sue, my man was best! He'd ha' suited her.'

Dornell expressed his criticisms openly. "Did you see how just hearing his name scared her?" he added. "If you didn't, I definitely did. Good grief! What a future awaits that poor little unfortunate girl of mine! I tell you, Sue, it wasn’t a real marriage at all, morally speaking, and if I were a woman in her shoes, I wouldn’t see it that way either. She could, without any wrongdoing, love whoever she wanted just as much now as if she were tied to no one at all. There, that's how I feel, and I can’t change it. Ah, Sue, my man was the best! He would have been perfect for her."

'I don't believe it,' she replied incredulously.

"I can't believe it," she said, shocked.

'You should see him; then you would. He's growing up a fine fellow, I can tell 'ee.'

'You should see him; then you would. He's turning into a great guy, I can tell you.'

'Hush! not so loud!' she answered, rising from her seat and going to the door of the next room, whither her daughter had betaken herself. To Mrs. Dornell's alarm, there sat Betty in a reverie, her round eyes fixed on vacancy, musing so deeply that she did not perceive her mother's entrance. She had heard every word, and was digesting the new knowledge.

'Hush! Not so loud!' she replied, getting up from her seat and walking to the door of the next room where her daughter had gone. To Mrs. Dornell's surprise, Betty was sitting there lost in thought, her round eyes staring into space, so absorbed that she didn’t notice her mother come in. She had heard every word and was processing the new information.

Her mother felt that Falls-Park was dangerous ground for a young girl of the susceptible age, and in Betty's peculiar position, while Dornell talked and reasoned thus. She called Betty to her, and they took leave. The Squire would not clearly promise to return and make King's-Hintock Court his permanent abode; but Betty's presence there, as at former times, was sufficient to make him agree to pay them a visit soon.

Her mother thought that Falls-Park was a risky place for a young girl at such an impressionable age, especially given Betty's unique situation, while Dornell spoke and reasoned this way. She called Betty over, and they said their goodbyes. The Squire couldn't guarantee he'd come back and make King's-Hintock Court his home for good; however, just having Betty there, like before, was enough for him to agree to visit them soon.

All the way home Betty remained preoccupied and silent. It was too plain to her anxious mother that Squire Dornell's free views had been a sort of awakening to the girl.

All the way home, Betty stayed lost in thought and quiet. It was obvious to her worried mother that Squire Dornell's open-minded views had sparked something in the girl.

The interval before Dornell redeemed his pledge to come and see them was unexpectedly short. He arrived one morning about twelve o'clock, driving his own pair of black-bays in the curricle-phaeton with yellow panels and red wheels, just as he had used to do, and his faithful old Tupcombe on horseback behind. A young man sat beside the Squire in the carriage, and Mrs. Dornell's consternation could scarcely be concealed when, abruptly entering with his companion, the Squire announced him as his friend Phelipson of Elm-Cranlynch.

The wait before Dornell fulfilled his promise to visit them was surprisingly brief. He showed up one morning around noon, driving his own pair of black horses in the two-wheeled carriage with yellow panels and red wheels, just like he used to, with his loyal old Tupcombe riding behind on horseback. A young man sat next to the Squire in the carriage, and Mrs. Dornell's shock was barely hidden when the Squire walked in with his friend and introduced him as Phelipson from Elm-Cranlynch.

Dornell passed on to Betty in the background and tenderly kissed her. 'Sting your mother's conscience, my maid!' he whispered. 'Sting her conscience by pretending you are struck with Phelipson, and would ha' loved him, as your old father's choice, much more than him she has forced upon 'ee.'

Dornell moved over to Betty in the background and gently kissed her. 'Guilt-trip your mother, my dear!' he whispered. 'Guilt-trip her by pretending you were taken by Phelipson and that you would have loved him, as your old father's choice, way more than the one she has pushed on you.'

The simple-souled speaker fondly imagined that it as entirely in obedience to this direction that Betty's eyes stole interested glances at the frank and impulsive Phelipson that day at dinner, and he laughed grimly within himself to see how this joke of his, as he imagined it to be, was disturbing the peace of mind of the lady of the house. 'Now Sue sees what a mistake she has made!' said he.

The naive speaker fondly thought that it was completely because of this suggestion that Betty was sneaking interested looks at the open and spontaneous Phelipson during dinner that day, and he chuckled to himself at how this joke of his, as he saw it, was upsetting the peace of mind of the lady of the house. 'Now Sue sees what a mistake she has made!' he said.

Mrs. Dornell was verily greatly alarmed, and as soon as she could speak a word with him alone she upbraided him. 'You ought not to have brought him here. Oh Thomas, how could you be so thoughtless! Lord, don't you see, dear, that what is done cannot be undone, and how all this foolery jeopardizes her happiness with her husband? Until you interfered, and spoke in her hearing about this Phelipson, she was as patient and as willing as a lamb, and looked forward to Mr. Reynard's return with real pleasure. Since her visit to Falls-Park she has been monstrous close- mouthed and busy with her own thoughts. What mischief will you do? How will it end?'

Mrs. Dornell was really alarmed, and as soon as she could talk to him privately, she scolded him. 'You shouldn't have brought him here. Oh Thomas, how could you be so careless! Don't you realize, dear, that what's done is done, and how all this nonsense threatens her happiness with her husband? Before you got involved and talked about this Phelipson in front of her, she was patient and eager as a lamb, looking forward to Mr. Reynard's return with genuine excitement. Since her visit to Falls-Park, she has been extremely quiet and preoccupied with her own thoughts. What trouble will you cause? How will this end?'

'Own, then, that my man was best suited to her. I only brought him to convince you.'

'Admit it, my guy was the best match for her. I only brought him here to prove that to you.'

'Yes, yes; I do admit it. But oh! do take him back again at once! Don't keep him here! I fear she is even attracted by him already.'

'Yes, yes; I admit it. But please! take him back right away! Don’t leave him here! I’m afraid she might already be drawn to him.'

'Nonsense, Sue. 'Tis only a little trick to tease 'ee!'

'Nonsense, Sue. It's just a little trick to tease you!'

Nevertheless her motherly eye was not so likely to be deceived as his, and if Betty were really only playing at being love-struck that day, she played at it with the perfection of a Rosalind, and would have deceived the best professors into a belief that it was no counterfeit. The Squire, having obtained his victory, was quite ready to take back the too attractive youth, and early in the afternoon they set out on their return journey.

Nevertheless, her motherly instinct was less likely to be fooled than his, and if Betty was just pretending to be in love that day, she did it so well that she could have convinced the best experts it was genuine. The Squire, having secured his win, was more than happy to bring back the irresistibly charming young man, and by early afternoon, they began their journey home.

A silent figure who rode behind them was as interested as Dornell in that day's experiment. It was the staunch Tupcombe, who, with his eyes on the Squire's and young Phelipson's backs, thought how well the latter would have suited Betty, and how greatly the former had changed for the worse during these last two or three years. He cursed his mistress as the cause of the change.

A quiet figure riding behind them was just as interested in that day's experiment as Dornell. It was the loyal Tupcombe, who, watching the Squire and young Phelipson's backs, thought about how perfect young Phelipson would have been for Betty and how much the Squire had deteriorated in the last couple of years. He cursed his mistress for being the reason for the change.

After this memorable visit to prove his point, the lives of the Dornell couple flowed on quietly enough for the space of a twelvemonth, the Squire for the most part remaining at Falls, and Betty passing and repassing between them now and then, once or twice alarming her mother by not driving home from her father's house till midnight.

After this memorable visit to prove his point, the lives of the Dornell couple continued quietly for a year. The Squire mostly stayed at Falls, while Betty occasionally went back and forth between them, sometimes alarming her mother by not coming home from her father's house until midnight.

The repose of King's-Hintock was broken by the arrival of a special messenger. Squire Dornell had had an access of gout so violent as to be serious. He wished to see Betty again: why had she not come for so long?

The peace of King's-Hintock was disturbed by the arrival of a special messenger. Squire Dornell had suffered a severe gout attack that was quite serious. He wanted to see Betty again: why hadn't she come in such a long time?

Mrs. Dornell was extremely reluctant to take Betty in that direction too frequently; but the girl was so anxious to go, her interests latterly seeming to be so entirely bound up in Falls-Park and its neighbourhood, that there was nothing to be done but to let her set out and accompany her.

Mrs. Dornell was really hesitant to take Betty that way too often; however, the girl was so eager to go, her interests lately seeming to be so completely tied up in Falls-Park and the nearby area, that there was nothing to do but let her head out and go with her.

Squire Dornell had been impatiently awaiting her arrival. They found him very ill and irritable. It had been his habit to take powerful medicines to drive away his enemy, and they had failed in their effect on this occasion.

Squire Dornell had been anxiously waiting for her to arrive. They found him quite sick and grumpy. He usually took strong medicines to fend off his foe, but they had not worked this time.

The presence of his daughter, as usual, calmed him much, even while, as usual too, it saddened him; for he could never forget that she had disposed of herself for life in opposition to his wishes, though she had secretly assured him that she would never have consented had she been as old as she was now.

The presence of his daughter, as usual, calmed him greatly, even though, as usual, it also made him sad; because he could never forget that she had chosen her own path for life against his wishes, even though she had secretly told him that she would never have agreed if she had been as old as she was now.

As on a former occasion, his wife wished to speak to him alone about the girl's future, the time now drawing nigh at which Reynard was expected to come and claim her. He would have done so already, but he had been put off by the earnest request of the young woman herself, which accorded with that of her parents, on the score of her youth. Reynard had deferentially submitted to their wishes in this respect, the understanding between them having been that he would not visit her before she was eighteen, except by the mutual consent of all parties. But this could not go on much longer, and there was no doubt, from the tenor of his last letter, that he would soon take possession of her whether or no.

As before, his wife wanted to talk to him privately about the girl’s future, with the time approaching when Reynard was expected to come and claim her. He would have done so already, but he had been delayed by the earnest request of the young woman herself, which matched her parents' wishes, due to her youth. Reynard had respectfully agreed to their wishes in this regard, with the understanding that he would not visit her before she turned eighteen, unless all parties consented. But this couldn't continue much longer, and there was no doubt, based on the tone of his last letter, that he would soon take her whether they agreed or not.

To be out of the sound of this delicate discussion Betty was accordingly sent downstairs, and they soon saw her walking away into the shrubberies, looking very pretty in her sweeping green gown, and flapping broad-brimmed hat overhung with a feather.

To be away from this sensitive conversation, Betty was sent downstairs, and they quickly saw her walking into the shrubs, looking very pretty in her flowing green dress and wide-brimmed hat adorned with a feather.

On returning to the subject, Mrs. Dornell found her husband's reluctance to reply in the affirmative to Reynard's letter to be as great as ever.

On returning to the subject, Mrs. Dornell found that her husband's unwillingness to respond positively to Reynard's letter was as strong as ever.

'She is three months short of eighteen!' he exclaimed. ''Tis too soon. I won't hear of it! If I have to keep him off sword in hand, he shall not have her yet.'

'She’s three months away from turning eighteen!' he exclaimed. 'It’s too soon. I won’t allow it! Even if I have to fight him off, he’s not getting her yet.'

'But, my dear Thomas,' she expostulated, 'consider if anything should happen to you or to me, how much better it would be that she should be settled in her home with him!'

'But, my dear Thomas,' she exclaimed, 'think about it—if anything were to happen to you or me, wouldn’t it be so much better for her to be settled in her home with him!'

'I say it is too soon!' he argued, the veins of his forehead beginning to swell. 'If he gets her this side o' Candlemas I'll challenge en-I'll take my oath on't! I'll be back to King's-Hintock in two or three days, and I'll not lose sight of her day or night!'

'I say it's too soon!' he argued, the veins on his forehead starting to bulge. 'If he gets her before Candlemas, I'll challenge him—I swear it! I'll be back to King's-Hintock in two or three days, and I won't lose sight of her, day or night!'

She feared to agitate him further, and gave way, assuring him, in obedience to his demand, that if Reynard should write again before he got back, to fix a time for joining Betty, she would put the letter in her husband's hands, and he should do as he chose. This was all that required discussion privately, and Mrs. Dornell went to call in Betty, hoping that she had not heard her father's loud tones.

She was afraid to upset him more, so she agreed, promising him that if Reynard wrote again before he returned to set a time for meeting Betty, she would give the letter to her husband, and he could decide what to do. That was all that needed to be discussed in private, and Mrs. Dornell went to fetch Betty, hoping she hadn’t heard her father’s raised voice.

She had certainly not done so this time. Mrs. Dornell followed the path along which she had seen Betty wandering, but went a considerable distance without perceiving anything of her. The Squire's wife then turned round to proceed to the other side of the house by a short cut across the grass, when, to her surprise and consternation, she beheld the object of her search sitting on the horizontal bough of a cedar, beside her being a young man, whose arm was round her waist. He moved a little, and she recognized him as young Phelipson.

She definitely hadn't done that this time. Mrs. Dornell followed the path where she had seen Betty wandering, but she walked quite a distance without spotting her. The Squire's wife then turned around to take a shortcut across the grass to the other side of the house when, to her surprise and shock, she saw the person she was looking for sitting on a horizontal branch of a cedar tree, next to her was a young man with his arm around her waist. He shifted slightly, and she recognized him as young Phelipson.

Alas, then, she was right. The so-called counterfeit love was real. What Mrs. Dornell called her husband at that moment, for his folly in originally throwing the young people together, it is not necessary to mention. She decided in a moment not to let the lovers know that she had seen them. She accordingly retreated, reached the front of the house by another route, and called at the top of her voice from a window, 'Betty!'

Alas, she was right. The so-called fake love was real. What Mrs. Dornell called her husband at that moment, for his mistake in originally bringing the young people together, doesn’t need to be mentioned. She quickly decided not to let the lovers know she had seen them. She then backed away, took a different path to the front of the house, and shouted from a window, “Betty!”

For the first time since her strategic marriage of the child, Susan Dornell doubted the wisdom of that step.

For the first time since her calculated marriage of the child, Susan Dornell questioned the wisdom of that decision.

Her husband had, as it were, been assisted by destiny to make his objection, originally trivial, a valid one. She saw the outlines of trouble in the future. Why had Dornell interfered? Why had he insisted upon producing his man? This, then, accounted for Betty's pleading for postponement whenever the subject of her husband's return was broached; this accounted for her attachment to Falls-Park. Possibly this very meeting that she had witnessed had been arranged by letter.

Her husband had, in a way, been helped by fate to turn his initially minor objection into a serious one. She sensed trouble ahead. Why had Dornell gotten involved? Why had he pushed to bring in his man? This explained why Betty kept asking to delay the conversation about her husband's return; this also explained her connection to Falls-Park. It's possible that the very meeting she had seen was set up through a letter.

Perhaps the girl's thoughts would never have strayed for a moment if her father had not filled her head with ideas of repugnance to her early union, on the ground that she had been coerced into it before she knew her own mind; and she might have rushed to meet her husband with open arms on the appointed day.

Perhaps the girl's thoughts would never have wavered if her father hadn't filled her head with ideas of disgust about her early marriage, claiming she was forced into it before she really understood what she wanted; and she might have run to greet her husband with open arms on the set day.

Betty at length appeared in the distance in answer to the call, and came up pale, but looking innocent of having seen a living soul. Mrs. Dornell groaned in spirit at such duplicity in the child of her bosom. This was the simple creature for whose development into womanhood they had all been so tenderly waiting-a forward minx, old enough not only to have a lover, but to conceal his existence as adroitly as any woman of the world! Bitterly did the Squire's lady regret that Stephen Reynard had not been allowed to come to claim her at the time he first proposed.

Betty finally appeared in the distance in response to the call, coming closer looking pale but seemingly unaware of having seen anyone. Mrs. Dornell sighed deeply at such deception from her own child. This was the sweet girl they had all been patiently waiting to mature into womanhood—a bold little minx, old enough not just to have a boyfriend, but to hide his existence as skillfully as any experienced woman! The Squire's wife bitterly regretted that Stephen Reynard hadn't been allowed to claim her when he first proposed.

The two sat beside each other almost in silence on their journey back to King's-Hintock. Such words as were spoken came mainly from Betty, and their formality indicated how much her mind and heart were occupied with other things.

The two sat next to each other almost in silence on their trip back to King's-Hintock. The few words that were spoken mostly came from Betty, and the formality of her speech showed just how much her mind and heart were preoccupied with other matters.

Mrs. Dornell was far too astute a mother to openly attack Betty on the matter. That would be only fanning flame. The indispensable course seemed to her to be that of keeping the treacherous girl under lock and key till her husband came to take her off her mother's hands. That he would disregard Dornell's opposition, and come soon, was her devout wish.

Mrs. Dornell was way too sharp as a mother to directly confront Betty about the issue. That would just make things worse. The best approach, in her opinion, was to keep the deceitful girl locked up until her husband came to take her off her hands. She sincerely hoped he would ignore Dornell's objections and come quickly.

It seemed, therefore, a fortunate coincidence that on her arrival at King's-Hintock a letter from Reynard was put into Mrs. Dornell's hands. It was addressed to both her and her husband, and courteously informed them that the writer had landed at Bristol, and proposed to come on to King's-Hintock in a few days, at last to meet and carry off his darling Betty, if she and her parents saw no objection.

It seemed like a lucky coincidence that when she arrived at King's-Hintock, Mrs. Dornell received a letter from Reynard. It was addressed to both her and her husband, and it politely let them know that the writer had arrived in Bristol and planned to come to King's-Hintock in a few days, finally to meet and take his beloved Betty, if she and her parents had no objections.

Betty had also received a letter of the same tenor. Her mother had only to look at her face to see how the girl received the information. She was as pale as a sheet.

Betty had also gotten a letter with the same message. Her mother only had to look at her face to see how the girl took the news. She was as pale as a ghost.

'You must do your best to welcome him this time, my dear Betty,' her mother said gently.

'You really need to make an effort to welcome him this time, my dear Betty,' her mother said softly.

'But-but-I-'

'You are a woman now,' added her mother severely, 'and these postponements must come to an end.'

'You’re a woman now,' her mother said sternly, 'and these delays have to stop.'

'But my father-oh, I am sure he will not allow this! I am not ready. If he could only wait a year longer-if he could only wait a few months longer! Oh, I wish-I wish my dear father were here! I will send to him instantly.' She broke off abruptly, and falling upon her mother's neck, burst into tears, saying, 'O my mother, have mercy upon me-I do not love this man, my husband!'

'But my father—oh, I’m sure he won’t allow this! I’m not ready. If he could just wait one more year—if he could just wait a few more months! Oh, I wish—I wish my dear father were here! I’ll send for him right away.' She stopped suddenly, and throwing herself onto her mother’s neck, broke into tears, saying, 'Oh my mother, please have mercy on me—I do not love this man, my husband!'

The agonized appeal went too straight to Mrs. Dornell's heart for her to hear it unmoved. Yet, things having come to this pass, what could she do? She was distracted, and for a moment was on Betty's side. Her original thought had been to write an affirmative reply to Reynard, allow him to come on to King's-Hintock, and keep her husband in ignorance of the whole proceeding till he should arrive from Falls on some fine day after his recovery, and find everything settled, and Reynard and Betty living together in harmony. But the events of the day, and her daughter's sudden outburst of feeling, had overthrown this intention. Betty was sure to do as she had threatened, and communicate instantly with her father, possibly attempt to fly to him. Moreover, Reynard's letter was addressed to Mr. Dornell and herself conjointly, and she could not in conscience keep it from her husband.

The desperate plea hit Mrs. Dornell straight in the heart, making it impossible for her to remain unaffected. But now that things had reached this point, what could she do? She felt torn, and for a moment found herself siding with Betty. Initially, she had planned to write a positive response to Reynard, let him come to King's-Hintock, and keep her husband oblivious to the whole situation until he returned from Falls on a nice day after his recovery, only to find everything settled, with Reynard and Betty living together happily. But the day's events and her daughter's sudden emotional outburst had shaken that plan. Betty was bound to do as she had threatened—reach out to her father immediately, maybe even try to run away to him. Additionally, Reynard's letter was addressed to both Mr. Dornell and her, so she couldn't in good conscience keep it from her husband.

'I will send the letter on to your father instantly,' she replied soothingly. 'He shall act entirely as he chooses, and you know that will not be in opposition to your wishes. He would ruin you rather than thwart you. I only hope he may be well enough to bear the agitation of this news. Do you agree to this?'

'I will send the letter to your dad right away,' she said gently. 'He'll do exactly what he wants, and you know he won't go against what you wish. He would rather break himself than let you down. I just hope he’s well enough to handle this news. Do you agree with this?'

Poor Betty agreed, on condition that she should actually witness the despatch of the letter. Her mother had no objection to offer to this; but as soon as the horseman had cantered down the drive toward the highway, Mrs. Dornell's sympathy with Betty's recalcitration began to die out. The girl's secret affection for young Phelipson could not possibly be condoned. Betty might communicate with him, might even try to reach him. Ruin lay that way. Stephen Reynard must be speedily installed in his proper place by Betty's side.

Poor Betty agreed, but only if she could actually see the letter sent off. Her mother didn't mind this condition; however, once the horseman rode down the driveway toward the main road, Mrs. Dornell's sympathy for Betty's defiance began to fade. The girl's secret crush on young Phelipson was completely unacceptable. Betty could communicate with him and might even try to get in touch. That path led to disaster. Stephen Reynard needed to be quickly put in his rightful position next to Betty.

She sat down and penned a private letter to Reynard, which threw light upon her plan.

She sat down and wrote a private letter to Reynard, which clarified her plan.

'It is Necessary that I should now tell you,' she said, 'what I have never Mentioned before-indeed I may have signified the Contrary-that her Father's Objection to your joining her has not as yet been overcome. As I personally Wish to delay you no longer-am indeed as anxious for your Arrival as you can be yourself, having the good of my Daughter at Heart-no course is left open to me but to assist your Cause without my Husband's Knowledge. He, I am sorry to say, is at present ill at Falls- Park, but I felt it my Duty to forward him your Letter. He will therefore be like to reply with a peremptory Command to you to go back again, for some Months, whence you came, till the Time he originally stipulated has expir'd. My Advice is, if you get such a Letter, to take no Notice of it, but to come on hither as you had proposed, letting me know the Day and Hour (after dark, if possible) at which we may expect you. Dear Betty is with me, and I warrant ye that she shall be in the House when you arrive.'

"It’s important for me to tell you now," she said, "something I’ve never mentioned before—actually, I might have hinted otherwise—that her father’s objection to you being with her hasn’t been resolved yet. Since I personally don’t want to delay you any longer—and I’m just as eager for your arrival as you are, caring about my daughter’s well-being—there’s no option left for me but to help your cause without my husband knowing. Unfortunately, he’s currently unwell at Falls Park, but I felt it was my duty to forward him your letter. So, he’ll likely reply with a firm order for you to return where you came from for a few months, until the time he originally set has passed. My advice is that if you receive such a letter, just ignore it and come here as you planned, letting me know the day and hour (after dark, if possible) when we can expect you. Dear Betty is with me, and I assure you she will be in the house when you arrive."

Mrs. Dornell, having sent away this epistle unsuspected of anybody, next took steps to prevent her daughter leaving the Court, avoiding if possible to excite the girl's suspicions that she was under restraint. But, as if by divination, Betty had seemed to read the husband's approach in the aspect of her mother's face.

Mrs. Dornell, having sent away this letter without anyone noticing, then took measures to stop her daughter from leaving the house, trying to avoid raising the girl's suspicions that she was being restricted. However, as if by intuition, Betty seemed to sense her husband's arrival from the look on her mother’s face.

'He is coming!' exclaimed the maiden.

"He's coming!" the girl exclaimed.

'Not for a week,' her mother assured her.

'Not for a week,' her mom reassured her.

'He is then-for certain?'

'He is then for sure?'

'Well, yes.'

"Sure, why not."

Betty hastily retired to her room, and would not be seen.

Betty quickly went to her room and wouldn't come out.

To lock her up, and hand over the key to Reynard when he should appear in the hall, was a plan charming in its simplicity, till her mother found, on trying the door of the girl's chamber softly, that Betty had already locked and bolted it on the inside, and had given directions to have her meals served where she was, by leaving them on a dumb-waiter outside the door.

To lock her in and give the key to Reynard when he showed up in the hall was a plan that seemed great in its simplicity, until her mother tried the door to the girl’s room quietly and discovered that Betty had already locked and bolted it from the inside. She had also arranged to have her meals served in her room by leaving them on a dumbwaiter outside the door.

Thereupon Mrs. Dornell noiselessly sat down in her boudoir, which, as well as her bed-chamber, was a passage-room to the girl's apartment, and she resolved not to vacate her post night or day till her daughter's husband should appear, to which end she too arranged to breakfast, dine, and sup on the spot. It was impossible now that Betty should escape without her knowledge, even if she had wished, there being no other door to the chamber, except one admitting to a small inner dressing-room inaccessible by any second way.

Mrs. Dornell quietly sat down in her private sitting room, which, along with her bedroom, served as a passage to her daughter's apartment. She decided she wouldn't leave her spot day or night until her daughter's husband showed up, so she planned to have all her meals right there. There was no way for Betty to sneak out without her knowing, even if she wanted to, since there was only one door to the room, leading to a small inner dressing room that could only be accessed through that door.

But it was plain that the young girl had no thought of escape. Her ideas ran rather in the direction of intrenchment: she was prepared to stand a siege, but scorned flight. This, at any rate, rendered her secure. As to how Reynard would contrive a meeting with her coy daughter while in such a defensive humour, that, thought her mother, must be left to his own ingenuity to discover.

But it was clear that the young girl had no intention of escaping. Her thoughts were more about digging in: she was ready to endure a siege but dismissed the idea of running away. This, at least, made her safe. As for how Reynard would manage to meet her reluctant daughter while she was in such a defensive mood, that, her mother thought, would have to be left to his own creativity to figure out.

Betty had looked so wild and pale at the announcement of her husband's approaching visit, that Mrs. Dornell, somewhat uneasy, could not leave her to herself. She peeped through the keyhole an hour later. Betty lay on the sofa, staring listlessly at the ceiling.

Betty looked so frantic and pale when she heard her husband was coming to visit that Mrs. Dornell, feeling a bit worried, couldn't just leave her alone. An hour later, she peeked through the keyhole. Betty was lying on the sofa, staring blankly at the ceiling.

'You are looking ill, child,' cried her mother. 'You've not taken the air lately. Come with me for a drive.'

'You look unwell, kid,' her mom said. 'You haven't been outside lately. Come with me for a drive.'

Betty made no objection. Soon they drove through the park towards the village, the daughter still in the strained, strung-up silence that had fallen upon her. They left the park to return by another route, and on the open road passed a cottage.

Betty didn't argue. Before long, they drove through the park heading toward the village, with her daughter still caught in the tense, quiet mood that had settled over her. They exited the park to take a different way back, and on the open road, they passed a cottage.

Betty's eye fell upon the cottage-window. Within it she saw a young girl about her own age, whom she knew by sight, sitting in a chair and propped by a pillow. The girl's face was covered with scales, which glistened in the sun. She was a convalescent from smallpox-a disease whose prevalence at that period was a terror of which we at present can hardly form a conception.

Betty's gaze landed on the cottage window. Inside, she saw a young girl about her age, someone she recognized, sitting in a chair and supported by a pillow. The girl's face was covered in scales that shimmered in the sunlight. She was recovering from smallpox—a disease that was so widespread back then, it was a fear we can hardly imagine today.

An idea suddenly energized Betty's apathetic features. She glanced at her mother; Mrs. Dornell had been looking in the opposite direction. Betty said that she wished to go back to the cottage for a moment to speak to a girl in whom she took an interest. Mrs. Dornell appeared suspicious, but observing that the cottage had no back-door, and that Betty could not escape without being seen, she allowed the carriage to be stopped. Betty ran back and entered the cottage, emerging again in about a minute, and resuming her seat in the carriage. As they drove on she fixed her eyes upon her mother and said, 'There, I have done it now!' Her pale face was stormy, and her eyes full of waiting tears.

An idea suddenly lit up Betty's indifferent expression. She glanced at her mother; Mrs. Dornell had been looking the other way. Betty said she wanted to go back to the cottage for a moment to talk to a girl she was interested in. Mrs. Dornell seemed suspicious, but realizing the cottage had no back door and that Betty couldn't sneak out without being noticed, she let the carriage stop. Betty rushed back inside the cottage, came out about a minute later, and took her seat in the carriage again. As they drove on, she fixed her gaze on her mother and said, 'There, I’ve done it now!’ Her pale face was stormy, and her eyes were filled with unshed tears.

'What have you done?' said Mrs. Dornell.

'What have you done?' Mrs. Dornell asked.

'Nanny Priddle is sick of the smallpox, and I saw her at the window, and I went in and kissed her, so that I might take it; and now I shall have it, and he won't be able to come near me!'

'Nanny Priddle is sick with smallpox, and I saw her at the window, so I went in and kissed her to catch it; now I’ll have it, and he won’t be able to come near me!'

'Wicked girl!' cries her mother. 'Oh, what am I to do! What-bring a distemper on yourself, and usurp the sacred prerogative of God, because you can't palate the man you've wedded!'

'Wicked girl!' her mother shouts. 'Oh, what am I supposed to do! What—bring disease upon yourself and take God's sacred right because you can't stand the man you've married!'

The alarmed woman gave orders to drive home as rapidly as possible, and on arriving, Betty, who was by this time also somewhat frightened at her own enormity, was put into a bath, and fumigated, and treated in every way that could be thought of to ward off the dreadful malady that in a rash moment she had tried to acquire.

The panicked woman instructed to drive home as quickly as possible, and upon arriving, Betty, who was now also somewhat scared by her own reckless behavior, was put into a bath, disinfected, and treated in every way possible to prevent the terrible illness she had foolishly tried to catch.

There was now a double reason for isolating the rebellious daughter and wife in her own chamber, and there she accordingly remained for the rest of the day and the days that followed; till no ill results seemed likely to arise from her wilfulness.

There was now a double reason for keeping the defiant daughter and wife in her own room, and so she stayed there for the rest of the day and the days that followed, until it seemed that no negative consequences were likely to come from her stubbornness.

Meanwhile the first letter from Reynard, announcing to Mrs. Dornell and her husband jointly that he was coming in a few days, had sped on its way to Falls-Park. It was directed under cover to Tupcombe, the confidential servant, with instructions not to put it into his master's hands till he had been refreshed by a good long sleep. Tupcombe much regretted his commission, letters sent in this way always disturbing the Squire; but guessing that it would be infinitely worse in the end to withhold the news than to reveal it, he chose his time, which was early the next morning, and delivered the missive.

Meanwhile, the first letter from Reynard, letting Mrs. Dornell and her husband know that he would be arriving in a few days, was on its way to Falls-Park. It was sent to Tupcombe, the trusted servant, with instructions not to give it to his master until he had a good long sleep. Tupcombe regretted this task; letters sent like this always upset the Squire. However, knowing that it would be much worse to keep the news from him than to share it, he picked his moment—early the next morning—and delivered the letter.

The utmost effect that Mrs. Dornell had anticipated from the message was a peremptory order from her husband to Reynard to hold aloof a few months longer. What the Squire really did was to declare that he would go himself and confront Reynard at Bristol, and have it out with him there by word of mouth.

The most Mrs. Dornell expected from the message was a direct order from her husband to Reynard to stay away for a little while longer. What the Squire actually decided to do was to go himself and face Reynard in Bristol, and settle things with him in person.

'But, master,' said Tupcombe, 'you can't. You cannot get out of bed.'

'But, master,' Tupcombe said, 'you can't. You can't get out of bed.'

'You leave the room, Tupcombe, and don't say "can't" before me! Have Jerry saddled in an hour.'

'You leave the room, Tupcombe, and don’t you dare say "can’t" in front of me! Have Jerry saddled up in an hour.'

The long-tried Tupcombe thought his employer demented, so utterly helpless was his appearance just then, and he went out reluctantly. No sooner was he gone than the Squire, with great difficulty, stretched himself over to a cabinet by the bedside, unlocked it, and took out a small bottle. It contained a gout specific, against whose use he had been repeatedly warned by his regular physician, but whose warning he now cast to the winds.

The long-serving Tupcombe thought his employer was out of his mind, given how completely helpless he looked at that moment, and he left reluctantly. As soon as he was gone, the Squire, with great effort, reached over to a cabinet by the bedside, unlocked it, and took out a small bottle. It held a remedy for gout, which his regular doctor had repeatedly warned him not to use, but he ignored that warning now.

He took a double dose, and waited half an hour. It seemed to produce no effect. He then poured out a treble dose, swallowed it, leant back upon his pillow, and waited. The miracle he anticipated had been worked at last. It seemed as though the second draught had not only operated with its own strength, but had kindled into power the latent forces of the first. He put away the bottle, and rang up Tupcombe.

He took a double dose and waited for half an hour. It didn’t seem to have any effect. He then poured out a triple dose, swallowed it, leaned back on his pillow, and waited. The miracle he had been hoping for finally happened. It felt like the second dose not only worked on its own but also activated the hidden effects of the first. He put the bottle away and called for Tupcombe.

Less than an hour later one of the housemaids, who of course was quite aware that the Squire's illness was serious, was surprised to hear a bold and decided step descending the stairs from the direction of Mr. Dornell's room, accompanied by the humming of a tune. She knew that the doctor had not paid a visit that morning, and that it was too heavy to be the valet or any other man-servant. Looking up, she saw Squire Dornell fully dressed, descending toward her in his drab caped riding- coat and boots, with the swinging easy movement of his prime. Her face expressed her amazement.

Less than an hour later, one of the housemaids, who was definitely aware that the Squire's illness was serious, was taken aback to hear a confident and purposeful step coming down the stairs from Mr. Dornell's room, accompanied by the sound of someone humming a tune. She knew the doctor hadn’t visited that morning, and it was too heavy of a gait to be the valet or any other male servant. Looking up, she saw Squire Dornell fully dressed, walking down toward her in his drab caped riding coat and boots, moving with the easy grace of his prime. Her face showed her surprise.

'What the devil beest looking at?' said the Squire. 'Did you never see a man walk out of his house before, wench?'

'What the heck are you looking at?' said the Squire. 'Have you never seen a man walk out of his house before, girl?'

Resuming his humming-which was of a defiant sort-he proceeded to the library, rang the bell, asked if the horses were ready, and directed them to be brought round. Ten minutes later he rode away in the direction of Bristol, Tupcombe behind him, trembling at what these movements might portend.

Resuming his defiant humming, he went to the library, rang the bell, asked if the horses were ready, and instructed them to be brought around. Ten minutes later, he rode off toward Bristol, with Tupcombe behind him, anxious about what these actions might mean.

They rode on through the pleasant woodlands and the monotonous straight lanes at an equal pace. The distance traversed might have been about fifteen miles when Tupcombe could perceive that the Squire was getting tired-as weary as he would have been after riding three times the distance ten years before. However, they reached Bristol without any mishap, and put up at the Squire's accustomed inn. Dornell almost immediately proceeded on foot to the inn which Reynard had given as his address, it being now about four o'clock.

They rode through the beautiful woods and the dull straight roads at a steady pace. They had traveled about fifteen miles when Tupcombe noticed that the Squire was getting tired—just as worn out as he would have been after riding three times that distance ten years ago. However, they arrived in Bristol without any issues and checked into the Squire's usual inn. Dornell quickly headed on foot to the inn that Reynard had provided as his address, as it was now around four o'clock.

Reynard had already dined-for people dined early then-and he was staying indoors. He had already received Mrs. Dornell's reply to his letter; but before acting upon her advice and starting for King's-Hintock he made up his mind to wait another day, that Betty's father might at least have time to write to him if so minded. The returned traveller much desired to obtain the Squire's assent, as well as his wife's, to the proposed visit to his bride, that nothing might seem harsh or forced in his method of taking his position as one of the family. But though he anticipated some sort of objection from his father-in-law, in consequence of Mrs. Dornell's warning, he was surprised at the announcement of the Squire in person.

Reynard had already eaten dinner—people dined early back then—and he was staying indoors. He had received Mrs. Dornell's reply to his letter, but before acting on her advice and heading to King's-Hintock, he decided to wait another day. That way, Betty's father would at least have time to write to him if he wanted to. The traveler really wanted to get the Squire's approval, as well as his wife's, for the proposed visit to his fiancée, so nothing would seem harsh or forced as he took his place in the family. However, even though he expected some kind of objection from his father-in-law due to Mrs. Dornell's warning, he was surprised by the Squire's in-person announcement.

Stephen Reynard formed the completest of possible contrasts to Dornell as they stood confronting each other in the best parlour of the Bristol tavern. The Squire, hot-tempered, gouty, impulsive, generous, reckless; the younger man, pale, tall, sedate, self-possessed-a man of the world, fully bearing out at least one couplet in his epitaph, still extant in King's-Hintock church, which places in the inventory of his good qualities

Stephen Reynard was the complete opposite of Dornell as they faced each other in the best room of the Bristol tavern. The Squire was hot-tempered, suffering from gout, impulsive, generous, and reckless; the younger man was pale, tall, calm, and self-assured—a worldly individual, living up to at least one line in his epitaph, which is still found in King's-Hintock church, listing some of his good qualities.

'Engaging Manners, cultivated Mind, Adorn'd by Letters, and in Courts refin'd.'

'Charming behavior, a polished mind, decorated with knowledge, and refined in society.'

He was at this time about five-and-thirty, though careful living and an even, unemotional temperament caused him to look much younger than his years.

He was around thirty-five at this time, but his healthy lifestyle and calm, emotionless temperament made him look much younger than he actually was.

Squire Dornell plunged into his errand without much ceremony or preface.

Squire Dornell dove into his task without much fanfare or introduction.

'I am your humble servant, sir,' he said. 'I have read your letter writ to my wife and myself, and considered that the best way to answer it would be to do so in person.'

'I am your humble servant, sir,' he said. 'I have read your letter addressed to my wife and me, and I thought the best way to respond would be to do so in person.'

'I am vastly honoured by your visit, sir,' said Mr. Stephen Reynard, bowing.

"I’m really honored by your visit, sir," said Mr. Stephen Reynard, bowing.

'Well, what's done can't be undone,' said Dornell, 'though it was mighty early, and was no doing of mine. She's your wife; and there's an end on't. But in brief, sir, she's too young for you to claim yet; we mustn't reckon by years; we must reckon by nature. She's still a girl; 'tis onpolite of 'ee to come yet; next year will be full soon enough for you to take her to you.'

'Well, what's done is done,' said Dornell, 'even though it happened pretty early, and it wasn't my doing. She's your wife; that's that. But to be clear, sir, she's too young for you to claim her yet; we shouldn't just go by years; we have to consider her maturity. She's still a girl; it's rude of you to approach her now; next year will be soon enough for you to take her as your own.'

Now, courteous as Reynard could be, he was a little obstinate when his resolution had once been formed. She had been promised him by her eighteenth birthday at latest-sooner if she were in robust health. Her mother had fixed the time on her own judgment, without a word of interference on his part. He had been hanging about foreign courts till he was weary. Betty was now as woman, if she would ever be one, and there was not, in his mind, the shadow of an excuse for putting him off longer. Therefore, fortified as he was by the support of her mother, he blandly but firmly told the Squire that he had been willing to waive his rights, out of deference to her parents, to any reasonable extent, but must now, in justice to himself and her insist on maintaining them. He therefore, since she had not come to meet him, should proceed to King's- Hintock in a few days to fetch her.

Now, as courteous as Reynard could be, he was a bit stubborn once he had made up his mind. She had been promised to him by her eighteenth birthday at the latest—sooner if she was in good health. Her mother set the date based on her own judgment, without any input from him. He had been wandering around foreign courts until he was exhausted. Betty was now a woman, if she would ever be one, and in his eyes, there was no reason to delay any longer. So, backed by her mother's support, he politely but firmly told the Squire that he had been willing to set aside his rights, out of respect for her parents, to a reasonable extent, but now, in fairness to himself and her, he had to insist on keeping them. Therefore, since she had not come to meet him, he would be going to King's-Hintock in a few days to fetch her.

This announcement, in spite of the urbanity with which it was delivered, set Dornell in a passion.

This announcement, despite the sophistication with which it was delivered, made Dornell furious.

'Oh dammy, sir; you talk about rights, you do, after stealing her away, a mere child, against my will and knowledge! If we'd begged and prayed 'ee to take her, you could say no more.'

'Oh damn it, sir; you talk about rights after taking her away, a mere child, without my consent or knowledge! If we had begged and pleaded with you to take her, you could say no more.'

'Upon my honour, your charge is quite baseless, sir,' said his son-in- law. 'You must know by this time-or if you do not, it has been a monstrous cruel injustice to me that I should have been allowed to remain in your mind with such a stain upon my character-you must know that I used no seductiveness or temptation of any kind. Her mother assented; she assented. I took them at their word. That you was really opposed to the marriage was not known to me till afterwards.'

'Honestly, your accusation is completely unfounded, sir,' said his son-in-law. 'By now, you must realize—or if you don't, it’s incredibly unfair to me that I've been allowed to stay in your thoughts with such a blemish on my character—you must know that I didn't use any seduction or temptation whatsoever. Her mother agreed; she agreed too. I took them at their word. I didn’t know that you were actually against the marriage until later.'

Dornell professed to believe not a word of it. 'You sha'n't have her till she's dree sixes full-no maid ought to be married till she's dree sixes!-and my daughter sha'n't be treated out of nater!' So he stormed on till Tupcombe, who had been alarmedly listening in the next room, entered suddenly, declaring to Reynard that his master's life was in danger if the interview were prolonged, he being subject to apoplectic strokes at these crises. Reynard immediately said that he would be the last to wish to injure Squire Dornell, and left the room, and as soon as the Squire had recovered breath and equanimity, he went out of the inn, leaning on the arm of Tupcombe.

Dornell claimed he didn't believe a word of it. "You won’t have her until she’s eighteen—no girl should get married before she's eighteen!—and my daughter will not be treated unfairly!" He kept going until Tupcombe, who had been listening nervously in the next room, suddenly walked in, telling Reynard that his master’s life was at risk if the conversation continued, as he was prone to strokes during these moments. Reynard quickly said that he would never want to harm Squire Dornell and left the room. Once the Squire had caught his breath and calmed down, he left the inn, leaning on Tupcombe's arm.

Tupcombe was for sleeping in Bristol that night, but Dornell, whose energy seemed as invincible as it was sudden, insisted upon mounting and getting back as far as Falls-Park, to continue the journey to King's- Hintock on the following day. At five they started, and took the southern road toward the Mendip Hills. The evening was dry and windy, and, excepting that the sun did not shine, strongly reminded Tupcombe of the evening of that March month, nearly five years earlier, when news had been brought to King's-Hintock Court of the child Betty's marriage in London-news which had produced upon Dornell such a marked effect for the worse ever since, and indirectly upon the household of which he was the head. Before that time the winters were lively at Falls-Park, as well as at King's-Hintock, although the Squire had ceased to make it his regular residence. Hunting-guests and shooting-guests came and went, and open house was kept. Tupcombe disliked the clever courtier who had put a stop to this by taking away from the Squire the only treasure he valued.

Tupcombe was planning to sleep in Bristol that night, but Dornell, whose energy seemed as unstoppable as it was sudden, insisted on riding back as far as Falls-Park to continue the journey to King's-Hintock the next day. They set off at five, taking the southern road toward the Mendip Hills. The evening was dry and windy, and even though the sun didn’t shine, it strongly reminded Tupcombe of that March evening nearly five years ago when news arrived at King's-Hintock Court about child Betty's marriage in London—a piece of news that had affected Dornell negatively ever since, and indirectly impacted the household he led. Before that, the winters at Falls-Park and King's-Hintock were lively, even though the Squire had stopped making it his main residence. Hunting and shooting guests would come and go, and they kept an open house. Tupcombe resented the clever courtier who ended that by taking away the one treasure the Squire valued.

It grew darker with their progress along the lanes, and Tupcombe discovered from Mr. Dornell's manner of riding that his strength was giving way; and spurring his own horse close alongside, he asked him how he felt.

It got darker as they rode along the paths, and Tupcombe noticed from Mr. Dornell's way of riding that he was losing strength. Pulling his own horse up next to him, he asked how he was feeling.

'Oh, bad; damn bad, Tupcombe! I can hardly keep my seat. I shall never be any better, I fear! Have we passed Three-Man-Gibbet yet?'

'Oh, that's bad; really bad, Tupcombe! I can barely stay seated. I don't think I'll ever get better, I’m afraid! Have we passed Three-Man-Gibbet yet?'

'Not yet by a long ways, sir.'

'Not even close, dude.'

'I wish we had. I can hardly hold on.' The Squire could not repress a groan now and then, and Tupcombe knew he was in great pain. 'I wish I was underground-that's the place for such fools as I! I'd gladly be there if it were not for Mistress Betty. He's coming on to King's- Hintock to-morrow-he won't put it off any longer; he'll set out and reach there to-morrow night, without stopping at Falls; and he'll take her unawares, and I want to be there before him.'

'I wish we had. I can barely hold on.' The Squire couldn't help but groan once in a while, and Tupcombe knew he was in a lot of pain. 'I wish I was buried—that's where fools like me belong! I’d gladly be there if it weren't for Mistress Betty. He's heading to King's-Hintock tomorrow—he won't delay it any longer; he'll leave and get there tomorrow night, without stopping at Falls; and he'll catch her off guard, and I need to be there before him.'

'I hope you may be well enough to do it, sir. But really-'

'I hope you’re well enough to do it, sir. But honestly-'

'I must, Tupcombe! You don't know what my trouble is; it is not so much that she is married to this man without my agreeing-for, after all, there's nothing to say against him, so far as I know; but that she don't take to him at all, seems to fear him-in fact, cares nothing about him; and if he comes forcing himself into the house upon her, why, 'twill be rank cruelty. Would to the Lord something would happen to prevent him!'

'I have to, Tupcombe! You have no idea what my problem is; it's not just that she's married to this guy without my approval—since, honestly, there's nothing wrong with him that I can tell—but that she doesn't connect with him at all, seems to be afraid of him—in fact, she doesn't care about him at all; and if he starts pushing his way into the house to see her, well, that would be pure cruelty. I wish to God something would happen to stop him!'

How they reached home that night Tupcombe hardly knew. The Squire was in such pain that he was obliged to recline upon his horse, and Tupcombe was afraid every moment lest he would fall into the road. But they did reach home at last, and Mr. Dornell was instantly assisted to bed.

How they got home that night, Tupcombe could hardly tell. The Squire was in so much pain that he had to lean on his horse, and Tupcombe was worried every second that he would fall off onto the road. But they finally made it home, and Mr. Dornell was quickly helped to bed.

Next morning it was obvious that he could not possibly go to King's- Hintock for several days at least, and there on the bed he lay, cursing his inability to proceed on an errand so personal and so delicate that no emissary could perform it. What he wished to do was to ascertain from Betty's own lips if her aversion to Reynard was so strong that his presence would be positively distasteful to her. Were that the case, he would have borne her away bodily on the saddle behind him.

Next morning, it was clear that he couldn't possibly go to King's-Hintock for at least a few days, and there he lay on the bed, cursing his inability to carry out an errand that was so personal and delicate that no one else could do it for him. What he wanted to do was find out from Betty herself if her dislike for Reynard was strong enough that his presence would genuinely upset her. If that were the case, he would have taken her away on the saddle behind him.

But all that was hindered now, and he repeated a hundred times in Tupcombe's hearing, and in that of the nurse and other servants, 'I wish to God something would happen to him!'

But all that was blocked now, and he repeated a hundred times in Tupcombe's hearing, and in front of the nurse and other staff, 'I wish to God something would happen to him!'

This sentiment, reiterated by the Squire as he tossed in the agony induced by the powerful drugs of the day before, entered sharply into the soul of Tupcombe and of all who were attached to the house of Dornell, as distinct from the house of his wife at King's-Hintock. Tupcombe, who was an excitable man, was hardly less disquieted by the thought of Reynard's return than the Squire himself was. As the week drew on, and the afternoon advanced at which Reynard would in all probability be passing near Falls on his way to the Court, the Squire's feelings became acuter, and the responsive Tupcombe could hardly bear to come near him. Having left him in the hands of the doctor, the former went out upon the lawn, for he could hardly breathe in the contagion of excitement caught from the employer who had virtually made him his confidant. He had lived with the Dornells from his boyhood, had been born under the shadow of their walls; his whole life was annexed and welded to the life of the family in a degree which has no counterpart in these latter days.

This feeling, echoed by the Squire as he struggled with the pain from the strong drugs taken the day before, hit hard in the hearts of Tupcombe and everyone connected to the Dornell family, separate from his wife's family at King's-Hintock. Tupcombe, who was an easily stirred man, was just as anxious about Reynard's return as the Squire was. As the week progressed and the afternoon approached when Reynard would likely be passing near Falls on his way to the Court, the Squire's anxiety intensified, and Tupcombe could barely stand to be near him. After leaving the Squire in the care of the doctor, he stepped out onto the lawn, needing a break from the tension he had caught from the employer who had practically made him his confidant. He had been with the Dornells since childhood, born under the shadow of their home; his entire life was intertwined with the family's in a way that doesn't really happen anymore.

He was summoned indoors, and learnt that it had been decided to send for Mrs. Dornell: her husband was in great danger. There were two or three who could have acted as messenger, but Dornell wished Tupcombe to go, the reason showing itself when, Tupcombe being ready to start, Squire Dornell summoned him to his chamber and leaned down so that he could whisper in his ear:

He was called inside and found out that they had decided to send for Mrs. Dornell: her husband was in serious danger. There were a couple of others who could have delivered the message, but Dornell wanted Tupcombe to go. The reason became clear when Tupcombe was ready to leave; Squire Dornell called him to his room and leaned down to whisper in his ear:

'Put Peggy along smart, Tupcombe, and get there before him, you know-before him. This is the day he fixed. He has not passed Falls cross-roads yet. If you can do that you will be able to get Betty to come-d'ye see?-after her mother has started; she'll have a reason for not waiting for him. Bring her by the lower road-he'll go by the upper. Your business is to make 'em miss each other-d'ye see?-but that's a thing I couldn't write down.'

'Send Peggy ahead, Tupcombe, and get there before him, you know—before him. This is the day he chose. He hasn’t reached Falls cross-roads yet. If you can pull that off, you’ll be able to get Betty to come—do you understand?—after her mother has left; she’ll have a reason for not waiting for him. Bring her by the lower road—he’ll take the upper. Your job is to make them miss each other—got it?—but that’s something I couldn’t put in writing.'

Five minutes after, Tupcombe was astride the horse and on his way-the way he had followed so many times since his master, a florid young countryman, had first gone wooing to King's-Hintock Court. As soon as he had crossed the hills in the immediate neighbourhood of the manor, the road lay over a plain, where it ran in long straight stretches for several miles. In the best of times, when all had been gay in the united houses, that part of the road had seemed tedious. It was gloomy in the extreme now that he pursued it, at night and alone, on such an errand.

Five minutes later, Tupcombe was riding the horse and on his way—the same route he had taken countless times since his master, a lively young countryman, first went courting at King's-Hintock Court. Once he crossed the hills near the manor, the road opened up onto a plain, stretching flat and straight for miles. Even at the best of times, when both households were full of life, that stretch of road felt monotonous. It was especially dreary now as he traveled it at night, alone, on such a mission.

He rode and brooded. If the Squire were to die, he, Tupcombe, would be alone in the world and friendless, for he was no favourite with Mrs. Dornell; and to find himself baffled, after all, in what he had set his mind on, would probably kill the Squire. Thinking thus, Tupcombe stopped his horse every now and then, and listened for the coming husband. The time was drawing on to the moment when Reynard might be expected to pass along this very route. He had watched the road well during the afternoon, and had inquired of the tavern-keepers as he came up to each, and he was convinced that the premature descent of the stranger-husband upon his young mistress had not been made by this highway as yet.

He rode along, deep in thought. If the Squire died, Tupcombe would be all alone in the world, with no friends, since Mrs. Dornell didn’t like him at all. The thought of failing in his plans could likely kill the Squire. With this on his mind, Tupcombe periodically stopped his horse to listen for the approaching husband. The time was getting close for Reynard to pass by this very route. He had carefully monitored the road throughout the afternoon and had asked the tavern owners as he reached each one. He was sure that the stranger-husband had not yet taken this highway to surprise his young mistress.

Besides the girl's mother, Tupcombe was the only member of the household who suspected Betty's tender feelings towards young Phelipson, so unhappily generated on her return from school; and he could therefore imagine, even better than her fond father, what would be her emotions on the sudden announcement of Reynard's advent that evening at King's- Hintock Court.

Besides the girl's mother, Tupcombe was the only person in the household who suspected Betty's feelings for young Phelipson, which had sadly developed after her return from school; and he could therefore imagine, even better than her loving father, what her emotions would be upon the sudden announcement of Reynard's arrival that evening at King's Hintock Court.

So he rode and rode, desponding and hopeful by turns. He felt assured that, unless in the unfortunate event of the almost immediate arrival of her son-in law at his own heels, Mrs. Dornell would not be able to hinder Betty's departure for her father's bedside.

So he rode and rode, feeling both hopeless and hopeful at different times. He was confident that, unless her son-in-law unexpectedly showed up right behind him, Mrs. Dornell wouldn’t be able to stop Betty from going to her father's side.

It was about nine o'clock that, having put twenty miles of country behind him, he turned in at the lodge-gate nearest to Ivell and King's- Hintock village, and pursued the long north drive-itself much like a turnpike road-which led thence through the park to the Court. Though there were so many trees in King's-Hintock park, few bordered the carriage roadway; he could see it stretching ahead in the pale night light like an unrolled deal shaving. Presently the irregular frontage of the house came in view, of great extent, but low, except where it rose into the outlines of a broad square tower.

It was around nine o'clock when, having covered twenty miles of countryside, he turned into the lodge gate closest to Ivell and King's Hintock village, and proceeded along the long northern drive—similar to a toll road—that led through the park to the Court. Despite the many trees in King's Hintock park, few were along the carriageway; he could see it stretching out in the dim night light like a flattened wooden shaving. Soon, the irregular façade of the house appeared, quite large but low, except where it rose into the shape of a broad square tower.

As Tupcombe approached he rode aside upon the grass, to make sure, if possible, that he was the first comer, before letting his presence be known. The Court was dark and sleepy, in no respect as if a bridegroom were about to arrive.

As Tupcombe got closer, he rode off to the side on the grass, trying to ensure that he was the first one there before announcing himself. The Court was dim and drowsy, definitely not giving off the vibe that a groom was about to show up.

While pausing he distinctly heard the tread of a horse upon the track behind him, and for a moment despaired of arriving in time: here, surely, was Reynard! Pulling up closer to the densest tree at hand he waited, and found he had retreated nothing too soon, for the second rider avoided the gravel also, and passed quite close to him. In the profile he recognized young Phelipson.

While he paused, he clearly heard the sound of a horse on the path behind him, and for a moment, he feared he wouldn't make it in time: surely, this was Reynard! He moved closer to the thickest tree nearby and waited, realizing he had not moved back a moment too soon, as the second rider also avoided the gravel and passed very close to him. From the side view, he recognized young Phelipson.

Before Tupcombe could think what to do, Phelipson had gone on; but not to the door of the house. Swerving to the left, he passed round to the east angle, where, as Tupcombe knew, were situated Betty's apartments. Dismounting, he left the horse tethered to a hanging bough, and walked on to the house.

Before Tupcombe could figure out what to do, Phelipson had already moved on; but he didn't head to the front door. Instead, he veered left and made his way to the eastern corner, where, as Tupcombe knew, Betty's rooms were located. After getting off his horse, he tied it to a low branch and walked toward the house.

Suddenly his eye caught sight of an object which explained the position immediately. It was a ladder stretching from beneath the trees, which there came pretty close to the house, up to a first-floor window-one which lighted Miss Betty's rooms. Yes, it was Betty's chamber; he knew every room in the house well.

Suddenly, he noticed something that clarified the situation right away. It was a ladder extending from under the trees, which came quite close to the house, up to a first-floor window that lighted Miss Betty's rooms. Yes, it was Betty's room; he was familiar with every room in the house.

The young horseman who had passed him, having evidently left his steed somewhere under the trees also, was perceptible at the top of the ladder, immediately outside Betty's window. While Tupcombe watched, a cloaked female figure stepped timidly over the sill, and the two cautiously descended, one before the other, the young man's arms enclosing the young woman between his grasp of the ladder, so that she could not fall. As soon as they reached the bottom, young Phelipson quickly removed the ladder and hid it under the bushes. The pair disappeared; till, in a few minutes, Tupcombe could discern a horse emerging from a remoter part of the umbrage. The horse carried double, the girl being on a pillion behind her lover.

The young horseman who had passed him, clearly having left his horse somewhere under the trees, was visible at the top of the ladder just outside Betty's window. While Tupcombe watched, a cloaked woman cautiously stepped over the window sill, and the two carefully descended the ladder, the young man's arms wrapping around the young woman to ensure she wouldn’t fall. As soon as they reached the bottom, young Phelipson quickly took the ladder away and hid it under the bushes. The couple vanished, until a few minutes later, Tupcombe noticed a horse coming from a more distant part of the trees. The horse was carrying two, with the girl sitting on a pillion behind her partner.

Tupcombe hardly knew what to do or think; yet, though this was not exactly the kind of flight that had been intended, she had certainly escaped. He went back to his own animal, and rode round to the servants' door, where he delivered the letter for Mrs. Dornell. To leave a verbal message for Betty was now impossible.

Tupcombe hardly knew what to do or think; yet, although this wasn’t exactly the kind of escape that had been intended, she had definitely gotten away. He returned to his own horse and rode over to the servants' entrance, where he handed the letter to Mrs. Dornell. Leaving a verbal message for Betty was now impossible.

The Court servants desired him to stay over the night, but he would not do so, desiring to get back to the Squire as soon as possible and tell what he had seen. Whether he ought not to have intercepted the young people, and carried off Betty himself to her father, he did not know. However, it was too late to think of that now, and without wetting his lips or swallowing a crumb, Tupcombe turned his back upon King's-Hintock Court.

The court servants asked him to stay the night, but he refused, wanting to return to the Squire as quickly as possible and share what he had seen. He wasn't sure if he should have stopped the young people and taken Betty to her father himself. However, it was too late to think about that now, and without wetting his lips or eating anything, Tupcombe turned his back on King's-Hintock Court.

It was not till he had advanced a considerable distance on his way homeward that, halting under the lantern of a roadside-inn while the horse was watered, there came a traveller from the opposite direction in a hired coach; the lantern lit the stranger's face as he passed along and dropped into the shade. Tupcombe exulted for the moment, though he could hardly have justified his exultation. The belated traveller was Reynard; and another had stepped in before him.

It wasn't until he had gone quite a way on his journey home that he stopped under the lantern of a roadside inn while the horse was being watered. A traveler came from the other direction in a rented coach; the lantern illuminated the stranger's face as he walked by and then disappeared into the shadows. Tupcombe felt a brief thrill of excitement, even though he couldn't really explain why. The late traveler was Reynard, and someone else had gotten there before him.

You may now be willing to know of the fortunes of Miss Betty. Left much to herself through the intervening days, she had ample time to brood over her desperate attempt at the stratagem of infection-thwarted, apparently, by her mother's promptitude. In what other way to gain time she could not think. Thus drew on the day and the hour of the evening on which her husband was expected to announce himself.

You might be curious about what happened to Miss Betty. With plenty of time to herself in the days that followed, she had a lot of time to reflect on her desperate attempt at a scheme to avoid being caught, seemingly foiled by her mother's quick action. She couldn't think of any other way to stall for time. And so, the day and time approached when her husband was expected to show up.

At some period after dark, when she could not tell, a tap at the window, twice and thrice repeated, became audible. It caused her to start up, for the only visitant in her mind was the one whose advances she had so feared as to risk health and life to repel them. She crept to the window, and heard a whisper without.

At some point after dark, when she couldn't tell exactly when, a tap at the window, repeated a couple of times, became audible. It made her jump, because the only visitor she could think of was the one she had been so afraid of that she risked her health and life to keep away. She quietly approached the window and heard a whisper from outside.

'It is I-Charley,' said the voice.

"It's me—Charley," the voice said.

Betty's face fired with excitement. She had latterly begun to doubt her admirer's staunchness, fancying his love to be going off in mere attentions which neither committed him nor herself very deeply. She opened the window, saying in a joyous whisper, 'Oh Charley; I thought you had deserted me quite!'

Betty's face lit up with excitement. Recently, she had started to doubt her admirer’s loyalty, thinking that his love was fading into casual attention that didn’t really commit him—or her—very deeply. She opened the window and said in a joyful whisper, "Oh Charley; I thought you had completely abandoned me!"

He assured her he had not done that, and that he had a horse in waiting, if she would ride off with him. 'You must come quickly,' he said; 'for Reynard's on the way!'

He assured her he hadn't done that and that he had a horse ready if she would ride off with him. "You need to come quickly," he said, "because Reynard's on the way!"

To throw a cloak round herself was the work of a moment, and assuring herself that her door was locked against a surprise, she climbed over the window-sill and descended with him as we have seen.

To wrap a cloak around herself took just a moment, and after making sure her door was locked to avoid any surprises, she climbed over the window-sill and went down with him as we have seen.

Her mother meanwhile, having received Tupcombe's note, found the news of her husband's illness so serious, as to displace her thoughts of the coming son-in-law, and she hastened to tell her daughter of the Squire's dangerous condition, thinking it might be desirable to take her to her father's bedside. On trying the door of the girl's room, she found it still locked. Mrs. Dornell called, but there was no answer. Full of misgivings, she privately fetched the old house-steward and bade him burst open the door-an order by no means easy to execute, the joinery of the Court being massively constructed. However, the lock sprang open at last, and she entered Betty's chamber only to find the window unfastened and the bird flown.

Her mother, after receiving Tupcombe's note, found the news of her husband's serious illness pushed her thoughts about the future son-in-law aside, and she hurried to inform her daughter about the Squire's dangerous condition, thinking it might be better to take her to her father's bedside. When she tried the door to her daughter's room, she found it still locked. Mrs. Dornell called out, but there was no response. Feeling anxious, she discreetly fetched the old house-steward and instructed him to force the door open—an order that wasn't easy to carry out, as the Court was built with thick, heavy materials. Eventually, the lock finally gave way, and she entered Betty's room only to find the window wide open and the bird gone.

For a moment Mrs. Dornell was staggered. Then it occurred to her that Betty might have privately obtained from Tupcombe the news of her father's serious illness, and, fearing she might be kept back to meet her husband, have gone off with that obstinate and biassed servitor to Falls-Park. The more she thought it over the more probable did the supposition appear; and binding her own head-man to secrecy as to Betty's movements, whether as she conjectured, or otherwise, Mrs. Dornell herself prepared to set out.

For a moment, Mrs. Dornell was taken aback. Then it struck her that Betty might have secretly gotten news from Tupcombe about her father's serious illness and, fearing she might be delayed in meeting her husband, she could have left with that stubborn and biased servant for Falls-Park. The more she considered it, the more likely the idea seemed; and after instructing her own head servant to keep Betty's whereabouts confidential, whether as she suspected or not, Mrs. Dornell got ready to leave.

She had no suspicion how seriously her husband's malady had been aggravated by his ride to Bristol, and thought more of Betty's affairs than of her own. That Betty's husband should arrive by some other road to-night, and find neither wife nor mother-in-law to receive him, and no explanation of their absence, was possible; but never forgetting chances, Mrs. Dornell as she journeyed kept her eyes fixed upon the highway on the off-side, where, before she had reached the town of Ivell, the hired coach containing Stephen Reynard flashed into the lamplight of her own carriage.

She had no idea how much her husband's illness had worsened from his trip to Bristol and was more concerned about Betty's situation than her own. It was possible that Betty's husband could arrive via another route tonight and find both his wife and mother-in-law missing, with no explanation for their absence. However, always considering the possibilities, Mrs. Dornell kept her gaze on the road to the right as she traveled, and just before she reached the town of Ivell, the hired coach carrying Stephen Reynard appeared in the light of her carriage.

Mrs. Dornell's coachman pulled up, in obedience to a direction she had given him at starting; the other coach was hailed, a few words passed, and Reynard alighted and came to Mrs. Dornell's carriage-window.

Mrs. Dornell's driver stopped, following a direction she had given him at the beginning; the other carriage was called over, a brief conversation took place, and Reynard got out and approached Mrs. Dornell's window.

'Come inside,' says she. 'I want to speak privately to you. Why are you so late?'

'Come in,' she says. 'I need to talk to you privately. Why are you so late?'

'One hindrance and another,' says he. 'I meant to be at the Court by eight at latest. My gratitude for your letter. I hope-'

'One obstacle after another,' he says. 'I intended to be at the Court by eight at the latest. Thank you for your letter. I hope-'

'You must not try to see Betty yet,' said she. 'There be far other and newer reasons against your seeing her now than there were when I wrote.'

'You shouldn’t try to see Betty yet,' she said. 'There are many more recent reasons for not seeing her now than there were when I wrote to you.'

The circumstances were such that Mrs. Dornell could not possibly conceal them entirely; nothing short of knowing some of the facts would prevent his blindly acting in a manner which might be fatal to the future. Moreover, there are times when deeper intriguers than Mrs. Dornell feel that they must let out a few truths, if only in self-indulgence. So she told so much of recent surprises as that Betty's heart had been attracted by another image than his, and that his insisting on visiting her now might drive the girl to desperation. 'Betty has, in fact, rushed off to her father to avoid you,' she said. 'But if you wait she will soon forget this young man, and you will have nothing to fear.'

The situation was such that Mrs. Dornell couldn’t completely hide things; knowing some of the facts was necessary to prevent him from acting blindly in a way that could harm their future. Plus, there are moments when even the more cunning individuals than Mrs. Dornell feel the need to reveal a few truths, even if just for their own sake. So she shared some of the recent surprises, like how Betty's heart had been drawn to someone else, and that if he kept insisting on visiting her now, it might push the girl to her breaking point. 'Betty has actually run off to her father to avoid you,' she said. 'But if you give it some time, she’ll forget about this guy, and you won’t have anything to worry about.'

As a woman and a mother she could go no further, and Betty's desperate attempt to infect herself the week before as a means of repelling him, together with the alarming possibility that, after all, she had not gone to her father but to her lover, was not revealed.

As a woman and a mother, she felt she couldn't go any further, and Betty's desperate attempt to infect herself the week before as a way to push him away, along with the worrying possibility that, after all, she hadn't gone to her father but to her lover, remained hidden.

'Well,' sighed the diplomatist, in a tone unexpectedly quiet, 'such things have been known before. After all, she may prefer me to him some day, when she reflects how very differently I might have acted than I am going to act towards her. But I'll say no more about that now. I can have a bed at your house for to-night?'

'Well,' sighed the diplomat, in a surprisingly calm tone, 'things like this have happened before. After all, she might like me more than him someday when she thinks about how differently I could have treated her compared to how I plan to treat her. But I won’t say anything more about that now. Can I stay at your place tonight?'

'To-night, certainly. And you leave to-morrow morning early?' She spoke anxiously, for on no account did she wish him to make further discoveries. 'My husband is so seriously ill,' she continued, 'that my absence and Betty's on your arrival is naturally accounted for.'

'Definitely tonight. And you're leaving early tomorrow morning?' She said this nervously, as she didn't want him to uncover anything else. 'My husband is really sick,' she went on, 'so my absence and Betty's when you arrive makes perfect sense.'

He promised to leave early, and to write to her soon. 'And when I think the time is ripe,' he said, 'I'll write to her. I may have something to tell her that will bring her to graciousness.'

He promised to leave early and to write to her soon. 'And when I think it's the right time,' he said, 'I'll write to her. I might have something to tell her that will make her more gracious.'

It was about one o'clock in the morning when Mrs. Dornell reached Falls- Park. A double blow awaited her there. Betty had not arrived; her flight had been elsewhither; and her stricken mother divined with whom. She ascended to the bedside of her husband, where to her concern she found that the physician had given up all hope. The Squire was sinking, and his extreme weakness had almost changed his character, except in the particular that his old obstinacy sustained him in a refusal to see a clergyman. He shed tears at the least word, and sobbed at the sight of his wife. He asked for Betty, and it was with a heavy heart that Mrs. Dornell told him that the girl had not accompanied her.

It was around one in the morning when Mrs. Dornell arrived at Falls Park. A double blow awaited her there. Betty had not shown up; her flight had gone elsewhere, and her grieving mother suspected where she had gone. She went up to her husband's bedside, where, to her distress, she discovered that the doctor had given up all hope. The Squire was fading, and his extreme weakness had nearly altered his personality, except for the fact that his old stubbornness kept him from wanting to see a pastor. He cried at the slightest word and sobbed when he saw his wife. He asked for Betty, and with a heavy heart, Mrs. Dornell informed him that the girl hadn’t come with her.

'He is not keeping her away?'

'He's not cutting her off?'

'No, no. He is going back-he is not coming to her for some time.'

'No, no. He is leaving - he isn't going to see her for a while.'

'Then what is detaining her-cruel, neglectful maid!'

'Then what is holding her back—cruel, neglectful maid!'

'No, no, Thomas; she is- She could not come.'

'No, no, Thomas; she can't- She wasn't able to come.'

'How's that?'

'How's that going?'

Somehow the solemnity of these last moments of his gave him inquisitorial power, and the too cold wife could not conceal from him the flight which had taken place from King's-Hintock that night.

Somehow, the seriousness of his final moments gave him a kind of investigative power, and his emotionally distant wife couldn’t hide from him the escape that had happened from King's-Hintock that night.

To her amazement, the effect upon him was electrical.

To her surprise, the effect on him was electric.

'What-Betty-a trump after all? Hurrah! She's her father's own maid! She's game! She knew he was her father's own choice! She vowed that my man should win! Well done, Bet!-haw! haw! Hurrah!'

He had raised himself in bed by starts as he spoke, and now fell back exhausted. He never uttered another word, and died before the dawn. People said there had not been such an ungenteel death in a good county family for years.

He sat up in bed several times while he spoke, and then fell back, worn out. He didn’t say another word and passed away before dawn. People said that such an unrefined death in a respectable family hadn’t happened in years.

Now I will go back to the time of Betty's riding off on the pillion behind her lover. They left the park by an obscure gate to the east, and presently found themselves in the lonely and solitary length of the old Roman road now called Long-Ash Lane.

Now I will return to the time when Betty rode off on the back of her lover's bike. They exited the park through a hidden gate to the east and soon found themselves on the quiet stretch of the old Roman road now known as Long-Ash Lane.

By this time they were rather alarmed at their own performance, for they were both young and inexperienced. Hence they proceeded almost in silence till they came to a mean roadside inn which was not yet closed; when Betty, who had held on to him with much misgiving all this while, felt dreadfully unwell, and said she thought she would like to get down.

By this point, they were quite worried about how they were doing, since they were both young and inexperienced. So, they continued almost in silence until they reached a shabby roadside inn that was still open; at which point, Betty, who had been holding onto him with a lot of concern, suddenly felt really unwell and said she thought she wanted to get out.

They accordingly dismounted from the jaded animal that had brought them, and were shown into a small dark parlour, where they stood side by side awkwardly, like the fugitives they were. A light was brought, and when they were left alone Betty threw off the cloak which had enveloped her. No sooner did young Phelipson see her face than he uttered an alarmed exclamation.

They got off the tired horse that had carried them and were shown into a small, dark living room, where they stood next to each other awkwardly, just like the runaways they were. A light was brought in, and when they were left alone, Betty took off the cloak that had covered her. As soon as young Phelipson saw her face, he shouted in alarm.

'Why, Lord, Lord, you are sickening for the small-pox!' he cried.

'Why, Lord, Lord, you're coming down with smallpox!' he exclaimed.

'Oh-I forgot!' faltered Betty. And then she informed him that, on hearing of her husband's approach the week before, in a desperate attempt to keep him from her side, she had tried to imbibe the infection-an act which till this moment she had supposed to have been ineffectual, imagining her feverishness to be the result of her excitement.

'Oh, I forgot!' Betty said hesitantly. Then she told him that, upon hearing her husband was on his way the week before, she had desperately tried to catch the illness to keep him away from her. She thought that her efforts had failed, believing her feverish feeling was just due to her excitement.

The effect of this discovery upon young Phelipson was overwhelming. Better-seasoned men than he would not have been proof against it, and he was only a little over her own age. 'And you've been holding on to me!' he said. 'And suppose you get worse, and we both have it, what shall we do? Won't you be a fright in a month or two, poor, poor Betty!'

The impact of this discovery on young Phelipson was intense. Experienced men would have struggled to handle it, and he was only slightly older than her. 'And you’ve been hiding this from me!' he said. 'What if you get worse, and we both end up sick? What will we do? You’re going to look terrible in a month or two, poor, poor Betty!'

In his horror he attempted to laugh, but the laugh ended in a weakly giggle. She was more woman than girl by this time, and realized his feeling.

In his shock, he tried to laugh, but it turned into a feeble giggle. By this point, she was more woman than girl and could tell how he felt.

'What-in trying to keep off him, I keep off you?' she said miserably. 'Do you hate me because I am going to be ugly and ill?'

'What—by trying to stay away from him, am I staying away from you?' she said sadly. 'Do you hate me because I'm going to be ugly and sick?'

'Oh-no, no!' he said soothingly. 'But I-I am thinking if it is quite right for us to do this. You see, dear Betty, if you was not married it would be different. You are not in honour married to him we've often said; still you are his by law, and you can't be mine whilst he's alive. And with this terrible sickness coming on, perhaps you had better let me take you back, and-climb in at the window again.'

'Oh no, no!' he said gently. 'But I'm just thinking if this is really the right thing for us to do. You see, dear Betty, if you weren't married, it would be different. We've often said that you’re not truly married to him; still, legally you belong to him, and you can’t be mine while he's alive. And with this terrible sickness approaching, maybe it would be better if I took you back and helped you climb in through the window again.'

'Is this your love?' said Betty reproachfully. 'Oh, if you was sickening for the plague itself, and going to be as ugly as the Ooser in the church-vestry, I wouldn't-'

'Is this your idea of love?' Betty said with disappointment. 'Oh, if you were actually getting sick with the plague and were going to look as bad as the Ooser in the church vestry, I wouldn't—'

'No, no, you mistake, upon my soul!'

'No, no, you're mistaken, I swear!'

But Betty with a swollen heart had rewrapped herself and gone out of the door. The horse was still standing there. She mounted by the help of the upping-stock, and when he had followed her she said, 'Do not come near me, Charley; but please lead the horse, so that if you've not caught anything already you'll not catch it going back. After all, what keeps off you may keep off him. Now onward.'

But Betty, feeling overwhelmed, had wrapped herself up and stepped out the door. The horse was still there. She climbed on with the help of the mounting block, and when he joined her, she said, "Stay away from me, Charley; but please lead the horse so that if you haven't scared anything off already, you won't scare it away on the way back. After all, what keeps you away might keep him away too. Now let's go."

He did not resist her command, and back they went by the way they had come, Betty shedding bitter tears at the retribution she had already brought upon herself; for though she had reproached Phelipson, she was staunch enough not to blame him in her secret heart for showing that his love was only skin-deep. The horse was stopped in the plantation, and they walked silently to the lawn, reaching the bushes wherein the ladder still lay.

He didn’t argue with her order, and they retraced their steps back the way they had come, with Betty crying bitterly over the consequences she had already brought on herself; even though she had criticized Phelipson, she was strong enough not to secretly blame him for proving that his love was only superficial. They stopped the horse in the grove and walked quietly to the lawn, arriving at the bushes where the ladder was still lying.

'Will you put it up for me?' she asked mournfully.

"Will you hang it up for me?" she asked sadly.

He re-erected the ladder without a word; but when she approached to ascend he said, 'Good-bye, Betty!'

He set the ladder back up without saying anything; but when she came closer to climb, he said, 'Goodbye, Betty!'

'Good-bye!' said she; and involuntarily turned her face towards his. He hung back from imprinting the expected kiss: at which Betty started as if she had received a poignant wound. She moved away so suddenly that he hardly had time to follow her up the ladder to prevent her falling.

'Goodbye!' she said, and instinctively turned her face toward him. He hesitated to give the expected kiss, which made Betty flinch as if she had been hurt. She moved away so quickly that he barely had time to follow her up the ladder to stop her from falling.

'Tell your mother to get the doctor at once!' he said anxiously.

"Tell your mom to get the doctor right away!" he said nervously.

She stepped in without looking behind; he descended, withdrew the ladder, and went away.

She walked in without glancing back; he came down, took away the ladder, and left.

Alone in her chamber, Betty flung herself upon her face on the bed, and burst into shaking sobs. Yet she would not admit to herself that her lover's conduct was unreasonable; only that her rash act of the previous week had been wrong. No one had heard her enter, and she was too worn out, in body and mind, to think or care about medical aid. In an hour or so she felt yet more unwell, positively ill; and nobody coming to her at the usual bedtime, she looked towards the door. Marks of the lock having been forced were visible, and this made her chary of summoning a servant. She opened the door cautiously and sallied forth downstairs.

Alone in her room, Betty threw herself down on the bed and started shaking with sobs. Still, she wouldn’t allow herself to believe that her lover's behavior was unreasonable; she just recognized that her impulsive action from the week before had been a mistake. No one had noticed her come in, and she was too exhausted, both physically and mentally, to think about or seek medical help. After about an hour, she felt even worse, genuinely ill; and since no one came to check on her at the usual bedtime, she glanced at the door. She noticed signs that the lock had been forced, which made her hesitant to call for a servant. She opened the door carefully and headed downstairs.

In the dining-parlour, as it was called, the now sick and sorry Betty was startled to see at that late hour not her mother, but a man sitting, calmly finishing his supper. There was no servant in the room. He turned, and she recognized her husband.

In the dining room, as it was called, the now sick and sorry Betty was surprised to see at that late hour not her mother, but a man sitting there, calmly finishing his dinner. There was no servant in the room. He turned, and she recognized her husband.

'Where's my mamma?' she demanded without preface.

'Where's my mom?' she asked without any introduction.

'Gone to your father's. Is that-' He stopped, aghast.

'Gone to your dad's. Is that-' He stopped, shocked.

'Yes, sir. This spotted object is your wife! I've done it because I don't want you to come near me!'

'Yes, sir. This spotted thing is your wife! I did it because I don’t want you to get close to me!'

He was sixteen years her senior; old enough to be compassionate. 'My poor child, you must get to bed directly! Don't be afraid of me-I'll carry you upstairs, and send for a doctor instantly.'

He was sixteen years older than her; old enough to be kind. 'My poor child, you need to go to bed right now! Don’t be scared of me—I’ll carry you upstairs and call for a doctor right away.'

'Ah, you don't know what I am!' she cried. 'I had a lover once; but now he's gone! 'Twasn't I who deserted him. He has deserted me; because I am ill he wouldn't kiss me, though I wanted him to!'

'Oh, you don't know what I am!' she exclaimed. 'I had a boyfriend once; but now he's gone! It wasn't me who left him. He left me; because I’m sick he wouldn’t kiss me, even though I wanted him to!'

'Wouldn't he? Then he was a very poor slack-twisted sort of fellow. Betty, I've never kissed you since you stood beside me as my little wife, twelve years and a half old! May I kiss you now?'

'Wouldn't he? Then he was a really poor, spineless kind of guy. Betty, I've never kissed you since you stood next to me as my little wife, twelve and a half years old! Can I kiss you now?'

Though Betty by no means desired his kisses, she had enough of the spirit of Cunigonde in Schiller's ballad to test his daring. 'If you have courage to venture, yes sir!' said she. 'But you may die for it, mind!'

Though Betty definitely didn't want his kisses, she had enough of Cunigonde's boldness from Schiller's ballad to challenge him. 'If you have the guts to try, then go ahead, sir!' she said. 'But be careful, you might pay for it!'

He came up to her and imprinted a deliberate kiss full upon her mouth, saying, 'May many others follow!'

He approached her and placed a purposeful kiss on her lips, saying, 'Hope many more come after this!'

She shook her head, and hastily withdrew, though secretly pleased at his hardihood. The excitement had supported her for the few minutes she had passed in his presence, and she could hardly drag herself back to her room. Her husband summoned the servants, and, sending them to her assistance, went off himself for a doctor.

She shook her head and quickly stepped back, though she was secretly impressed by his boldness. The thrill had kept her energized during the brief time she spent with him, and she could barely make herself return to her room. Her husband called for the servants and sent them to help her while he went off to find a doctor.

The next morning Reynard waited at the Court till he had learnt from the medical man that Betty's attack promised to be a very light one-or, as it was expressed, 'very fine'; and in taking his leave sent up a note to her:

The next morning, Reynard waited at the Court until he heard from the doctor that Betty's condition was expected to be very mild—or, as it was put, 'very fine'; and as he was leaving, he sent her a note:

'Now I must be Gone. I promised your Mother I would not see You yet, and she may be anger'd if she finds me here. Promise to see me as Soon as you are well?'

'Now I have to go. I promised your mom I wouldn’t see you yet, and she might get upset if she finds me here. Promise to meet me as soon as you’re better?'

He was of all men then living one of the best able to cope with such an untimely situation as this. A contriving, sagacious, gentle-mannered man, a philosopher who saw that the only constant attribute of life is change, he held that, as long as she lives, there is nothing finite in the most impassioned attitude a woman may take up. In twelve months his girl-wife's recent infatuation might be as distasteful to her mind as it was now to his own. In a few years her very flesh would change-so said the scientific;-her spirit, so much more ephemeral, was capable of changing in one. Betty was his, and it became a mere question of means how to effect that change.

He was one of the best equipped to handle such an unexpected situation as this. A clever, wise, and gentle man, a philosopher who understood that the only constant thing in life is change, he believed that as long as she lived, there is nothing fixed in the most passionate stance a woman might take. In twelve months, his young wife's recent obsession could be as unappealing to her as it was now to him. In a few years, her very body would change—so said the scientists; her spirit, which is much more fleeting, could change even sooner. Betty was his, and it became a matter of means to make that change happen.

During the day Mrs. Dornell, having closed her husband's eyes, returned to the Court. She was truly relieved to find Betty there, even though on a bed of sickness. The disease ran its course, and in due time Betty became convalescent, without having suffered deeply for her rashness, one little speck beneath her ear, and one beneath her chin, being all the marks she retained.

During the day, Mrs. Dornell, having closed her husband’s eyes, returned to the Court. She was genuinely relieved to find Betty there, even though she was sick in bed. The illness ran its course, and eventually, Betty started to recover, having not suffered greatly for her impulsiveness; just two small spots, one under her ear and one under her chin, were all the marks she had left.

The Squire's body was not brought back to King's-Hintock. Where he was born, and where he had lived before wedding his Sue, there he had wished to be buried. No sooner had she lost him than Mrs. Dornell, like certain other wives, though she had never shown any great affection for him while he lived, awoke suddenly to his many virtues, and zealously embraced his opinion about delaying Betty's union with her husband, which she had formerly combated strenuously. 'Poor man! how right he was, and how wrong was I!' Eighteen was certainly the lowest age at which Mr. Reynard should claim her child-nay, it was too low! Far too low!

The Squire's body wasn't taken back to King's-Hintock. Where he was born and where he had lived before marrying Sue, that's where he wanted to be buried. No sooner had she lost him than Mrs. Dornell, like some other wives, although she had never shown him much affection while he was alive, suddenly realized his many virtues and eagerly supported his opinion about delaying Betty's marriage to her husband, which she had previously fought against. "Poor man! How right he was, and how wrong I was!" Eighteen was definitely the youngest age at which Mr. Reynard should claim her child—no, it was too young! Way too young!

So desirous was she of honouring her lamented husband's sentiments in this respect, that she wrote to her son-in-law suggesting that, partly on account of Betty's sorrow for her father's loss, and out of consideration for his known wishes for delay, Betty should not be taken from her till her nineteenth birthday.

So eager was she to honor her late husband's wishes that she wrote to her son-in-law suggesting that, partly because of Betty's grief over her father's death, and considering his well-known desire for a delay, Betty should not be taken away from her until her nineteenth birthday.

However much or little Stephen Reynard might have been to blame in his marriage, the patient man now almost deserved to be pitied. First Betty's skittishness; now her mother's remorseful volte-face: it was enough to exasperate anybody; and he wrote to the widow in a tone which led to a little coolness between those hitherto firm friends. However, knowing that he had a wife not to claim but to win, and that young Phelipson had been packed off to sea by his parents, Stephen was complaisant to a degree, returning to London, and holding quite aloof from Betty and her mother, who remained for the present in the country. In town he had a mild visitation of the distemper he had taken from Betty, and in writing to her he took care not to dwell upon its mildness. It was now that Betty began to pity him for what she had inflicted upon him by the kiss, and her correspondence acquired a distinct flavour of kindness thenceforward.

No matter how much blame Stephen Reynard might bear for his marriage, the patient man now really deserved pity. First, there was Betty's nervousness; now, her mother's regretful change of heart: it was enough to frustrate anyone. He wrote to the widow in a way that caused a bit of tension between these once-close friends. However, knowing he had a wife to win over rather than claim, and that young Phelipson had been sent away to sea by his parents, Stephen was remarkably accommodating, returning to London and keeping his distance from Betty and her mother, who stayed in the countryside for the time being. In the city, he experienced a mild case of the illness he had caught from Betty, and when he wrote to her, he made sure not to emphasize how mild it was. It was then that Betty began to feel sorry for what she had caused him with that kiss, and her letters took on a noticeably kinder tone from that point on.

Owing to his rebuffs, Reynard had grown to be truly in love with Betty in his mild, placid, durable way-in that way which perhaps, upon the whole, tends most generally to the woman's comfort under the institution of marriage, if not particularly to her ecstasy. Mrs. Dornell's exaggeration of her husband's wish for delay in their living together was inconvenient, but he would not openly infringe it. He wrote tenderly to Betty, and soon announced that he had a little surprise in store for her. The secret was that the King had been graciously pleased to inform him privately, through a relation, that His Majesty was about to offer him a Barony. Would she like the title to be Ivell? Moreover, he had reason for knowing that in a few years the dignity would be raised to that of an Earl, for which creation he thought the title of Wessex would be eminently suitable, considering the position of much of their property. As Lady Ivell, therefore, and future Countess of Wessex, he should beg leave to offer her his heart a third time.

Due to his rejections, Reynard had truly fallen in love with Betty in his gentle, calm, and steady way—in a manner that perhaps generally tends to provide comfort for women in marriage, even if it doesn't specifically lead to their joy. Mrs. Dornell's exaggeration of her husband's request to delay their living together was inconvenient, but he wouldn't openly challenge it. He wrote affectionately to Betty and soon shared that he had a little surprise for her. The secret was that the King had graciously informed him, through a relative, that His Majesty was about to offer him a Barony. Would she like the title to be Ivell? Furthermore, he had reason to believe that in a few years, the honor would be elevated to that of an Earl, for which he thought the title of Wessex would be most fitting, given the location of much of their property. So, as Lady Ivell and future Countess of Wessex, he would like to offer her his heart for the third time.

He did not add, as he might have added, how greatly the consideration of the enormous estates at King's-Hintock and elsewhere which Betty would inherit, and her children after her, had conduced to this desirable honour.

He didn't mention, as he could have, how much the thought of the huge estates at King's-Hintock and elsewhere that Betty would inherit, and her children after her, had contributed to this coveted honor.

Whether the impending titles had really any effect upon Betty's regard for him I cannot state, for she was one of those close characters who never let their minds be known upon anything. That such honour was absolutely unexpected by her from such a quarter is, however, certain; and she could not deny that Stephen had shown her kindness, forbearance, even magnanimity; had forgiven her for an errant passion which he might with some reason have denounced, notwithstanding her cruel position as a child entrapped into marriage ere able to understand its bearings.

Whether the upcoming titles actually affected Betty's feelings for him, I can’t say, because she was one of those reserved people who never revealed what she was thinking. However, it’s clear that she didn’t expect such honor from him, and she couldn’t deny that Stephen had been kind, patient, and even generous toward her. He had forgiven her for a reckless passion that he could have reasonably criticized, despite her difficult situation as a child who was trapped into marriage before she could fully understand it.

Her mother, in her grief and remorse for the loveless life she had led with her rough, though open-hearted, husband, made now a creed of his merest whim; and continued to insist that, out of respect to his known desire, her son-in-law should not reside with Betty till the girl's father had been dead a year at least, at which time the girl would still be under nineteen. Letters must suffice for Stephen till then.

Her mother, feeling grief and regret for the loveless life she had lived with her rough but kind-hearted husband, now took even his slightest wishes as a guideline. She insisted that, out of respect for his well-known wishes, her son-in-law should not live with Betty until at least a year after her father's death, meaning the girl would still be under nineteen at that point. Letters would have to be enough for Stephen until then.

'It is rather long for him to wait,' Betty hesitatingly said one day.

"It’s kind of a long wait for him," Betty said hesitantly one day.

'What!' said her mother. 'From you? not to respect your dear father-'

'What!' her mother exclaimed. 'From you? Not to respect your dear father—'

'Of course it is quite proper,' said Betty hastily. 'I don't gainsay it. I was but thinking that-that-'

'Of course, it's completely fine,' Betty said quickly. 'I’m not denying it. I was just thinking that—that—'

In the long slow months of the stipulated interval her mother tended and trained Betty carefully for her duties. Fully awake now to the many virtues of her dear departed one, she, among other acts of pious devotion to his memory, rebuilt the church of King's-Hintock village, and established valuable charities in all the villages of that name, as far as to Little-Hintock, several miles eastward.

In the long, slow months of the designated period, her mother took care of and trained Betty thoroughly for her responsibilities. Now fully aware of the many qualities of her beloved late husband, she, among other acts of devotion to his memory, rebuilt the church in King's-Hintock village and set up valuable charities in all the villages with that name, extending as far as Little-Hintock, several miles to the east.

In superintending these works, particularly that of the church-building, her daughter Betty was her constant companion, and the incidents of their execution were doubtless not without a soothing effect upon the young creature's heart. She had sprung from girl to woman by a sudden bound, and few would have recognized in the thoughtful face of Betty now the same person who, the year before, had seemed to have absolutely no idea whatever of responsibility, moral or other. Time passed thus till the Squire had been nearly a year in his vault; and Mrs. Dornell was duly asked by letter by the patient Reynard if she were willing for him to come soon. He did not wish to take Betty away if her mother's sense of loneliness would be too great, but would willingly live at King's- Hintock awhile with them.

In overseeing these projects, especially the church-building, her daughter Betty was always by her side, and the experiences they went through surely had a comforting effect on the young girl’s heart. She had quickly transitioned from girlhood to womanhood, and few would recognize in Betty’s now thoughtful face the same person who just a year prior seemed completely unaware of any responsibilities, moral or otherwise. Time went on until the Squire had been in his vault for nearly a year; then Mrs. Dornell received a letter from the patient Reynard asking if she would be okay with him coming soon. He didn’t want to take Betty away if it would leave her mother feeling too lonely but was happy to stay at King’s Hintock with them for a while.

Before the widow had replied to this communication, she one day happened to observe Betty walking on the south terrace in the full sunlight, without hat or mantle, and was struck by her child's figure. Mrs. Dornell called her in, and said suddenly: 'Have you seen your husband since the time of your poor father's death?'

Before the widow could respond to this message, she happened to see Betty walking on the south terrace in the bright sunlight, without a hat or coat, and was impressed by her child's figure. Mrs. Dornell called her in and suddenly asked, "Have you seen your husband since your poor father's death?"

'Well-yes, mamma,' says Betty, colouring.

'Well, yes, Mom,' says Betty, blushing.

'What-against my wishes and those of your dear father! I am shocked at your disobedience!'

'What—against my wishes and those of your dear father! I am shocked by your disobedience!'

'But my father said eighteen, ma'am, and you made it much longer-'

'But my dad said eighteen, ma'am, and you made it way longer-'

'Why, of course-out of consideration for you! When have ye seen him?'

'Of course—it's for you! When did you last see him?'

'Well,' stammered Betty, 'in the course of his letters to me he said that I belonged to him, and if nobody knew that we met it would make no difference. And that I need not hurt your feelings by telling you.'

'Well,' stammered Betty, 'in his letters to me, he said that I was his, and if nobody knew we were meeting, it wouldn't matter. And that I shouldn't hurt your feelings by telling you.'

'Well?'

'So?'

'So I went to Casterbridge that time you went to London about five months ago-'

'So I went to Casterbridge the time you went to London about five months ago-'

'And met him there? When did you come back?'

'And you saw him there? When did you return?'

'Dear mamma, it grew very late, and he said it was safer not to go back till next day, as the roads were bad; and as you were away from home-'

'Dear mom, it got really late, and he said it was safer not to go back until tomorrow since the roads were bad; and since you were away from home-'

'I don't want to hear any more! This is your respect for your father's memory,' groaned the widow. 'When did you meet him again?'

'I don't want to hear any more! Is this how you honor your father's memory?' the widow groaned. 'When did you see him again?'

'Oh-not for more than a fortnight.'

'Oh—not for more than two weeks.'

'A fortnight! How many times have ye seen him altogether?'

'A fortnight! How many times have you seen him in total?'

'I'm sure, mamma, I've not seen him altogether a dozen times.'

'I'm sure, Mom, I've only seen him maybe a dozen times.'

'A dozen! And eighteen and a half years old barely!'

'A dozen! And just eighteen and a half years old barely!'

'Twice we met by accident,' pleaded Betty. 'Once at Abbot's-Cernel, and another time at the Red Lion, Melchester.'

'We met by chance twice,' Betty insisted. 'Once at Abbot's-Cernel, and another time at the Red Lion in Melchester.'

'O thou deceitful girl!' cried Mrs. Dornell. 'An accident took you to the Red Lion whilst I was staying at the White Hart! I remember-you came in at twelve o'clock at night and said you'd been to see the cathedral by the light o' the moon!'

'O you deceitful girl!' cried Mrs. Dornell. 'An accident took you to the Red Lion while I was staying at the White Hart! I remember—you came in at midnight and said you'd been to see the cathedral by moonlight!'

'My ever-honoured mamma, so I had! I only went to the Red Lion with him afterwards.'

'My dear mom, that's right! I only went to the Red Lion with him afterwards.'

'Oh Betty, Betty! That my child should have deceived me even in my widowed days!'

'Oh Betty, Betty! That my child would deceive me even in my widowhood!'

'But, my dearest mamma, you made me marry him!' says Betty with spirit, 'and of course I've to obey him more than you now!'

'But, my dearest mom, you made me marry him!' says Betty with spirit, 'and of course I have to obey him more than you now!'

Mrs. Dornell sighed. 'All I have to say is, that you'd better get your husband to join you as soon as possible,' she remarked. 'To go on playing the maiden like this-I'm ashamed to see you!'

Mrs. Dornell sighed. "All I'm saying is, you'd better get your husband to join you as soon as possible," she said. "Continuing to act single like this—I'm embarrassed to see you!"

She wrote instantly to Stephen Reynard: 'I wash my hands of the whole matter as between you two; though I should advise you to openly join each other as soon as you can-if you wish to avoid scandal.'

She immediately wrote to Stephen Reynard: 'I'm done with the whole situation between you two; however, I suggest you openly come together as soon as possible if you want to avoid any scandal.'

He came, though not till the promised title had been granted, and he could call Betty archly 'My Lady.'

He arrived, but only after the promised title had been given, and he could teasingly call Betty 'My Lady.'

People said in after years that she and her husband were very happy. However that may be, they had a numerous family; and she became in due course first Countess of Wessex, as he had foretold.

People said later on that she and her husband were very happy. However that may be, they had a large family, and she eventually became the first Countess of Wessex, just as he had predicted.

The little white frock in which she had been married to him at the tender age of twelve was carefully preserved among the relics at King's- Hintock Court, where it may still be seen by the curious-a yellowing, pathetic testimony to the small count taken of the happiness of an innocent child in the social strategy of those days, which might have led, but providentially did not lead, to great unhappiness.

The little white dress she wore when she married him at the young age of twelve is carefully kept among the mementos at King's-Hintock Court, where it can still be seen by those interested—a yellowing, sad reminder of how little attention was paid to the happiness of an innocent child in the social norms of that time, which could have led, but thankfully did not lead, to great unhappiness.

When the Earl died Betty wrote him an epitaph, in which she described him as the best of husbands, fathers, and friends, and called herself his disconsolate widow.

When the Earl died, Betty wrote an epitaph for him, describing him as the best husband, father, and friend, and referred to herself as his heartbroken widow.

Such is woman; or rather (not to give offence by so sweeping an assertion), such was Betty Dornell.

Such is a woman; or rather (to avoid offending with such a broad statement), such was Betty Dornell.

It was at a meeting of one of the Wessex Field and Antiquarian Clubs that the foregoing story, partly told, partly read from a manuscript, was made to do duty for the regulation papers on deformed butterflies, fossil ox-horns, prehistoric dung-mixens, and such like, that usually occupied the more serious attention of the members.

It was at a meeting of one of the Wessex Field and Antiquarian Clubs that the story above, shared partly through storytelling and partly by reading from a manuscript, was used as a substitute for the usual discussions about deformed butterflies, fossilized ox-horns, prehistoric dung heaps, and similar topics that typically grabbed the members' serious attention.

This Club was of an inclusive and intersocial character; to a degree, indeed, remarkable for the part of England in which it had its being-dear, delightful Wessex, whose statuesque dynasties are even now only just beginning to feel the shaking of the new and strange spirit without, like that which entered the lonely valley of Ezekiel's vision and made the dry bones move: where the honest squires, tradesmen, parsons, clerks, and people still praise the Lord with one voice for His best of all possible worlds.

This club had an inclusive and social vibe; it was surprisingly remarkable for the region of England it was in—lovely Wessex, where the strong traditions are just starting to feel the impact of a new and unusual spirit from outside, similar to the one that came into Ezekiel's vision and made the dry bones come to life. Here, the honest landowners, businesspeople, clergymen, office workers, and everyone else still praises the Lord together for creating the best of all possible worlds.

The present meeting, which was to extend over two days, had opened its proceedings at the museum of the town whose buildings and environs were to be visited by the members. Lunch had ended, and the afternoon excursion had been about to be undertaken, when the rain came down in an obstinate spatter, which revealed no sign of cessation. As the members waited they grew chilly, although it was only autumn, and a fire was lighted, which threw a cheerful shine upon the varnished skulls, urns, penates, tessera, costumes, coats of mail, weapons, and missals, animated the fossilized ichthyosaurus and iguanodon; while the dead eyes of the stuffed birds-those never-absent familiars in such collections, though murdered to extinction out of doors-flashed as they had flashed to the rising sun above the neighbouring moors on the fatal morning when the trigger was pulled which ended their little flight. It was then that the historian produced his manuscript, which he had prepared, he said, with a view to publication. His delivery of the story having concluded as aforesaid, the speaker expressed his hope that the constraint of the weather, and the paucity of more scientific papers, would excuse any inappropriateness in his subject.

The meeting, set to last two days, had kicked off at the town museum, where members were supposed to visit the buildings and surroundings. Lunch was over, and they were about to head out for the afternoon excursion when the rain started pouring down stubbornly, showing no signs of stopping. As they waited, the members began to feel chilly even though it was just autumn, so a fire was lit, casting a warm glow on the polished skulls, urns, household gods, tiles, costumes, suits of armor, weapons, and missals. It animated the fossilized ichthyosaurus and iguanodon, while the lifeless eyes of the stuffed birds—those ever-present companions in such collections, though driven to extinction outside—glimmered like they did on the morning the trigger was pulled, cutting short their little flight. It was at that moment that the historian brought out his manuscript, which he said he had prepared for publication. After finishing his tale, he hoped that the bad weather and the lack of more scientific papers would excuse any shortcomings in his topic.

Several members observed that a storm-bound club could not presume to be selective, and they were all very much obliged to him for such a curious chapter from the domestic histories of the county.

Several members noticed that a club stuck because of the storm couldn't really afford to be selective, and they were all very grateful to him for such an interesting chapter from the local histories of the county.

The President looked gloomily from the window at the descending rain, and broke a short silence by saying that though the Club had met, there seemed little probability of its being able to visit the objects of interest set down among the agenda.

The President looked sadly out the window at the falling rain and broke a brief silence by saying that even though the Club had gathered, it seemed unlikely that they would be able to visit the points of interest listed on the agenda.

The Treasurer observed that they had at least a roof over their heads; and they had also a second day before them.

The Treasurer noted that they at least had a roof over their heads, and they also had another day ahead of them.

A sentimental member, leaning back in his chair, declared that he was in no hurry to go out, and that nothing would please him so much as another county story, with or without manuscript.

A sentimental member, leaning back in his chair, declared that he was in no rush to go out, and that nothing would make him happier than another county story, with or without a manuscript.

The Colonel added that the subject should be a lady, like the former, to which a gentleman known as the Spark said 'Hear, hear!'

The Colonel added that the subject should be a lady, like the previous one, to which a gentleman known as the Spark said, "Hear, hear!"

Though these had spoken in jest, a rural dean who was present observed blandly that there was no lack of materials. Many, indeed, were the legends and traditions of gentle and noble dames, renowned in times past in that part of England, whose actions and passions were now, but for men's memories, buried under the brief inscription on a tomb or an entry of dates in a dry pedigree.

Though they were joking, a rural dean who was there calmly pointed out that there was no shortage of stories. In fact, there were many legends and traditions of gentle and noble ladies, famous in that region of England long ago, whose deeds and emotions were now, except for the memories of men, buried beneath a simple inscription on a tomb or a listing of dates in a dry family tree.

Another member, an old surgeon, a somewhat grim though sociable personage, was quite of the speaker's opinion, and felt quite sure that the memory of the reverend gentleman must abound with such curious tales of fair dames, of their loves and hates, their joys and their misfortunes, their beauty and their fate.

Another member, an older surgeon, a bit serious but friendly, completely agreed with the speaker and was certain that the reverend gentleman's memories were filled with interesting stories about noble ladies, their loves and hates, their joys and misfortunes, their beauty and their destinies.

The parson, a trifle confused, retorted that their friend the surgeon, the son of a surgeon, seemed to him, as a man who had seen much and heard more during the long course of his own and his father's practice, the member of all others most likely to be acquainted with such lore.

The parson, a bit confused, replied that their friend the surgeon, who was the son of a surgeon, seemed to him, as someone who had seen a lot and heard even more during his and his father's long careers, to be the one most likely to know about such things.

The bookworm, the Colonel, the historian, the Vice-president, the churchwarden, the two curates, the gentleman-tradesman, the sentimental member, the crimson maltster, the quiet gentleman, the man of family, the Spark, and several others, quite agreed, and begged that he would recall something of the kind. The old surgeon said that, though a meeting of the Mid-Wessex Field and Antiquarian Club was the last place at which he should have expected to be called upon in this way, he had no objection; and the parson said he would come next. The surgeon then reflected, and decided to relate the history of a lady named Barbara, who lived towards the end of the last century, apologizing for his tale as being perhaps a little too professional. The crimson maltster winked to the Spark at hearing the nature of the apology, and the surgeon began.

The bookworm, the Colonel, the historian, the Vice President, the churchwarden, the two curates, the gentleman-tradesman, the sentimental member, the crimson maltster, the quiet gentleman, the family man, the Spark, and several others all agreed and asked him to share something like that again. The old surgeon mentioned that, although he never expected to be put on the spot at a meeting of the Mid-Wessex Field and Antiquarian Club, he didn't mind; and the parson said he would go next. The surgeon then thought for a moment and decided to tell the story of a woman named Barbara, who lived toward the end of the last century, apologizing for his story being a bit too professional. The crimson maltster winked at the Spark when he heard the nature of the apology, and the surgeon began.

DAME THE SECOND-BARBARA OF THE HOUSE OF GREBE

By the Old Surgeon

It was apparently an idea, rather than a passion, that inspired Lord Uplandtowers' resolve to win her. Nobody ever knew when he formed it, or whence he got his assurance of success in the face of her manifest dislike of him. Possibly not until after that first important act of her life which I shall presently mention. His matured and cynical doggedness at the age of nineteen, when impulse mostly rules calculation, was remarkable, and might have owed its existence as much to his succession to the earldom and its accompanying local honours in childhood, as to the family character; an elevation which jerked him into maturity, so to speak, without his having known adolescence. He had only reached his twelfth year when his father, the fourth Earl, died, after a course of the Bath waters.

It was clearly an idea, rather than a passion, that motivated Lord Uplandtowers to pursue her. No one ever knew when he came up with it, or where he got his confidence in succeeding despite her obvious dislike for him. Perhaps it wasn’t until after the first significant event in her life, which I will mention shortly. His developed and cynical stubbornness at the age of nineteen, when impulses usually dominate over logic, was notable and might have been influenced as much by his inheritance of the earldom and its associated local honors in childhood as by the family legacy; a sudden leap into maturity, so to speak, without experiencing adolescence. He was only twelve when his father, the fourth Earl, passed away after taking the Bath waters.

Nevertheless, the family character had a great deal to do with it. Determination was hereditary in the bearers of that escutcheon; sometimes for good, sometimes for evil.

Nevertheless, the family background played a significant role in it. Determination was passed down among the holders of that coat of arms; occasionally for good, occasionally for bad.

The seats of the two families were about ten miles apart, the way between them lying along the now old, then new, turnpike-road connecting Havenpool and Warborne with the city of Melchester: a road which, though only a branch from what was known as the Great Western Highway, is probably, even at present, as it has been for the last hundred years, one of the finest examples of a macadamized turnpike-track that can be found in England.

The homes of the two families were about ten miles apart, connected by what was then a new turnpike road linking Havenpool and Warborne to the city of Melchester. This road, although just a branch of the Great Western Highway, is likely still one of the best examples of a paved turnpike road in England, just as it has been for the last hundred years.

The mansion of the Earl, as well as that of his neighbour, Barbara's father, stood back about a mile from the highway, with which each was connected by an ordinary drive and lodge. It was along this particular highway that the young Earl drove on a certain evening at Christmastide some twenty years before the end of the last century, to attend a ball at Chene Manor, the home of Barbara, and her parents Sir John and Lady Grebe. Sir John's was a baronetcy created a few years before the breaking out of the Civil War, and his lands were even more extensive than those of Lord Uplandtowers himself; comprising this Manor of Chene, another on the coast near, half the Hundred of Cockdene, and well- enclosed lands in several other parishes, notably Warborne and those contiguous. At this time Barbara was barely seventeen, and the ball is the first occasion on which we have any tradition of Lord Uplandtowers attempting tender relations with her; it was early enough, God knows.

The Earl's mansion, along with his neighbor's, Barbara's father, was set back about a mile from the main road, which was connected to each by a regular driveway and gatehouse. It was along this road that the young Earl drove one evening during Christmas about twenty years before the end of the last century to attend a ball at Chene Manor, the home of Barbara and her parents, Sir John and Lady Grebe. Sir John's baronetcy was established a few years before the Civil War started, and his lands were even larger than those of Lord Uplandtowers, including Chene Manor, another property on the nearby coast, half of the Hundred of Cockdene, and well-fenced lands in several other parishes, especially Warborne and those nearby. At this time, Barbara was just under seventeen, and this ball marked the first instance we know of Lord Uplandtowers trying to pursue a romantic relationship with her; it was early enough, God knows.

An intimate friend-one of the Drenkhards-is said to have dined with him that day, and Lord Uplandtowers had, for a wonder, communicated to his guest the secret design of his heart.

An intimate friend—one of the Drenkhards—is said to have had dinner with him that day, and surprisingly, Lord Uplandtowers shared his innermost intentions with his guest.

'You'll never get her-sure; you'll never get her!' this friend had said at parting. 'She's not drawn to your lordship by love: and as for thought of a good match, why, there's no more calculation in her than in a bird.'

'You'll never get her—trust me, you'll never get her!' this friend had said as they parted ways. 'She's not interested in you because of love: and when it comes to considering a good match, there's as much calculation in her as there is in a bird.'

'We'll see,' said Lord Uplandtowers impassively.

'We'll see,' said Lord Uplandtowers without showing any emotion.

He no doubt thought of his friend's forecast as he travelled along the highway in his chariot; but the sculptural repose of his profile against the vanishing daylight on his right hand would have shown his friend that the Earl's equanimity was undisturbed. He reached the solitary wayside tavern called Lornton Inn-the rendezvous of many a daring poacher for operations in the adjoining forest; and he might have observed, if he had taken the trouble, a strange post-chaise standing in the halting-space before the inn. He duly sped past it, and half-an- hour after through the little town of Warborne. Onward, a mile farther, was the house of his entertainer.

He probably thought about his friend's prediction as he drove along the highway in his carriage; but the calm look on his face against the fading light on his right would have shown his friend that the Earl was completely unbothered. He arrived at the lonely roadside tavern called Lornton Inn—the meeting place for many daring poachers working in the nearby forest; and he might have noticed, if he had bothered to look, a strange carriage parked in the space in front of the inn. He quickly passed it by, and half an hour later, he went through the small town of Warborne. Further on, a mile away, was the house of his host.

At this date it was an imposing edifice-or, rather, congeries of edifices-as extensive as the residence of the Earl himself; though far less regular. One wing showed extreme antiquity, having huge chimneys, whose substructures projected from the external walls like towers; and a kitchen of vast dimensions, in which (it was said) breakfasts had been cooked for John of Gaunt. Whilst he was yet in the forecourt he could hear the rhythm of French horns and clarionets, the favourite instruments of those days at such entertainments.

At this time, it was an impressive building—or, more accurately, a collection of buildings—that was as large as the Earl's own home, but much less orderly. One wing was very old, featuring massive chimneys that jutted out from the outside walls like towers, and there was a huge kitchen where, it was said, breakfasts had been prepared for John of Gaunt. While he was still in the courtyard, he could hear the sounds of French horns and clarinets, the popular instruments of that era at such celebrations.

Entering the long parlour, in which the dance had just been opened by Lady Grebe with a minuet-it being now seven o'clock, according to the tradition-he was received with a welcome befitting his rank, and looked round for Barbara. She was not dancing, and seemed to be preoccupied-almost, indeed, as though she had been waiting for him. Barbara at this time was a good and pretty girl, who never spoke ill of any one, and hated other pretty women the very least possible. She did not refuse him for the country-dance which followed, and soon after was his partner in a second.

Entering the spacious parlor, where Lady Grebe had just begun the dance with a minuet—it was now seven o'clock, as tradition dictated—he was greeted with a welcome appropriate to his status and looked around for Barbara. She wasn't dancing and seemed lost in thought—almost as if she had been waiting for him. At this time, Barbara was a lovely and kind girl who never spoke ill of anyone and tried to dislike other pretty women as little as possible. She accepted his invitation for the country dance that followed, and soon after, she was his partner in a second dance.

The evening wore on, and the horns and clarionets tootled merrily. Barbara evinced towards her lover neither distinct preference nor aversion; but old eyes would have seen that she pondered something. However, after supper she pleaded a headache, and disappeared. To pass the time of her absence, Lord Uplandtowers went into a little room adjoining the long gallery, where some elderly ones were sitting by the fire-for he had a phlegmatic dislike of dancing for its own sake,-and, lifting the window-curtains, he looked out of the window into the park and wood, dark now as a cavern. Some of the guests appeared to be leaving even so soon as this, two lights showing themselves as turning away from the door and sinking to nothing in the distance.

The evening went on, and the horns and clarinets played cheerfully. Barbara showed her lover neither strong preference nor dislike; however, an observant person might have noticed that she was deep in thought. After dinner, she claimed to have a headache and left the room. To pass the time while she was gone, Lord Uplandtowers went into a small room next to the long gallery, where some older guests were gathered by the fire—he had a calm disinterest in dancing for its own sake. He pulled back the window curtains and looked out into the park and woods, which were now as dark as a cave. Some guests seemed to be leaving so soon, as two lights moved away from the door and gradually faded into the distance.

His hostess put her head into the room to look for partners for the ladies, and Lord Uplandtowers came out. Lady Grebe informed him that Barbara had not returned to the ball-room: she had gone to bed in sheer necessity.

His hostess peeked into the room to find partners for the ladies, and Lord Uplandtowers stepped out. Lady Grebe told him that Barbara hadn't come back to the ballroom; she had gone to bed out of sheer necessity.

'She has been so excited over the ball all day,' her mother continued, 'that I feared she would be worn out early . . . But sure, Lord Uplandtowers, you won't be leaving yet?'

"She's been so excited about the ball all day," her mother continued, "that I worried she'd wear herself out early... But surely, Lord Uplandtowers, you won't be leaving yet?"

He said that it was near twelve o'clock, and that some had already left.

He said it was close to twelve o'clock, and that some people had already left.

'I protest nobody has gone yet,' said Lady Grebe.

'I protest that nobody has left yet,' said Lady Grebe.

To humour her he stayed till midnight, and then set out. He had made no progress in his suit; but he had assured himself that Barbara gave no other guest the preference, and nearly everybody in the neighbourhood was there.

To keep her happy, he stayed until midnight and then headed out. He hadn't made any progress in his pursuit, but he was confident that Barbara didn't prefer any other guest, and almost everyone in the neighborhood was there.

''Tis only a matter of time,' said the calm young philosopher.

"It's just a matter of time," said the calm young philosopher.

The next morning he lay till near ten o'clock, and he had only just come out upon the head of the staircase when he heard hoofs upon the gravel without; in a few moments the door had been opened, and Sir John Grebe met him in the hall, as he set foot on the lowest stair.

The next morning, he lay in bed until almost ten o'clock, and just as he reached the top of the staircase, he heard hoofbeats on the gravel outside. Moments later, the door opened, and Sir John Grebe greeted him in the hall as he stepped onto the lowest stair.

'My lord-where's Barbara-my daughter?'

'Where's Barbara, my daughter?'

Even the Earl of Uplandtowers could not repress amazement. 'What's the matter, my dear Sir John,' says he.

Even the Earl of Uplandtowers couldn't hide his amazement. "What's wrong, my dear Sir John?" he says.

The news was startling, indeed. From the Baronet's disjointed explanation Lord Uplandtowers gathered that after his own and the other guests' departure Sir John and Lady Grebe had gone to rest without seeing any more of Barbara; it being understood by them that she had retired to bed when she sent word to say that she could not join the dancers again. Before then she had told her maid that she would dispense with her services for this night; and there was evidence to show that the young lady had never lain down at all, the bed remaining unpressed. Circumstances seemed to prove that the deceitful girl had feigned indisposition to get an excuse for leaving the ball-room, and that she had left the house within ten minutes, presumably during the first dance after supper.

The news was shocking, for sure. From the Baronet's jumbled explanation, Lord Uplandtowers figured out that after he and the other guests left, Sir John and Lady Grebe had gone to rest without seeing Barbara again; they assumed she had gone to bed when she sent word that she couldn’t join the dancers anymore. Earlier, she had told her maid that she wouldn’t need her services for the night; and it was clear that the young lady never actually lay down, as the bed remained untouched. It seemed to confirm that the deceptive girl had pretended to be unwell to excuse herself from the ballroom and had left the house within ten minutes, likely during the first dance after supper.

'I saw her go,' said Lord Uplandtowers.

'I saw her leave,' said Lord Uplandtowers.

'The devil you did!' says Sir John.

'You really did it!' says Sir John.

'Yes.' And he mentioned the retreating carriage-lights, and how he was assured by Lady Grebe that no guest had departed.

'Yes.' He talked about the disappearing carriage lights and how Lady Grebe assured him that no guests had left.

'Surely that was it!' said the father. 'But she's not gone alone, d'ye know!'

'Surely that was it!' said the father. 'But she hasn't gone alone, you know!'

'Ah-who is the young man?'

'Who is the young man?'

'I can on'y guess. My worst fear is my most likely guess. I'll say no more. I thought-yet I would not believe-it possible that you was the sinner. Would that you had been! But 'tis t'other, 'tis t'other, by G- —! I must e'en up, and after 'em!'

'I can only guess. My worst fear is probably the most accurate guess. I won’t say anything more. I thought—yet I couldn’t believe—it was possible that you were the sinner. I wish you had been! But it’s the other one, it’s the other one, by God—! I must just face it and go after them!'

'Whom do you suspect?'

'Who do you suspect?'

Sir John would not give a name, and, stultified rather than agitated, Lord Uplandtowers accompanied him back to Chene. He again asked upon whom were the Baronet's suspicions directed; and the impulsive Sir John was no match for the insistence of Uplandtowers.

Sir John wouldn’t reveal a name, and, more confused than upset, Lord Uplandtowers walked with him back to Chene. He asked again who the Baronet suspected; and the impulsive Sir John was no match for Uplandtowers's persistence.

He said at length, 'I fear 'tis Edmond Willowes.'

He said after a while, "I'm afraid it's Edmond Willowes."

'Who's he?'

'Who is he?'

'A young fellow of Shottsford-Forum-a widow-woman's son,' the other told him, and explained that Willowes's father, or grandfather, was the last of the old glass-painters in that place, where (as you may know) the art lingered on when it had died out in every other part of England.

'A young guy from Shottsford-Forum, the son of a widow,' the other told him, and explained that Willowes's father or grandfather was the last of the old glass painters in that area, where (as you might know) the art survived long after it had vanished in every other part of England.

'By G—- that's bad-mighty bad!' said Lord Uplandtowers, throwing himself back in the chaise in frigid despair.

'By God—that's really bad—really bad!' said Lord Uplandtowers, throwing himself back in the chaise in icy despair.

They despatched emissaries in all directions; one by the Melchester Road, another by Shottsford-Forum, another coastwards.

They sent messengers out in all directions: one down the Melchester Road, another to Shottsford-Forum, and another towards the coast.

But the lovers had a ten-hours' start; and it was apparent that sound judgment had been exercised in choosing as their time of flight the particular night when the movements of a strange carriage would not be noticed, either in the park or on the neighbouring highway, owing to the general press of vehicles. The chaise which had been seen waiting at Lornton Inn was, no doubt, the one they had escaped in; and the pair of heads which had planned so cleverly thus far had probably contrived marriage ere now.

But the lovers had a ten-hour head start, and it was clear that they had made a smart choice by leaving on the night when the unusual carriage wouldn't attract attention, either in the park or on the nearby road, because of the heavy traffic. The carriage that was seen waiting at Lornton Inn was likely the one they escaped in; and the couple who had planned so well so far had probably already managed to get married.

The fears of her parents were realized. A letter sent by special messenger from Barbara, on the evening of that day, briefly informed them that her lover and herself were on the way to London, and before this communication reached her home they would be united as husband and wife. She had taken this extreme step because she loved her dear Edmond as she could love no other man, and because she had seen closing round her the doom of marriage with Lord Uplandtowers, unless she put that threatened fate out of possibility by doing as she had done. She had well considered the step beforehand, and was prepared to live like any other country-townsman's wife if her father repudiated her for her action.

The fears of her parents came true. A letter sent by special messenger from Barbara that evening briefly informed them that she and her lover were on their way to London, and by the time this message reached her home, they would be married. She had taken this drastic step because she loved her dear Edmond like no other man and because she knew that her chance of marrying Lord Uplandtowers was slipping away unless she acted to change her fate. She had thought carefully about her decision and was ready to live like any other country-town wife if her father disowned her for what she did.

'D—- her!' said Lord Uplandtowers, as he drove homeward that night. 'D—- her for a fool!'-which shows the kind of love he bore her.

'Damn her!' said Lord Uplandtowers, as he drove homeward that night. 'Damn her for a fool!'—which shows the kind of love he had for her.

Well; Sir John had already started in pursuit of them as a matter of duty, driving like a wild man to Melchester, and thence by the direct highway to the capital. But he soon saw that he was acting to no purpose; and by and by, discovering that the marriage had actually taken place, he forebore all attempts to unearth them in the City, and returned and sat down with his lady to digest the event as best they could.

Well, Sir John had already set off after them out of duty, speeding like a madman to Melchester, and then taking the direct route to the capital. But he quickly realized that he was getting nowhere; and eventually, upon finding out that the marriage had actually happened, he gave up all attempts to track them down in the City and returned to sit down with his wife to process the situation as best as they could.

To proceed against this Willowes for the abduction of our heiress was, possibly, in their power; yet, when they considered the now unalterable facts, they refrained from violent retribution. Some six weeks passed, during which time Barbara's parents, though they keenly felt her loss, held no communication with the truant, either for reproach or condonation. They continued to think of the disgrace she had brought upon herself; for, though the young man was an honest fellow, and the son of an honest father, the latter had died so early, and his widow had had such struggles to maintain herself; that the son was very imperfectly educated. Moreover, his blood was, as far as they knew, of no distinction whatever, whilst hers, through her mother, was compounded of the best juices of ancient baronial distillation, containing tinctures of Maundeville, and Mohun, and Syward, and Peverell, and Culliford, and Talbot, and Plantagenet, and York, and Lancaster, and God knows what besides, which it was a thousand pities to throw away.

To take action against this Willowes for kidnapping our heiress was, perhaps, within their power; yet, when they considered the now undeniable facts, they chose not to act violently. About six weeks passed, during which time Barbara's parents, though they deeply felt her absence, had no contact with the runaway, either to blame or forgive her. They kept thinking about the shame she had brought upon herself; for, although the young man was a good person and the son of a decent man, the latter had died too soon, and his widow had struggled to support herself, leaving the son poorly educated. Furthermore, as far as they knew, his background was of no significance at all, while hers, through her mother, had the finest ancestral lineage, mixed with the blood of ancient noble families—Maundeville, Mohun, Syward, Peverell, Culliford, Talbot, Plantagenet, York, Lancaster, and who knows what else—which was a tremendous shame to waste.

The father and mother sat by the fireplace that was spanned by the four- centred arch bearing the family shields on its haunches, and groaned aloud-the lady more than Sir John.

The father and mother sat by the fireplace, which had a four-centered arch supporting the family shields on its sides, and groaned loudly—the lady more than Sir John.

'To think this should have come upon us in our old age!' said he.

'Who would have thought this would happen to us in our old age!' he said.

'Speak for yourself!' she snapped through her sobs. 'I am only one-and- forty! . . . Why didn't ye ride faster and overtake 'em!'

'Speak for yourself!' she exclaimed through her tears. 'I'm only 41! . . . Why didn't you ride faster and catch up to them!'

In the meantime the young married lovers, caring no more about their blood than about ditch-water, were intensely happy-happy, that is, in the descending scale which, as we all know, Heaven in its wisdom has ordained for such rash cases; that is to say, the first week they were in the seventh heaven, the second in the sixth, the third week temperate, the fourth reflective, and so on; a lover's heart after possession being comparable to the earth in its geologic stages, as described to us sometimes by our worthy President; first a hot coal, then a warm one, then a cooling cinder, then chilly-the simile shall be pursued no further. The long and the short of it was that one day a letter, sealed with their daughter's own little seal, came into Sir John and Lady Grebe's hands; and, on opening it, they found it to contain an appeal from the young couple to Sir John to forgive them for what they had done, and they would fall on their naked knees and be most dutiful children for evermore.

In the meantime, the young newlyweds, caring about their family background as much as they would about ditch water, were incredibly happy—happy, that is, on a declining scale that, as we all know, Heaven has wisely ordained for such reckless situations. They felt on top of the world during their first week, a bit lower in the second week, moderately happy in the third, reflective in the fourth, and so on. A lover's heart after getting what it wants resembles the Earth in its geological stages, as our esteemed President sometimes describes; first a hot ember, then a warm one, then a cooling ash, and finally cold—I'll leave the metaphor there. The bottom line is that one day a letter, sealed with their daughter’s little seal, arrived in the hands of Sir John and Lady Grebe. Upon opening it, they found it contained a plea from the young couple to Sir John, asking for forgiveness for their actions, and promising to fall on their knees and be the most dutiful children forever.

Then Sir John and his lady sat down again by the fireplace with the four-centred arch, and consulted, and re-read the letter. Sir John Grebe, if the truth must be told, loved his daughter's happiness far more, poor man, than he loved his name and lineage; he recalled to his mind all her little ways, gave vent to a sigh; and, by this time acclimatized to the idea of the marriage, said that what was done could not be undone, and that he supposed they must not be too harsh with her. Perhaps Barbara and her husband were in actual need; and how could they let their only child starve?

Then Sir John and his wife sat down again by the fireplace under the four-centred arch and discussed the letter once more. To be honest, Sir John Grebe cared a lot more about his daughter's happiness than he did about his name and family legacy; he remembered all her little quirks, let out a sigh, and by now, having gotten used to the idea of the marriage, said that what was done couldn’t be undone. He figured they shouldn’t be too hard on her. Maybe Barbara and her husband really needed help; how could they let their only child go hungry?

A slight consolation had come to them in an unexpected manner. They had been credibly informed that an ancestor of plebeian Willowes was once honoured with intermarriage with a scion of the aristocracy who had gone to the dogs. In short, such is the foolishness of distinguished parents, and sometimes of others also, that they wrote that very day to the address Barbara had given them, informing her that she might return home and bring her husband with her; they would not object to see him, would not reproach her, and would endeavour to welcome both, and to discuss with them what could best be arranged for their future.

A small comfort came to them in an unexpected way. They had received reliable information that one of Willowes’ working-class ancestors was once honored by marrying someone from the aristocracy who had fallen from grace. In short, such is the foolishness of prominent parents—and sometimes of others, too—that they wrote that very day to the address Barbara had given them, telling her that she could come home and bring her husband with her; they didn’t mind seeing him, wouldn’t blame her, and would try to welcome both of them and talk about what could be arranged for their future.

In three or four days a rather shabby post-chaise drew up at the door of Chene Manor-house, at sound of which the tender-hearted baronet and his wife ran out as if to welcome a prince and princess of the blood. They were overjoyed to see their spoilt child return safe and sound-though she was only Mrs. Willowes, wife of Edmond Willowes of nowhere. Barbara burst into penitential tears, and both husband and wife were contrite enough, as well they might be, considering that they had not a guinea to call their own.

In three or four days, a rather shabby coach pulled up to the door of Chene Manor, and at the sound of it, the soft-hearted baronet and his wife rushed out as if to greet a prince and princess. They were thrilled to see their pampered daughter return safe and sound—though she was just Mrs. Willowes, the wife of Edmond Willowes from nowhere. Barbara broke down in remorseful tears, and both husband and wife felt guilty enough, as they should, since they didn’t have a penny to their name.

When the four had calmed themselves, and not a word of chiding had been uttered to the pair, they discussed the position soberly, young Willowes sitting in the background with great modesty till invited forward by Lady Grebe in no frigid tone.

When the four had settled down, and no one had said a word of criticism to the couple, they seriously talked about the situation, with young Willowes sitting quietly in the background until Lady Grebe warmly invited him to join them.

'How handsome he is!' she said to herself. 'I don't wonder at Barbara's craze for him.'

'He’s so attractive!' she thought to herself. 'I can see why Barbara is so obsessed with him.'

He was, indeed, one of the handsomest men who ever set his lips on a maid's. A blue coat, murrey waistcoat, and breeches of drab set off a figure that could scarcely be surpassed. He had large dark eyes, anxious now, as they glanced from Barbara to her parents and tenderly back again to her; observing whom, even now in her trepidation, one could see why the sang froid of Lord Uplandtowers had been raised to more than lukewarmness. Her fair young face (according to the tale handed down by old women) looked out from under a gray conical hat, trimmed with white ostrich-feathers, and her little toes peeped from a buff petticoat worn under a puce gown. Her features were not regular: they were almost infantine, as you may see from miniatures in possession of the family, her mouth showing much sensitiveness, and one could be sure that her faults would not lie on the side of bad temper unless for urgent reasons.

He was definitely one of the most attractive men who had ever kissed a girl. A blue coat, a maroon waistcoat, and drab breeches highlighted a figure that was hard to beat. He had large dark eyes, which were anxious now as they shifted from Barbara to her parents and gently back to her; anyone observing her, even in her nervousness, could understand why Lord Uplandtowers had gone from calm to truly interested. Her pretty young face (according to the story passed down by older women) peeked out from under a gray conical hat adorned with white ostrich feathers, and her little toes poked out from a buff petticoat worn beneath a plum-colored gown. Her features weren’t perfectly symmetrical; they were almost childlike, as you can see in the family miniatures, her mouth showing a lot of sensitivity, and one could be confident that her faults wouldn’t be due to a bad temper unless there were good reasons.

Well, they discussed their state as became them, and the desire of the young couple to gain the goodwill of those upon whom they were literally dependent for everything induced them to agree to any temporizing measure that was not too irksome. Therefore, having been nearly two months united, they did not oppose Sir John's proposal that he should furnish Edmond Willowes with funds sufficient for him to travel a year on the Continent in the company of a tutor, the young man undertaking to lend himself with the utmost diligence to the tutor's instructions, till he became polished outwardly and inwardly to the degree required in the husband of such a lady as Barbara. He was to apply himself to the study of languages, manners, history, society, ruins, and everything else that came under his eyes, till he should return to take his place without blushing by Barbara's side.

Well, they talked about their situation as was appropriate, and the young couple's desire to win the favor of those they depended on for everything led them to agree to any temporary solution that wasn't too bothersome. So, after being married for nearly two months, they didn't oppose Sir John's suggestion that he would provide Edmond Willowes with enough money to travel for a year on the Continent with a tutor. The young man committed to applying himself diligently to the tutor's lessons until he became refined both inside and out to meet the standards required of a husband to someone like Barbara. He was to focus on studying languages, manners, history, society, ruins, and everything else he encountered until he returned ready to stand by Barbara's side without embarrassment.

'And by that time,' said worthy Sir John, 'I'll get my little place out at Yewsholt ready for you and Barbara to occupy on your return. The house is small and out of the way; but it will do for a young couple for a while.'

"And by then," said good Sir John, "I'll have my little place at Yewsholt ready for you and Barbara to stay when you get back. The house is small and a bit secluded, but it will be fine for a young couple for a while."

'If 'twere no bigger than a summer-house it would do!' says Barbara.

'If it were no bigger than a gazebo, it would be fine!' says Barbara.

'If 'twere no bigger than a sedan-chair!' says Willowes. 'And the more lonely the better.'

'If it were no bigger than a sedan chair!' says Willowes. 'And the more lonely, the better.'

'We can put up with the loneliness,' said Barbara, with less zest. 'Some friends will come, no doubt.'

'We can deal with the loneliness,' said Barbara, with less enthusiasm. 'Some friends will show up, for sure.'

All this being laid down, a travelled tutor was called in-a man of many gifts and great experience,-and on a fine morning away tutor and pupil went. A great reason urged against Barbara accompanying her youthful husband was that his attentions to her would naturally be such as to prevent his zealously applying every hour of his time to learning and seeing-an argument of wise prescience, and unanswerable. Regular days for letter-writing were fixed, Barbara and her Edmond exchanged their last kisses at the door, and the chaise swept under the archway into the drive.

All this settled, an experienced tutor was brought in—a man with many skills and a lot of experience—and on a beautiful morning, the tutor and pupil set off. A strong reason against Barbara joining her young husband was that his attention to her would naturally distract him from fully dedicating every hour to learning and exploring—an argument of wise foresight that couldn’t be disputed. They established regular days for letter-writing, Barbara and Edmond shared their final kisses at the door, and the carriage rolled under the archway and onto the drive.

He wrote to her from Le Havre, as soon as he reached that port, which was not for seven days, on account of adverse winds; he wrote from Rouen, and from Paris; described to her his sight of the King and Court at Versailles, and the wonderful marble-work and mirrors in that palace; wrote next from Lyons; then, after a comparatively long interval, from Turin, narrating his fearful adventures in crossing Mont Cenis on mules, and how he was overtaken with a terrific snowstorm, which had well-nigh been the end of him, and his tutor, and his guides. Then he wrote glowingly of Italy; and Barbara could see the development of her husband's mind reflected in his letters month by month; and she much admired the forethought of her father in suggesting this education for Edmond. Yet she sighed sometimes-her husband being no longer in evidence to fortify her in her choice of him-and timidly dreaded what mortifications might be in store for her by reason of this mesalliance. She went out very little; for on the one or two occasions on which she had shown herself to former friends she noticed a distinct difference in their manner, as though they should say, 'Ah, my happy swain's wife; you're caught!'

He wrote to her from Le Havre as soon as he arrived at that port, which took him seven days due to bad weather. He wrote from Rouen and Paris, describing his experience seeing the King and Court at Versailles, along with the amazing marble work and mirrors in that palace. He then wrote from Lyons and, after a longer break, from Turin, sharing his frightening adventures crossing Mont Cenis on mules and how he got caught in a terrible snowstorm that almost ended badly for him, his tutor, and the guides. Next, he wrote enthusiastically about Italy, and Barbara could see her husband's mind growing in each letter month by month. She admired her father's foresight in suggesting this education for Edmond. Yet sometimes she sighed, as her husband was no longer there to reassure her about her choice, and she timidly worried about what humiliations might await her because of this mismatch. She seldom went out; on the rare occasions she met former friends, she noticed a clear change in their demeanor, as if they were saying, 'Ah, my happy swain's wife; you’re trapped!'

Edmond's letters were as affectionate as ever; even more affectionate, after a while, than hers were to him. Barbara observed this growing coolness in herself; and like a good and honest lady was horrified and grieved, since her only wish was to act faithfully and uprightly. It troubled her so much that she prayed for a warmer heart, and at last wrote to her husband to beg him, now that he was in the land of Art, to send her his portrait, ever so small, that she might look at it all day and every day, and never for a moment forget his features.

Edmond's letters were just as loving as always; even more loving, after a while, than hers were to him. Barbara noticed this growing distance in herself and, being a good and honest woman, felt horrified and saddened, since all she wanted was to be faithful and upright. It troubled her so much that she prayed for a warmer heart, and eventually wrote to her husband asking him, now that he was in the world of Art, to send her his portrait, no matter how small, so she could look at it all day, every day, and never forget his features for a moment.

Willowes was nothing loth, and replied that he would do more than she wished: he had made friends with a sculptor in Pisa, who was much interested in him and his history; and he had commissioned this artist to make a bust of himself in marble, which when finished he would send her. What Barbara had wanted was something immediate; but she expressed no objection to the delay; and in his next communication Edmund told her that the sculptor, of his own choice, had decided to increase the bust to a full-length statue, so anxious was he to get a specimen of his skill introduced to the notice of the English aristocracy. It was progressing well, and rapidly.

Willowes was more than happy to respond that he would do even more than she asked: he had befriended a sculptor in Pisa who was very interested in him and his story; he had commissioned this artist to create a marble bust of himself, which he would send to her once it was finished. What Barbara wanted was something immediate, but she didn't express any objections to the wait. In his next message, Edmund informed her that the sculptor, on his own initiative, had decided to turn the bust into a full-length statue, as he was eager to showcase his talent to the English aristocracy. It was coming along well and quickly.

Meanwhile, Barbara's attention began to be occupied at home with Yewsholt Lodge, the house that her kind-hearted father was preparing for her residence when her husband returned. It was a small place on the plan of a large one-a cottage built in the form of a mansion, having a central hall with a wooden gallery running round it, and rooms no bigger than closets to follow this introduction. It stood on a slope so solitary, and surrounded by trees so dense, that the birds who inhabited the boughs sang at strange hours, as if they hardly could distinguish night from day.

Meanwhile, Barbara's focus began to shift to Yewsholt Lodge, the home her kind-hearted father was getting ready for her to live in when her husband returned. It was a small place designed like a larger one—a cottage styled as a mansion, featuring a central hall with a wooden gallery around it, and rooms no bigger than closets following this setup. It was situated on a slope so secluded and surrounded by such thick trees that the birds living in the branches sang at odd hours, as if they could barely tell night from day.

During the progress of repairs at this bower Barbara frequently visited it. Though so secluded by the dense growth, it was near the high road, and one day while looking over the fence she saw Lord Uplandtowers riding past. He saluted her courteously, yet with mechanical stiffness, and did not halt. Barbara went home, and continued to pray that she might never cease to love her husband. After that she sickened, and did not come out of doors again for a long time.

During the repairs at this retreat, Barbara often came by. Even though it was tucked away in the thick foliage, it was close to the main road, and one day while peering over the fence, she saw Lord Uplandtowers ride by. He greeted her politely but with an awkward stiffness and didn’t stop. Barbara went home and kept praying that she would never stop loving her husband. After that, she fell ill and didn’t step outside again for a long time.

The year of education had extended to fourteen months, and the house was in order for Edmond's return to take up his abode there with Barbara, when, instead of the accustomed letter for her, came one to Sir John Grebe in the handwriting of the said tutor, informing him of a terrible catastrophe that had occurred to them at Venice. Mr Willowes and himself had attended the theatre one night during the Carnival of the preceding week, to witness the Italian comedy, when, owing to the carelessness of one of the candle-snuffers, the theatre had caught fire, and been burnt to the ground. Few persons had lost their lives, owing to the superhuman exertions of some of the audience in getting out the senseless sufferers; and, among them all, he who had risked his own life the most heroically was Mr. Willowes. In re-entering for the fifth time to save his fellow-creatures some fiery beams had fallen upon him, and he had been given up for lost. He was, however, by the blessing of Providence, recovered, with the life still in him, though he was fearfully burnt; and by almost a miracle he seemed likely to survive, his constitution being wondrously sound. He was, of course, unable to write, but he was receiving the attention of several skilful surgeons. Further report would be made by the next mail or by private hand.

The school year had stretched to fourteen months, and the house was ready for Edmond to return and live there with Barbara, when instead of the usual letter for her, one arrived for Sir John Grebe in the handwriting of the tutor. It informed him of a terrible disaster that had happened to them in Venice. Mr. Willowes and he had gone to the theater one night during the Carnival the week before to watch an Italian comedy when, due to the negligence of one of the candle-snuffers, the theater caught fire and was reduced to ashes. Thankfully, few people lost their lives because some members of the audience made extraordinary efforts to rescue the unconscious victims; among them, the most heroic was Mr. Willowes. As he attempted to re-enter for the fifth time to save others, some burning beams fell on him, and he was believed to be lost. However, by the grace of Providence, he survived, though he was severely burned. Miraculously, he seemed likely to pull through, as his constitution was remarkably resilient. He couldn’t write, but he was being cared for by several skilled surgeons. More updates would come by the next mail or through a private messenger.

The tutor said nothing in detail of poor Willowes's sufferings, but as soon as the news was broken to Barbara she realized how intense they must have been, and her immediate instinct was to rush to his side, though, on consideration, the journey seemed impossible to her. Her health was by no means what it had been, and to post across Europe at that season of the year, or to traverse the Bay of Biscay in a sailing- craft, was an undertaking that would hardly be justified by the result. But she was anxious to go till, on reading to the end of the letter, her husband's tutor was found to hint very strongly against such a step if it should be contemplated, this being also the opinion of the surgeons. And though Willowes's comrade refrained from giving his reasons, they disclosed themselves plainly enough in the sequel.

The tutor didn't go into detail about poor Willowes's suffering, but as soon as Barbara heard the news, she understood just how intense it must have been. Her immediate instinct was to rush to his side, but after thinking it through, the journey seemed impossible. Her health was nowhere near what it used to be, and traveling across Europe at that time of year—or crossing the Bay of Biscay in a sailboat—would hardly be worth it. Still, she was eager to go until she read to the end of the letter, where her husband's tutor strongly hinted against such a decision, which was also the surgeons' opinion. Although Willowes's friend didn't explain his reasons, they became clear enough later on.

The truth was that the worst of the wounds resulting from the fire had occurred to his head and face-that handsome face which had won her heart from her,-and both the tutor and the surgeons knew that for a sensitive young woman to see him before his wounds had healed would cause more misery to her by the shock than happiness to him by her ministrations.

The truth was that the worst injuries from the fire had happened to his head and face—that handsome face that had captured her heart—and both the tutor and the doctors understood that for a sensitive young woman to see him before his wounds had healed would bring her more distress from the shock than happiness to him from her care.

Lady Grebe blurted out what Sir John and Barbara had thought, but had had too much delicacy to express.

Lady Grebe suddenly said what Sir John and Barbara had thought, but had been too polite to say.

'Sure, 'tis mighty hard for you, poor Barbara, that the one little gift he had to justify your rash choice of him-his wonderful good looks-should be taken away like this, to leave 'ee no excuse at all for your conduct in the world's eyes . . . Well, I wish you'd married t'other-that do I!' And the lady sighed.

'Sure, it's really tough for you, poor Barbara, that the one little thing he had to make your hasty choice of him seem justifiable—his amazing good looks—has been taken away like this, leaving you with no excuse at all for your actions in the eyes of the world... Well, I wish you had married the other guy—that I do!' And the lady sighed.

'He'll soon get right again,' said her father soothingly.

'He'll be okay soon,' her father said gently.

Such remarks as the above were not often made; but they were frequent enough to cause Barbara an uneasy sense of self-stultification. She determined to hear them no longer; and the house at Yewsholt being ready and furnished, she withdrew thither with her maids, where for the first time she could feel mistress of a home that would be hers and her husband's exclusively, when he came.

Such comments weren't made often, but they happened enough to give Barbara an uncomfortable feeling of self-doubt. She decided she wouldn't listen to them anymore; and with the house at Yewsholt ready and furnished, she moved there with her maids, where for the first time she could feel like the mistress of a home that would belong to her and her husband exclusively when he arrived.

After long weeks Willowes had recovered sufficiently to be able to write himself; and slowly and tenderly he enlightened her upon the full extent of his injuries. It was a mercy, he said, that he had not lost his sight entirely; but he was thankful to say that he still retained full vision in one eye, though the other was dark for ever. The sparing manner in which he meted out particulars of his condition told Barbara how appalling had been his experience. He was grateful for her assurance that nothing could change her; but feared she did not fully realize that he was so sadly disfigured as to make it doubtful if she would recognize him. However, in spite of all, his heart was as true to her as it ever had been.

After weeks of recovery, Willowes was finally able to write himself, and he slowly and gently shared the extent of his injuries with her. He mentioned it was a blessing that he hadn’t lost his vision completely; he was grateful to say he still had full sight in one eye, although the other was permanently damaged. The careful way he described his condition made Barbara realize just how terrible his experience had been. He appreciated her reassurance that nothing could change her feelings, but he worried she didn’t fully understand how badly he was disfigured, making it uncertain if she would even recognize him. Nonetheless, despite everything, his heart remained as true to her as it had always been.

Barbara saw from his anxiety how much lay behind. She replied that she submitted to the decrees of Fate, and would welcome him in any shape as soon as he could come. She told him of the pretty retreat in which she had taken up her abode, pending their joint occupation of it, and did not reveal how much she had sighed over the information that all his good looks were gone. Still less did she say that she felt a certain strangeness in awaiting him, the weeks they had lived together having been so short by comparison with the length of his absence.

Barbara noticed his anxiety and realized how much was behind it. She responded that she accepted whatever Fate had in store and would welcome him in any form as soon as he could arrive. She told him about the lovely retreat she had made her home while they waited to share it together, but she kept to herself how much she had sighed over learning that all his good looks were gone. Even more, she didn’t mention the strange feeling she had while waiting for him, as the few weeks they had spent together seemed so brief compared to the length of his absence.

Slowly drew on the time when Willowes found himself well enough to come home. He landed at Southampton, and posted thence towards Yewsholt. Barbara arranged to go out to meet him as far as Lornton Inn-the spot between the Forest and the Chase at which he had waited for night on the evening of their elopement. Thither she drove at the appointed hour in a little pony-chaise, presented her by her father on her birthday for her especial use in her new house; which vehicle she sent back on arriving at the inn, the plan agreed upon being that she should perform the return journey with her husband in his hired coach.

Slowly came the time when Willowes felt well enough to return home. He arrived at Southampton and then headed towards Yewsholt. Barbara planned to go out to meet him as far as Lornton Inn—the place between the Forest and the Chase where he had waited for night on the evening of their elopement. She drove there at the agreed time in a little pony cart, a gift from her father on her birthday for her use in her new house; she sent the cart back upon reaching the inn, with the plan being that she would travel home with her husband in his rented coach.

There was not much accommodation for a lady at this wayside tavern; but, as it was a fine evening in early summer, she did not mind-walking about outside, and straining her eyes along the highway for the expected one. But each cloud of dust that enlarged in the distance and drew near was found to disclose a conveyance other than his post-chaise. Barbara remained till the appointment was two hours passed, and then began to fear that owing to some adverse wind in the Channel he was not coming that night.

There wasn't much space for a lady at this roadside inn, but since it was a lovely evening in early summer, she didn’t mind walking around outside and straining her eyes along the road for the person she was waiting for. However, every cloud of dust that grew in the distance and approached turned out to reveal a vehicle other than his carriage. Barbara stayed until two hours after their meeting time, then started to worry that, due to some unfavorable wind in the Channel, he wasn’t coming that night.

While waiting she was conscious of a curious trepidation that was not entirely solicitude, and did not amount to dread; her tense state of incertitude bordered both on disappointment and on relief. She had lived six or seven weeks with an imperfectly educated yet handsome husband whom now she had not seen for seventeen months, and who was so changed physically by an accident that she was assured she would hardly know him. Can we wonder at her compound state of mind?

While waiting, she felt a strange mix of anxiety that wasn’t fully worry but wasn’t quite dread either; her tense uncertainty hovered between disappointment and relief. She had spent six or seven weeks with a handsome husband who had only a basic education, and now she hadn’t seen him in seventeen months. He had changed so much physically due to an accident that she was sure she’d hardly recognize him. Can we really be surprised by her complicated feelings?

But her immediate difficulty was to get away from Lornton Inn, for her situation was becoming embarrassing. Like too many of Barbara's actions, this drive had been undertaken without much reflection. Expecting to wait no more than a few minutes for her husband in his post-chaise, and to enter it with him, she had not hesitated to isolate herself by sending back her own little vehicle. She now found that, being so well known in this neighbourhood, her excursion to meet her long-absent husband was exciting great interest. She was conscious that more eyes were watching her from the inn-windows than met her own gaze. Barbara had decided to get home by hiring whatever kind of conveyance the tavern afforded, when, straining her eyes for the last time over the now darkening highway, she perceived yet another dust-cloud drawing near. She paused; a chariot ascended to the inn, and would have passed had not its occupant caught sight of her standing expectantly. The horses were checked on the instant.

But her immediate problem was getting away from Lornton Inn, as her situation was becoming awkward. Like too many of Barbara's decisions, this drive was taken without much thought. Expecting to wait no more than a few minutes for her husband in his carriage and to get in with him, she hadn’t hesitated to send her own little vehicle back. Now, she realized that, being well-known in this area, her trip to meet her long-absent husband was attracting a lot of attention. She was aware that more eyes were watching her from the inn windows than she could see in return. Barbara had decided to get home by hiring whatever kind of transport the tavern had, when, straining her eyes one last time over the now darkening road, she spotted another dust cloud approaching. She paused; a carriage drove up to the inn and would have passed by if its occupant hadn’t noticed her standing there waiting. The horses were stopped immediately.

'You here-and alone, my dear Mrs. Willowes?' said Lord Uplandtowers, whose carriage it was.

'You here all by yourself, my dear Mrs. Willowes?' said Lord Uplandtowers, whose carriage it was.

She explained what had brought her into this lonely situation; and, as he was going in the direction of her own home, she accepted his offer of a seat beside him. Their conversation was embarrassed and fragmentary at first; but when they had driven a mile or two she was surprised to find herself talking earnestly and warmly to him: her impulsiveness was in truth but the natural consequence of her late existence-a somewhat desolate one by reason of the strange marriage she had made; and there is no more indiscreet mood than that of a woman surprised into talk who has long been imposing upon herself a policy of reserve. Therefore her ingenuous heart rose with a bound into her throat when, in response to his leading questions, or rather hints, she allowed her troubles to leak out of her. Lord Uplandtowers took her quite to her own door, although he had driven three miles out of his way to do so; and in handing her down she heard from him a whisper of stern reproach: 'It need not have been thus if you had listened to me!'

She explained how she ended up in this lonely situation, and since he was headed in the direction of her home, she accepted his offer to sit next to him. At first, their conversation felt awkward and scattered, but after driving a mile or two, she was surprised to find herself speaking passionately and warmly to him. Her impulsiveness was really just a result of her recent life, which had been quite lonely due to her unusual marriage. There’s no more indiscreet moment than when a woman, who has been trying to keep to herself, is unexpectedly drawn into conversation. So, her genuine feelings surged up into her throat when, in response to his subtle questions, she began to let her troubles spill out. Lord Uplandtowers took her all the way to her front door, even though he'd gone three miles out of his way to do it; and as he helped her down, she heard a whisper of stern disapproval: "It didn't have to be this way if you had listened to me!"

She made no reply, and went indoors. There, as the evening wore away, she regretted more and more that she had been so friendly with Lord Uplandtowers. But he had launched himself upon her so unexpectedly: if she had only foreseen the meeting with him, what a careful line of conduct she would have marked out! Barbara broke into a perspiration of disquiet when she thought of her unreserve, and, in self-chastisement, resolved to sit up till midnight on the bare chance of Edmond's return; directing that supper should be laid for him, improbable as his arrival till the morrow was.

She said nothing and went inside. As the evening went on, she regretted more and more that she had been so friendly with Lord Uplandtowers. But he had approached her so unexpectedly: if she had only known she would meet him, she would have planned her behavior more carefully! Barbara started to sweat with anxiety when she thought about how open she had been, and, feeling guilty, decided to stay up until midnight just in case Edmond came back; she arranged for supper to be set for him, even though it was unlikely he would arrive until the next day.

The hours went past, and there was dead silence in and round about Yewsholt Lodge, except for the soughing of the trees; till, when it was near upon midnight, she heard the noise of hoofs and wheels approaching the door. Knowing that it could only be her husband, Barbara instantly went into the hall to meet him. Yet she stood there not without a sensation of faintness, so many were the changes since their parting! And, owing to her casual encounter with Lord Uplandtowers, his voice and image still remained with her, excluding Edmond, her husband, from the inner circle of her impressions.

The hours passed, and there was complete silence in and around Yewsholt Lodge, except for the rustling of the trees. As it drew close to midnight, she heard the sound of hooves and wheels coming toward the door. Knowing it could only be her husband, Barbara immediately went into the hall to greet him. However, she stood there feeling slightly faint, as so much had changed since they last parted! And because of her unexpected meeting with Lord Uplandtowers, his voice and image lingered in her mind, pushing Edmond, her husband, out of her immediate thoughts.

But she went to the door, and the next moment a figure stepped inside, of which she knew the outline, but little besides. Her husband was attired in a flapping black cloak and slouched hat, appearing altogether as a foreigner, and not as the young English burgess who had left her side. When he came forward into the light of the lamp, she perceived with surprise, and almost with fright, that he wore a mask. At first she had not noticed this-there being nothing in its colour which would lead a casual observer to think he was looking on anything but a real countenance.

But she went to the door, and the next moment, a figure stepped inside, one she recognized by silhouette but not much else. Her husband was dressed in a flowing black cloak and a slouched hat, looking completely like a foreigner, not the young Englishman who had just been by her side. When he moved into the light of the lamp, she was surprised and almost frightened to see that he was wearing a mask. At first, she hadn’t noticed this—there was nothing about its color that would make a casual observer think he was anything but an ordinary person.

He must have seen her start of dismay at the unexpectedness of his appearance, for he said hastily: 'I did not mean to come in to you like this-I thought you would have been in bed. How good you are, dear Barbara!' He put his arm round her, but he did not attempt to kiss her.

He must have noticed her look of shock at his sudden appearance, because he quickly said, “I didn’t mean to come in like this—I thought you’d be in bed. You’re so wonderful, dear Barbara!” He put his arm around her, but he didn’t try to kiss her.

'O Edmond-it is you?-it must be?' she said, with clasped hands, for though his figure and movement were almost enough to prove it, and the tones were not unlike the old tones, the enunciation was so altered as to seem that of a stranger.

'O Edmond—it's really you? It has to be?' she said, with her hands clasped, because even though his shape and movements were almost enough to confirm it, and the way he spoke was somewhat like the old way, the way he pronounced everything was so different that it felt like he was a stranger.

'I am covered like this to hide myself from the curious eyes of the inn- servants and others,' he said, in a low voice. 'I will send back the carriage and join you in a moment.'

'I’m dressed like this to keep myself hidden from the curious gazes of the inn staff and others,' he said quietly. 'I’ll send the carriage back and join you shortly.'

'You are quite alone?'

'Are you all alone?'

'Quite. My companion stopped at Southampton.'

'Exactly. My friend got off at Southampton.'

The wheels of the post-chaise rolled away as she entered the dining- room, where the supper was spread; and presently he rejoined her there. He had removed his cloak and hat, but the mask was still retained; and she could now see that it was of special make, of some flexible material like silk, coloured so as to represent flesh; it joined naturally to the front hair, and was otherwise cleverly executed.

The wheels of the carriage rolled off as she walked into the dining room, where supper was set out, and soon he came back to join her. He had taken off his cloak and hat, but still wore the mask; now she could see that it was specially made from a flexible material, kind of like silk, colored to look like skin. It blended seamlessly with his hair at the front and was otherwise really well done.

'Barbara-you look ill,' he said, removing his glove, and taking her hand.

'Barbara, you look unwell,' he said, taking off his glove and holding her hand.

'Yes-I have been ill,' said she.

'Yeah, I've been sick,' she said.

'Is this pretty little house ours?'

'Is this cute little house ours?'

'O-yes.' She was hardly conscious of her words, for the hand he had ungloved in order to take hers was contorted, and had one or two of its fingers missing; while through the mask she discerned the twinkle of one eye only.

'O-yes.' She barely registered what she was saying, since the hand he had taken out of his glove to hold hers was twisted and had one or two missing fingers; through the mask, she could only see the glint of one eye.

'I would give anything to kiss you, dearest, now, at this moment!' he continued, with mournful passionateness. 'But I cannot-in this guise. The servants are abed, I suppose?'

'I would do anything to kiss you, my love, right now!' he continued, with heartfelt sadness. 'But I can't—in this outfit. The servants are in bed, I assume?'

'Yes,' said she. 'But I can call them? You will have some supper?'

'Yes,' she said. 'But should I call them? Are you going to have some dinner?'

He said he would have some, but that it was not necessary to call anybody at that hour. Thereupon they approached the table, and sat down, facing each other.

He said he would have some, but that it wasn't necessary to call anyone at that hour. Then they went to the table and sat down, facing each other.

Despite Barbara's scared state of mind, it was forced upon her notice that her husband trembled, as if he feared the impression he was producing, or was about to produce, as much as, or more than, she. He drew nearer, and took her hand again.

Despite Barbara's fearful state of mind, she couldn't help but notice that her husband was trembling, as if he was as afraid of the impression he was making, or about to make, as much as, or even more than, she was. He stepped closer and took her hand again.

'I had this mask made at Venice,' he began, in evident embarrassment. 'My darling Barbara-my dearest wife-do you think you-will mind when I take it off? You will not dislike me-will you?'

'I had this mask made in Venice,' he started, clearly feeling awkward. 'My darling Barbara—my beloved wife—do you think you’ll mind when I take it off? You won’t dislike me, will you?'

'O Edmond, of course I shall not mind,' said she. 'What has happened to you is our misfortune; but I am prepared for it.'

'O Edmond, of course I won't mind,' she said. 'What happened to you is our misfortune; but I’m ready for it.'

'Are you sure you are prepared?'

'Are you sure you're ready?'

'O yes! You are my husband.'

'You really feel quite confident that nothing external can affect you?' he said again, in a voice rendered uncertain by his agitation.

"You really feel pretty confident that nothing outside of you can affect you?" he said again, his voice shaky from his anxiety.

'I think I am-quite,' she answered faintly.

'I think I am—definitely,' she replied quietly.

He bent his head. 'I hope, I hope you are,' he whispered.

He lowered his head. "I really hope you are," he whispered.

In the pause which followed, the ticking of the clock in the hall seemed to grow loud; and he turned a little aside to remove the mask. She breathlessly awaited the operation, which was one of some tediousness, watching him one moment, averting her face the next; and when it was done she shut her eyes at the hideous spectacle that was revealed. A quick spasm of horror had passed through her; but though she quailed she forced herself to regard him anew, repressing the cry that would naturally have escaped from her ashy lips. Unable to look at him longer, Barbara sank down on the floor beside her chair, covering her eyes.

In the silence that followed, the ticking of the clock in the hall seemed to get louder, and he turned slightly to take off the mask. She waited anxiously for him to do it, alternating between watching him and turning her face away; and when it was finally over, she shut her eyes against the horrifying sight revealed. A quick wave of horror swept through her, but even though she felt weak, she forced herself to look at him again, holding back the scream that nearly escaped her pale lips. Unable to look at him any longer, Barbara sank to the floor beside her chair, covering her eyes.

'You cannot look at me!' he groaned in a hopeless way. 'I am too terrible an object even for you to bear! I knew it; yet I hoped against it. Oh, this is a bitter fate-curse the skill of those Venetian surgeons who saved me alive! . . . Look up, Barbara,' he continued beseechingly; 'view me completely; say you loathe me, if you do loathe me, and settle the case between us for ever!'

'You can’t even look at me!' he moaned hopelessly. 'I’m too much of a wreck for you to handle! I always knew it, but I held on to a glimmer of hope. Oh, this is a terrible fate—curse those skilled Venetian surgeons who kept me alive! . . . Please look up, Barbara,' he urged desperately; 'take a good look at me; say you hate me if that’s how you feel, and let’s end this once and for all!'

His unhappy wife pulled herself together for a desperate strain. He was her Edmond; he had done her no wrong; he had suffered. A momentary devotion to him helped her, and lifting her eyes as bidden she regarded this human remnant, this ecorche, a second time. But the sight was too much. She again involuntarily looked aside and shuddered.

His unhappy wife gathered her strength for a difficult moment. He was her Edmond; he hadn’t wronged her; he had endured. A brief sense of loyalty to him gave her some comfort, and as she lifted her eyes as instructed, she looked at this broken person, this living shadow, once more. But the sight was too overwhelming. She instinctively turned away and shuddered again.

'Do you think you can get used to this?' he said. 'Yes or no! Can you bear such a thing of the charnel-house near you? Judge for yourself; Barbara. Your Adonis, your matchless man, has come to this!'

'Do you think you can get used to this?' he asked. 'Yes or no! Can you handle being so close to something like a charnel house? Make your own judgment, Barbara. Your Adonis, your one-of-a-kind guy, has ended up like this!'

The poor lady stood beside him motionless, save for the restlessness of her eyes. All her natural sentiments of affection and pity were driven clean out of her by a sort of panic; she had just the same sense of dismay and fearfulness that she would have had in the presence of an apparition. She could nohow fancy this to be her chosen one-the man she had loved; he was metamorphosed to a specimen of another species. 'I do not loathe you,' she said with trembling. 'But I am so horrified-so overcome! Let me recover myself. Will you sup now? And while you do so may I go to my room to-regain my old feeling for you? I will try, if I may leave you awhile? Yes, I will try!'

The poor woman stood next to him, completely still except for the restlessness in her eyes. All her natural feelings of love and compassion were wiped away by a kind of panic; she felt the same sense of shock and fear as if she were facing a ghost. She couldn’t believe this was her chosen one—the man she had loved; he seemed transformed into someone from a different world. “I don’t hate you,” she said, trembling. “But I am so horrified—so overwhelmed! Please let me collect myself. Will you have dinner now? And while you eat, can I go to my room to try to get back my old feelings for you? I will try, if you’ll let me leave you for a bit? Yes, I will try!”

Without waiting for an answer from him, and keeping her gaze carefully averted, the frightened woman crept to the door and out of the room. She heard him sit down to the table, as if to begin supper though, Heaven knows, his appetite was slight enough after a reception which had confirmed his worst surmises. When Barbara had ascended the stairs and arrived in her chamber she sank down, and buried her face in the coverlet of the bed.

Without waiting for his reply and keeping her eyes averted, the scared woman quietly made her way to the door and out of the room. She heard him sit down at the table, as if to start dinner, although God knows, his appetite was pretty small after a gathering that had confirmed his worst fears. When Barbara climbed the stairs and reached her room, she collapsed and buried her face in the bedspread.

Thus she remained for some time. The bed-chamber was over the dining- room, and presently as she knelt Barbara heard Willowes thrust back his chair, and rise to go into the hall. In five minutes that figure would probably come up the stairs and confront her again; it,-this new and terrible form, that was not her husband's. In the loneliness of this night, with neither maid nor friend beside her, she lost all self- control, and at the first sound of his footstep on the stairs, without so much as flinging a cloak round her, she flew from the room, ran along the gallery to the back staircase, which she descended, and, unlocking the back door, let herself out. She scarcely was aware what she had done till she found herself in the greenhouse, crouching on a flower- stand.

She stayed like that for a while. The bedroom was above the dining room, and soon, as she knelt, Barbara heard Willowes push back his chair and get up to head into the hallway. In just five minutes, that figure would likely come up the stairs and face her again; this new and frightening version that wasn’t her husband. In the solitude of this night, with no maid or friend beside her, she lost all control, and at the first sound of his footsteps on the stairs, without even grabbing a cloak, she dashed out of the room, ran down the corridor to the back staircase, which she hurried down, and after unlocking the back door, let herself outside. She barely realized what she had done until she found herself in the greenhouse, crouched on a flower stand.

Here she remained, her great timid eyes strained through the glass upon the garden without, and her skirts gathered up, in fear of the field- mice which sometimes came there. Every moment she dreaded to hear footsteps which she ought by law to have longed for, and a voice that should have been as music to her soul. But Edmond Willowes came not that way. The nights were getting short at this season, and soon the dawn appeared, and the first rays of the sun. By daylight she had less fear than in the dark. She thought she could meet him, and accustom herself to the spectacle.

Here she stayed, her big anxious eyes peering through the glass at the garden outside, and her skirts pulled up, wary of the field mice that sometimes showed up there. Every moment she dreaded hearing footsteps that she should have eagerly anticipated, and a voice that should have been music to her soul. But Edmond Willowes didn't come that way. The nights were getting shorter this time of year, and soon dawn broke, bringing the first rays of sunlight. In daylight, she felt less afraid than in the dark. She believed she could face him and get used to the sight of him.

So the much-tried young woman unfastened the door of the hot-house, and went back by the way she had emerged a few hours ago. Her poor husband was probably in bed and asleep, his journey having been long; and she made as little noise as possible in her entry. The house was just as she had left it, and she looked about in the hall for his cloak and hat, but she could not see them; nor did she perceive the small trunk which had been all that he brought with him, his heavier baggage having been left at Southampton for the road-waggon. She summoned courage to mount the stairs; the bedroom-door was open as she had left it. She fearfully peeped round; the bed had not been pressed. Perhaps he had lain down on the dining-room sofa. She descended and entered; he was not there. On the table beside his unsoiled plate lay a note, hastily written on the leaf of a pocket-book. It was something like this:

So the young woman, weary from all her trials, unlatched the hot-house door and retraced her steps from a few hours earlier. Her poor husband was probably in bed, fast asleep after his long journey, so she stepped inside as quietly as she could. The house looked exactly as she had left it, and she searched the hall for his coat and hat but couldn’t find them; nor was the small trunk he brought back with him anywhere in sight, as he had left his heavier luggage at Southampton for the road-wagon. Gathering her courage, she went up the stairs; the bedroom door was open, just as she had left it. She peeked around fearfully; the bed hadn’t been used. Maybe he was resting on the dining-room sofa. She went back down and stepped inside; he wasn’t there. On the table next to his untouched plate, she found a note hastily scribbled on a page from a pocket-book. It read something like this:

'My ever-beloved Wife-The effect that my forbidding appearance has produced upon you was one which I foresaw as quite possible. I hoped against it, but foolishly so. I was aware that no human love could survive such a catastrophe. I confess I thought yours divine; but, after so long an absence, there could not be left sufficient warmth to overcome the too natural first aversion. It was an experiment, and it has failed. I do not blame you; perhaps, even, it is better so. Good- bye. I leave England for one year. You will see me again at the expiration of that time, if I live. Then I will ascertain your true feeling; and, if it be against me, go away for ever. E. W.'

'My beloved Wife - I anticipated that my intimidating appearance would have an impact on you, and it’s something I was dreading. I hoped it wouldn’t happen, but that was naive of me. I realized that no human love could withstand such a disaster. I believed yours was special; however, after such a long time apart, there could hardly be enough warmth left to overcome the very natural initial aversion. It was an experiment, and it has failed. I don’t blame you; perhaps this is for the best. Goodbye. I'm leaving England for a year. You will see me again after that, if I’m still alive. Then I will find out how you truly feel; if it's against me, I will leave for good. E. W.'

On recovering from her surprise, Barbara's remorse was such that she felt herself absolutely unforgiveable. She should have regarded him as an afflicted being, and not have been this slave to mere eyesight, like a child. To follow him and entreat him to return was her first thought. But on making inquiries she found that nobody had seen him: he had silently disappeared.

On getting over her shock, Barbara felt so much regret that she thought she was completely unforgivable. She should have seen him as a suffering person, instead of being a slave to just appearances, like a child. Her first thought was to follow him and ask him to come back. But when she asked around, she discovered that no one had seen him: he had quietly vanished.

More than this, to undo the scene of last night was impossible. Her terror had been too plain, and he was a man unlikely to be coaxed back by her efforts to do her duty. She went and confessed to her parents all that had occurred; which, indeed, soon became known to more persons than those of her own family.

More than that, it was impossible to take back what happened last night. Her fear was too obvious, and he was not the type to be won over by her attempts to fulfill her responsibilities. She went and told her parents everything that had happened, which quickly became known to more people than just her family.

The year passed, and he did not return; and it was doubted if he were alive. Barbara's contrition for her unconquerable repugnance was now such that she longed to build a church-aisle, or erect a monument, and devote herself to deeds of charity for the remainder of her days. To that end she made inquiry of the excellent parson under whom she sat on Sundays, at a vertical distance of twenty feet. But he could only adjust his wig and tap his snuff-box; for such was the lukewarm state of religion in those days, that not an aisle, steeple, porch, east window, Ten-Commandment board, lion-and-unicorn, or brass candlestick, was required anywhere at all in the neighbourhood as a votive offering from a distracted soul-the last century contrasting greatly in this respect with the happy times in which we live, when urgent appeals for contributions to such objects pour in by every morning's post, and nearly all churches have been made to look like new pennies. As the poor lady could not ease her conscience this way, she determined at least to be charitable, and soon had the satisfaction of finding her porch thronged every morning by the raggedest, idlest, most drunken, hypocritical, and worthless tramps in Christendom.

The year went by, and he didn’t come back; people even started to wonder if he was still alive. Barbara felt so guilty about her strong dislike that she wanted to build a church aisle or a monument and dedicate the rest of her life to charity. To make this happen, she asked the kind pastor she saw on Sundays, who was twenty feet away from her. But all he did was adjust his wig and tap his snuff box; the state of religion back then was so indifferent that no one needed a new aisle, steeple, porch, east window, Ten Commandments board, lion and unicorn, or brass candlestick as a tribute from a troubled soul—completely different from today, where requests for donations to such things arrive in the morning mail, and most churches look brand new. Since she couldn’t soothe her conscience in that way, she decided to at least be charitable, and soon she found her porch crowded every morning with the scruffiest, laziest, most drunken, hypocritical, and worthless tramps in Christendom.

But human hearts are as prone to change as the leaves of the creeper on the wall, and in the course of time, hearing nothing of her husband, Barbara could sit unmoved whilst her mother and friends said in her hearing, 'Well, what has happened is for the best.' She began to think so herself; for even now she could not summon up that lopped and mutilated form without a shiver, though whenever her mind flew back to her early wedded days, and the man who had stood beside her then, a thrill of tenderness moved her, which if quickened by his living presence might have become strong. She was young and inexperienced, and had hardly on his late return grown out of the capricious fancies of girlhood.

But human hearts change as easily as the leaves of the vines on the wall, and over time, hearing nothing from her husband, Barbara could sit quietly while her mother and friends said within earshot, 'Well, what happened is for the best.' She started to believe that too; for even now she couldn't think of that severed and distorted figure without a shiver, though whenever she remembered her early married days and the man who had stood with her then, a wave of tenderness swept over her, which if stirred by his living presence might have intensified. She was young and inexperienced and had barely outgrown the whimsical fancies of girlhood since his recent return.

But he did not come again, and when she thought of his word that he would return once more, if living, and how unlikely he was to break his word, she gave him up for dead. So did her parents; so also did another person-that man of silence, of irresistible incisiveness, of still countenance, who was as awake as seven sentinels when he seemed to be as sound asleep as the figures on his family monument. Lord Uplandtowers, though not yet thirty, had chuckled like a caustic fogey of threescore when he heard of Barbara's terror and flight at her husband's return, and of the latter's prompt departure. He felt pretty sure, however, that Willowes, despite his hurt feelings, would have reappeared to claim his bright-eyed property if he had been alive at the end of the twelve months.

But he never came back, and when she remembered his promise that he would return if he were alive, along with how unlikely he was to break a promise, she figured he was dead. Her parents thought the same; another person did too—the quiet man, sharp and observant, who seemed as alert as seven sentinels while appearing as peacefully asleep as the statues on his family’s tomb. Lord Uplandtowers, though still under thirty, had laughed like an old grump when he heard about Barbara’s fear and flight at her husband’s return, and of his quick departure. However, he was pretty sure that Willowes, despite feeling hurt, would have come back to claim his bright-eyed wife if he had been alive after twelve months.

As there was no husband to live with her, Barbara had relinquished the house prepared for them by her father, and taken up her abode anew at Chene Manor, as in the days of her girlhood. By degrees the episode with Edmond Willowes seemed but a fevered dream, and as the months grew to years Lord Uplandtowers' friendship with the people at Chene-which had somewhat cooled after Barbara's elopement-revived considerably, and he again became a frequent visitor there. He could not make the most trivial alteration or improvement at Knollingwood Hall, where he lived, without riding off to consult with his friend Sir John at Chene; and thus putting himself frequently under her eyes, Barbara grew accustomed to him, and talked to him as freely as to a brother. She even began to look up to him as a person of authority, judgment, and prudence; and though his severity on the bench towards poachers, smugglers, and turnip-stealers was matter of common notoriety, she trusted that much of what was said might be misrepresentation.

Since Barbara didn't have a husband to live with, she gave up the house prepared for them by her father and moved back to Chene Manor, just like in her girlhood. Slowly, the time she spent with Edmond Willowes began to feel like just a distant dream, and as the months turned into years, Lord Uplandtowers' friendship with the people at Chene— which had cooled after Barbara's elopement— significantly warmed up again, and he started visiting frequently. He couldn’t make even the smallest change or improvement at Knollingwood Hall, where he lived, without riding over to consult with his friend Sir John at Chene; and by putting himself in her sight so often, Barbara grew used to him and talked to him as naturally as she would with a brother. She even started to respect him as someone wise and sensible, and despite his harshness on the bench towards poachers, smugglers, and turnip thieves being well-known, she hoped that much of what was said about him could be exaggerated.

Thus they lived on till her husband's absence had stretched to years, and there could be no longer any doubt of his death. A passionless manner of renewing his addresses seemed no longer out of place in Lord Uplandtowers. Barbara did not love him, but hers was essentially one of those sweet-pea or with-wind natures which require a twig of stouter fibre than its own to hang upon and bloom. Now, too, she was older, and admitted to herself that a man whose ancestor had run scores of Saracens through and through in fighting for the site of the Holy Sepulchre was a more desirable husband, socially considered, than one who could only claim with certainty to know that his father and grandfather were respectable burgesses.

Thus they lived on until her husband had been gone for years, and there was no longer any doubt about his death. A calm way of renewing his proposal no longer seemed out of place for Lord Uplandtowers. Barbara didn’t love him, but she was one of those gentle souls that needed something stronger than herself to lean on and thrive. Now, she was older and admitted to herself that a man whose ancestor had defeated many Saracens while fighting for the Holy Sepulchre was a more appealing husband, socially speaking, than one who could only confidently say his father and grandfather were respectable townsmen.

Sir John took occasion to inform her that she might legally consider herself a widow; and, in brief; Lord Uplandtowers carried his point with her, and she married him, though he could never get her to own that she loved him as she had loved Willowes. In my childhood I knew an old lady whose mother saw the wedding, and she said that when Lord and Lady Uplandtowers drove away from her father's house in the evening it was in a coach-and-four, and that my lady was dressed in green and silver, and wore the gayest hat and feather that ever were seen; though whether it was that the green did not suit her complexion, or otherwise, the Countess looked pale, and the reverse of blooming. After their marriage her husband took her to London, and she saw the gaieties of a season there; then they returned to Knollingwood Hall, and thus a year passed away.

Sir John took the opportunity to let her know that she could legally consider herself a widow; and, in short, Lord Uplandtowers got his way with her, and she married him, though he could never persuade her to admit that she loved him like she had loved Willowes. In my childhood, I knew an old lady whose mother witnessed the wedding, and she said that when Lord and Lady Uplandtowers left her father's house in the evening, it was in a carriage drawn by four horses, and my lady was dressed in green and silver, wearing the fanciest hat and feather anyone had ever seen; though whether it was that the green didn’t suit her complexion or for some other reason, the Countess looked pale and anything but blooming. After their marriage, her husband took her to London, where she experienced the excitement of the season; then they returned to Knollingwood Hall, and thus a year went by.

Before their marriage her husband had seemed to care but little about her inability to love him passionately. 'Only let me win you,' he had said, 'and I will submit to all that.' But now her lack of warmth seemed to irritate him, and he conducted himself towards her with a resentfulness which led to her passing many hours with him in painful silence. The heir-presumptive to the title was a remote relative, whom Lord Uplandtowers did not exclude from the dislike he entertained towards many persons and things besides, and he had set his mind upon a lineal successor. He blamed her much that there was no promise of this, and asked her what she was good for.

Before their marriage, her husband had appeared to care very little about her inability to love him passionately. "Just let me win you," he had said, "and I’ll accept all of that." But now, her lack of affection seemed to annoy him, and he treated her with a bitterness that made her spend many hours with him in painful silence. The heir presumptive to the title was a distant relative, whom Lord Uplandtowers also disliked along with many other people and things, and he was determined to have a direct successor. He blamed her for not providing this, and he questioned what she was even worth.

On a particular day in her gloomy life a letter, addressed to her as Mrs. Willowes, reached Lady Uplandtowers from an unexpected quarter. A sculptor in Pisa, knowing nothing of her second marriage, informed her that the long-delayed life-size statue of Mr. Willowes, which, when her husband left that city, he had been directed to retain till it was sent for, was still in his studio. As his commission had not wholly been paid, and the statue was taking up room he could ill spare, he should be glad to have the debt cleared off, and directions where to forward the figure. Arriving at a time when the Countess was beginning to have little secrets (of a harmless kind, it is true) from her husband, by reason of their growing estrangement, she replied to this letter without saying a word to Lord Uplandtowers, sending off the balance that was owing to the sculptor, and telling him to despatch the statue to her without delay.

On a particular day in her gloomy life, a letter addressed to her as Mrs. Willowes arrived for Lady Uplandtowers from an unexpected source. A sculptor in Pisa, unaware of her second marriage, informed her that the long-delayed life-size statue of Mr. Willowes, which her husband had asked him to keep until it was collected, was still in his studio. Since his payment had not been fully received and the statue was taking up space he couldn't afford, he would appreciate having the debt settled and instructions on where to send the statue. This letter came at a time when the Countess was starting to keep little secrets (harmless ones, to be fair) from her husband, due to their growing distance. She replied to the letter without mentioning it to Lord Uplandtowers, paying off the remaining balance owed to the sculptor and instructing him to send the statue to her quickly.

It was some weeks before it arrived at Knollingwood Hall, and, by a singular coincidence, during the interval she received the first absolutely conclusive tidings of her Edmond's death. It had taken place years before, in a foreign land, about six months after their parting, and had been induced by the sufferings he had already undergone, coupled with much depression of spirit, which had caused him to succumb to a slight ailment. The news was sent her in a brief and formal letter from some relative of Willowes's in another part of England.

It was several weeks before it arrived at Knollingwood Hall, and, by a strange coincidence, during that time she received the first definite news of Edmond's death. It had happened years earlier, in a foreign country, about six months after their separation, and was due to the hardships he had already faced, along with a deep sense of hopelessness that led him to give in to a minor illness. The news was delivered to her in a short and formal letter from a relative of Willowes's living in another part of England.

Her grief took the form of passionate pity for his misfortunes, and of reproach to herself for never having been able to conquer her aversion to his latter image by recollection of what Nature had originally made him. The sad spectacle that had gone from earth had never been her Edmond at all to her. O that she could have met him as he was at first! Thus Barbara thought. It was only a few days later that a waggon with two horses, containing an immense packing-case, was seen at breakfast- time both by Barbara and her husband to drive round to the back of the house, and by-and-by they were informed that a case labelled 'Sculpture' had arrived for her ladyship.

Her grief took the form of deep sympathy for his misfortunes and blame on herself for never being able to overcome her dislike for the way he had changed, remembering how Nature had originally created him. The sad figure that had left the world had never been her Edmond at all. Oh, how she wished she could have met him as he was in the beginning! This is what Barbara thought. Just a few days later, a wagon with two horses, carrying an enormous packing case, was seen by Barbara and her husband driving around to the back of the house at breakfast time, and eventually, they were told that a case labeled 'Sculpture' had arrived for her ladyship.

'What can that be?' said Lord Uplandtowers.

'What could that be?' said Lord Uplandtowers.

'It is the statue of poor Edmond, which belongs to me, but has never been sent till now,' she answered.

'It's the statue of poor Edmond, which is mine, but has never been sent until now,' she replied.

'Where are you going to put it?' asked he.

'Where are you going to put it?' he asked.

'I have not decided,' said the Countess. 'Anywhere, so that it will not annoy you.'

'I haven't decided,' said the Countess. 'Anywhere, as long as it doesn't bother you.'

'Oh, it won't annoy me,' says he.

'Oh, it won't bother me,' he says.

When it had been unpacked in a back room of the house, they went to examine it. The statue was a full-length figure, in the purest Carrara marble, representing Edmond Willowes in all his original beauty, as he had stood at parting from her when about to set out on his travels; a specimen of manhood almost perfect in every line and contour. The work had been carried out with absolute fidelity.

When it was unpacked in a back room of the house, they went to check it out. The statue was a full-length figure made of the finest Carrara marble, showing Edmond Willowes in all his original beauty, just as he looked when he was about to leave for his travels; a nearly perfect example of manhood in every line and curve. The craftsmanship had been done with complete accuracy.

'Phoebus-Apollo, sure,' said the Earl of Uplandtowers, who had never seen Willowes, real or represented, till now.

'Phoebus-Apollo, for sure,' said the Earl of Uplandtowers, who had never seen Willowes, either in person or depicted, until now.

Barbara did not hear him. She was standing in a sort of trance before the first husband, as if she had no consciousness of the other husband at her side. The mutilated features of Willowes had disappeared from her mind's eye; this perfect being was really the man she had loved, and not that later pitiable figure; in whom love and truth should have seen this image always, but had not done so.

Barbara didn’t hear him. She stood in a kind of trance before her first husband, as if she wasn’t even aware of the other husband by her side. The disfigured features of Willowes had vanished from her mind; this perfect man was truly the one she had loved, not that later pitiful figure, in whom love and truth should have always seen this image, but hadn’t.

It was not till Lord Uplandtowers said roughly, 'Are you going to stay here all the morning worshipping him?' that she roused herself.

It wasn't until Lord Uplandtowers said gruffly, 'Are you going to stay here all morning worshipping him?' that she snapped out of it.

Her husband had not till now the least suspicion that Edmond Willowes originally looked thus, and he thought how deep would have been his jealousy years ago if Willowes had been known to him. Returning to the Hall in the afternoon he found his wife in the gallery, whither the statue had been brought.

Her husband had no idea until now that Edmond Willowes originally looked like this, and he thought about how jealous he would have been years ago if he had known about Willowes. When he returned to the Hall in the afternoon, he found his wife in the gallery where the statue had been brought.

She was lost in reverie before it, just as in the morning.

She was lost in thought in front of it, just like in the morning.

'What are you doing?' he asked.

She started and turned. 'I am looking at my husb—- my statue, to see if it is well done,' she stammered. 'Why should I not?'

She jumped and turned. 'I’m looking at my husb—- my statue, to see if it’s well done,' she stuttered. 'Why shouldn’t I?'

'There's no reason why,' he said. 'What are you going to do with the monstrous thing? It can't stand here for ever.'

'There's no reason not to,' he said. 'What are you planning to do with the huge thing? It can't just stay here forever.'

'I don't wish it,' she said. 'I'll find a place.'

'I don't want it,' she said. 'I'll find a place.'

In her boudoir there was a deep recess, and while the Earl was absent from home for a few days in the following week, she hired joiners from the village, who under her directions enclosed the recess with a panelled door. Into the tabernacle thus formed she had the statue placed, fastening the door with a lock, the key of which she kept in her pocket.

In her bedroom, there was a deep alcove, and while the Earl was away for a few days the following week, she hired carpenters from the village. Following her instructions, they enclosed the alcove with a panel door. She had the statue placed inside this new space, locking the door and keeping the key in her pocket.

When her husband returned he missed the statue from the gallery, and, concluding that it had been put away out of deference to his feelings, made no remark. Yet at moments he noticed something on his lady's face which he had never noticed there before. He could not construe it; it was a sort of silent ecstasy, a reserved beatification. What had become of the statue he could not divine, and growing more and more curious, looked about here and there for it till, thinking of her private room, he went towards that spot. After knocking he heard the shutting of a door, and the click of a key; but when he entered his wife was sitting at work, on what was in those days called knotting. Lord Uplandtowers' eye fell upon the newly-painted door where the recess had formerly been.

When her husband came back, he noticed that the statue from the gallery was missing. Assuming it was taken down because of his feelings, he said nothing. However, he occasionally caught a glimpse of something on his wife's face that he had never seen before. He couldn't figure it out; it was like a quiet joy, a kind of serene happiness. He was puzzled about what happened to the statue and, growing more curious, searched around for it. He thought of her private room and made his way there. After knocking, he heard the sound of a door closing and a key turning, but when he entered, his wife was busy with her work, which people back then referred to as knotting. Lord Uplandtowers' gaze fell on the newly-painted door where the recess used to be.

'You have been carpentering in my absence then, Barbara,' he said carelessly.

'So you've been working on carpentry while I was gone, Barbara,' he said casually.

'Yes, Uplandtowers.'

'Why did you go putting up such a tasteless enclosure as that-spoiling the handsome arch of the alcove?'

'Why did you go and put up such a tacky enclosure like that—ruining the beautiful arch of the alcove?'

'I wanted more closet-room; and I thought that as this was my own apartment-'

'I wanted more closet space; and I figured that since this was my own apartment-'

'Of course,' he returned. Lord Uplandtowers knew now where the statue of young Willowes was.

'Of course,' he replied. Lord Uplandtowers now knew where the statue of young Willowes was.

One night, or rather in the smallest hours of the morning, he missed the Countess from his side. Not being a man of nervous imaginings he fell asleep again before he had much considered the matter, and the next morning had forgotten the incident. But a few nights later the same circumstances occurred. This time he fully roused himself; but before he had moved to search for her, she entered the chamber in her dressing- gown, carrying a candle, which she extinguished as she approached, deeming him asleep. He could discover from her breathing that she was strangely moved; but not on this occasion either did he reveal that he had seen her. Presently, when she had lain down, affecting to wake, he asked her some trivial questions. 'Yes, Edmond,' she replied absently.

One night, or rather in the early hours of the morning, he noticed the Countess missing from his side. Not being the type to overthink things, he fell back asleep before he could dwell on it, and by morning, he had forgotten about it. But a few nights later, the same thing happened again. This time he fully woke up; however, before he could get up to look for her, she came into the room in her bathrobe, holding a candle, which she blew out as she got closer, thinking he was asleep. He could tell from her breathing that she was unusually upset, but once again, he didn't let on that he had seen her. Eventually, after she had settled down, pretending to wake up, he asked her a few casual questions. "Yes, Edmond," she answered distractedly.

Lord Uplandtowers became convinced that she was in the habit of leaving the chamber in this queer way more frequently than he had observed, and he determined to watch. The next midnight he feigned deep sleep, and shortly after perceived her stealthily rise and let herself out of the room in the dark. He slipped on some clothing and followed. At the farther end of the corridor, where the clash of flint and steel would be out of the hearing of one in the bed-chamber, she struck a light. He stepped aside into an empty room till she had lit a taper and had passed on to her boudoir. In a minute or two he followed. Arrived at the door of the boudoir, he beheld the door of the private recess open, and Barbara within it, standing with her arms clasped tightly round the neck of her Edmond, and her mouth on his. The shawl which she had thrown round her nightclothes had slipped from her shoulders, and her long white robe and pale face lent her the blanched appearance of a second statue embracing the first. Between her kisses, she apostrophized it in a low murmur of infantine tenderness:

Lord Uplandtowers became convinced that she was secretly leaving the room this strange way more often than he had noticed, and he decided to keep an eye on her. The following midnight, he pretended to be deeply asleep, and shortly after, he saw her quietly get up and slip out of the room in the dark. He quickly put on some clothes and followed her. At the end of the hallway, where the sound of flint and steel wouldn’t reach someone in the bedroom, she lit a candle. He stepped into an empty room until she had lit a taper and moved on to her boudoir. A minute or two later, he followed her. When he reached the boudoir door, he saw the door to the private recess open, revealing Barbara inside, with her arms tightly wrapped around Edmond's neck and her mouth on his. The shawl she had draped over her nightclothes had slipped down her shoulders, and her long white gown and pale face made her look like a statue embracing another. Between kisses, she spoke to him in a soft, tender murmur:

'My only love-how could I be so cruel to you, my perfect one-so good and true-I am ever faithful to you, despite my seeming infidelity! I always think of you-dream of you-during the long hours of the day, and in the night-watches! O Edmond, I am always yours!' Such words as these, intermingled with sobs, and streaming tears, and dishevelled hair, testified to an intensity of feeling in his wife which Lord Uplandtowers had not dreamed of her possessing.

'My only love—how could I be so cruel to you, my perfect one—so good and true—I am always faithful to you, despite what may seem like betrayal! I constantly think of you—dream of you—during the long hours of the day and in the night watches! Oh Edmond, I am always yours!' Such words, mixed with sobs, streaming tears, and tangled hair, revealed a depth of feeling in his wife that Lord Uplandtowers had never imagined she had.

'Ha, ha!' says he to himself. 'This is where we evaporate-this is where my hopes of a successor in the title dissolve-ha, ha! This must be seen to, verily!'

'Ha, ha!' he says to himself. 'This is where we disappear—this is where my hopes of having a successor in the title vanish—ha, ha! This has to be dealt with, truly!'

Lord Uplandtowers was a subtle man when once he set himself to strategy; though in the present instance he never thought of the simple stratagem of constant tenderness. Nor did he enter the room and surprise his wife as a blunderer would have done, but went back to his chamber as silently as he had left it. When the Countess returned thither, shaken by spent sobs and sighs, he appeared to be soundly sleeping as usual. The next day he began his countermoves by making inquiries as to the whereabouts of the tutor who had travelled with his wife's first husband; this gentleman, he found, was now master of a grammar-school at no great distance from Knollingwood. At the first convenient moment Lord Uplandtowers went thither and obtained an interview with the said gentleman. The schoolmaster was much gratified by a visit from such an influential neighbour, and was ready to communicate anything that his lordship desired to know.

Lord Uplandtowers was a clever man when he focused on strategy; however, in this case, he didn’t consider the straightforward tactic of constant affection. Instead of barging in and surprising his wife like a clumsy person would, he quietly returned to his room just as he had left it. When the Countess came back, still shaken from her tears and sighs, he appeared to be sound asleep as usual. The next day, he began his counter-strategies by asking about the tutor who had traveled with his wife's first husband. He discovered that this man was now the head of a grammar school not far from Knollingwood. At the first opportunity, Lord Uplandtowers went there and secured a meeting with the tutor. The schoolmaster was very pleased to receive a visit from such an influential neighbor and was eager to share anything his lordship wanted to know.

After some general conversation on the school and its progress, the visitor observed that he believed the schoolmaster had once travelled a good deal with the unfortunate Mr. Willowes, and had been with him on the occasion of his accident. He, Lord Uplandtowers, was interested in knowing what had really happened at that time, and had often thought of inquiring. And then the Earl not only heard by word of mouth as much as he wished to know, but, their chat becoming more intimate, the schoolmaster drew upon paper a sketch of the disfigured head, explaining with bated breath various details in the representation.

After some casual talk about the school and its progress, the visitor noted that he thought the schoolmaster had traveled quite a bit with the unfortunate Mr. Willowes and had been there during his accident. He, Lord Uplandtowers, was curious about what really happened back then and had often considered asking. Then the Earl not only learned verbally as much as he wanted to know, but as their conversation became more personal, the schoolmaster sketched out the disfigured head on paper, explaining various details in the drawing with a hushed voice.

'It was very strange and terrible!' said Lord Uplandtowers, taking the sketch in his hand. 'Neither nose nor ears!'

'It was so weird and awful!' said Lord Uplandtowers, taking the sketch in his hand. 'No nose or ears at all!'

A poor man in the town nearest to Knollingwood Hall, who combined the art of sign-painting with ingenious mechanical occupations, was sent for by Lord Uplandtowers to come to the Hall on a day in that week when the Countess had gone on a short visit to her parents. His employer made the man understand that the business in which his assistance was demanded was to be considered private, and money insured the observance of this request. The lock of the cupboard was picked, and the ingenious mechanic and painter, assisted by the schoolmaster's sketch, which Lord Uplandtowers had put in his pocket, set to work upon the god-like countenance of the statue under my lord's direction. What the fire had maimed in the original the chisel maimed in the copy. It was a fiendish disfigurement, ruthlessly carried out, and was rendered still more shocking by being tinted to the hues of life, as life had been after the wreck.

A poor man from the town closest to Knollingwood Hall, who mixed sign-painting with clever mechanical work, was called by Lord Uplandtowers to come to the Hall on a day that week when the Countess had gone for a quick visit to her parents. His employer made it clear that the work he needed help with was private, and money guaranteed the secrecy of this request. The lock on the cupboard was picked, and the skilled mechanic and painter, with the schoolmaster's sketch that Lord Uplandtowers had tucked in his pocket, began working on the god-like face of the statue under my lord's guidance. What the fire had damaged in the original, the chisel further marred in the copy. It was a ghastly disfigurement, mercilessly executed, and was made even more horrifying by being painted in lifelike colors, as life had been after the destruction.

Six hours after, when the workman was gone, Lord Uplandtowers looked upon the result, and smiled grimly, and said:

Six hours later, after the worker had left, Lord Uplandtowers examined the outcome, smiled wryly, and said:

'A statue should represent a man as he appeared in life, and that's as he appeared. Ha! ha! But 'tis done to good purpose, and not idly.'

'A statue should show a man as he was in real life, and that's exactly how he looked. Ha! ha! But it's done for a good reason, not just for fun.'

He locked the door of the closet with a skeleton key, and went his way to fetch the Countess home.

He locked the closet door with a skeleton key and went to pick up the Countess.

That night she slept, but he kept awake. According to the tale, she murmured soft words in her dream; and he knew that the tender converse of her imaginings was held with one whom he had supplanted but in name. At the end of her dream the Countess of Uplandtowers awoke and arose, and then the enactment of former nights was repeated. Her husband remained still and listened. Two strokes sounded from the clock in the pediment without, when, leaving the chamber-door ajar, she passed along the corridor to the other end, where, as usual, she obtained a light. So deep was the silence that he could even from his bed hear her softly blowing the tinder to a glow after striking the steel. She moved on into the boudoir, and he heard, or fancied he heard, the turning of the key in the closet-door. The next moment there came from that direction a loud and prolonged shriek, which resounded to the farthest corners of the house. It was repeated, and there was the noise of a heavy fall.

That night she slept, but he stayed awake. According to the story, she whispered soft words in her dreams; and he realized that her tender thoughts were with someone he had replaced, at least in name. When the Countess of Uplandtowers finished dreaming, she woke up and got out of bed, and then the same routine as previous nights unfolded. Her husband remained still and listened. Two chimes rang from the clock outside, and as she left the room door slightly open, she walked down the hallway to the other end, where, as usual, she got a light. The silence was so deep that he could even hear her gently blowing on the tinder to get it glowing after striking the steel. She moved into the boudoir, and he thought he heard the key turning in the closet door. The next moment, a loud and piercing scream came from that direction, echoing through the farthest corners of the house. It was repeated, followed by the sound of a heavy fall.

Lord Uplandtowers sprang out of bed. He hastened along the dark corridor to the door of the boudoir, which stood ajar, and, by the light of the candle within, saw his poor young Countess lying in a heap in her nightdress on the floor of the closet. When he reached her side he found that she had fainted, much to the relief of his fears that matters were worse. He quickly shut up and locked in the hated image which had done the mischief; and lifted his wife in his arms, where in a few instants she opened her eyes. Pressing her face to his without saying a word, he carried her back to her room, endeavouring as he went to disperse her terrors by a laugh in her ear, oddly compounded of causticity, predilection, and brutality.

Lord Uplandtowers jumped out of bed. He hurried down the dark hallway to the boudoir door, which was slightly open, and, by the light of the candle inside, saw his young Countess lying in a heap on the closet floor in her nightdress. When he reached her, he realized she had fainted, which eased his worries that things were worse than they seemed. He quickly closed the door and locked away the image that had caused the trouble, then picked up his wife and carried her in his arms. A few moments later, she opened her eyes. Pressing her face against his without saying anything, he took her back to her room, trying to ease her fears with a laugh in her ear, a strange mix of sarcasm, fondness, and harshness.

'Ho-ho-ho!' says he. 'Frightened, dear one, hey? What a baby 'tis! Only a joke, sure, Barbara-a splendid joke! But a baby should not go to closets at midnight to look for the ghost of the dear departed! If it do it must expect to be terrified at his aspect-ho-ho-ho!'

'Ho-ho-ho!' he says. 'Scared, my dear? What a baby you are! Just a joke, really, Barbara—a great joke! But a child shouldn’t go into closets at midnight looking for the ghost of the dearly departed! If you do, you have to expect to be frightened by its appearance—ho-ho-ho!'

When she was in her bed-chamber, and had quite come to herself; though her nerves were still much shaken, he spoke to her more sternly. 'Now, my lady, answer me: do you love him-eh?'

When she was in her bedroom and had fully regained her composure, although her nerves were still quite shaken, he spoke to her more harshly. 'Now, my lady, answer me: do you love him—huh?'

'No-no!' she faltered, shuddering, with her expanded eyes fixed on her husband. 'He is too terrible-no, no!'

'No way!' she stammered, shuddering, her wide eyes locked on her husband. 'He's too awful—no, no!'

'You are sure?'

"Are you sure?"

'Quite sure!' replied the poor broken-spirited Countess. But her natural elasticity asserted itself. Next morning he again inquired of her: 'Do you love him now?'

'Absolutely!' replied the poor, broken-spirited Countess. But her natural resilience kicked in. The next morning, he asked her again: 'Do you love him now?'

She quailed under his gaze, but did not reply.

She shrank back under his gaze, but didn’t respond.

'That means that you do still, by G—-!' he continued.

'That means that you still do, by G—-!' he continued.

'It means that I will not tell an untruth, and do not wish to incense my lord,' she answered, with dignity.

'It means that I won't lie, and I don't want to anger my lord,' she replied, with dignity.

'Then suppose we go and have another look at him?' As he spoke, he suddenly took her by the wrist, and turned as if to lead her towards the ghastly closet.

'So, should we go take another look at him?' As he said this, he suddenly grabbed her by the wrist and turned to lead her toward the horrifying closet.

'No-no! Oh-no!' she cried, and her desperate wriggle out of his hand revealed that the fright of the night had left more impression upon her delicate soul than superficially appeared.

'No-no! Oh no!' she cried, and her frantic struggle to escape his grip showed that the terror of the night had affected her fragile spirit more than it seemed at first glance.

'Another dose or two, and she will be cured,' he said to himself.

'One more dose or two, and she’ll be fine,' he thought to himself.

It was now so generally known that the Earl and Countess were not in accord, that he took no great trouble to disguise his deeds in relation to this matter. During the day he ordered four men with ropes and rollers to attend him in the boudoir. When they arrived, the closet was open, and the upper part of the statue tied up in canvas. He had it taken to the sleeping-chamber. What followed is more or less matter of conjecture. The story, as told to me, goes on to say that, when Lady Uplandtowers retired with him that night, she saw near the foot of the heavy oak four-poster, a tall dark wardrobe, which had not stood there before; but she did not ask what its presence meant.

It was now widely known that the Earl and Countess were not getting along, so he didn’t bother hiding his actions regarding the situation. During the day, he had four men with ropes and rollers come to the boudoir. When they arrived, the closet was open, and the upper part of the statue was wrapped in canvas. He had it moved to the bedroom. What happened next is mostly speculation. The story, as I heard it, continues to say that when Lady Uplandtowers went to bed with him that night, she noticed a tall, dark wardrobe near the foot of the heavy oak four-poster that hadn’t been there before, but she didn’t ask about its presence.

'I have had a little whim,' he explained when they were in the dark.

'I had a little thought,' he explained when they were in the dark.

'Have you?' says she.

“Have you?” she says.

'To erect a little shrine, as it may be called.'

'To set up a small shrine, as it might be called.'

'A little shrine?'

'A small shrine?'

'Yes; to one whom we both equally adore-eh? I'll show you what it contains.'

'Yes; to someone we both love equally—right? I'll show you what it contains.'

He pulled a cord which hung covered by the bed-curtains, and the doors of the wardrobe slowly opened, disclosing that the shelves within had been removed throughout, and the interior adapted to receive the ghastly figure, which stood there as it had stood in the boudoir, but with a wax-candle burning on each side of it to throw the cropped and distorted features into relief. She clutched him, uttered a low scream, and buried her head in the bedclothes. 'Oh, take it away-please take it away!' she implored.

He tugged on a cord that was hidden behind the bed curtains, and the wardrobe doors slowly opened, revealing that the shelves had been completely removed to make room for the horrifying figure that stood there just like it had in the fancy room, but now with a wax candle burning on either side to highlight its cropped and distorted features. She grabbed him, let out a muted scream, and buried her head in the bedcovers. “Oh, please take it away—just take it away!” she begged.

'All in good time namely, when you love me best,' he returned calmly. 'You don't quite yet-eh?'

'All in good time, specifically when you love me the most,' he replied coolly. 'You don't quite feel that way yet, do you?'

'I don't know-I think-O Uplandtowers, have mercy-I cannot bear it-O, in pity, take it away!'

'I don’t know—I think—O Uplandtowers, have mercy—I can't stand it—O, please, take it away!'

'Nonsense; one gets accustomed to anything. Take another gaze.'

"Nonsense; you can get used to anything. Take another look."

In short, he allowed the doors to remain unclosed at the foot of the bed, and the wax-tapers burning; and such was the strange fascination of the grisly exhibition that a morbid curiosity took possession of the Countess as she lay, and, at his repeated request, she did again look out from the coverlet, shuddered, hid her eyes, and looked again, all the while begging him to take it away, or it would drive her out of her senses. But he would not do so as yet, and the wardrobe was not locked till dawn.

In short, he left the doors open at the foot of the bed and the candles burning. The creepy display had such a strange grip on the Countess as she lay there that her morbid curiosity took over. At his repeated request, she peeked out from under the covers, shuddered, covered her eyes, and peeked again, all the while begging him to take it away, saying it would drive her crazy. But he wasn't ready to do that yet, and the wardrobe wasn't locked until dawn.

The scene was repeated the next night. Firm in enforcing his ferocious correctives, he continued the treatment till the nerves of the poor lady were quivering in agony under the virtuous tortures inflicted by her lord, to bring her truant heart back to faithfulness.

The scene played out again the next night. Strong in his harsh discipline, he carried on with the treatment until the poor woman's nerves were shaken with pain from the righteous punishments imposed by her husband, trying to bring her wandering heart back to loyalty.

The third night, when the scene had opened as usual, and she lay staring with immense wild eyes at the horrid fascination, on a sudden she gave an unnatural laugh; she laughed more and more, staring at the image, till she literally shrieked with laughter: then there was silence, and he found her to have become insensible. He thought she had fainted, but soon saw that the event was worse: she was in an epileptic fit. He started up, dismayed by the sense that, like many other subtle personages, he had been too exacting for his own interests. Such love as he was capable of, though rather a selfish gloating than a cherishing solicitude, was fanned into life on the instant. He closed the wardrobe with the pulley, clasped her in his arms, took her gently to the window, and did all he could to restore her.

The third night, when the scene started as usual, and she lay staring with huge, wild eyes at the horrifying fascination, suddenly she let out an unnatural laugh; she laughed more and more, staring at the image, until she literally shrieked with laughter. Then there was silence, and he found her to be unresponsive. He thought she had fainted but soon realized that the situation was worse: she was having an epileptic fit. He jumped up, dismayed by the realization that, like many other sensitive individuals, he had been too demanding for his own good. The love he was capable of, though more of a selfish satisfaction than caring concern, flared to life in that moment. He closed the wardrobe with the pulley, wrapped his arms around her, gently took her to the window, and did everything he could to bring her back.

It was a long time before the Countess came to herself, and when she did so, a considerable change seemed to have taken place in her emotions. She flung her arms around him, and with gasps of fear abjectly kissed him many times, at last bursting into tears. She had never wept in this scene before.

It took a while for the Countess to regain her composure, and when she finally did, a noticeable shift had occurred in her feelings. She threw her arms around him and, shaking with fear, kissed him repeatedly, eventually breaking down in tears. She had never cried in this moment before.

'You'll take it away, dearest-you will!' she begged plaintively.

'You'll take it away, my dear—you will!' she pleaded softly.

'If you love me.'

'I do-oh, I do!'

"I do, I do!"

'And hate him, and his memory?'

'And hate him and what he represents?'

'Yes-yes!'

"Yes, yes!"

'Thoroughly?'

'Really?'

'I cannot endure recollection of him!' cried the poor Countess slavishly. 'It fills me with shame-how could I ever be so depraved! I'll never behave badly again, Uplandtowers; and you will never put the hated statue again before my eyes?'

'I can't stand thinking about him!' cried the poor Countess submissively. 'It fills me with shame—how could I ever be so messed up! I'll never act that way again, Uplandtowers; and you won't put that hated statue in front of me again, will you?'

He felt that he could promise with perfect safety. 'Never,' said he.

He felt confident that he could make a promise without any risk. "Never," he said.

'And then I'll love you,' she returned eagerly, as if dreading lest the scourge should be applied anew. 'And I'll never, never dream of thinking a single thought that seems like faithlessness to my marriage vow.'

'And then I'll love you,' she replied eagerly, as if afraid the punishment should come again. 'And I'll never, ever think a single thought that seems like betrayal of my marriage vow.'

The strange thing now was that this fictitious love wrung from her by terror took on, through mere habit of enactment, a certain quality of reality. A servile mood of attachment to the Earl became distinctly visible in her contemporaneously with an actual dislike for her late husband's memory. The mood of attachment grew and continued when the statue was removed. A permanent revulsion was operant in her, which intensified as time wore on. How fright could have effected such a change of idiosyncrasy learned physicians alone can say; but I believe such cases of reactionary instinct are not unknown.

The strange thing now was that this fake love brought out in her by fear started to feel real just from the habit of acting it out. She visibly became attached to the Earl while simultaneously disliking her late husband's memory. This attachment deepened and continued even after the statue was taken away. A lasting aversion took hold of her, growing stronger as time went on. Only skilled doctors could explain how fear could cause such a change in personality, but I believe there are known cases of this kind of instinctive reaction.

The upshot was that the cure became so permanent as to be itself a new disease. She clung to him so tightly, that she would not willingly be out of his sight for a moment. She would have no sitting-room apart from his, though she could not help starting when he entered suddenly to her. Her eyes were well-nigh always fixed upon him. If he drove out, she wished to go with him; his slightest civilities to other women made her frantically jealous; till at length her very fidelity became a burden to him, absorbing his time, and curtailing his liberty, and causing him to curse and swear. If he ever spoke sharply to her now, she did not revenge herself by flying off to a mental world of her own; all that affection for another, which had provided her with a resource, was now a cold black cinder.

The bottom line was that the cure turned into a permanent condition, becoming a new kind of problem. She held onto him so tightly that she wouldn’t willingly be out of his sight for a second. She refused to have any separate living space from his, even though she couldn’t help but flinch when he suddenly walked in on her. Her gaze was almost always fixed on him. If he went out, she wanted to go with him; his smallest gestures of kindness toward other women drove her into a fit of jealousy. Eventually, her intense loyalty became a burden to him, consuming his time, limiting his freedom, and making him curse and swear. If he ever spoke to her harshly now, she didn’t get back at him by retreating into her own mental world; all the affection she once felt for someone else, which had given her an escape, was now just a cold, dead ember.

From that time the life of this scared and enervated lady-whose existence might have been developed to so much higher purpose but for the ignoble ambition of her parents and the conventions of the time-was one of obsequious amativeness towards a perverse and cruel man. Little personal events came to her in quick succession-half a dozen, eight, nine, ten such events,-in brief; she bore him no less than eleven children in the eight following years, but half of them came prematurely into the world, or died a few days old; only one, a girl, attained to maturity; she in after years became the wife of the Honourable Mr. Beltonleigh, who was created Lord D'Almaine, as may be remembered.

From that time on, the life of this frightened and weakened woman—whose existence could have been developed for a much greater purpose if not for her parents' disgraceful ambition and the norms of the time—was one of submissive affection towards a twisted and cruel man. A series of small personal events happened to her in quick succession—half a dozen, eight, nine, ten such events—in total; she had no less than eleven children in the following eight years, but half of them were born prematurely or died just a few days after birth; only one, a girl, survived to adulthood; she later became the wife of the Honourable Mr. Beltonleigh, who was made Lord D'Almaine, as you may recall.

There was no living son and heir. At length, completely worn out in mind and body, Lady Uplandtowers was taken abroad by her husband, to try the effect of a more genial climate upon her wasted frame. But nothing availed to strengthen her, and she died at Florence, a few months after her arrival in Italy.

There was no living son and heir. Eventually, completely exhausted in mind and body, Lady Uplandtowers was taken abroad by her husband to see if a nicer climate could help improve her weakened health. But nothing worked to make her stronger, and she died in Florence a few months after arriving in Italy.

Contrary to expectation, the Earl of Uplandtowers did not marry again. Such affection as existed in him-strange, hard, brutal as it was-seemed untransferable, and the title, as is known, passed at his death to his nephew. Perhaps it may not be so generally known that, during the enlargement of the Hall for the sixth Earl, while digging in the grounds for the new foundations, the broken fragments of a marble statue were unearthed. They were submitted to various antiquaries, who said that, so far as the damaged pieces would allow them to form an opinion, the statue seemed to be that of a mutilated Roman satyr; or if not, an allegorical figure of Death. Only one or two old inhabitants guessed whose statue those fragments had composed.

Contrary to what people expected, the Earl of Uplandtowers didn’t marry again. The affection he had—strange, harsh, and brutal as it was—seemed to be impossible to transfer, and the title, as is known, passed to his nephew upon his death. Perhaps it's not widely known that during the expansion of the Hall for the sixth Earl, while digging on the grounds for the new foundations, broken pieces of a marble statue were uncovered. These were examined by several antiquarians, who concluded, based on the damaged fragments, that the statue appeared to represent a mutilated Roman satyr; or if not, an allegorical figure of Death. Only a couple of old residents guessed whose statue those fragments had belonged to.

I should have added that, shortly after the death of the Countess, an excellent sermon was preached by the Dean of Melchester, the subject of which, though names were not mentioned, was unquestionably suggested by the aforesaid events. He dwelt upon the folly of indulgence in sensuous love for a handsome form merely; and showed that the only rational and virtuous growths of that affection were those based upon intrinsic worth. In the case of the tender but somewhat shallow lady whose life I have related, there is no doubt that an infatuation for the person of young Willowes was the chief feeling that induced her to marry him; which was the more deplorable in that his beauty, by all tradition, was the least of his recommendations, every report bearing out the inference that he must have been a man of steadfast nature, bright intelligence, and promising life.

I should have mentioned that shortly after the Countess passed away, an excellent sermon was delivered by the Dean of Melchester. The topic, though no names were mentioned, was clearly inspired by those recent events. He focused on the foolishness of indulging in a purely physical attraction to a handsome appearance and argued that the only true and virtuous forms of love are those rooted in intrinsic value. In the case of the sweet but somewhat superficial woman I've described, it's clear that her attraction to young Willowes was the main reason she chose to marry him. This was especially unfortunate because his looks, by all accounts, were the least of his qualities, with every report suggesting he was a man of strong character, bright intellect, and a promising future.

The company thanked the old surgeon for his story, which the rural dean declared to be a far more striking one than anything he could hope to tell. An elderly member of the Club, who was mostly called the Bookworm, said that a woman's natural instinct of fidelity would, indeed, send back her heart to a man after his death in a truly wonderful manner sometimes-if anything occurred to put before her forcibly the original affection between them, and his original aspect in her eyes,-whatever his inferiority may have been, social or otherwise; and then a general conversation ensued upon the power that a woman has of seeing the actual in the representation, the reality in the dream-a power which (according to the sentimental member) men have no faculty of equalling.

The company thanked the old surgeon for his story, which the rural dean said was much more impressive than anything he could ever share. An older member of the Club, often referred to as the Bookworm, mentioned that a woman's natural instinct for loyalty could indeed allow her heart to return to a man after his death in a truly remarkable way—especially if something reminded her of their original love and his original image in her mind, regardless of any social or other shortcomings he might have had. This sparked a general conversation about the ability of a woman to see the real in the representation and the truth in the dream—a skill that, according to the sentimental member, men simply can't match.

The rural dean thought that such cases as that related by the surgeon were rather an illustration of passion electrified back to life than of a latent, true affection. The story had suggested that he should try to recount to them one which he had used to hear in his youth, and which afforded an instance of the latter and better kind of feeling, his heroine being also a lady who had married beneath her, though he feared his narrative would be of a much slighter kind than the surgeon's. The Club begged him to proceed, and the parson began.

The rural dean believed that the cases shared by the surgeon were more an example of passion reignited than of genuine, deep affection. The story led him to think he should try to tell them one he used to hear in his youth, which represented the latter and more meaningful type of feeling. In his tale, his heroine also married someone beneath her station, although he worried that his story would be much less impactful than the surgeon's. The Club encouraged him to continue, and the parson began.

DAME THE THIRD-THE MARCHIONESS OF STONEHENGE

By the Rural Dean

I would have you know, then, that a great many years ago there lived in a classical mansion with which I used to be familiar, standing not a hundred miles from the city of Melchester, a lady whose personal charms were so rare and unparalleled that she was courted, flattered, and spoilt by almost all the young noblemen and gentlemen in that part of Wessex. For a time these attentions pleased her well. But as, in the words of good Robert South (whose sermons might be read much more than they are), the most passionate lover of sport, if tied to follow his hawks and hounds every day of his life, would find the pursuit the greatest torment and calamity, and would fly to the mines and galleys for his recreation, so did this lofty and beautiful lady after a while become satiated with the constant iteration of what she had in its novelty enjoyed; and by an almost natural revulsion turned her regards absolutely netherward, socially speaking. She perversely and passionately centred her affection on quite a plain-looking young man of humble birth and no position at all; though it is true that he was gentle and delicate in nature, of good address, and guileless heart. In short, he was the parish-clerk's son, acting as assistant to the land- steward of her father, the Earl of Avon, with the hope of becoming some day a land-steward himself. It should be said that perhaps the Lady Caroline (as she was called) was a little stimulated in this passion by the discovery that a young girl of the village already loved the young man fondly, and that he had paid some attentions to her, though merely of a casual and good-natured kind.

I want you to know that many years ago, in a grand mansion I used to know, located not far from the city of Melchester, there lived a lady whose beauty was so exceptional that almost all the young nobles and gentlemen in that area of Wessex sought her attention, flattered her, and spoiled her. For a while, she enjoyed this attention. But as the saying goes, even the most passionate lover of sports would find it a torment to chase after his hawks and hounds every day and would seek escape in mines or galleys. Similarly, this elegant and beautiful lady eventually grew tired of the constant repetition of what she had once enjoyed for its novelty; she naturally turned her interest far away from that world. In a surprising twist, she developed a deep affection for a plain-looking young man from a humble background with no social standing. However, he was gentle, charming, and pure-hearted. To put it simply, he was the parish clerk's son, working as an assistant to her father's land steward, the Earl of Avon, with hopes of becoming a land steward himself one day. It’s worth mentioning that Lady Caroline, as she was known, may have been spurred on in her feelings by realizing that a local girl was already in love with the young man and that he had given her some casual and kind attention.

Since his occupation brought him frequently to the manor-house and its environs, Lady Caroline could make ample opportunities of seeing and speaking to him. She had, in Chaucer's phrase, 'all the craft of fine loving' at her fingers' ends, and the young man, being of a readily- kindling heart, was quick to notice the tenderness in her eyes and voice. He could not at first believe in his good fortune, having no understanding of her weariness of more artificial men; but a time comes when the stupidest sees in an eye the glance of his other half; and it came to him, who was quite the reverse of dull. As he gained confidence accidental encounters led to encounters by design; till at length when they were alone together there was no reserve on the matter. They whispered tender words as other lovers do, and were as devoted a pair as ever was seen. But not a ray or symptom of this attachment was allowed to show itself to the outer world.

Since his job frequently took him to the manor and its surroundings, Lady Caroline had plenty of chances to see and talk to him. She had, in Chaucer's words, 'all the skill of fine loving' down to a tee, and the young man, being easily stirred, quickly noticed the softness in her eyes and voice. At first, he couldn't believe how lucky he was, not realizing her exhaustion with more superficial men; but eventually, even the thickest person can see in someone's eyes the spark of their other half, and this realization came to him, who was far from dull. As he became more confident, chance meetings turned into intentional ones; until eventually, when they were alone together, there was no pretense about it. They whispered sweet words like any other couple in love and were as devoted a pair as anyone had ever seen. But not a hint of this connection was allowed to show to the outside world.

Now, as she became less and less scrupulous towards him under the influence of her affection, and he became more and more reverential under the influence of his, and they looked the situation in the face together, their condition seemed intolerable in its hopelessness. That she could ever ask to be allowed to marry him, or could hold her tongue and quietly renounce him, was equally beyond conception. They resolved upon a third course, possessing neither of the disadvantages of these two: to wed secretly, and live on in outward appearance the same as before. In this they differed from the lovers of my friend's story.

Now, as she became less and less principled towards him because of her feelings, and he became more and more respectful because of his, they faced their situation together, and it seemed unbearable in its hopelessness. The idea that she could ever ask to marry him, or could stay silent and quietly give him up, was beyond belief. They decided on a third option that avoided the problems of both: to marry secretly and continue living on as if nothing had changed. In this, they were different from the lovers in my friend's story.

Not a soul in the parental mansion guessed, when Lady Caroline came coolly into the hall one day after a visit to her aunt, that, during that visit, her lover and herself had found an opportunity of uniting themselves till death should part them. Yet such was the fact; the young woman who rode fine horses, and drove in pony-chaises, and was saluted deferentially by every one, and the young man who trudged about, and directed the tree-felling, and the laying out of fish-ponds in the park, were husband and wife.

Not a single person in the family home realized, when Lady Caroline casually walked into the hallway one day after visiting her aunt, that during that visit, she and her lover had found a chance to unite themselves until death would separate them. Yet that was the truth; the young woman who rode beautiful horses, drove pony carriages, and was greeted respectfully by everyone, and the young man who wandered around, overseeing tree-cutting and the creation of fish ponds in the park, were husband and wife.

As they had planned, so they acted to the letter for the space of a month and more, clandestinely meeting when and where they best could do so; both being supremely happy and content. To be sure, towards the latter part of that month, when the first wild warmth of her love had gone off, the Lady Caroline sometimes wondered within herself how she, who might have chosen a peer of the realm, baronet, knight; or, if serious-minded, a bishop or judge of the more gallant sort who prefer young wives, could have brought herself to do a thing so rash as to make this marriage; particularly when, in their private meetings, she perceived that though her young husband was full of ideas, and fairly well read, they had not a single social experience in common. It was his custom to visit her after nightfall, in her own house, when he could find no opportunity for an interview elsewhere; and to further this course she would contrive to leave unfastened a window on the ground- floor overlooking the lawn, by entering which a back stair-case was accessible; so that he could climb up to her apartments, and gain audience of his lady when the house was still.

As they had planned, they followed through for over a month, secretly meeting whenever and wherever they could; both feeling incredibly happy and satisfied. Toward the end of that month, as the initial excitement of her love began to fade, Lady Caroline sometimes wondered how she, who could have chosen a nobleman, a baronet, a knight, or even a serious-minded bishop or judge who favored young wives, could have made the impulsive decision to marry. Especially since, during their private meetings, she noticed that while her young husband was full of ideas and fairly well-read, they shared no social experiences in common. He would visit her after dark at her home when there was no chance to meet anywhere else, and to facilitate this, she would leave a ground-floor window overlooking the lawn unlocked, allowing him to access a back staircase to reach her room while the house was quiet.

One dark midnight, when he had not been able to see her during the day, he made use of this secret method, as he had done many times before; and when they had remained in company about an hour he declared that it was time for him to descend.

One dark midnight, when he hadn't been able to see her during the day, he used this secret method, just like he had many times before; and after they had been together for about an hour, he said it was time for him to leave.

He would have stayed longer, but that the interview had been a somewhat painful one. What she had said to him that night had much excited and angered him, for it had revealed a change in her; cold reason had come to his lofty wife; she was beginning to have more anxiety about her own position and prospects than ardour for him. Whether from the agitation of this perception or not, he was seized with a spasm; he gasped, rose, and in moving towards the window for air he uttered in a short thick whisper, 'Oh, my heart!'

He would have stayed longer, but the interview had been pretty painful. What she had said to him that night had excited and angered him a lot because it showed a change in her; cold logic had taken hold of his once passionate wife; she was starting to care more about her own situation and future than about him. Whether it was because of the shock of this realization or not, he was suddenly overwhelmed; he gasped, stood up, and as he moved toward the window for fresh air, he whispered in a hoarse voice, 'Oh, my heart!'

With his hand upon his chest he sank down to the floor before he had gone another step. By the time that she had relighted the candle, which had been extinguished in case any eye in the opposite grounds should witness his egress, she found that his poor heart had ceased to beat; and there rushed upon her mind what his cottage-friends had once told her, that he was liable to attacks of heart-disease, one of which, the doctor had informed them, might some day carry him off.

With his hand on his chest, he collapsed onto the floor before he could take another step. By the time she relit the candle, which had been put out to avoid being seen by anyone in the neighboring grounds, she realized that his poor heart had stopped beating. It then flooded her mind what his friends from the cottage had once told her—that he was prone to heart disease, and that one day, as the doctor had warned them, it could take him away.

Accustomed as she was to doctoring the other parishioners, nothing that she could effect upon him in that kind made any difference whatever; and his stillness, and the increasing coldness of his feet and hands, disclosed too surely to the affrighted young woman that her husband was dead indeed. For more than an hour, however, she did not abandon her efforts to restore him; when she fully realized the fact that he was a corpse she bent over his body, distracted and bewildered as to what step she next should take.

Used to treating other parishioners, nothing she did for him made any difference; his stillness and the growing coldness of his hands and feet made it clear to the frightened young woman that her husband was really gone. For over an hour, she didn't stop trying to revive him; when she finally accepted that he was dead, she bent over his body, confused and unsure about what to do next.

Her first feelings had undoubtedly been those of passionate grief at the loss of him; her second thoughts were concern at her own position as the daughter of an earl. 'Oh, why, why, my unfortunate husband, did you die in my chamber at this hour!' she said piteously to the corpse. 'Why not have died in your own cottage if you would die! Then nobody would ever have known of our imprudent union, and no syllable would have been breathed of how I mismated myself for love of you!'

Her initial feelings were definitely intense sorrow over losing him; her next thoughts were worries about her own situation as the daughter of an earl. "Oh, why, why, my unfortunate husband, did you die in my room at this hour!" she lamented to the corpse. "Why didn't you die in your own cottage if you had to die? Then no one would have ever known about our reckless union, and no one would have whispered about how I married the wrong person for love of you!"

The clock in the courtyard striking the hour of one aroused Lady Caroline from the stupor into which she had fallen, and she stood up, and went towards the door. To awaken and tell her mother seemed her only way out of this terrible situation; yet when she put her hand on the key to unlock it she withdrew herself again. It would be impossible to call even her mother's assistance without risking a revelation to all the world through the servants; while if she could remove the body unassisted to a distance she might avert suspicion of their union even now. This thought of immunity from the social consequences of her rash act, of renewed freedom, was indubitably a relief to her, for, as has been said, the constraint and riskiness of her position had begun to tell upon the Lady Caroline's nerves.

The clock in the courtyard chiming one o’clock pulled Lady Caroline out of her stupor. She stood up and headed toward the door. Waking her mother seemed like her only way out of this awful situation, but when she reached for the key to unlock it, she hesitated. It would be impossible to call for her mother without risking everyone knowing through the servants. If she could discreetly move the body away, she might avoid any suspicion about their affair. The idea of escaping the social consequences of her impulsive action and regaining her freedom was definitely a relief, especially since the pressure and danger of her situation had started to weigh heavily on her nerves.

She braced herself for the effort, and hastily dressed herself; and then dressed him. Tying his dead hands together with a handkerchief; she laid his arms round her shoulders, and bore him to the landing and down the narrow stairs. Reaching the bottom by the window, she let his body slide slowly over the sill till it lay on the ground without. She then climbed over the window-sill herself, and, leaving the sash open, dragged him on to the lawn with a rustle not louder than the rustle of a broom. There she took a securer hold, and plunged with him under the trees.

She prepared herself for the effort and quickly got dressed, then dressed him. Tying his lifeless hands together with a handkerchief, she placed his arms around her shoulders and carried him to the landing and down the narrow stairs. When she reached the bottom by the window, she let his body slide slowly over the sill until it lay on the ground outside. She then climbed over the window-sill herself, leaving the window open, and dragged him onto the lawn with a sound no louder than the rustling of a broom. There, she got a better grip and moved with him under the trees.

Away from the precincts of the house she could apply herself more vigorously to her task, which was a heavy one enough for her, robust as she was; and the exertion and fright she had already undergone began to tell upon her by the time she reached the corner of a beech-plantation which intervened between the manor-house and the village. Here she was so nearly exhausted that she feared she might have to leave him on the spot. But she plodded on after a while, and keeping upon the grass at every opportunity she stood at last opposite the poor young man's garden-gate, where he lived with his father, the parish-clerk. How she accomplished the end of her task Lady Caroline never quite knew; but, to avoid leaving traces in the road, she carried him bodily across the gravel, and laid him down at the door. Perfectly aware of his ways of coming and going, she searched behind the shutter for the cottage door- key, which she placed in his cold hand. Then she kissed his face for the last time, and with silent little sobs bade him farewell.

Away from the house, she could focus more intensely on her task, which was challenging enough for her, even though she was strong. The effort and fear she had already experienced started to wear her down by the time she reached the corner of a beech grove that separated the manor house from the village. At this point, she felt so exhausted that she worried she might have to leave him there. However, she pressed on and, staying on the grass whenever possible, finally stood in front of the poor young man's garden gate, where he lived with his father, the parish clerk. Lady Caroline never fully understood how she managed to finish her task; to avoid leaving tracks on the road, she lifted him across the gravel and laid him down at the door. Fully aware of his routine, she searched behind the shutter for the cottage door key, which she placed in his cold hand. Then she kissed his face for the last time and, with quiet sobs, said goodbye.

Lady Caroline retraced her steps, and reached the mansion without hindrance; and to her great relief found the window open just as she had left it. When she had climbed in she listened attentively, fastened the window behind her, and ascending the stairs noiselessly to her room, set everything in order, and returned to bed.

Lady Caroline went back the way she came and got to the mansion without any trouble; to her great relief, she found the window open just like she had left it. After climbing in, she listened carefully, shut the window behind her, and quietly went up the stairs to her room, tidied everything up, and got back into bed.

The next morning it was speedily echoed around that the amiable and gentle young villager had been found dead outside his father's door, which he had apparently been in the act of unlocking when he fell. The circumstances were sufficiently exceptional to justify an inquest, at which syncope from heart-disease was ascertained to be beyond doubt the explanation of his death, and no more was said about the matter then. But, after the funeral, it was rumoured that some man who had been returning late from a distant horse-fair had seen in the gloom of night a person, apparently a woman, dragging a heavy body of some sort towards the cottage-gate, which, by the light of after events, would seem to have been the corpse of the young fellow. His clothes were thereupon examined more particularly than at first, with the result that marks of friction were visible upon them here and there, precisely resembling such as would be left by dragging on the ground.

The next morning, it quickly spread that the kind and gentle young villager had been found dead outside his father's door, apparently in the process of unlocking it when he collapsed. The unusual circumstances warranted an inquest, which determined with certainty that his death was due to a sudden heart attack, and nothing more was said about it at the time. However, after the funeral, rumors started circulating that a man returning late from a faraway horse fair had seen, in the dim light of night, someone who seemed to be a woman dragging a heavy body towards the cottage gate, which, with later events in mind, appeared to be the young man's corpse. His clothes were then examined more closely than before, revealing signs of friction consistent with being dragged on the ground.

Our beautiful and ingenious Lady Caroline was now in great consternation; and began to think that, after all, it might have been better to honestly confess the truth. But having reached this stage without discovery or suspicion, she determined to make another effort towards concealment; and a bright idea struck her as a means of securing it. I think I mentioned that, before she cast eyes on the unfortunate steward's clerk, he had been the beloved of a certain village damsel, the woodman's daughter, his neighbour, to whom he had paid some attentions; and possibly he was beloved of her still. At any rate, the Lady Caroline's influence on the estates of her father being considerable, she resolved to seek an interview with the young girl in furtherance of her plan to save her reputation, about which she was now exceedingly anxious; for by this time, the fit being over, she began to be ashamed of her mad passion for her late husband, and almost wished she had never seen him.

Our beautiful and clever Lady Caroline was now feeling very anxious; she started to think that maybe it would have been better to just admit the truth. But since she had gotten this far without being discovered or suspected, she decided to make another attempt at hiding it. An idea came to her on how to secure that concealment. I think I mentioned that before she noticed the unfortunate steward's clerk, he had been the sweetheart of a certain village girl, the woodman's daughter, who lived nearby, and he had shown her some attention; it's possible he was still in love with her. In any case, since Lady Caroline had significant influence over her father's estates, she decided to meet with the young girl to help save her reputation, which she was now really worried about; by this point, after the fit was over, she began to feel ashamed of her wild passion for her deceased husband and almost wished she had never met him.

In the course of her parish-visiting she lighted on the young girl without much difficulty, and found her looking pale and sad, and wearing a simple black gown, which she had put on out of respect for the young man's memory, whom she had tenderly loved, though he had not loved her.

During her visits to the parish, she easily came across the young girl, who appeared pale and sad, dressed in a plain black gown, a gesture of respect for the young man she had deeply loved, even though he hadn't loved her back.

'Ah, you have lost your lover, Milly,' said Lady Caroline.

'Oh, you’ve lost your lover, Milly,' said Lady Caroline.

The young woman could not repress her tears. 'My lady, he was not quite my lover,' she said. 'But I was his-and now he is dead I don't care to live any more!'

The young woman couldn't hold back her tears. 'My lady, he wasn't exactly my lover,' she said. 'But I was his—and now that he's dead, I don't want to live anymore!'

'Can you keep a secret about him?' asks the lady; 'one in which his honour is involved-which is known to me alone, but should be known to you?'

'Can you keep a secret about him?' asks the lady; 'one that involves his honor—one that I know but you should know too?'

The girl readily promised, and, indeed, could be safely trusted on such a subject, so deep was her affection for the youth she mourned.

The girl quickly agreed, and in fact, could be completely trusted on this matter, so strong was her love for the young man she grieved for.

'Then meet me at his grave to-night, half-an-hour after sunset, and I will tell it to you,' says the other.

'Then meet me at his grave tonight, half an hour after sunset, and I’ll tell you,' says the other.

In the dusk of that spring evening the two shadowy figures of the young women converged upon the assistant-steward's newly-turfed mound; and at that solemn place and hour, the one of birth and beauty unfolded her tale: how she had loved him and married him secretly; how he had died in her chamber; and how, to keep her secret, she had dragged him to his own door.

In the twilight of that spring evening, the two shadowy figures of the young women approached the assistant-steward's freshly mounded grave. At that serious time and place, one of them, full of life and beauty, shared her story: how she had loved him and married him in secret; how he had died in her room; and how, to protect her secret, she had taken him to his own doorstep.

'Married him, my lady!' said the rustic maiden, starting back.

'You married him, my lady!' said the country girl, stepping back.

'I have said so,' replied Lady Caroline. 'But it was a mad thing, and a mistaken course. He ought to have married you. You, Milly, were peculiarly his. But you lost him.'

'I said that,' replied Lady Caroline. 'But it was a crazy thing and a wrong choice. He should have married you. You, Milly, were meant for him. But you lost him.'

'Yes,' said the poor girl; 'and for that they laughed at me. "Ha-ha, you mid love him, Milly," they said; "but he will not love you!"'

'Yes,' said the poor girl; 'and for that they laughed at me. "Ha-ha, you might love him, Milly," they said; "but he won't love you!"'

'Victory over such unkind jeerers would be sweet,' said Lady Caroline. 'You lost him in life; but you may have him in death as if you had had him in life; and so turn the tables upon them.'

'Winning against those mean mockers would feel amazing,' said Lady Caroline. 'You lost him while he was alive, but you can still have him in death as if you had him while he was alive; and that way, you can get back at them.'

'How?' said the breathless girl.

"How?" said the out-of-breath girl.

The young lady then unfolded her plan, which was that Milly should go forward and declare that the young man had contracted a secret marriage (as he truly had done); that it was with her, Milly, his sweetheart; that he had been visiting her in her cottage on the evening of his death; when, on finding he was a corpse, she had carried him to his house to prevent discovery by her parents, and that she had meant to keep the whole matter a secret till the rumours afloat had forced it from her.

The young woman then revealed her plan, which was for Milly to step up and announce that the young man had secretly married her (which was true); that it was with her, Milly, his beloved; that he had been visiting her at her cottage on the night he died; when, upon discovering he was dead, she had taken him to his home to keep her parents from finding out, and that she intended to keep everything a secret until the rumors circulating made her talk.

'And how shall I prove this?' said the woodman's daughter, amazed at the boldness of the proposal.

'And how am I supposed to prove this?' said the woodman's daughter, shocked by the audacity of the suggestion.

'Quite sufficiently. You can say, if necessary, that you were married to him at the church of St. Michael, in Bath City, in my name, as the first that occurred to you, to escape detection. That was where he married me. I will support you in this.'

'That works perfectly fine. You can say, if you need to, that you were married to him at St. Michael's Church in Bath, under my name, as it was the first thing that came to mind to avoid being caught. That's where he married me. I'll back you up on this.'

'Oh-I don't quite like-'

'Oh, I don't really like-'

'If you will do so,' said the lady peremptorily, 'I will always be your father's friend and yours; if not, it will be otherwise. And I will give you my wedding-ring, which you shall wear as yours.'

'If you do this,' the lady said insistently, 'I'll always be your father's friend and yours; if not, things will change. And I'll give you my wedding ring, which you can wear as your own.'

'Have you worn it, my lady?'

'Only at night.'

There was not much choice in the matter, and Milly consented. Then this noble lady took from her bosom the ring she had never been able openly to exhibit, and, grasping the young girl's hand, slipped it upon her finger as she stood upon her lover's grave.

There wasn’t much choice in the matter, and Milly agreed. Then this noble lady took the ring from her chest that she had never been able to show publicly, and, holding the young girl's hand, slipped it onto her finger as she stood on her lover's grave.

Milly shivered, and bowed her head, saying, 'I feel as if I had become a corpse's bride!'

Milly shivered and lowered her head, saying, 'I feel like I've turned into a corpse's bride!'

But from that moment the maiden was heart and soul in the substitution. A blissful repose came over her spirit. It seemed to her that she had secured in death him whom in life she had vainly idolized; and she was almost content. After that the lady handed over to the young man's new wife all the little mementoes and trinkets he had given herself; even to a locket containing his hair.

But from that moment, the young woman was fully committed to the replacement. A peaceful calm washed over her spirit. She felt as if she had finally captured in death the man she had futilely admired in life; and she was almost satisfied. After that, the lady passed on to the young man's new wife all the little keepsakes and trinkets he had given her; even a locket containing his hair.

The next day the girl made her so-called confession, which the simple mourning she had already worn, without stating for whom, seemed to bear out; and soon the story of the little romance spread through the village and country-side, almost as far as Melchester. It was a curious psychological fact that, having once made the avowal, Milly seemed possessed with a spirit of ecstasy at her position. With the liberal sum of money supplied to her by Lady Caroline she now purchased the garb of a widow, and duly appeared at church in her weeds, her simple face looking so sweet against its margin of crape that she was almost envied her state by the other village-girls of her age. And when a woman's sorrow for her beloved can maim her young life so obviously as it had done Milly's there was, in truth, little subterfuge in the case. Her explanation tallied so well with the details of her lover's latter movements-those strange absences and sudden returnings, which had occasionally puzzled his friends-that nobody supposed for a moment that the second actor in these secret nuptials was other than she. The actual and whole truth would indeed have seemed a preposterous assertion beside this plausible one, by reason of the lofty demeanour of the Lady Caroline and the unassuming habits of the late villager. There being no inheritance in question, not a soul took the trouble to go to the city church, forty miles off, and search the registers for marriage signatures bearing out so humble a romance.

The next day, the girl made her so-called confession, which the plain mourning she had already worn, without saying for whom, seemed to confirm; and soon the story of the little romance spread through the village and countryside, almost as far as Melchester. It was a curious psychological fact that, having made the disclosure, Milly seemed filled with a sense of joy about her situation. With the generous amount of money given to her by Lady Caroline, she bought the attire of a widow and properly showed up at church in her mourning clothes, her simple face looking so sweet against the black that the other village girls her age almost envied her status. And when a woman's grief for her beloved can so clearly affect her young life as it had with Milly, there was, honestly, little deception in the matter. Her explanation matched so well with the details of her lover's final movements—those strange absences and sudden returns that sometimes puzzled his friends—that no one doubted for a second that the other participant in these secret weddings was anyone but her. The actual truth would have seemed utterly ridiculous next to this believable one, given Lady Caroline's high status and the unassuming nature of the late villager. Since there was no inheritance involved, not a single person bothered to go to the city church, forty miles away, to search the records for marriage signatures confirming such a humble romance.

In a short time Milly caused a decent tombstone to be erected over her nominal husband's grave, whereon appeared the statement that it was placed there by his heartbroken widow, which, considering that the payment for it came from Lady Caroline and the grief from Milly, was as truthful as such inscriptions usually are, and only required pluralizing to render it yet more nearly so.

In a short time, Milly had a nice tombstone put up over her husband's grave, stating that it was placed there by his heartbroken widow. Considering that Lady Caroline paid for it and Milly was the one grieving, it was as true as these kinds of inscriptions usually are, and it only needed to be pluralized to be even closer to the truth.

The impressionable and complaisant Milly, in her character of widow, took delight in going to his grave every day, and indulging in sorrow which was a positive luxury to her. She placed fresh flowers on his grave, and so keen was her emotional imaginativeness that she almost believed herself to have been his wife indeed as she walked to and fro in her garb of woe. One afternoon, Milly being busily engaged in this labour of love at the grave, Lady Caroline passed outside the churchyard wall with some of her visiting friends, who, seeing Milly there, watched her actions with interest, remarked upon the pathos of the scene, and upon the intense affection the young man must have felt for such a tender creature as Milly. A strange light, as of pain, shot from the Lady Caroline's eye, as if for the first time she begrudged to the young girl the position she had been at such pains to transfer to her; it showed that a slumbering affection for her husband still had life in Lady Caroline, obscured and stifled as it was by social considerations.

The impressionable and accommodating Milly, as a widow, found joy in visiting his grave every day, immersing herself in sorrow that felt like a true luxury to her. She put fresh flowers on his grave, and her emotional imagination was so vivid that she almost convinced herself that she had genuinely been his wife as she walked back and forth in her mourning attire. One afternoon, while Milly was engrossed in this labor of love at the grave, Lady Caroline passed by the churchyard wall with some of her visiting friends. When they saw Milly there, they watched her actions with interest, commenting on the sadness of the scene and the deep affection the young man must have felt for such a gentle person as Milly. A strange light, almost of pain, flashed in Lady Caroline's eyes, as if for the first time she begrudged the young girl the position she had worked so hard to take for herself; it revealed that a dormant affection for her husband still existed in Lady Caroline, buried and stifled by societal pressures.

An end was put to this smooth arrangement by the sudden appearance in the churchyard one day of the Lady Caroline, when Milly had come there on her usual errand of laying flowers. Lady Caroline had been anxiously awaiting her behind the chancel, and her countenance was pale and agitated.

An abrupt change to this smooth situation happened one day when Lady Caroline suddenly showed up in the churchyard while Milly was there doing her usual task of laying flowers. Lady Caroline had been anxiously waiting for her behind the chancel, and she looked pale and unsettled.

'Milly!' she said, 'come here! I don't know how to say to you what I am going to say. I am half dead!'

'Milly!' she said, 'come here! I don't know how to express what I’m about to say. I feel completely drained!'

'I am sorry for your ladyship,' says Milly, wondering.

'I’m sorry for you, my lady,' says Milly, puzzled.

'Give me that ring!' says the lady, snatching at the girl's left hand.

'Give me that ring!' the lady says, grabbing for the girl's left hand.

Milly drew it quickly away.

Milly quickly pulled it away.

'I tell you give it to me!' repeated Caroline, almost fiercely. 'Oh-but you don't know why? I am in a grief and a trouble I did not expect!' And Lady Caroline whispered a few words to the girl.

'I tell you, give it to me!' repeated Caroline, almost fiercely. 'Oh—but you don’t understand why? I'm in a grief and trouble I didn’t expect!' And Lady Caroline whispered a few words to the girl.

'O my lady!' said the thunderstruck Milly. 'What will you do?'

'O my lady!' said the shocked Milly. 'What are you going to do?'

'You must say that your statement was a wicked lie, an invention, a scandal, a deadly sin-that I told you to make it to screen me! That it was I whom he married at Bath. In short, we must tell the truth, or I am ruined-body, mind, and reputation-for ever!'

'You need to admit that your statement was a terrible lie, something made up, a scandal, a major sin—that I told you to create it to cover for me! That I was the one he married in Bath. In short, we have to tell the truth, or I am ruined—physically, mentally, and in terms of my reputation—forever!'

But there is a limit to the flexibility of gentle-souled women. Milly by this time had so grown to the idea of being one flesh with this young man, of having the right to bear his name as she bore it; had so thoroughly come to regard him as her husband, to dream of him as her husband, to speak of him as her husband, that she could not relinquish him at a moment's peremptory notice.

But there’s a limit to how flexible kind-hearted women can be. By this point, Milly had become so attached to the idea of being one with this young man, feeling entitled to carry his name just as she did, that she fully considered him her husband. She dreamed of him as her husband and talked about him as her husband, so she couldn’t let him go on a whim.

'No, no,' she said desperately, 'I cannot, I will not give him up! Your ladyship took him away from me alive, and gave him back to me only when he was dead. Now I will keep him! I am truly his widow. More truly than you, my lady! for I love him and mourn for him, and call myself by his dear name, and your ladyship does neither!'

'No, no,' she said urgently, 'I can't, I won't give him up! You took him away from me while he was alive and only returned him to me when he was dead. Now I'm keeping him! I'm truly his widow. More than you are, my lady! Because I love him and mourn for him, and I call myself by his beloved name, while you do neither!'

'I do love him!' cries Lady Caroline with flashing eyes, 'and I cling to him, and won't let him go to such as you! How can I, when he is the father of this poor babe that's coming to me? I must have him back again! Milly, Milly, can't you pity and understand me, perverse girl that you are, and the miserable plight that I am in? Oh, this precipitancy-it is the ruin of women! Why did I not consider, and wait! Come, give me back all that I have given you, and assure me you will support me in confessing the truth!'

'I do love him!' Lady Caroline shouts with intense eyes, 'and I hold on to him, and I won’t let him go to someone like you! How can I, when he is the father of this poor baby who’s coming to me? I need him back! Milly, Milly, can’t you have some pity and understand my miserable situation, you stubborn girl? Oh, this rush to act—it’s ruining women! Why didn’t I think it through and wait! Please, give me back everything I’ve given you, and promise me you’ll support me in confessing the truth!'

'Never, never!' persisted Milly, with woe-begone passionateness. 'Look at this headstone! Look at my gown and bonnet of crape-this ring: listen to the name they call me by! My character is worth as much to me as yours is to you! After declaring my Love mine, myself his, taking his name, making his death my own particular sorrow, how can I say it was not so? No such dishonour for me! I will outswear you, my lady; and I shall be believed. My story is so much the more likely that yours will be thought false. But, O please, my lady, do not drive me to this! In pity let me keep him!'

'Never, ever!' Milly insisted with deep emotion. 'Look at this headstone! Look at my black dress and hat—this ring: listen to what they call me! My reputation means just as much to me as yours does to you! After declaring my Love mine, myself his, taking his name, making his death my own personal grief, how can I say it wasn't true? There’s no way I’ll accept such dishonor! I will out-swear you, my lady; and people will believe me. My story is so much more believable that yours will be seen as false. But, oh please, my lady, don’t push me into this! In pity, let me keep him!'

The poor nominal widow exhibited such anguish at a proposal which would have been truly a bitter humiliation to her, that Lady Caroline was warmed to pity in spite of her own condition.

The poor nominal widow showed such distress at a proposal that would have been a real humiliation for her, that Lady Caroline felt compassion for her despite her own situation.

'Yes, I see your position,' she answered. 'But think of mine! What can I do? Without your support it would seem an invention to save me from disgrace; even if I produced the register, the love of scandal in the world is such that the multitude would slur over the fact, say it was a fabrication, and believe your story. I do not know who were the witnesses, or anything!'

'Yes, I understand your point,' she replied. 'But consider my situation! What can I do? Without your support, it would look like a desperate attempt to avoid shame; even if I showed the record, people's love for gossip is so strong that they would overlook the truth, claim it was made up, and believe your version. I don't know who the witnesses were, or anything!'

In a few minutes these two poor young women felt, as so many in a strait have felt before, that union was their greatest strength, even now; and they consulted calmly together. The result of their deliberations was that Milly went home as usual, and Lady Caroline also, the latter confessing that very night to the Countess her mother of the marriage, and to nobody else in the world. And, some time after, Lady Caroline and her mother went away to London, where a little while later still they were joined by Milly, who was supposed to have left the village to proceed to a watering-place in the North for the benefit of her health, at the expense of the ladies of the Manor, who had been much interested in her state of lonely and defenceless widowhood.

In just a few minutes, these two young women, feeling trapped as so many have before, realized that their bond was their greatest strength, even now; they discussed their situation calmly together. Their decision was that Milly would go home as usual, and Lady Caroline would do the same, with Lady Caroline admitting that night to her mother, the Countess, about the marriage, and to no one else. A little while later, Lady Caroline and her mother headed to London, where not long after, Milly joined them. She was thought to have left the village to go to a health retreat in the North, funded by the ladies of the Manor, who were very concerned about her lonely and vulnerable widowhood.

Early the next year the widow Milly came home with an infant in her arms, the family at the Manor House having meanwhile gone abroad. They did not return from their tour till the autumn ensuing, by which time Milly and the child had again departed from the cottage of her father the woodman, Milly having attained to the dignity of dwelling in a cottage of her own, many miles to the eastward of her native village; a comfortable little allowance had moreover been settled on her and the child for life, through the instrumentality of Lady Caroline and her mother.

Early the next year, the widow Milly came home holding a baby, while the family at the Manor House was away traveling. They didn’t come back from their trip until the following autumn, by which time Milly and the child had already left her father the woodman’s cottage. Milly had achieved the status of living in her own cottage, many miles east of her hometown; a comfortable allowance had also been arranged for her and the baby for life, thanks to Lady Caroline and her mother.

Two or three years passed away, and the Lady Caroline married a nobleman-the Marquis of Stonehenge-considerably her senior, who had wooed her long and phlegmatically. He was not rich, but she led a placid life with him for many years, though there was no child of the marriage. Meanwhile Milly's boy, as the youngster was called, and as Milly herself considered him, grew up, and throve wonderfully, and loved her as she deserved to be loved for her devotion to him, in whom she every day traced more distinctly the lineaments of the man who had won her girlish heart, and kept it even in the tomb.

Two or three years went by, and Lady Caroline married a nobleman—the Marquis of Stonehenge—who was significantly older than her and had pursued her in a calm manner for a long time. He wasn't wealthy, but she had a peaceful life with him for many years, even though they didn't have any children. Meanwhile, Milly's son, as he was called and as Milly herself referred to him, grew up, thrived remarkably, and loved her as she truly deserved for her dedication to him. Every day, she saw more clearly the features of the man who had captured her youthful heart and held it, even beyond the grave.

She educated him as well as she could with the limited means at her disposal, for the allowance had never been increased, Lady Caroline, or the Marchioness of Stonehenge as she now was, seeming by degrees to care little what had become of them. Milly became extremely ambitious on the boy's account; she pinched herself almost of necessaries to send him to the Grammar School in the town to which they retired, and at twenty he enlisted in a cavalry regiment, joining it with a deliberate intent of making the Army his profession, and not in a freak of idleness. His exceptional attainments, his manly bearing, his steady conduct, speedily won him promotion, which was furthered by the serious war in which this country was at that time engaged. On his return to England after the peace he had risen to the rank of riding-master, and was soon after advanced another stage, and made quartermaster, though still a young man.

She taught him the best she could with the limited resources she had, since the allowance had never increased, and Lady Caroline, now the Marchioness of Stonehenge, gradually seemed to care little about what happened to them. Milly became very ambitious for the boy; she deprived herself of basics to send him to the Grammar School in the town where they moved. By the age of twenty, he enlisted in a cavalry regiment, joining with the clear intention of making the Army his career, not just out of boredom. His outstanding skills, confident demeanor, and consistent behavior quickly earned him promotions, which were aided by the serious war the country was involved in at that time. After returning to England following the peace, he had risen to the rank of riding master and was soon promoted again to quartermaster, even though he was still quite young.

His mother-his corporeal mother, that is, the Marchioness of Stonehenge-heard tidings of this unaided progress; it reawakened her maternal instincts, and filled her with pride. She became keenly interested in her successful soldier-son; and as she grew older much wished to see him again, particularly when, the Marquis dying, she was left a solitary and childless widow. Whether or not she would have gone to him of her own impulse I cannot say; but one day, when she was driving in an open carriage in the outskirts of a neighbouring town, the troops lying at the barracks hard by passed her in marching order. She eyed them narrowly, and in the finest of the horsemen recognized her son from his likeness to her first husband.

His mother—his biological mother, the Marchioness of Stonehenge—heard news of his self-made success; it stirred her maternal instincts and filled her with pride. She became very interested in her accomplished soldier-son, and as she grew older, she really wanted to see him again, especially after the Marquis died, leaving her a lonely, childless widow. Whether she would have gone to him on her own, I can't say; but one day, while she was driving in an open carriage on the outskirts of a nearby town, the troops stationed at the barracks nearby passed her in formation. She watched them closely, and among the finest of the horsemen, she recognized her son by his resemblance to her late husband.

This sight of him doubly intensified the motherly emotions which had lain dormant in her for so many years, and she wildly asked herself how she could so have neglected him? Had she possessed the true courage of affection she would have owned to her first marriage, and have reared him as her son! What would it have mattered if she had never obtained this precious coronet of pearls and gold leaves, by comparison with the gain of having the love and protection of such a noble and worthy son? These and other sad reflections cut the gloomy and solitary lady to the heart; and she repented of her pride in disclaiming her first husband more bitterly than she had ever repented of her infatuation in marrying him.

This sight of him intensified all the motherly feelings she'd suppressed for so many years, and she frantically questioned how she could have neglected him so much. If she had truly been brave enough to love, she would have acknowledged her first marriage and raised him as her son! What would it have mattered if she had never received this precious coronet of pearls and gold leaves, compared to the joy of having the love and protection of such a noble and worthy son? These and other painful thoughts pierced the heart of the lonely lady; she regretted her pride in rejecting her first husband even more than she regretted her foolishness in marrying him.

Her yearning was so strong, that at length it seemed to her that she could not live without announcing herself to him as his mother. Come what might, she would do it: late as it was, she would have him away from that woman whom she began to hate with the fierceness of a deserted heart, for having taken her place as the mother of her only child. She felt confidently enough that her son would only too gladly exchange a cottage-mother for one who was a peeress of the realm. Being now, in her widowhood, free to come and go as she chose, without question from anybody, Lady Stonehenge started next day for the little town where Milly yet lived, still in her robes of sable for the lost lover of her youth.

Her desire was so intense that eventually, it felt impossible for her to live without revealing herself to him as his mother. No matter what happened, she would do it: even though it was late, she would take him away from that woman she was starting to hate with the strength of a heart broken and abandoned, for taking her place as the mother of her only child. She felt confident that her son would gladly trade a cottage mother for one who was a peeress of the realm. Now, in her widowhood and free to come and go as she pleased, without anyone questioning her, Lady Stonehenge set out the next day for the little town where Milly still lived, still dressed in black for the lost love of her youth.

'He is my son,' said the Marchioness, as soon as she was alone in the cottage with Milly. 'You must give him back to me, now that I am in a position in which I can defy the world's opinion. I suppose he comes to see you continually?'

'He's my son,' said the Marchioness, as soon as she was alone in the cottage with Milly. 'You need to give him back to me, now that I can stand up to what the world thinks. I assume he visits you all the time?'

'Every month since he returned from the war, my lady. And sometimes he stays two or three days, and takes me about seeing sights everywhere!' She spoke with quiet triumph.

'Every month since he got back from the war, my lady. And sometimes he stays for two or three days and takes me around to see all the sights!' She spoke with quiet triumph.

'Well, you will have to give him up,' said the Marchioness calmly. 'It shall not be the worse for you-you may see him when you choose. I am going to avow my first marriage, and have him with me.'

'Well, you'll have to let him go,' the Marchioness said calmly. 'It won't be any worse for you—you can see him whenever you want. I'm going to admit to my first marriage and have him with me.'

'You forget that there are two to be reckoned with, my lady. Not only me, but himself.'

'You forget there are two to consider, my lady. Not just me, but him too.'

'That can be arranged. You don't suppose that he wouldn't-' But not wishing to insult Milly by comparing their positions, she said, 'He is my own flesh and blood, not yours.'

'That can be arranged. You don't think that he wouldn't-' But not wanting to insult Milly by comparing their situations, she said, 'He is my own flesh and blood, not yours.'

'Flesh and blood's nothing!' said Milly, flashing with as much scorn as a cottager could show to a peeress, which, in this case, was not so little as may be supposed. 'But I will agree to put it to him, and let him settle it for himself.'

'Flesh and blood doesn't mean anything!' Milly said, filled with as much disdain as a commoner could show to a noblewoman, which, in this case, was more than you might think. 'But I will agree to bring it up to him and let him decide for himself.'

'That's all I require,' said Lady Stonehenge. 'You must ask him to come, and I will meet him here.'

'That's all I need,' said Lady Stonehenge. 'You have to invite him to come, and I'll meet him here.'

The soldier was written to, and the meeting took place. He was not so much astonished at the disclosure of his parentage as Lady Stonehenge had been led to expect, having known for years that there was a little mystery about his birth. His manner towards the Marchioness, though respectful, was less warm than she could have hoped. The alternatives as to his choice of a mother were put before him. His answer amazed and stupefied her.

The soldier was contacted, and the meeting happened. He was not as shocked by the revelation of his parentage as Lady Stonehenge had anticipated, having known for years that there was some mystery surrounding his birth. His attitude toward the Marchioness, while respectful, was cooler than she had hoped for. The options regarding his mother were presented to him. His response left her amazed and speechless.

'No, my lady,' he said. 'Thank you much, but I prefer to let things be as they have been. My father's name is mine in any case. You see, my lady, you cared little for me when I was weak and helpless; why should I come to you now I am strong? She, dear devoted soul [pointing to Milly], tended me from my birth, watched over me, nursed me when I was ill, and deprived herself of many a little comfort to push me on. I cannot love another mother as I love her. She is my mother, and I will always be her son!' As he spoke he put his manly arm round Milly's neck, and kissed her with the tenderest affection.

'No, my lady,' he said. 'Thank you very much, but I'd rather leave things as they are. My father's name is mine anyway. You see, my lady, you didn’t care much for me when I was weak and vulnerable; so why should I come to you now that I'm strong? She, dear devoted soul' [pointing to Milly], 'has taken care of me since I was born, looked after me, nursed me when I was sick, and gave up many little comforts to help me succeed. I can’t love another mother like I love her. She is my mother, and I will always be her son!' As he said this, he put his strong arm around Milly's neck and kissed her with the deepest affection.

The agony of the poor Marchioness was pitiable. 'You kill me!' she said, between her shaking sobs. 'Cannot you-love-me-too?'

The agony of the poor Marchioness was heartbreaking. 'You're killing me!' she said, between her shaking sobs. 'Can't you love me too?'

'No, my lady. If I must say it, you were ashamed of my poor father, who was a sincere and honest man; therefore, I am ashamed of you.'

'No, my lady. To be honest, you were ashamed of my poor father, who was a sincere and honest man; so, I am ashamed of you.'

Nothing would move him; and the suffering woman at last gasped, 'Cannot-oh, cannot you give one kiss to me-as you did to her? It is not much-it is all I ask-all!'

Nothing would sway him; and the suffering woman finally gasped, 'Can't-oh, can't you give me one kiss like you did with her? It's not much-it's all I ask-all!'

'Certainly,' he replied.

'Definitely,' he replied.

He kissed her coldly, and the painful scene came to an end. That day was the beginning of death to the unfortunate Marchioness of Stonehenge. It was in the perverseness of her human heart that his denial of her should add fuel to the fire of her craving for his love. How long afterwards she lived I do not know with any exactness, but it was no great length of time. That anguish that is sharper than a serpent's tooth wore her out soon. Utterly reckless of the world, its ways, and its opinions, she allowed her story to become known; and when the welcome end supervened (which, I grieve to say, she refused to lighten by the consolations of religion), a broken heart was the truest phrase in which to sum up its cause.

He kissed her coldly, and the painful scene came to an end. That day marked the start of the end for the unfortunate Marchioness of Stonehenge. In the twisted nature of her heart, his rejection only fueled her desperate longing for his love. I can't say exactly how long she lived afterward, but it wasn’t long. That pain sharper than a serpent's tooth wore her down quickly. Completely indifferent to the world, its ways, and its judgments, she let her story be known; and when the long-awaited end finally came (which, sadly, she refused to ease with the comfort of religion), a broken heart was the best way to describe what had caused it.

The rural dean having concluded, some observations upon his tale were made in due course. The sentimental member said that Lady Caroline's history afforded a sad instance of how an honest human affection will become shamefaced and mean under the frost of class-division and social prejudices. She probably deserved some pity; though her offspring, before he grew up to man's estate, had deserved more. There was no pathos like the pathos of childhood, when a child found itself in a world where it was not wanted, and could not understand the reason why. A tale by the speaker, further illustrating the same subject, though with different results from the last, naturally followed.

The rural dean wrapped up, and soon after, some comments on his story were made. The sentimental member remarked that Lady Caroline's story was a sad example of how genuine human affection can become embarrassed and petty under the harshness of class divisions and social prejudices. She likely deserved some sympathy; however, her child had deserved even more before he reached adulthood. There’s no sadness quite like the sadness of childhood when a child finds itself in a world where it isn’t wanted and can’t understand why. Another story from the speaker, further illustrating the same theme but with different outcomes, naturally followed.

DAME THE FOURTH-LADY MOTTISFONT

By the Sentimental Member

Of all the romantic towns in Wessex, Wintoncester is probably the most convenient for meditative people to live in; since there you have a cathedral with a nave so long that it affords space in which to walk and summon your remoter moods without continually turning on your heel, or seeming to do more than take an afternoon stroll under cover from the rain or sun. In an uninterrupted course of nearly three hundred steps eastward, and again nearly three hundred steps westward amid those magnificent tombs, you can, for instance, compare in the most leisurely way the dry dustiness which ultimately pervades the persons of kings and bishops with the damper dustiness that is usually the final shape of commoners, curates, and others who take their last rest out of doors. Then, if you are in love, you can, by sauntering in the chapels and behind the episcopal chantries with the bright-eyed one, so steep and mellow your ecstasy in the solemnities around, that it will assume a rarer and finer tincture, even more grateful to the understanding, if not to the senses, than that form of the emotion which arises from such companionship in spots where all is life, and growth, and fecundity.

Of all the charming towns in Wessex, Wintoncester is probably the most convenient for thoughtful people to live in; because here you have a cathedral with a nave so long that it provides space to walk and engage your deeper thoughts without constantly turning around or appearing to do more than take a stroll to avoid the rain or sun. Along nearly three hundred steps eastward, and again nearly three hundred steps westward among those magnificent tombs, you can, for example, casually compare the dry dustiness that eventually covers the remains of kings and bishops with the damper dustiness that typically marks the final resting place of commoners, curates, and others who are laid to rest outdoors. Then, if you're in love, you can wander through the chapels and behind the episcopal chantries with your bright-eyed companion, allowing your ecstasy to steep and mellow in the solemnity around you, giving it a rarer and finer quality, even more satisfying to the mind, if not to the senses, than that form of emotion which comes from such companionship in places filled with life, growth, and fertility.

It was in this solemn place, whither they had withdrawn from the sight of relatives on one cold day in March, that Sir Ashley Mottisfont asked in marriage, as his second wife, Philippa, the gentle daughter of plain Squire Okehall. Her life had been an obscure one thus far; while Sir Ashley, though not a rich man, had a certain distinction about him; so that everybody thought what a convenient, elevating, and, in a word, blessed match it would be for such a supernumerary as she. Nobody thought so more than the amiable girl herself. She had been smitten with such affection for him that, when she walked the cathedral aisles at his side on the before-mentioned day, she did not know that her feet touched hard pavement; it seemed to her rather that she was floating in space. Philippa was an ecstatic, heart-thumping maiden, and could not understand how she had deserved to have sent to her such an illustrious lover, such a travelled personage, such a handsome man.

It was in this serious place, where they had gotten away from the eyes of relatives on a cold day in March, that Sir Ashley Mottisfont proposed to marry Philippa, the kind daughter of plain Squire Okehall, as his second wife. Her life had been pretty ordinary until that point; while Sir Ashley, though not wealthy, had a certain charm about him. Everyone thought it would be a convenient, uplifting, and, in short, a wonderful match for someone like her. No one believed this more than the sweet girl herself. She was so in love with him that when she walked through the cathedral halls beside him that day, she didn’t even notice her feet touching the hard ground; it felt more like she was floating in the air. Philippa was an ecstatic, heart-racing girl who couldn’t understand how she had gotten such an extraordinary partner—such a well-traveled, handsome man.

When he put the question, it was in no clumsy language, such as the ordinary bucolic county landlords were wont to use on like quivering occasions, but as elegantly as if he had been taught it in Enfield's Speaker. Yet he hesitated a little-for he had something to add.

When he asked the question, it wasn’t in the awkward language that typical country landlords used on similar nervous occasions, but as elegantly as if he had learned it from Enfield's Speaker. Still, he hesitated for a moment because he had something more to say.

'My pretty Philippa,' he said (she was not very pretty by the way), 'I have, you must know, a little girl dependent upon me: a little waif I found one day in a patch of wild oats [such was this worthy baronet's humour] when I was riding home: a little nameless creature, whom I wish to take care of till she is old enough to take care of herself; and to educate in a plain way. She is only fifteen months old, and is at present in the hands of a kind villager's wife in my parish. Will you object to give some attention to the little thing in her helplessness?'

'My lovely Philippa,' he said (she wasn't really that lovely, by the way), 'I have a little girl who depends on me: a small orphan I found one day in a patch of wild oats [such is this good baronet's humor] while I was riding home: a little nameless child, whom I want to take care of until she is old enough to take care of herself; and to educate in a straightforward manner. She is only fifteen months old and is currently being looked after by a kind villager's wife in my parish. Would you mind giving some attention to the little one in her helplessness?'

It need hardly be said that our innocent young lady, loving him so deeply and joyfully as she did, replied that she would do all she could for the nameless child; and, shortly afterwards, the pair were married in the same cathedral that had echoed the whispers of his declaration, the officiating minister being the Bishop himself; a venerable and experienced man, so well accomplished in uniting people who had a mind for that sort of experiment, that the couple, with some sense of surprise, found themselves one while they were still vaguely gazing at each other as two independent beings.

It goes without saying that our innocent young woman, who loved him so deeply and joyfully, said she would do everything she could for the nameless child. Shortly after that, the couple got married in the same cathedral that had echoed his declaration, with the Bishop himself officiating. He was an old and experienced man, so skilled at bringing together people interested in that kind of union, that the couple, somewhat surprised, found themselves connected while still vaguely looking at each other as two independent beings.

After this operation they went home to Deansleigh Park, and made a beginning of living happily ever after. Lady Mottisfont, true to her promise, was always running down to the village during the following weeks to see the baby whom her husband had so mysteriously lighted on during his ride home-concerning which interesting discovery she had her own opinion; but being so extremely amiable and affectionate that she could have loved stocks and stones if there had been no living creatures to love, she uttered none of her thoughts. The little thing, who had been christened Dorothy, took to Lady Mottisfont as if the baronet's young wife had been her mother; and at length Philippa grew so fond of the child that she ventured to ask her husband if she might have Dorothy in her own home, and bring her up carefully, just as if she were her own. To this he answered that, though remarks might be made thereon, he had no objection; a fact which was obvious, Sir Ashley seeming rather pleased than otherwise with the proposal.

After this operation, they went home to Deansleigh Park and started living happily ever after. Lady Mottisfont, keeping her promise, frequently visited the village in the following weeks to see the baby that her husband had so mysteriously found during his ride home—about which she had her own thoughts; however, being so kind and warm-hearted that she could have loved inanimate objects if there were no living beings to love, she kept her opinions to herself. The little girl, named Dorothy, bonded with Lady Mottisfont as if the baronet's young wife were her mother; eventually, Philippa grew so attached to the child that she dared to ask her husband if she could bring Dorothy into their home and raise her as if she were her own. He replied that, although people might have something to say about it, he had no objections; it was clear that Sir Ashley seemed rather pleased with the idea.

After this they lived quietly and uneventfully for two or three years at Sir Ashley Mottisfont's residence in that part of England, with as near an approach to bliss as the climate of this country allows. The child had been a godsend to Philippa, for there seemed no great probability of her having one of her own: and she wisely regarded the possession of Dorothy as a special kindness of Providence, and did not worry her mind at all as to Dorothy's possible origin. Being a tender and impulsive creature, she loved her husband without criticism, exhaustively and religiously, and the child not much otherwise. She watched the little foundling as if she had been her own by nature, and Dorothy became a great solace to her when her husband was absent on pleasure or business; and when he came home he looked pleased to see how the two had won each other's hearts. Sir Ashley would kiss his wife, and his wife would kiss little Dorothy, and little Dorothy would kiss Sir Ashley, and after this triangular burst of affection Lady Mottisfont would say, 'Dear me-I forget she is not mine!'

After that, they lived peacefully and without excitement for two or three years at Sir Ashley Mottisfont's home in that part of England, experiencing as close to happiness as the country's climate allows. The child had been a blessing for Philippa, since it seemed unlikely she would have one of her own: she viewed having Dorothy as a special gift from Providence and didn’t worry about Dorothy's possible origins at all. Being a caring and impulsive person, she loved her husband wholeheartedly and devotedly, and felt the same way about the child. She watched over the little foundling as if she were her own by birth, and Dorothy brought her great comfort when her husband was away for pleasure or work; when he returned, he was happy to see how much the two had grown to love each other. Sir Ashley would kiss his wife, and she would kiss little Dorothy, who would then kiss Sir Ashley, and after this little triangle of affection, Lady Mottisfont would say, "Oh dear—I forget she isn't mine!"

'What does it matter?' her husband would reply. 'Providence is fore- knowing. He has sent us this one because he is not intending to send us one by any other channel.'

'What does it matter?' her husband would reply. 'Fate knows what it's doing. He has sent us this one because He doesn't plan to send us one any other way.'

Their life was of the simplest. Since his travels the baronet had taken to sporting and farming; while Philippa was a pattern of domesticity. Their pleasures were all local. They retired early to rest, and rose with the cart-horses and whistling waggoners. They knew the names of every bird and tree not exceptionally uncommon, and could foretell the weather almost as well as anxious farmers and old people with corns.

Their life was very simple. Since his travels, the baronet had taken up sports and farming, while Philippa was the perfect example of domestic life. Their enjoyment came from local activities. They went to bed early and woke up with the cart horses and whistling wagon drivers. They knew the names of every bird and tree that wasn’t too uncommon, and could predict the weather almost as well as worried farmers and elderly people with corns.

One day Sir Ashley Mottisfont received a letter, which he read, and musingly laid down on the table without remark.

One day, Sir Ashley Mottisfont got a letter, which he read and then thoughtfully placed on the table without saying anything.

'What is it, dearest?' asked his wife, glancing at the sheet.

"What’s wrong, my love?" his wife asked, looking at the sheet.

'Oh, it is from an old lawyer at Bath whom I used to know. He reminds me of something I said to him four or five years ago-some little time before we were married-about Dorothy.'

'Oh, it’s from an old lawyer in Bath that I used to know. He reminds me of something I told him four or five years ago—shortly before we got married—about Dorothy.'

'What about her?'

'It was a casual remark I made to him, when I thought you might not take kindly to her, that if he knew a lady who was anxious to adopt a child, and could insure a good home to Dorothy, he was to let me know.'

'It was a casual comment I made to him, thinking you might not be too fond of her, that if he knew a woman who wanted to adopt a child and could provide a good home for Dorothy, he should let me know.'

'But that was when you had nobody to take care of her,' she said quickly. 'How absurd of him to write now! Does he know you are married? He must, surely.'

'But that was when you had no one to take care of her,' she said quickly. 'How ridiculous of him to write now! Does he know you’re married? He must, surely.'

'Oh yes!'

'Oh, definitely!'

He handed her the letter. The solicitor stated that a widow-lady of position, who did not at present wish her name to be disclosed, had lately become a client of his while taking the waters, and had mentioned to him that she would like a little girl to bring up as her own, if she could be certain of finding one of good and pleasing disposition; and, the better to insure this, she would not wish the child to be too young for judging her qualities. He had remembered Sir Ashley's observation to him a long while ago, and therefore brought the matter before him. It would be an excellent home for the little girl-of that he was positive-if she had not already found such a home.

He gave her the letter. The lawyer mentioned that a respectable widow, who preferred to keep her name private for now, recently became his client while visiting a spa. She had told him she was interested in raising a little girl as her own, provided she could find one with a good and pleasant character; to ensure this, she didn’t want the child to be too young to judge her traits. He remembered Sir Ashley’s comments from a while back, so he decided to bring this up with him. He was certain it would be a great home for the little girl if she hadn’t already found one.

'But it is absurd of the man to write so long after!' said Lady Mottisfont, with a lumpiness about the back of her throat as she thought how much Dorothy had become to her. 'I suppose it was when you first-found her-that you told him this?'

'But it's ridiculous for him to write so much later!' said Lady Mottisfont, feeling a lump in her throat as she thought about how much Dorothy meant to her. 'I guess it was when you first found her that you told him this?'

'Exactly-it was then.'

'Exactly – it was then.'

He fell into thought, and neither Sir Ashley nor Lady Mottisfont took the trouble to answer the lawyer's letter; and so the matter ended for the time.

He fell into thought, and neither Sir Ashley nor Lady Mottisfont bothered to respond to the lawyer's letter; and so the matter ended for now.

One day at dinner, on their return from a short absence in town, whither they had gone to see what the world was doing, hear what it was saying, and to make themselves generally fashionable after rusticating for so long-on this occasion, I say, they learnt from some friend who had joined them at dinner that Fernell Hall-the manorial house of the estate next their own, which had been offered on lease by reason of the impecuniosity of its owner-had been taken for a term by a widow lady, an Italian Contessa, whose name I will not mention for certain reasons which may by and by appear. Lady Mottisfont expressed her surprise and interest at the probability of having such a neighbour. 'Though, if I had been born in Italy, I think I should have liked to remain there,' she said.

One evening at dinner, after returning from a brief trip to town where they had gone to see what was happening in the world, catch up on the latest gossip, and make themselves look trendy after spending so much time in the countryside—on this occasion, I should mention, they learned from a friend who had joined them at dinner that Fernell Hall—the manor house of the estate next to theirs, which had been put up for lease due to its owner’s financial struggles—had been rented for a time by a widow, an Italian Countess, whose name I won’t mention for certain reasons that may become clear later. Lady Mottisfont expressed her surprise and interest at the possibility of having such a neighbor. "Though, if I had been born in Italy, I think I would have liked to stay there," she said.

'She is not Italian, though her husband was,' said Sir Ashley.

'She isn't Italian, but her husband was,' said Sir Ashley.

'Oh, you have heard about her before now?'

'Oh, you’ve heard about her before?'

'Yes; they were talking of her at Grey's the other evening. She is English.' And then, as her husband said no more about the lady, the friend who was dining with them told Lady Mottisfont that the Countess's father had speculated largely in East-India Stock, in which immense fortunes were being made at that time; through this his daughter had found herself enormously wealthy at his death, which had occurred only a few weeks after the death of her husband. It was supposed that the marriage of an enterprising English speculator's daughter to a poor foreign nobleman had been matter of arrangement merely. As soon as the Countess's widowhood was a little further advanced she would, no doubt, be the mark of all the schemers who came near her, for she was still quite young. But at present she seemed to desire quiet, and avoided society and town.

'Yes, they were talking about her at Grey's the other evening. She is British.' And then, since her husband didn’t say anything more about the lady, the friend who was dining with them informed Lady Mottisfont that the Countess's father had made a lot of money in East India stock, where huge fortunes were being made at that time. Because of this, his daughter became extremely wealthy after his death, which happened just a few weeks after her husband's passing. It was believed that the marriage between the daughter of an ambitious English speculator and a poor foreign nobleman was merely a business arrangement. As soon as the Countess adjusted to her widowhood a bit more, she would likely attract all sorts of schemers, since she was still quite young. But for now, she seemed to want peace and was avoiding society and the city.

Some weeks after this time Sir Ashley Mottisfont sat looking fixedly at his lady for many moments. He said:

Some weeks later, Sir Ashley Mottisfont sat staring intently at his lady for a long time. He said:

'It might have been better for Dorothy if the Countess had taken her. She is so wealthy in comparison with ourselves, and could have ushered the girl into the great world more effectually than we ever shall be able to do.'

'It might have been better for Dorothy if the Countess had taken her. She is so wealthy compared to us and could have introduced the girl to the high society more effectively than we ever will.'

'The Contessa take Dorothy?' said Lady Mottisfont with a start. 'What-was she the lady who wished to adopt her?'

'Did the Contessa take Dorothy?' Lady Mottisfont asked, taken aback. 'Is she the lady who wanted to adopt her?'

'Yes; she was staying at Bath when Lawyer Gayton wrote to me.'

'Yes, she was staying in Bath when Lawyer Gayton wrote to me.'

'But how do you know all this, Ashley?'

He showed a little hesitation. 'Oh, I've seen her,' he says. 'You know, she drives to the meet sometimes, though she does not ride; and she has informed me that she was the lady who inquired of Gayton.'

He hesitated for a moment. "Oh, I've seen her," he said. "You know, she sometimes drives to the meet, even though she doesn't ride; and she told me she was the lady who asked about Gayton."

'You have talked to her as well as seen her, then?'

'So you've talked to her and seen her, right?'

'Oh yes, several times; everybody has.'

'Oh yes, many times; everyone has.'

'Why didn't you tell me?' says his lady. 'I had quite forgotten to call upon her. I'll go to-morrow, or soon . . . But I can't think, Ashley, how you can say that it might have been better for Dorothy to have gone to her; she is so much our own now that I cannot admit any such conjectures as those, even in jest.' Her eyes reproached him so eloquently that Sir Ashley Mottisfont did not answer.

'Why didn't you tell me?' his lady asks. 'I totally forgot to visit her. I'll go tomorrow, or soon... But I really can't understand, Ashley, how you can say it might have been better for Dorothy to go to her; she's so much one of us now that I can't entertain any thoughts like that, even jokingly.' Her eyes blamed him so powerfully that Sir Ashley Mottisfont didn't respond.

Lady Mottisfont did not hunt any more than the Anglo-Italian Countess did; indeed, she had become so absorbed in household matters and in Dorothy's wellbeing that she had no mind to waste a minute on mere enjoyments. As she had said, to talk coolly of what might have been the best destination in days past for a child to whom they had become so attached seemed quite barbarous, and she could not understand how her husband should consider the point so abstractedly; for, as will probably have been guessed, Lady Mottisfont long before this time, if she had not done so at the very beginning, divined Sir Ashley's true relation to Dorothy. But the baronet's wife was so discreetly meek and mild that she never told him of her surmise, and took what Heaven had sent her without cavil, her generosity in this respect having been bountifully rewarded by the new life she found in her love for the little girl.

Lady Mottisfont didn’t hunt any more than the Anglo-Italian Countess did; in fact, she became so absorbed in managing the household and caring for Dorothy that she didn’t want to waste a minute on simple pleasures. As she had mentioned, discussing what could have been the best future for a child they had grown so fond of felt completely cruel, and she couldn’t understand how her husband could think about it so dispassionately; as you might have guessed, Lady Mottisfont had long figured out Sir Ashley’s true feelings for Dorothy, if not from the very start. However, the baronet’s wife was so discreet and gentle that she never shared her suspicions with him, accepting what fate had given her without complaint. Her generosity in this matter was richly rewarded by the new joy she found in loving the little girl.

Her husband recurred to the same uncomfortable subject when, a few days later, they were speaking of travelling abroad. He said that it was almost a pity, if they thought of going, that they had not fallen in with the Countess's wish. That lady had told him that she had met Dorothy walking with her nurse, and that she had never seen a child she liked so well.

Her husband brought up the same awkward topic again a few days later when they were talking about traveling abroad. He mentioned that it was almost a shame, if they were considering going, that they hadn’t fulfilled the Countess's request. The Countess had told him that she had seen Dorothy out for a walk with her nurse and that she had never met a child she liked so much.

'What-she covets her still? How impertinent of the woman!' said Lady Mottisfont.

"What, she still wants her? How rude of that woman!" said Lady Mottisfont.

'She seems to do so . . . You see, dearest Philippa, the advantage to Dorothy would have been that the Countess would have adopted her legally, and have made her as her own daughter; while we have not done that-we are only bringing up and educating a poor child in charity.'

'She seems to do so . . . You see, dear Philippa, the benefit for Dorothy would have been that the Countess would have legally adopted her and treated her like her own daughter; but we haven't done that—we're only raising and educating a poor child out of charity.'

'But I'll adopt her fully-make her mine legally!' cried his wife in an anxious voice. 'How is it to be done?'

'But I'll adopt her completely—make her mine legally!' his wife exclaimed anxiously. 'How will we do it?'

'H'm.' He did not inform her, but fell into thought; and, for reasons of her own, his lady was restless and uneasy.

'Hmm.' He didn't say anything to her, but got lost in thought; and, for her own reasons, his lady felt restless and uneasy.

The very next day Lady Mottisfont drove to Fernell Hall to pay the neglected call upon her neighbour. The Countess was at home, and received her graciously. But poor Lady Mottisfont's heart died within her as soon as she set eyes on her new acquaintance. Such wonderful beauty, of the fully-developed kind, had never confronted her before inside the lines of a human face. She seemed to shine with every light and grace that woman can possess. Her finished Continental manners, her expanded mind, her ready wit, composed a study that made the other poor lady sick; for she, and latterly Sir Ashley himself, were rather rural in manners, and she felt abashed by new sounds and ideas from without. She hardly knew three words in any language but her own, while this divine creature, though truly English, had, apparently, whatever she wanted in the Italian and French tongues to suit every impression; which was considered a great improvement to speech in those days, and, indeed, is by many considered as such in these.

The very next day, Lady Mottisfont drove to Fernell Hall to make a long-overdue visit to her neighbor. The Countess was at home and welcomed her warmly. But poor Lady Mottisfont felt her heart sink as soon as she saw her new acquaintance. Such incredible beauty, fully realized, had never faced her before within the lines of a human face. She seemed to radiate every light and grace a woman could have. Her polished European manners, her broad knowledge, and her quick wit created a presence that made Lady Mottisfont uneasy; she and Sir Ashley lately had rather simple ways, and she felt overwhelmed by the new sounds and ideas around her. She barely knew three words in any language besides her own, while this divine creature, though truly English, seemed to effortlessly switch between Italian and French to express anything she needed; this was viewed as a major upgrade to communication back then, and indeed, many still see it that way today.

'How very strange it was about the little girl!' the Contessa said to Lady Mottisfont, in her gay tones. 'I mean, that the child the lawyer recommended should, just before then, have been adopted by you, who are now my neighbour. How is she getting on? I must come and see her.'

"How strange it is about the little girl!" the Contessa said to Lady Mottisfont, in her cheerful tone. "I mean, it's odd that the child the lawyer recommended was adopted by you, who are now my neighbor. How is she doing? I have to come and see her."

'Do you still want her?' asks Lady Mottisfont suspiciously.

"Do you still want her?" Lady Mottisfont asks suspiciously.

'Oh, I should like to have her!'

'Oh, I would love to have her!'

'But you can't! She's mine!' said the other greedily.

'But you can't! She's mine!' the other said eagerly.

A drooping manner appeared in the Countess from that moment.

A sad attitude appeared in the Countess from that moment.

Lady Mottisfont, too, was in a wretched mood all the way home that day. The Countess was so charming in every way that she had charmed her gentle ladyship; how should it be possible that she had failed to charm Sir Ashley? Moreover, she had awakened a strange thought in Philippa's mind. As soon as she reached home she rushed to the nursery, and there, seizing Dorothy, frantically kissed her; then, holding her at arm's length, she gazed with a piercing inquisitiveness into the girl's lineaments. She sighed deeply, abandoned the wondering Dorothy, and hastened away.

Lady Mottisfont was in a terrible mood all the way home that day. The Countess was so delightful in every way that she had enchanted her gentle ladyship; how could it be possible that she had failed to captivate Sir Ashley? Furthermore, she had sparked a strange thought in Philippa's mind. As soon as she got home, she dashed to the nursery, grabbed Dorothy, and frantically kissed her; then, holding her at arm's length, she stared with intense curiosity at the girl's features. She sighed deeply, left the puzzled Dorothy behind, and hurried away.

She had seen there not only her husband's traits, which she had often beheld before, but others, of the shade, shape, and expression which characterized those of her new neighbour.

She had noticed not only her husband's qualities, which she had often seen before, but also others, with the color, shape, and expression that defined those of her new neighbor.

Then this poor lady perceived the whole perturbing sequence of things, and asked herself how she could have been such a walking piece of simplicity as not to have thought of this before. But she did not stay long upbraiding herself for her shortsightedness, so overwhelmed was she with misery at the spectacle of herself as an intruder between these. To be sure she could not have foreseen such a conjuncture; but that did not lessen her grief. The woman who had been both her husband's bliss and his backsliding had reappeared free when he was no longer so, and she evidently was dying to claim her own in the person of Dorothy, who had meanwhile grown to be, to Lady Mottisfont, almost the only source of each day's happiness, supplying her with something to watch over, inspiring her with the sense of maternity, and so largely reflecting her husband's nature as almost to deceive her into the pleasant belief that she reflected her own also.

Then this poor lady realized the whole troubling situation and wondered how she could have been so naive not to think of this earlier. However, she didn’t spend much time blaming herself for her oversight, as she was too overwhelmed with sorrow at seeing herself as an intruder between them. Of course, she couldn't have predicted such a scenario; but that didn’t lessen her pain. The woman who had been both her husband’s joy and his downfall had reappeared free now that he was no longer so, and she clearly was eager to claim her own through Dorothy, who had meanwhile become, for Lady Mottisfont, almost the only source of daily happiness, giving her something to care for, inspiring her with a sense of motherhood, and so closely reflecting her husband’s character that she almost deluded herself into the happy belief that she reflected her own as well.

If there was a single direction in which this devoted and virtuous lady erred, it was in the direction of over-submissiveness. When all is said and done, and the truth told, men seldom show much self-sacrifice in their conduct as lords and masters to helpless women bound to them for life, and perhaps (though I say it with all uncertainty) if she had blazed up in his face like a furze-faggot, directly he came home, she might have helped herself a little. But God knows whether this is a true supposition; at any rate she did no such thing; and waited and prayed that she might never do despite to him who, she was bound to admit, had always been tender and courteous towards her; and hoped that little Dorothy might never be taken away.

If there was one area where this devoted and virtuous woman went wrong, it was in being overly submissive. In the end, if we’re being honest, men rarely show much self-sacrifice in their roles as lords and masters to helpless women tied to them for life, and maybe (though I'm not entirely sure) if she had confronted him fiercely as soon as he got home, it might have helped her a bit. But who knows if that's really true; at any rate, she did nothing of the sort; she waited and prayed that she would never act against him, the one who, she had to admit, had always been kind and courteous to her; and she hoped that little Dorothy would never be taken away.

By degrees the two households became friendly, and very seldom did a week pass without their seeing something of each other. Try as she might, and dangerous as she assumed the acquaintanceship to be, Lady Mottisfont could detect no fault or flaw in her new friend. It was obvious that Dorothy had been the magnet which had drawn the Contessa hither, and not Sir Ashley.

Gradually, the two families became friends, and it was rare for a week to go by without them seeing each other. No matter how hard she tried, and despite considering the friendship risky, Lady Mottisfont could find no fault in her new friend. It was clear that Dorothy was the reason the Contessa had come here, not Sir Ashley.

Such beauty, united with such understanding and brightness, Philippa had never before known in one of her own sex, and she tried to think (whether she succeeded I do not know) that she did not mind the propinquity; since a woman so rich, so fair, and with such a command of suitors, could not desire to wreck the happiness of so inoffensive a person as herself.

Such beauty, combined with such wisdom and brightness, Philippa had never encountered before in another woman. She tried to convince herself (I’m not sure if she succeeded) that she didn’t mind being so close; after all, a woman who was so wealthy, so beautiful, and had so many admirers wouldn’t want to ruin the happiness of someone as harmless as she was.

The season drew on when it was the custom for families of distinction to go off to The Bath, and Sir Ashley Mottisfont persuaded his wife to accompany him thither with Dorothy. Everybody of any note was there this year. From their own part of England came many that they knew; among the rest, Lord and Lady Purbeck, the Earl and Countess of Wessex, Sir John Grebe, the Drenkhards, Lady Stourvale, the old Duke of Hamptonshire, the Bishop of Melchester, the Dean of Exonbury, and other lesser lights of Court, pulpit, and field. Thither also came the fair Contessa, whom, as soon as Philippa saw how much she was sought after by younger men, she could not conscientiously suspect of renewed designs upon Sir Ashley.

The season arrived when it was common for well-to-do families to head to The Bath, and Sir Ashley Mottisfont convinced his wife to join him and Dorothy on the trip. This year, everyone notable was there. Many people they knew came from their part of England, including Lord and Lady Purbeck, the Earl and Countess of Wessex, Sir John Grebe, the Drenkhards, Lady Stourvale, the old Duke of Hamptonshire, the Bishop of Melchester, the Dean of Exonbury, and other minor figures from the Court, the church, and the military. The beautiful Contessa was also present, and as soon as Philippa saw how much attention she was getting from younger men, she couldn't honestly suspect her of trying to get Sir Ashley's attention again.

But the Countess had finer opportunities than ever with Dorothy; for Lady Mottisfont was often indisposed, and even at other times could not honestly hinder an intercourse which gave bright ideas to the child. Dorothy welcomed her new acquaintance with a strange and instinctive readiness that intimated the wonderful subtlety of the threads which bind flesh and flesh together.

But the Countess had better chances than ever with Dorothy; Lady Mottisfont was often unwell, and even at other times couldn't genuinely stop a connection that inspired bright ideas in the child. Dorothy greeted her new friend with a strange and instinctive eagerness that hinted at the amazing complexity of the bonds that connect people.

At last the crisis came: it was precipitated by an accident. Dorothy and her nurse had gone out one day for an airing, leaving Lady Mottisfont alone indoors. While she sat gloomily thinking that in all likelihood the Countess would contrive to meet the child somewhere, and exchange a few tender words with her, Sir Ashley Mottisfont rushed in and informed her that Dorothy had just had the narrowest possible escape from death. Some workmen were undermining a house to pull it down for rebuilding, when, without warning, the front wall inclined slowly outwards for its fall, the nurse and child passing beneath it at the same moment. The fall was temporarily arrested by the scaffolding, while in the meantime the Countess had witnessed their imminent danger from the other side of the street. Springing across, she snatched Dorothy from under the wall, and pulled the nurse after her, the middle of the way being barely reached before they were enveloped in the dense dust of the descending mass, though not a stone touched them.

At last, the crisis hit: it was triggered by an accident. Dorothy and her nurse had gone out one day for some fresh air, leaving Lady Mottisfont alone indoors. As she sat there gloomily thinking that, most likely, the Countess would find a way to meet the child somewhere and share a few affectionate words with her, Sir Ashley Mottisfont rushed in and told her that Dorothy had just had the closest escape from death. Some workers were tearing down a house to rebuild it when, without warning, the front wall started to lean outwards just as the nurse and child were passing beneath it. The fall was briefly stopped by the scaffolding while the Countess, from across the street, saw their imminent danger. She leaped across, grabbed Dorothy from under the wall, and pulled the nurse after her, reaching the middle just as they were surrounded by the thick dust of the falling debris, though not a single stone hit them.

'Where is Dorothy?' says the excited Lady Mottisfont.

'Where's Dorothy?' asks the excited Lady Mottisfont.

'She has her-she won't let her go for a time-'

'She has her—she won't let her go for a while—'

'Has her? But she's mine-she's mine!' cries Lady Mottisfont.

'What about her? But she's mine—she's mine!' cries Lady Mottisfont.

Then her quick and tender eyes perceived that her husband had almost forgotten her intrusive existence in contemplating the oneness of Dorothy's, the Countess's, and his own: he was in a dream of exaltation which recognized nothing necessary to his well-being outside that welded circle of three lives.

Then her sharp and caring eyes noticed that her husband had nearly forgotten her presence as he focused on the connection between Dorothy, the Countess, and himself: he was lost in a dreamy state of bliss that saw nothing essential to his happiness beyond that tight bond of three lives.

Dorothy was at length brought home; she was much fascinated by the Countess, and saw nothing tragic, but rather all that was truly delightful, in what had happened. In the evening, when the excitement was over, and Dorothy was put to bed, Sir Ashley said, 'She has saved Dorothy; and I have been asking myself what I can do for her as a slight acknowledgment of her heroism. Surely we ought to let her have Dorothy to bring up, since she still desires to do it? It would be so much to Dorothy's advantage. We ought to look at it in that light, and not selfishly.'

Dorothy was finally brought home; she was really taken with the Countess and saw nothing tragic, but rather all that was truly wonderful, in what had happened. In the evening, after the excitement had calmed down and Dorothy was tucked in bed, Sir Ashley said, 'She has saved Dorothy; and I've been thinking about what I can do for her as a small token of appreciation for her bravery. We should definitely let her take care of Dorothy since she still wants to. It would be so beneficial for Dorothy. We need to see it that way, not from a selfish perspective.'

Philippa seized his hand. 'Ashley, Ashley! You don't mean it-that I must lose my pretty darling-the only one I have?' She met his gaze with her piteous mouth and wet eyes so painfully strained, that he turned away his face.

Philippa grabbed his hand. 'Ashley, Ashley! You can't mean it—that I have to lose my sweet darling—the only one I have?' She looked at him with her sad face and teary eyes so strained that he turned away.

The next morning, before Dorothy was awake, Lady Mottisfont stole to the girl's bedside, and sat regarding her. When Dorothy opened her eyes, she fixed them for a long time upon Philippa's features.

The next morning, before Dorothy was awake, Lady Mottisfont quietly approached the girl's bedside and sat watching her. When Dorothy opened her eyes, she stared at Philippa's face for a long time.

'Mamma-you are not so pretty as the Contessa, are you?' she said at length.

'Mom, you're not as pretty as the Countess, are you?' she finally said.

'I am not, Dorothy.'

"I'm not, Dorothy."

'Why are you not, mamma?'

'Why aren't you, mom?'

'Dorothy-where would you rather live, always; with me, or with her?'

'Dorothy—where would you prefer to live, always; with me, or with her?'

The little girl looked troubled. 'I am sorry, mamma; I don't mean to be unkind; but I would rather live with her; I mean, if I might without trouble, and you did not mind, and it could be just the same to us all, you know.'

The little girl looked upset. "I'm sorry, Mom; I don’t want to be unkind, but I would prefer to live with her; I mean, if it's okay and you don’t mind, and it could be just the same for all of us, you know."

'Has she ever asked you the same question?'

'Has she ever asked you that same question?'

'Never, mamma.'

'Never, mom.'

There lay the sting of it: the Countess seemed the soul of honour and fairness in this matter, test her as she might. That afternoon Lady Mottisfont went to her husband with singular firmness upon her gentle face.

There was the sting of it: the Countess appeared to be the embodiment of honor and fairness in this situation, no matter how she was tested. That afternoon, Lady Mottisfont approached her husband with a unique determination on her gentle face.

'Ashley, we have been married nearly five years, and I have never challenged you with what I know perfectly well-the parentage of Dorothy.'

'Ashley, we’ve been married for almost five years, and I’ve never confronted you about what I know for sure—the identity of Dorothy’s parents.'

'Never have you, Philippa dear. Though I have seen that you knew from the first.'

'You never have, dear Philippa. But I could tell you knew from the very beginning.'

'From the first as to her father, not as to her mother. Her I did not know for some time; but I know now.'

'From the beginning, it was about her father, not her mother. I didn't know her for a while, but I know her now.'

'Ah! you have discovered that too?' says he, without much surprise.

"Ah! You've discovered that too?" he says, not very surprised.

'Could I help it? Very well, that being so, I have thought it over; and I have spoken to Dorothy. I agree to her going. I can do no less than grant to the Countess her wish, after her kindness to my-your-her-child.'

'Could I help it? Well, since that's the case, I've thought it through, and I've talked to Dorothy. I agree to her going. I can’t do any less than grant the Countess her wish, after her kindness to my-your-her child.'

Then this self-sacrificing woman went hastily away that he might not see that her heart was bursting; and thereupon, before they left the city, Dorothy changed her mother and her home. After this, the Countess went away to London for a while, taking Dorothy with her; and the baronet and his wife returned to their lonely place at Deansleigh Park without her.

Then this self-sacrificing woman quickly left so he wouldn't see that her heart was breaking; and right before they left the city, Dorothy changed her mother and her home. After that, the Countess went to London for a while, taking Dorothy with her; and the baronet and his wife returned to their lonely place at Deansleigh Park without her.

To renounce Dorothy in the bustle of Bath was a different thing from living without her in this quiet home. One evening Sir Ashley missed his wife from the supper-table; her manner had been so pensive and woeful of late that he immediately became alarmed. He said nothing, but looked about outside the house narrowly, and discerned her form in the park, where recently she had been accustomed to walk alone. In its lower levels there was a pool fed by a trickling brook, and he reached this spot in time to hear a splash. Running forward, he dimly perceived her light gown floating in the water. To pull her out was the work of a few instants, and bearing her indoors to her room, he undressed her, nobody in the house knowing of the incident but himself. She had not been immersed long enough to lose her senses, and soon recovered. She owned that she had done it because the Contessa had taken away her child, as she persisted in calling Dorothy. Her husband spoke sternly to her, and impressed upon her the weakness of giving way thus, when all that had happened was for the best. She took his reproof meekly, and admitted her fault.

To give up Dorothy in the chaos of Bath was one thing, but living without her in this quiet home was something else entirely. One evening, Sir Ashley noticed his wife was missing from the supper table; her recent demeanor had been so somber and troubled that he immediately felt worried. He didn’t say anything but carefully looked around outside the house and spotted her figure in the park, where she had recently taken to walking alone. In the lower part of the park, there was a pool fed by a gentle stream, and he reached that spot just in time to hear a splash. As he rushed forward, he faintly saw her light dress floating in the water. It took only a moment to pull her out, and he carried her inside to her room, with no one else in the house aware of what had happened. She hadn’t been submerged long enough to lose consciousness and soon came to. She admitted she had done it because the Contessa had taken away her child, which she stubbornly referred to as Dorothy. Her husband spoke to her firmly, stressing the foolishness of succumbing to despair when everything that had happened was for the best. She accepted his reprimand quietly and acknowledged her mistake.

After that she became more resigned, but he often caught her in tears over some doll, shoe, or ribbon of Dorothy's, and decided to take her to the North of England for change of air and scene. This was not without its beneficial effect, corporeally no less than mentally, as later events showed, but she still evinced a preternatural sharpness of ear at the most casual mention of the child. When they reached home, the Countess and Dorothy were still absent from the neighbouring Fernell Hall, but in a month or two they returned, and a little later Sir Ashley Mottisfont came into his wife's room full of news.

After that, she became more accepting, but he often found her in tears over some doll, shoe, or ribbon of Dorothy's. He decided to take her to the North of England for a change of scenery and fresh air. This had a positive impact, both physically and mentally, as later events revealed, but she still showed an unusual sensitivity to even the slightest mention of the child. When they got back home, the Countess and Dorothy were still away at the nearby Fernell Hall, but after a month or two, they returned. A little later, Sir Ashley Mottisfont came into his wife's room full of news.

'Well-would you think it, Philippa! After being so desperate, too, about getting Dorothy to be with her!'

'Can you believe it, Philippa! After being so desperate about getting Dorothy to be with her!'

'Ah-what?'

'What?'

'Our neighbour, the Countess, is going to be married again! It is to somebody she has met in London.'

'Our neighbor, the Countess, is getting married again! It’s to someone she met in London.'

Lady Mottisfont was much surprised; she had never dreamt of such an event. The conflict for the possession of Dorothy's person had obscured the possibility of it; yet what more likely, the Countess being still under thirty, and so good-looking?

Lady Mottisfont was very surprised; she had never imagined such an event. The struggle for Dorothy's attention had overshadowed the possibility of it; yet what could be more likely, with the Countess still under thirty and so attractive?

'What is of still more interest to us, or to you,' continued her husband, 'is a kind offer she has made. She is willing that you should have Dorothy back again. Seeing what a grief the loss of her has been to you, she will try to do without her.'

'What’s even more interesting for us, or for you,' her husband continued, 'is the generous offer she’s made. She’s willing to give you Dorothy back. Understanding how heartbroken you’ve been since her loss, she’ll try to manage without her.'

'It is not for that; it is not to oblige me,' said Lady Mottisfont quickly. 'One can see well enough what it is for!'

'That's not it; it’s not to do me a favor,' Lady Mottisfont said quickly. 'It's obvious what it's really for!'

'Well, never mind; beggars mustn't be choosers. The reason or motive is nothing to us, so that you obtain your desire.'

'Well, never mind; beggars can’t be choosers. The reason or motive doesn't matter to us, as long as you get what you want.'

'I am not a beggar any longer,' said Lady Mottisfont, with proud mystery.

'I’m not a beggar anymore,' said Lady Mottisfont, with a hint of pride.

'What do you mean by that?'

Lady Mottisfont hesitated. However, it was only too plain that she did not now jump at a restitution of one for whom some months before she had been breaking her heart.

Lady Mottisfont hesitated. However, it was obvious that she no longer rushed towards a reconciliation with someone she had been heartbroken over just a few months ago.

The explanation of this change of mood became apparent some little time farther on. Lady Mottisfont, after five years of wedded life, was expecting to become a mother, and the aspect of many things was greatly altered in her view. Among the more important changes was that of no longer feeling Dorothy to be absolutely indispensable to her existence.

The reason for this shift in mood became clear a little later. Lady Mottisfont, after five years of marriage, was expecting to become a mom, and her perspective on many things had changed significantly. One of the biggest changes was that she no longer felt Dorothy was absolutely essential to her life.

Meanwhile, in view of her coming marriage, the Countess decided to abandon the remainder of her term at Fernell Hall, and return to her pretty little house in town. But she could not do this quite so quickly as she had expected, and half a year or more elapsed before she finally quitted the neighbourhood, the interval being passed in alternations between the country and London. Prior to her last departure she had an interview with Sir Ashley Mottisfont, and it occurred three days after his wife had presented him with a son and heir.

Meanwhile, with her upcoming marriage in mind, the Countess decided to leave the rest of her time at Fernell Hall behind and head back to her charming little house in town. However, she couldn’t do this as quickly as she had hoped, and it took her about six months or more before she finally left the area, spending that time moving back and forth between the countryside and London. Before her final departure, she met with Sir Ashley Mottisfont, just three days after his wife had given birth to their son and heir.

'I wanted to speak to you,' said the Countess, looking him luminously in the face, 'about the dear foundling I have adopted temporarily, and thought to have adopted permanently. But my marriage makes it too risky!'

'I wanted to talk to you,' said the Countess, looking him brightly in the face, 'about the dear child I’ve temporarily adopted and thought I would adopt permanently. But my marriage makes it too risky!'

'I thought it might be that,' he answered, regarding her steadfastly back again, and observing two tears come slowly into her eyes as she heard her own voice describe Dorothy in those words.

"I thought it might be that," he replied, looking at her intently again, and noticing two tears slowly welling up in her eyes as she listened to her own voice describe Dorothy in those terms.

'Don't criticize me,' she said hastily; and recovering herself, went on. 'If Lady Mottisfont could take her back again, as I suggested, it would be better for me, and certainly no worse for Dorothy. To every one but ourselves she is but a child I have taken a fancy to, and Lady Mottisfont coveted her so much, and was very reluctant to let her go . . . I am sure she will adopt her again?' she added anxiously.

"Don't judge me," she said quickly; then, collecting herself, continued. "If Lady Mottisfont could take her back, as I suggested, it would be better for me and definitely no worse for Dorothy. To everyone except us, she's just a child I've become fond of, and Lady Mottisfont wanted her so badly and was really hesitant to let her go... I'm sure she will adopt her again?" she added nervously.

'I will sound her afresh,' said the baronet. 'You leave Dorothy behind for the present?'

'I will check in with her again,' said the baronet. 'Are you leaving Dorothy behind for now?'

'Yes; although I go away, I do not give up the house for another month.'

'Yes; even though I'm leaving, I won't give up the house for another month.'

He did not speak to his wife about the proposal till some few days after, when Lady Mottisfont had nearly recovered, and news of the Countess's marriage in London had just reached them. He had no sooner mentioned Dorothy's name than Lady Mottisfont showed symptoms of disquietude.

He didn’t talk to his wife about the proposal until a few days later, when Lady Mottisfont was almost recovered, and news of the Countess's marriage in London had just reached them. As soon as he brought up Dorothy’s name, Lady Mottisfont began to show signs of unease.

'I have not acquired any dislike of Dorothy,' she said, 'but I feel that there is one nearer to me now. Dorothy chose the alternative of going to the Countess, you must remember, when I put it to her as between the Countess and myself.'

'I don’t have any dislike for Dorothy,' she said, 'but I feel like there’s someone closer to me now. You have to remember that Dorothy chose to go to the Countess when I gave her the choice between the Countess and me.'

'But, my dear Philippa, how can you argue thus about a child, and that child our Dorothy?'

'But, my dear Philippa, how can you argue like that about a child, and that child our Dorothy?'

'Not ours,' said his wife, pointing to the cot. 'Ours is here.'

'Not ours,' his wife said, pointing at the crib. 'Ours is right here.'

'What, then, Philippa,' he said, surprised, 'you won't have her back, after nearly dying of grief at the loss of her?'

'What, then, Philippa,' he said, surprised, 'you won't take her back after almost dying from the grief of losing her?'

'I cannot argue, dear Ashley. I should prefer not to have the responsibility of Dorothy again. Her place is filled now.'

'I can't argue with you, dear Ashley. I would prefer not to take on the responsibility of Dorothy again. Her spot is filled now.'

Her husband sighed, and went out of the chamber. There had been a previous arrangement that Dorothy should be brought to the house on a visit that day, but instead of taking her up to his wife, he did not inform Lady Mottisfont of the child's presence. He entertained her himself as well as he could, and accompanied her into the park, where they had a ramble together. Presently he sat down on the root of an elm and took her upon his knee.

Her husband sighed and left the room. They had planned for Dorothy to visit that day, but instead of introducing her to his wife, he kept Lady Mottisfont in the dark about the child's presence. He entertained her as best as he could and took her to the park, where they strolled together. Soon, he sat down on the root of an elm tree and lifted her onto his lap.

'Between this husband and this baby, little Dorothy, you who had two homes are left out in the cold,' he said.

'Can't I go to London with my pretty mamma?' said Dorothy, perceiving from his manner that there was a hitch somewhere.

'Can't I go to London with my pretty mom?' said Dorothy, noticing from his attitude that there was a problem somewhere.

'I am afraid not, my child. She only took you to live with her because she was lonely, you know.'

"I'm sorry, my child. She just took you in to keep her company because she was lonely, you know."

'Then can't I stay at Deansleigh Park with my other mamma and you?'

'So, can't I stay at Deansleigh Park with my other mom and you?'

'I am afraid that cannot be done either,' said he sadly. 'We have a baby in the house now.' He closed the reply by stooping down and kissing her, there being a tear in his eye.

'I’m sorry, but that can’t happen either,' he said sadly. 'We have a baby in the house now.' He finished by bending down and kissing her, a tear in his eye.

'Then nobody wants me!' said Dorothy pathetically.

'Then nobody wants me!' Dorothy said sadly.

'Oh yes, somebody wants you,' he assured her. 'Where would you like to live besides?'

'Oh yes, someone wants you,' he assured her. 'Where else would you like to live?'

Dorothy's experiences being rather limited, she mentioned the only other place in the world that she was acquainted with, the cottage of the villager who had taken care of her before Lady Mottisfont had removed her to the Manor House.

Dorothy's experiences were pretty limited, so she talked about the only other place she knew in the world—the cottage of the villager who had looked after her before Lady Mottisfont moved her to the Manor House.

'Yes; that's where you'll be best off and most independent,' he answered. 'And I'll come to see you, my dear girl, and bring you pretty things; and perhaps you'll be just as happy there.'

'Yes; that's where you'll be best off and most independent,' he replied. 'And I'll come to visit you, my dear girl, and bring you lovely things; and maybe you'll be just as happy there.'

Nevertheless, when the change came, and Dorothy was handed over to the kind cottage-woman, the poor child missed the luxurious roominess of Fernell Hall and Deansleigh; and for a long time her little feet, which had been accustomed to carpets and oak floors, suffered from the cold of the stone flags on which it was now her lot to live and to play; while chilblains came upon her fingers with washing at the pump. But thicker shoes with nails in them somewhat remedied the cold feet, and her complaints and tears on this and other scores diminished to silence as she became inured anew to the hardships of the farm-cottage, and she grew up robust if not handsome. She was never altogether lost sight of by Sir Ashley, though she was deprived of the systematic education which had been devised and begun for her by Lady Mottisfont, as well as by her other mamma, the enthusiastic Countess. The latter soon had other Dorothys to think of, who occupied her time and affection as fully as Lady Mottisfont's were occupied by her precious boy. In the course of time the doubly-desired and doubly-rejected Dorothy married, I believe, a respectable road-contractor-the same, if I mistake not, who repaired and improved the old highway running from Wintoncester south-westerly through the New Forest-and in the heart of this worthy man of business the poor girl found the nest which had been denied her by her own flesh and blood of higher degree.

Nevertheless, when the change happened and Dorothy was taken in by the kind woman at the cottage, the poor child missed the spaciousness of Fernell Hall and Deansleigh. For a long time, her little feet, which had been used to carpets and wooden floors, suffered from the coldness of the stone flags where she now lived and played. Chilblains formed on her fingers from washing at the pump. But thicker shoes with nails in them helped a bit with the cold, and her complaints and tears about this and other issues quieted down as she got used to the challenges of cottage life. She grew up strong, if not attractive. Sir Ashley never completely lost track of her, even though she missed out on the organized education that Lady Mottisfont and her other mother, the enthusiastic Countess, had set up for her. The Countess soon became preoccupied with other Dorothys, who filled her time and affection just like Lady Mottisfont's were consumed by her precious boy. Eventually, the much-desired and much-rejected Dorothy married, I believe, a respectable road contractor—the same man, if I’m not mistaken, who repaired and improved the old highway running from Wintoncester southwest through the New Forest. In the heart of this reliable businessman, the poor girl found the sense of belonging that had been denied to her by her own family of higher status.

Several of the listeners wished to hear another story from the sentimental member after this, but he said that he could recall nothing else at the moment, and that it seemed to him as if his friend on the other side of the fireplace had something to say from the look of his face.

Several of the listeners wanted to hear another story from the sentimental member after this, but he said he couldn’t think of anything else at the moment, and it looked to him like his friend on the other side of the fireplace had something to share based on the look on his face.

The member alluded to was a respectable churchwarden, with a sly chink to one eyelid-possibly the result of an accident-and a regular attendant at the Club meetings. He replied that his looks had been mainly caused by his interest in the two ladies of the last story, apparently women of strong motherly instincts, even though they were not genuinely staunch in their tenderness. The tale had brought to his mind an instance of a firmer affection of that sort on the paternal side, in a nature otherwise culpable. As for telling the story, his manner was much against him, he feared; but he would do his best, if they wished.

The member mentioned was a respectable churchwarden, with a slight squint in one eye—probably from an accident—and he regularly attended the Club meetings. He said that his appearance was mainly due to his interest in the two ladies from the last story, who seemed to have strong maternal instincts, even though they weren't truly steadfast in their affection. The story reminded him of a stronger kind of love on the fatherly side, in a character otherwise flawed. As for sharing the story, he worried that his way of speaking might not help him, but he would try his best if they wanted him to.

Here the President interposed with a suggestion that as it was getting late in the afternoon it would be as well to adjourn to their respective inns and lodgings for dinner, after which those who cared to do so could return and resume these curious domestic traditions for the remainder of the evening, which might otherwise prove irksome enough. The curator had told him that the room was at their service. The churchwarden, who was beginning to feel hungry himself, readily acquiesced, and the Club separated for an hour and a half. Then the faithful ones began to drop in again-among whom were not the President; neither came the rural dean, nor the two curates, though the Colonel, and the man of family, cigars in mouth, were good enough to return, having found their hotel dreary. The museum had no regular means of illumination, and a solitary candle, less powerful than the rays of the fire, was placed on the table; also bottles and glasses, provided by some thoughtful member. The chink-eyed churchwarden, now thoroughly primed, proceeded to relate in his own terms what was in substance as follows, while many of his listeners smoked.

Here the President stepped in with a suggestion that since it was getting late in the afternoon, it would be best to head to their inns and lodgings for dinner. After that, those who wanted to could come back to continue these unusual domestic traditions for the rest of the evening, which might otherwise get pretty dull. The curator had informed him that the room was available for them. The churchwarden, starting to feel hungry himself, agreed quickly, and the Club broke up for an hour and a half. Then the loyal ones began to trickle back in—except for the President; the rural dean and the two curates also didn't return, though the Colonel and the family man, cigars in hand, were nice enough to come back after finding their hotel boring. The museum didn’t have proper lighting, so a lone candle, weaker than the firelight, was placed on the table, along with some bottles and glasses brought by a considerate member. The narrow-eyed churchwarden, now feeling quite spirited, started to share his own version of what essentially was the following, while many of his listeners smoked.

DAME THE FIFTH-THE LADY ICENWAY

By the Churchwarden

In the reign of His Most Excellent Majesty King George the Third, Defender of the Faith and of the American Colonies, there lived in 'a faire maner-place' (so Leland called it in his day, as I have been told), in one o' the greenest bits of woodland between Bristol and the city of Exonbury, a young lady who resembled some aforesaid ones in having many talents and exceeding great beauty. With these gifts she combined a somewhat imperious temper and arbitrary mind, though her experience of the world was not actually so large as her conclusive manner would have led the stranger to suppose. Being an orphan, she resided with her uncle, who, though he was fairly considerate as to her welfare, left her pretty much to herself.

In the time of King George the Third, Defender of the Faith and the American Colonies, there lived a young woman in a "pretty place" (as Leland referred to it back then) in one of the greenest areas of woodland between Bristol and the city of Exonbury. She had many talents and was exceptionally beautiful, similar to some others mentioned earlier. Along with these gifts, she had a rather commanding personality and a strong-willed nature, although her life experience was not as extensive as her authoritative demeanor might suggest to an outsider. As an orphan, she lived with her uncle, who, while he cared about her well-being, mostly left her to her own devices.

Now it chanced that when this lovely young lady was about nineteen, she (being a fearless horsewoman) was riding, with only a young lad as an attendant, in one o' the woods near her uncle's house, and, in trotting along, her horse stumbled over the root of a felled tree. She slipped to the ground, not seriously hurt, and was assisted home by a gentleman who came in view at the moment of her mishap. It turned out that this gentleman, a total stranger to her, was on a visit at the house of a neighbouring landowner. He was of Dutch extraction, and occasionally came to England on business or pleasure from his plantations in Guiana, on the north coast of South America, where he usually resided.

Now it just so happened that when this lovely young woman was about nineteen, she (being a fearless horse rider) was out riding in the woods near her uncle's house, accompanied only by a young boy. While trotting along, her horse tripped over the root of a fallen tree. She fell to the ground, not seriously injured, and was helped home by a gentleman who appeared just as she had her accident. It turned out that this gentleman, a complete stranger to her, was visiting the house of a nearby landowner. He was of Dutch descent and occasionally came to England for business or pleasure from his plantations in Guiana, on the northern coast of South America, where he usually lived.

On this account he was naturally but little known in Wessex, and was but a slight acquaintance of the gentleman at whose mansion he was a guest. However, the friendship between him and the Heymeres-as the uncle and niece were named-warmed and warmed by degrees, there being but few folk o' note in the vicinity at that time, which made a newcomer, if he were at all sociable and of good credit, always sure of a welcome. A tender feeling (as it is called by the romantic) sprang up between the two young people, which ripened into intimacy. Anderling, the foreign gentleman, was of an amorous temperament; and, though he endeavoured to conceal his feeling, it could be seen that Miss Maria Heymere had impressed him rather more deeply than would be represented by a scratch upon a stone. He seemed absolutely unable to free himself from her fascination; and his inability to do so, much as he tried-evidently thinking he had not the ghost of a chance with her-gave her the pleasure of power; though she more than sympathized when she overheard him heaving his deep drawn sighs-privately to himself, as he supposed.

On this account, he was naturally little known in Wessex and was only a slight acquaintance of the gentleman whose mansion he was visiting. However, the friendship between him and the Heymeres—named uncle and niece—grew gradually warmer, as there were few notable people in the area at that time. This meant that a newcomer, if he was sociable and reputable, was always sure to be welcomed. A tender feeling, as romantics call it, developed between the two young people and deepened into intimacy. Anderling, the foreign gentleman, was prone to love; and although he tried to hide his feelings, it was clear that Miss Maria Heymere had left a much stronger impression on him than mere surface scratches would suggest. He seemed completely unable to break free from her allure, and despite his efforts—believing he had no chance with her—his struggle only gave her the pleasure of power. She felt a connection, especially when she overheard his deep, drawn sighs—thinking he was alone with his thoughts.

After prolonging his visit by every conceivable excuse in his power, he summoned courage, and offered her his hand and his heart. Being in no way disinclined to him, though not so fervid as he, and her uncle making no objection to the match, she consented to share his fate, for better or otherwise, in the distant colony where, as he assured her, his rice, and coffee, and maize, and timber, produced him ample means-a statement which was borne out by his friend, her uncle's neighbour. In short, a day for their marriage was fixed, earlier in the engagement than is usual or desirable between comparative strangers, by reason of the necessity he was under of returning to look after his properties.

After dragging out his visit with every excuse he could think of, he finally found the courage to offer her his hand and his heart. She wasn't against him, though she wasn't as passionate as he was, and since her uncle had no objections to the match, she agreed to share his life, for better or worse, in the faraway colony where, as he promised, his crops of rice, coffee, maize, and timber provided him with plenty of resources—a claim supported by her uncle's neighbor. In short, they set a date for their wedding, sooner than is typical or ideal for people who barely know each other, because he needed to return to take care of his properties.

The wedding took place, and Maria left her uncle's mansion with her husband, going in the first place to London, and about a fortnight after sailing with him across the great ocean for their distant home-which, however, he assured her, should not be her home for long, it being his intention to dispose of his interests in this part of the world as soon as the war was over, and he could do so advantageously; when they could come to Europe, and reside in some favourite capital.

The wedding happened, and Maria left her uncle's mansion with her husband. They first headed to London and about two weeks later sailed across the ocean to their new home. However, he assured her that it wouldn’t be home for long since he planned to sell his interests in this part of the world as soon as the war ended and he could do it profitably. Then they could move to Europe and live in a favorite capital.

As they advanced on the voyage she observed that he grew more and more constrained; and, by the time they had crossed the Line, he was quite depressed, just as he had been before proposing to her. A day or two before landing at Paramaribo, he embraced her in a very tearful and passionate manner, and said he wished to make a confession. It had been his misfortune, he said, to marry at Quebec in early life a woman whose reputation proved to be in every way bad and scandalous. The discovery had nearly killed him; but he had ultimately separated from her, and had never seen her since. He had hoped and prayed she might be dead; but recently in London, when they were starting on this journey, he had discovered that she was still alive. At first he had decided to keep this dark intelligence from her beloved ears; but he had felt that he could not do it. All he hoped was that such a condition of things would make no difference in her feelings for him, as it need make no difference in the course of their lives.

As they continued their journey, she noticed that he became more and more uneasy; by the time they crossed the equator, he was clearly downcast, just like he had been before proposing to her. A day or so before arriving in Paramaribo, he hugged her tightly with tears in his eyes and passionately confessed that he needed to share something. He explained that it had been his misfortune to marry a woman in Quebec when he was younger, whose reputation turned out to be completely terrible and scandalous. The realization nearly devastated him; however, he had eventually separated from her and hadn’t seen her since. He had hoped and prayed that she was dead, but recently in London, just before they started this journey, he found out that she was still alive. Initially, he had decided to keep this upsetting news from her, but he realized he couldn’t do that. All he hoped was that this situation wouldn’t change how she felt about him, as it shouldn’t affect the direction of their lives.

Thereupon the spirit of this proud and masterful lady showed itself in violent turmoil, like the raging of a nor'-west thunderstorm-as well it might, God knows. But she was of too stout a nature to be broken down by his revelation, as many ladies of my acquaintance would have been-so far from home, and right under the Line in the blaze o' the sun. Of the two, indeed, he was the more wretched and shattered in spirit, for he loved her deeply, and (there being a foreign twist in his make) had been tempted to this crime by her exceeding beauty, against which he had struggled day and night, till he had no further resistance left in him. It was she who came first to a decision as to what should be done-whether a wise one I do not attempt to judge.

Then the spirit of this proud and powerful lady erupted in chaos, like a violent northwestern thunderstorm—as it understandably might. But she was too strong to be broken by his revelation, unlike many women I know, especially being so far from home, right on the Equator under the blazing sun. In fact, he was the more miserable and broken in spirit, because he loved her deeply and, with a foreign twist in his character, had been tempted to this crime by her extraordinary beauty, against which he had struggled day and night until he had no more resistance left. It was she who first decided what should be done—whether it was a wise choice, I won’t say.

'I put it to you,' says she, when many useless self-reproaches and protestations on his part had been uttered-'I put it to you whether, if any manliness is left in you, you ought not to do exactly what I consider the best thing for me in this strait to which you have reduced me?'

"I’m asking you," she said, after he had expressed many pointless self-blame and protests, "I’m asking you whether, if you have any manliness left, you shouldn’t do exactly what I think is best for me in this difficult situation you’ve put me in?"

He promised to do anything in the whole world. She then requested him to allow her to return, and announce him as having died of malignant ague immediately on their arrival at Paramaribo; that she should consequently appear in weeds as his widow in her native place; and that he would never molest her, or come again to that part of the world during the whole course of his life-a good reason for which would be that the legal consequences might be serious.

He promised to do anything in the world. She then asked him to let her go back and say he had died of a serious fever right after they got to Paramaribo; that she should then dress in mourning as his widow in her hometown; and that he would never bother her or return to that part of the world for the rest of his life—a good reason for this being that the legal consequences could be serious.

He readily acquiesced in this, as he would have acquiesced in anything for the restitution of one he adored so deeply-even to the yielding of life itself. To put her in an immediate state of independence he gave her, in bonds and jewels, a considerable sum (for his worldly means had been in no way exaggerated); and by the next ship she sailed again for England, having travelled no farther than to Paramaribo. At parting he declared it to be his intention to turn all his landed possessions into personal property, and to be a wanderer on the face of the earth in remorse for his conduct towards her.

He quickly agreed to this, just as he would have agreed to anything to restore the one he loved so deeply—even sacrificing his own life. To help her gain immediate independence, he gave her a significant amount in bonds and jewels (since his financial situation was no exaggeration); and by the next ship, she was sailing back to England, having traveled no farther than Paramaribo. As they parted, he stated that he planned to convert all his land into personal property and become a wanderer around the world in remorse for how he had treated her.

Maria duly arrived in England, and immediately on landing apprised her uncle of her return, duly appearing at his house in the garb of a widow. She was commiserated by all the neighbours as soon as her story was told; but only to her uncle did she reveal the real state of affairs, and her reason for concealing it. For, though she had been innocent of wrong, Maria's pride was of that grain which could not brook the least appearance of having been fooled, or deluded, or nonplussed in her worldly aims.

Maria arrived in England and immediately let her uncle know she was back, showing up at his house dressed as a widow. All the neighbors felt sorry for her as soon as she shared her story; however, she only revealed the true situation and her reasons for hiding it to her uncle. Even though she hadn’t done anything wrong, Maria’s pride was such that she couldn’t stand the slightest hint of having been tricked, misled, or caught off guard in her ambitions.

For some time she led a quiet life with her relative, and in due course a son was born to her. She was much respected for her dignity and reserve, and the portable wealth which her temporary husband had made over to her enabled her to live in comfort in a wing of the mansion, without assistance from her uncle at all. But, knowing that she was not what she seemed to be, her life was an uneasy one, and she often said to herself: 'Suppose his continued existence should become known here, and people should discern the pride of my motive in hiding my humiliation? It would be worse than if I had been frank at first, which I should have been but for the credit of this child.'

For a while, she led a quiet life with her relative, and eventually, she had a son. She was well-respected for her dignity and composure, and the money her temporary husband had given her allowed her to live comfortably in a part of the mansion, without any support from her uncle. However, knowing that she wasn’t truly who she appeared to be made her life uneasy, and she often thought to herself, 'What if people find out about his ongoing existence here, and realize that my reason for hiding my shame comes from pride? It would be worse than if I had been honest from the beginning, which I would have been if not for the reputation of this child.'

Such grave reflections as these occupied her with increasing force; and during their continuance she encountered a worthy man of noble birth and title-Lord Icenway his name-whose seat was beyond Wintoncester, quite at t'other end of Wessex. He being anxious to pay his addresses to her, Maria willingly accepted them, though he was a plain man, older than herself; for she discerned in a re-marriage a method of fortifying her position against mortifying discoveries. In a few months their union took place, and Maria lifted her head as Lady Icenway, and left with her husband and child for his home as aforesaid, where she was quite unknown.

Such serious thoughts occupied her increasingly; during this time, she met a respectable man of noble birth and title—Lord Icenway, his name—whose residence was beyond Wintoncester, at the far end of Wessex. He was eager to court her, and Maria willingly accepted, even though he was a straightforward man, older than she was; she saw remarriage as a way to secure her position against any embarrassing revelations. Within a few months, they married, and Maria held her head high as Lady Icenway, leaving with her husband and child for his home, where she was completely unknown.

A justification, or a condemnation, of her step (according as you view it) was seen when, not long after, she received a note from her former husband Anderling. It was a hasty and tender epistle, and perhaps it was fortunate that it arrived during the temporary absence of Lord Icenway. His worthless wife, said Anderling, had just died in Quebec; he had gone there to ascertain particulars, and had seen the unfortunate woman buried. He now was hastening to England to repair the wrong he had done his Maria. He asked her to meet him at Southampton, his port of arrival; which she need be in no fear of doing, as he had changed his name, and was almost absolutely unknown in Europe. He would remarry her immediately, and live with her in any part of the Continent, as they had originally intended, where, for the great love he still bore her, he would devote himself to her service for the rest of his days.

A justification, or a condemnation, of her decision (depending on how you look at it) was evident when, shortly after, she received a note from her ex-husband, Anderling. It was a rushed and heartfelt letter, and maybe it was lucky that it came during Lord Icenway's brief absence. Anderling wrote that his worthless wife had just died in Quebec; he had gone there to find out the details and had witnessed the unfortunate woman's burial. He was now racing back to England to make amends for the wrong he had done to Maria. He asked her to meet him at Southampton, where he would be arriving; she shouldn’t worry about that, as he had changed his name and was nearly completely unknown in Europe. He intended to remarry her right away and live with her anywhere on the continent, as they had originally planned, where he would dedicate himself to her for the rest of his life, out of the immense love he still felt for her.

Lady Icenway, self-possessed as it was her nature to be, was yet much disturbed at this news, and set off to meet him, unattended, as soon as she heard that the ship was in sight. As soon as they stood face to face she found that she still possessed all her old influence over him, though his power to fascinate her had quite departed. In his sorrow for his offence against her, he had become a man of strict religious habits, self-denying as a lenten saint, though formerly he had been a free and joyous liver. Having first got him to swear to make her any amends she should choose (which he was imagining must be by a true marriage), she informed him that she had already wedded another husband, an excellent man of ancient family and possessions, who had given her a title, in which she much rejoiced.

Lady Icenway, as composed as she usually was, was still quite troubled by the news and set off to meet him, alone, as soon as she learned that the ship was in sight. When they finally faced each other, she realized she still held her old influence over him, although his ability to charm her had completely faded. His remorse for offending her had turned him into a man of strict religious habits, self-denying like a Lenten saint, whereas he had once been carefree and cheerful. After getting him to promise to make amends in whatever way she desired (which he thought would mean a genuine marriage), she told him that she had already married another man, a wonderful individual from an esteemed family with notable wealth, who had given her a title that she greatly cherished.

At this the countenance of the poor foreign gentleman became cold as clay, and his heart withered within him; for as it had been her beauty and bearing which had led him to sin to obtain her, so, now that her beauty was in fuller bloom, and her manner more haughty by her success, did he feel her fascination to be almost more than he could bear. Nevertheless, having sworn his word, he undertook to obey her commands, which were simply a renewal of her old request-that he would depart for some foreign country, and never reveal his existence to her friends, or husband, or any person in England; never trouble her more, seeing how great a harm it would do her in the high position which she at present occupied.

At this, the expression of the poor foreign gentleman turned as cold as stone, and his heart sank; for it had been her beauty and demeanor that had tempted him to sin for her, and now, with her beauty at its peak and her attitude more arrogant due to her success, he felt her allure was almost too much to handle. Still, having given his word, he agreed to follow her orders, which were simply a repeat of her previous request—that he would go to a foreign country and never reveal his existence to her friends, husband, or anyone in England; he should never disturb her again, knowing how much harm it would cause her in the elevated position she currently held.

He bowed his head. 'And the child-our child?' he said.

He lowered his head. 'And the child—our child?' he said.

'He is well,' says she. 'Quite well.'

'He's doing well,' she says. 'Really well.'

With this the unhappy gentleman departed, much sadder in his heart than on his voyage to England; for it had never occurred to him that a woman who rated her honour so highly as Maria had done, and who was the mother of a child of his, would have adopted such means as this for the restoration of that honour, and at so surprisingly early a date. He had fully calculated on making her his wife in law and truth, and of living in cheerful unity with her and his offspring, for whom he felt a deep and growing tenderness, though he had never once seen the child.

With this, the unhappy man left, feeling much sadder than when he embarked on his journey to England; for he had never imagined that a woman who valued her honor as much as Maria did, and who was the mother of his child, would resort to such measures to restore that honor, and so surprisingly soon. He had fully intended to make her his legal and true wife and to live happily together with her and their child, for whom he felt a deep and increasing affection, even though he had never seen the child.

The lady returned to her mansion beyond Wintoncester, and told nothing of the interview to her noble husband, who had fortunately gone that day to do a little cocking and ratting out by Weydon Priors, and knew nothing of her movements. She had dismissed her poor Anderling peremptorily enough; yet she would often after this look in the face of the child of her so-called widowhood, to discover what and how many traits of his father were to be seen in his lineaments. For this she had ample opportunity during the following autumn and winter months, her husband being a matter-of-fact nobleman, who spent the greater part of his time in field-sports and agriculture.

The lady returned to her mansion beyond Wintoncester and said nothing about the meeting to her noble husband, who had fortunately gone out for some hunting that day near Weydon Priors and was unaware of her actions. She had firmly dismissed her poor Anderling, but she would often look into the face of the child from her so-called widowhood to see what traits of his father were visible in his features. She had plenty of opportunities for this during the following autumn and winter months, as her husband was a practical nobleman who spent most of his time on field sports and farming.

One winter day, when he had started for a meet of the hounds a long way from the house-it being his custom to hunt three or four times a week at this season of the year-she had walked into the sunshine upon the terrace before the windows, where there fell at her feet some little white object that had come over a boundary wall hard by. It proved to be a tiny note wrapped round a stone. Lady Icenway opened it and read it, and immediately (no doubt, with a stern fixture of her queenly countenance) walked hastily along the terrace, and through the door into the shrubbery, whence the note had come. The man who had first married her stood under the bushes before her. It was plain from his appearance that something had gone wrong with him.

One winter day, when he left for a hounds meet far from the house—he usually hunted three or four times a week during this season—she stepped into the sunlight on the terrace in front of the windows. A small white object landed at her feet, having come over a nearby boundary wall. It turned out to be a tiny note wrapped around a stone. Lady Icenway opened it and read it, and right away (with a serious look on her queenly face, no doubt) she quickly walked along the terrace and through the door into the shrubbery, where the note had originated. The man who had married her first stood under the bushes waiting for her. It was clear from his appearance that something was wrong with him.

'You notice a change in me, my best-beloved,' he said. 'Yes, Maria-I have lost all the wealth I once possessed-mainly by reckless gambling in the Continental hells to which you banished me. But one thing in the world remains to me-the child-and it is for him that I have intruded here. Don't fear me, darling! I shall not inconvenience you long; I love you too well! But I think of the boy day and night-I cannot help it-I cannot keep my feeling for him down; and I long to see him, and speak a word to him once in my lifetime!'

'You can see I’m different now, my dearest,' he said. 'Yes, Maria—I’ve lost all the wealth I once had, mostly due to reckless gambling in the Continental casinos you sent me to. But there's one thing I still have—the child—and that's why I’ve come here. Don’t be afraid of me, darling! I won’t stay long; I love you too much for that! But I think about the boy all the time—I can’t stop it—I can’t hold back my feelings for him; I just want to see him and say a word to him once in my life!'

'But your oath?' says she. 'You promised never to reveal by word or sign-'

'But your oath?' she asks. 'You promised never to reveal by word or sign—'

'I will reveal nothing. Only let me see the child. I know what I have sworn to you, cruel mistress, and I respect my oath. Otherwise I might have seen him by some subterfuge. But I preferred the frank course of asking your permission.'

'I won’t reveal anything. Just let me see the child. I know what I promised you, cruel mistress, and I’m keeping my word. Otherwise, I might have found a sneaky way to see him. But I chose the straightforward route of asking for your permission.'

She demurred, with the haughty severity which had grown part of her character, and which her elevation to the rank of a peeress had rather intensified than diminished. She said that she would consider, and would give him an answer the day after the next, at the same hour and place, when her husband would again be absent with his pack of hounds.

She hesitated, with the proud sternness that had become a part of her personality, something that her rise to the status of a peeress had only amplified. She said she would think it over and give him an answer the day after tomorrow, at the same time and place, when her husband would once again be out with his pack of hounds.

The gentleman waited patiently. Lady Icenway, who had now no conscious love left for him, well considered the matter, and felt that it would be advisable not to push to extremes a man of so passionate a heart. On the day and hour she met him as she had promised to do.

The man waited patiently. Lady Icenway, who no longer felt any love for him, thought it over and realized it would be wise not to push a man with such a passionate heart too far. On the scheduled day and time, she met him as she had promised.

'You shall see him,' she said, 'of course on the strict condition that you do not reveal yourself, and hence, though you see him, he must not see you, or your manner might betray you and me. I will lull him into a nap in the afternoon, and then I will come to you here, and fetch you indoors by a private way.'

'You'll see him,' she said, 'but only on the strict condition that you don't reveal yourself. So, even though you see him, he can't see you, or your behavior might give us away. I'll get him to take a nap in the afternoon, and then I'll come to you here and bring you inside through a private route.'

The unfortunate father, whose misdemeanour had recoiled upon his own head in a way he could not have foreseen, promised to adhere to her instructions, and waited in the shrubberies till the moment when she should call him. This she duly did about three o'clock that day, leading him in by a garden door, and upstairs to the nursery where the child lay. He was in his little cot, breathing calmly, his arm thrown over his head, and his silken curls crushed into the pillow. His father, now almost to be pitied, bent over him, and a tear from his eye wetted the coverlet.

The unfortunate father, whose actions had unexpectedly backfired on him, promised to follow her instructions and waited in the bushes until she called for him. She did so around three o'clock that day, leading him in through a garden door and upstairs to the nursery where the child was. He was in his little crib, breathing peacefully, with his arm thrown over his head, and his silky curls pressed into the pillow. His father, now almost deserving of pity, leaned over him, and a tear fell from his eye onto the blanket.

She held up a warning finger as he lowered his mouth to the lips of the boy.

She raised a warning finger as he leaned down to kiss the boy's lips.

'But oh, why not?' implored he.

'But oh, why not?' he pleaded.

'Very well, then,' said she, relenting. 'But as gently as possible.'

'Alright, then,' she said, giving in. 'But make it as gentle as you can.'

He kissed the child without waking him, turned, gave him a last look, and followed her out of the chamber, when she conducted him off the premises by the way he had come.

He kissed the child without waking him, turned, gave him one last look, and followed her out of the room as she led him out of the house the same way he had entered.

But this remedy for his sadness of heart at being a stranger to his own son, had the effect of intensifying the malady; for while originally, not knowing or having ever seen the boy, he had loved him vaguely and imaginatively only, he now became attached to him in flesh and bone, as any parent might; and the feeling that he could at best only see his child at the rarest and most cursory moments, if at all, drove him into a state of distraction which threatened to overthrow his promise to the boy's mother to keep out of his sight.

But this attempt to cure his heartache from being a stranger to his own son only made things worse; at first, since he didn’t know or had never seen the boy, he loved him in a vague and imaginative way. Now he felt a real attachment to him, just like any parent would. The realization that he could at best only catch a glimpse of his child during the rarest and briefest moments, if at all, drove him into a state of distraction that threatened to break his promise to the boy's mother to stay out of his sight.

But such was his chivalrous respect for Lady Icenway, and his regret at having ever deceived her, that he schooled his poor heart into submission. Owing to his loneliness, all the fervour of which he was capable-and that was much-flowed now in the channel of parental and marital love-for a child who did not know him, and a woman who had ceased to love him.

But his honorable respect for Lady Icenway and his regret over having deceived her were so strong that he forced his heart to accept the situation. Because he was lonely, all the intensity he could feel—and it was a lot—was now directed toward a child who didn’t know him and a woman who no longer loved him.

At length this singular punishment became such a torture to the poor foreigner that he resolved to lessen it at all hazards, compatible with punctilious care for the name of the lady his former wife, to whom his attachment seemed to increase in proportion to her punitive treatment of him. At one time of his life he had taken great interest in tulip- culture, as well as gardening in general; and since the ruin of his fortunes, and his arrival in England, he had made of his knowledge a precarious income in the hot-houses of nurserymen and others. With the new idea in his head he applied himself zealously to the business, till he acquired in a few months great skill in horticulture. Waiting till the noble lord, his lady's husband, had room for an under-gardener of a general sort, he offered himself for the place, and was engaged immediately by reason of his civility and intelligence, before Lady Icenway knew anything of the matter. Much therefore did he surprise her when she found him in the conservatories of her mansion a week or two after his arrival. The punishment of instant dismissal, with which at first she haughtily threatened him, my lady thought fit, on reflection, not to enforce. While he served her thus she knew he would not harm her by a word, while, if he were expelled, chagrin might induce him to reveal in a moment of exasperation what kind treatment would assist him to conceal.

Eventually, this unique punishment became such a torment for the poor foreigner that he decided to do whatever it took to lessen it, all while carefully considering the name of the lady who was his ex-wife, to whom his attachment seemed to grow as her punitive treatment of him continued. At one point in his life, he had taken a strong interest in tulip cultivation and gardening in general; since his financial downfall and arrival in England, he had turned his knowledge into a shaky income by working in the greenhouses of nurserymen and others. With a new idea in mind, he dedicated himself to this work, quickly gaining significant skill in horticulture within a few months. Waiting until the noble lord, his lady's husband, had a vacancy for a general under-gardener, he applied for the position and was hired immediately due to his politeness and intelligence, before Lady Icenway was aware of it. Therefore, she was quite surprised when she found him in the conservatories of her mansion a week or two after he arrived. Initially, she threatened him with immediate dismissal, but upon reflection, she chose not to go through with it. While he worked for her, she knew he wouldn’t harm her with a word, whereas if he were dismissed, frustration might lead him to reveal the kind treatment she preferred him to keep concealed.

So he was allowed to remain on the premises, and had for his residence a little cottage by the garden-wall which had been the domicile of some of his predecessors in the same occupation. Here he lived absolutely alone, and spent much of his leisure in reading, but the greater part in watching the windows and lawns of his lady's house for glimpses of the form of the child. It was for that child's sake that he abandoned the tenets of the Roman Catholic Church in which he had been reared, and became the most regular attendant at the services in the parish place of worship hard by, where, sitting behind the pew of my lady, my lord, and his stepson, the gardener could pensively study the traits and movements of the youngster at only a few feet distance, without suspicion or hindrance.

So he was allowed to stay on the property and lived in a small cottage by the garden wall, which had been home to some of his predecessors in the same job. Here, he lived completely alone and spent a lot of his free time reading, but most of it watching the windows and lawns of his lady's house for a glimpse of the child. He gave up the beliefs of the Roman Catholic Church he was raised in for that child's sake and became a regular at the services in the nearby parish. Sitting behind the pew of my lady, my lord, and his stepson, the gardener could quietly observe the child's features and movements just a few feet away, without anyone suspecting or bothering him.

He filled his post for more than two years with a pleasure to himself which, though mournful, was soothing, his lady never forgiving him, or allowing him to be anything more than 'the gardener' to her child, though once or twice the boy said, 'That gardener's eyes are so sad! Why does he look so sadly at me?' He sunned himself in her scornfulness as if it were love, and his ears drank in her curt monosyllables as though they were rhapsodies of endearment. Strangely enough, the coldness with which she treated her foreigner began to be the conduct of Lord Icenway towards herself. It was a matter of great anxiety to him that there should be a lineal successor to the title, yet no sign of that successor appeared. One day he complained to her quite roughly of his fate. 'All will go to that dolt of a cousin!' he cried. 'I'd sooner see my name and place at the bottom of the sea!'

He held his position for over two years, finding a sort of pleasure in it that was both sad and comforting. His lady never forgave him or let him be anything more than 'the gardener' to her child, even though the boy occasionally remarked, 'That gardener's eyes look so sad! Why does he look at me like that?' He basked in her disdain as if it were love, and he absorbed her short, sharp responses as if they were sweet compliments. Strangely, the coldness she showed him began to be the way Lord Icenway treated her. It worried him greatly that there should be a direct descendant to inherit the title, yet no sign of that successor ever showed up. One day, he complained to her rather harshly about his fate. 'Everything will go to that clueless cousin!' he shouted. 'I'd rather see my name and title at the bottom of the ocean!'

The lady soothed him and fell into thought, and did not recriminate. But one day, soon after, she went down to the cottage of the gardener to inquire how he was getting on, for he had been ailing of late, though, as was supposed, not seriously. Though she often visited the poor, she had never entered her under-gardener's home before, and was much surprised-even grieved and dismayed-to find that he was too ill to rise from his bed. She went back to her mansion and returned with some delicate soup, that she might have a reason for seeing him.

The lady comforted him and became lost in thought, not placing any blame. But one day, shortly after, she went to the gardener's cottage to see how he was doing, since he had been unwell lately, although it was thought not to be serious. Although she often visited those in need, she had never been to her under-gardener's home before and was quite surprised—even saddened and alarmed—to discover that he was too sick to get out of bed. She went back to her mansion and returned with some light soup, giving her a reason to see him.

His condition was so feeble and alarming, and his face so thin, that it quite shocked her softening heart, and gazing upon him she said, 'You must get well-you must! I have been hard with you-I know it. I will not be so again.'

His condition was so weak and concerning, and his face so gaunt, that it really struck her tender heart. Looking at him, she said, 'You have to get better—you have to! I've been tough on you—I realize that. I won't be like that anymore.'

The sick and dying man-for he was dying indeed-took her hand and pressed it to his lips. 'Too late, my darling, too late!' he murmured.

The sick and dying man—because he was definitely dying—took her hand and pressed it to his lips. "Too late, my darling, too late!" he murmured.

'But you must not die! Oh, you must not!' she said. And on an impulse she bent down and whispered some words to him, blushing as she had blushed in her maiden days.

'But you can't die! Oh, you can't!' she said. And on a whim, she bent down and whispered some words to him, blushing like she used to in her younger days.

He replied by a faint wan smile. 'Time was! . . . but that's past!' he said, 'I must die!'

He responded with a faint, weak smile. "There was a time! ... but that's behind me!" he said, "I have to die!"

And die he did, a few days later, as the sun was going down behind the garden-wall. Her harshness seemed to come trebly home to her then, and she remorsefully exclaimed against herself in secret and alone. Her one desire now was to erect some tribute to his memory, without its being recognized as her handiwork. In the completion of this scheme there arrived a few months later a handsome stained-glass window for the church; and when it was unpacked and in course of erection Lord Icenway strolled into the building with his wife.

And he did die, a few days later, as the sun was setting behind the garden wall. Her harshness felt especially crushing at that moment, and she silently condemned herself in shame. Her only wish now was to create some tribute to his memory without anyone knowing it was her doing. A few months later, a beautiful stained-glass window arrived for the church; and when it was unpacked and being installed, Lord Icenway walked into the building with his wife.

'"Erected to his memory by his grieving widow,"' he said, reading the legend on the glass. 'I didn't know that he had a wife; I've never seen her.'

'"Erected to his memory by his grieving widow,"' he said, reading the legend on the glass. 'I didn’t know he had a wife; I’ve never seen her.'

'Oh yes, you must have, Icenway; only you forget,' replied his lady blandly. 'But she didn't live with him, and was seldom seen visiting him, because there were differences between them; which, as is usually the case, makes her all the more sorry now.'

'Oh yes, you must have, Icenway; you're just forgetting,' his lady replied pleasantly. 'But she didn't live with him and was rarely seen visiting him because they had their differences, which, as often happens, makes her feel even sorrier now.'

'And go ruining herself by this expensive ruby-and-azure glass-design.'

'And go ruining herself with this pricey ruby-and-azure glass design.'

'She is not poor, they say.'

'They say she's not poor.'

As Lord Icenway grew older he became crustier and crustier, and whenever he set eyes on his wife's boy by her other husband he would burst out morosely, saying,

As Lord Icenway got older, he became more and more grumpy, and whenever he saw his wife's son from her previous marriage, he would gloomily exclaim,

''Tis a very odd thing, my lady, that you could oblige your first husband, and couldn't oblige me.'

''It's a very strange thing, my lady, that you could satisfy your first husband, and yet you can't satisfy me.''

'Ah! if I had only thought of it sooner!' she murmured.

'Ah! if I had only thought of it earlier!' she murmured.

'What?' said he.

"What?" he said.

'Nothing, dearest,' replied Lady Icenway.

"Nothing, darling," replied Lady Icenway.

The Colonel was the first to comment upon the Churchwarden's tale, by saying that the fate of the poor fellow was rather a hard one.

The Colonel was the first to respond to the Churchwarden's story, saying that the poor guy's fate was pretty harsh.

The gentleman-tradesman could not see that his fate was at all too hard for him. He was legally nothing to her, and he had served her shamefully. If he had been really her husband it would have stood differently.

The gentleman-tradesman couldn't see that his situation was really too difficult for him. Legally, he meant nothing to her, and he had treated her poorly. If he had actually been her husband, it would have been a different story.

The Bookworm remarked that Lord Icenway seemed to have been a very unsuspicious man, with which view a fat member with a crimson face agreed. It was true his wife was a very close-mouthed personage, which made a difference. If she had spoken out recklessly her lord might have been suspicious enough, as in the case of that lady who lived at Stapleford Park in their great-grandfathers' time. Though there, to be sure, considerations arose which made her husband view matters with much philosophy.

The Bookworm noted that Lord Icenway appeared to be quite easy to fool, and a heavyset member with a flushed face nodded in agreement. It was true that his wife was extremely tight-lipped, which changed things. If she had been outspoken, her husband might have been suspicious, like that woman who lived at Stapleford Park back in their great-grandfathers' day. Although, there, of course, there were factors that led her husband to take a more philosophical view of things.

A few of the members doubted the possibility of this.

A few of the members questioned if this was possible.

The crimson man, who was a retired maltster of comfortable means, ventru, and short in stature, cleared his throat, blew off his superfluous breath, and proceeded to give the instance before alluded to of such possibility, first apologizing for his heroine's lack of a title, it never having been his good fortune to know many of the nobility. To his style of narrative the following is only an approximation.

The red-faced man, a retired maltster with a decent income, short in height, cleared his throat, exhaled, and began to share the example he mentioned earlier about such a possibility, first apologizing for his heroine not having a title, as he had never had the fortune to know many people of nobility. What follows is just an approximation of his storytelling style.

DAME THE SIXTH-SQUIRE PETRICK'S LADY

By the Crimson Maltster

Folk who are at all acquainted with the traditions of Stapleford Park will not need to be told that in the middle of the last century it was owned by that trump of mortgagees, Timothy Petrick, whose skill in gaining possession of fair estates by granting sums of money on their title-deeds has seldom if ever been equalled in our part of England. Timothy was a lawyer by profession, and agent to several noblemen, by which means his special line of business became opened to him by a sort of revelation. It is said that a relative of his, a very deep thinker, who afterwards had the misfortune to be transported for life for mistaken notions on the signing of a will, taught him considerable legal lore, which he creditably resolved never to throw away for the benefit of other people, but to reserve it entirely for his own.

People who are familiar with the traditions of Stapleford Park will know that in the middle of the last century, it was owned by that master of mortgages, Timothy Petrick, whose ability to acquire fine estates by offering money against their title deeds has rarely, if ever, been matched in our region of England. Timothy was a lawyer by trade and an agent for several noblemen, which opened up this unique line of work to him almost like a revelation. It is said that a relative of his, a very deep thinker who later faced the unfortunate fate of being transported for life due to misguided ideas about signing a will, taught him a lot of legal knowledge, which he decided to keep for himself rather than share for the benefit of others.

However, I have nothing in particular to say about his early and active days, but rather of the time when, an old man, he had become the owner of vast estates by the means I have signified-among them the great manor of Stapleford, on which he lived, in the splendid old mansion now pulled down; likewise estates at Marlott, estates near Sherton Abbas, nearly all the borough of Millpool, and many properties near Ivell. Indeed, I can't call to mind half his landed possessions, and I don't know that it matters much at this time of day, seeing that he's been dead and gone many years. It is said that when he bought an estate he would not decide to pay the price till he had walked over every single acre with his own two feet, and prodded the soil at every point with his own spud, to test its quality, which, if we regard the extent of his properties, must have been a stiff business for him.

However, I don’t have much to say about his early and active years, but rather about the time when, as an old man, he owned vast estates through the means I've mentioned—among them the great manor of Stapleford, where he lived in the magnificent old mansion that has since been torn down; also estates at Marlott, estates near Sherton Abbas, nearly all of the borough of Millpool, and many properties near Ivell. Honestly, I can’t remember half of his land holdings, and I doubt it matters much today since he's been gone for many years. It’s said that when he purchased an estate, he would only agree to the price after he walked over every single acre with his own two feet and poked the soil at every point with his own spade to check its quality, which, considering the size of his properties, must have been quite a task for him.

At the time I am speaking of he was a man over eighty, and his son was dead; but he had two grandsons, the eldest of whom, his namesake, was married, and was shortly expecting issue. Just then the grandfather was taken ill, for death, as it seemed, considering his age. By his will the old man had created an entail (as I believe the lawyers call it), devising the whole of the estates to his elder grandson and his issue male, failing which, to his younger grandson and his issue male, failing which, to remoter relatives, who need not be mentioned now.

At the time I’m talking about, he was a man in his eighties, and his son had passed away; however, he had two grandsons, the older of whom shared his name, was married, and was soon expecting a child. At that moment, the grandfather fell ill, as death seemed imminent given his age. In his will, the old man had set up an entail (as I believe lawyers refer to it), bequeathing all of his estates to his older grandson and his male descendants, and if that didn't work out, to his younger grandson and his male descendants, and if that also failed, to more distant relatives, who don’t need to be mentioned now.

While old Timothy Petrick was lying ill, his elder grandson's wife, Annetta, gave birth to her expected child, who, as fortune would have it, was a son. Timothy, her husband, through sprung of a scheming family, was no great schemer himself; he was the single one of the Petricks then living whose heart had ever been greatly moved by sentiments which did not run in the groove of ambition; and on this account he had not married well, as the saying is; his wife having been the daughter of a family of no better beginnings than his own; that is to say, her father was a country townsman of the professional class. But she was a very pretty woman, by all accounts, and her husband had seen, courted, and married her in a high tide of infatuation, after a very short acquaintance, and with very little knowledge of her heart's history. He had never found reason to regret his choice as yet, and his anxiety for her recovery was great.

While old Timothy Petrick was lying sick, his older grandson's wife, Annetta, gave birth to her expected child, who, as luck would have it, was a son. Timothy, her husband, came from a scheming family but wasn't much of a schemer himself; he was the only one of the Petricks still living whose heart had ever been deeply affected by feelings that didn't revolve around ambition. Because of this, he hadn't married well, as the saying goes; his wife was the daughter of a family no better off than his own; in other words, her father was a middle-class professional from a small town. But she was really pretty, by all accounts, and her husband had seen her, courted her, and married her in a whirlwind of infatuation, after a very brief acquaintance and with very little understanding of her past. He had never found a reason to regret his choice so far, and he was very anxious for her recovery.

She was supposed to be out of danger, and herself and the child progressing well, when there was a change for the worse, and she sank so rapidly that she was soon given over. When she felt that she was about to leave him, Annetta sent for her husband, and, on his speedy entry and assurance that they were alone, she made him solemnly vow to give the child every care in any circumstances that might arise, if it should please Heaven to take her. This, of course, he readily promised. Then, after some hesitation, she told him that she could not die with a falsehood upon her soul, and dire deceit in her life; she must make a terrible confession to him before her lips were sealed for ever. She thereupon related an incident concerning the baby's parentage, which was not as he supposed.

She was supposed to be out of danger, and both she and the child were doing well, when her condition suddenly worsened, and she declined so quickly that she was soon given up. Feeling that her time was near, Annetta called for her husband, and when he rushed in and assured her they were alone, she made him promise solemnly to care for the child under any circumstances that might arise, should Heaven decide to take her. He readily agreed to this. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she told him that she couldn’t die with a lie weighing on her soul and with deception in her life; she had to confess something important to him before she could no longer speak. She then shared a significant truth about the baby’s parentage, which was not what he had believed.

Timothy Petrick, though a quick-feeling man, was not of a sort to show nerves outwardly; and he bore himself as heroically as he possibly could do in this trying moment of his life. That same night his wife died; and while she lay dead, and before her funeral, he hastened to the bedside of his sick grandfather, and revealed to him all that had happened: the baby's birth, his wife's confession, and her death, beseeching the aged man, as he loved him, to bestir himself now, at the eleventh hour, and alter his will so as to dish the intruder. Old Timothy, seeing matters in the same light as his grandson, required no urging against allowing anything to stand in the way of legitimate inheritance; he executed another will, limiting the entail to Timothy his grandson, for life, and his male heirs thereafter to be born; after them to his other grandson Edward, and Edward's heirs. Thus the newly- born infant, who had been the centre of so many hopes, was cut off and scorned as none of the elect.

Timothy Petrick, although a highly sensitive man, was not one to show his nerves outwardly; he held himself as bravely as he could in this difficult moment of his life. That same night, his wife passed away; and while she lay dead, before her funeral, he rushed to his sick grandfather's bedside and told him everything that had happened: the baby's birth, his wife's confession, and her death. He pleaded with the elderly man, as he cared for him, to take action at this last moment and change his will to prevent the intruder from taking anything. Old Timothy, seeing things the same way as his grandson, needed no persuasion to ensure that nothing impeded the rightful inheritance; he signed a new will that limited the inheritance to his grandson Timothy for his lifetime, and then to Timothy's male heirs to be born afterward; after them, it would go to his other grandson Edward and Edward's heirs. Thus, the newly born infant, who had been the focus of so many hopes, was excluded and dismissed as none of the chosen.

The old mortgagee lived but a short time after this, the excitement of the discovery having told upon him considerably, and he was gathered to his fathers like the most charitable man in his neighbourhood. Both wife and grandparent being buried, Timothy settled down to his usual life as well as he was able, mentally satisfied that he had by prompt action defeated the consequences of such dire domestic treachery as had been shown towards him, and resolving to marry a second time as soon as he could satisfy himself in the choice of a wife.

The old mortgagee lived only a short while after this, as the shock of the discovery took a toll on him, and he passed away like the most charitable man in his community. With both his wife and grandparent buried, Timothy settled back into his routine as best he could, feeling mentally satisfied that he had, through quick action, overcome the effects of such terrible betrayal at home. He also made a resolution to get married again as soon as he could find a wife he was happy with.

But men do not always know themselves. The embittered state of Timothy Petrick's mind bred in him by degrees such a hatred and mistrust of womankind that, though several specimens of high attractiveness came under his eyes, he could not bring himself to the point of proposing marriage. He dreaded to take up the position of husband a second time, discerning a trap in every petticoat, and a Slough of Despond in possible heirs. 'What has happened once, when all seemed so fair, may happen again,' he said to himself. 'I'll risk my name no more.' So he abstained from marriage, and overcame his wish for a lineal descendant to follow him in the ownership of Stapleford.

But men don’t always know themselves. The bitter state of Timothy Petrick’s mind gradually filled him with such hatred and mistrust of women that, even though he saw several attractive women, he couldn’t bring himself to propose marriage. He feared taking on the role of husband for a second time, seeing a trap in every skirt and a swamp of despair in potential children. "What happened once, when everything seemed so good, could happen again," he told himself. "I won’t risk my name anymore." So, he refrained from marriage and suppressed his desire for a descendant to inherit Stapleford.

Timothy had scarcely noticed the unfortunate child that his wife had borne, after arranging for a meagre fulfilment of his promise to her to take care of the boy, by having him brought up in his house. Occasionally, remembering this promise, he went and glanced at the child, saw that he was doing well, gave a few special directions, and again went his solitary way. Thus he and the child lived on in the Stapleford mansion-house till two or three years had passed by. One day he was walking in the garden, and by some accident left his snuff-box on a bench. When he came back to find it he saw the little boy standing there; he had escaped his nurse, and was making a plaything of the box, in spite of the convulsive sneezings which the game brought in its train. Then the man with the encrusted heart became interested in the little fellow's persistence in his play under such discomforts; he looked in the child's face, saw there his wife's countenance, though he did not see his own, and fell into thought on the piteousness of childhood-particularly of despised and rejected childhood, like this before him.

Timothy had barely paid attention to the unfortunate child his wife had given birth to, making only a minimal effort to fulfill his promise to care for the boy by having him raised in his home. Every now and then, remembering this promise, he would check on the child, see that he was doing okay, give a few specific instructions, and then continue on his lonely way. So, he and the child lived in the Stapleford mansion for two or three years. One day, while walking in the garden, he accidentally left his snuff-box on a bench. When he returned to find it, he saw the little boy standing there; he had run away from his nurse and was turning the box into a toy, despite the sneezing fits it caused him. At that moment, the man with the hardened heart became intrigued by the child's determination to play through such discomfort; he looked at the boy's face and saw his wife’s features reflected there, even though he didn’t see his own. He fell into deep thought about the sorrow of childhood—especially that of neglected and unwanted childhood, like the one before him.

From that hour, try as he would to counteract the feeling, the human necessity to love something or other got the better of what he had called his wisdom, and shaped itself in a tender anxiety for the youngster Rupert. This name had been given him by his dying mother when, at her request, the child was baptized in her chamber, lest he should not survive for public baptism; and her husband had never thought of it as a name of any significance till, about this time, he learnt by accident that it was the name of the young Marquis of Christminster, son of the Duke of Southwesterland, for whom Annetta had cherished warm feelings before her marriage. Recollecting some wandering phrases in his wife's last words, which he had not understood at the time, he perceived at last that this was the person to whom she had alluded when affording him a clue to little Rupert's history.

From that moment on, no matter how hard he tried to fight it, the basic human need to love something overwhelmed what he called his wisdom, turning into a gentle worry for the young boy Rupert. This name had been given to him by his dying mother when, at her request, the child was baptized in her room, in case he didn’t make it to a public baptism; and his father had never considered it to be significant until, around this time, he found out by chance that it was the name of the young Marquis of Christminster, the son of the Duke of Southwesterland, for whom Annetta had held strong feelings before they got married. Remembering some vague phrases from his wife’s last words that he hadn’t understood at the time, he finally realized that this was the person she had hinted at when giving him a clue about little Rupert's background.

He would sit in silence for hours with the child, being no great speaker at the best of times; but the boy, on his part, was too ready with his tongue for any break in discourse to arise because Timothy Petrick had nothing to say. After idling away his mornings in this manner, Petrick would go to his own room and swear in long loud whispers, and walk up and down, calling himself the most ridiculous dolt that ever lived, and declaring that he would never go near the little fellow again; to which resolve he would adhere for the space perhaps of a day. Such cases are happily not new to human nature, but there never was a case in which a man more completely befocled his former self than in this.

He would sit quietly for hours with the child, not being much of a talker at the best of times; but the boy, for his part, was too quick to talk for there to be any gaps in the conversation just because Timothy Petrick had nothing to say. After spending his mornings like this, Petrick would go to his room and curse under his breath, pacing back and forth, calling himself the most ridiculous idiot that ever existed, and insisting that he would never go near the little guy again; a vow he would keep for maybe a day. Such situations aren't new to human nature, but there has never been a case where a man so thoroughly outdid himself compared to his former self as in this instance.

As the child grew up, Timothy's attachment to him grew deeper, till Rupert became almost the sole object for which he lived. There had been enough of the family ambition latent in him for Timothy Petrick to feel a little envy when, some time before this date, his brother Edward had been accepted by the Honourable Harriet Mountclere, daughter of the second Viscount of that name and title; but having discovered, as I have before stated, the paternity of his boy Rupert to lurk in even a higher stratum of society, those envious feelings speedily dispersed. Indeed, the more he reflected thereon, after his brother's aristocratic marriage, the more content did he become. His late wife took softer outline in his memory, as he thought of the lofty taste she had displayed, though only a plain burgher's daughter, and the justification for his weakness in loving the child-the justification that he had longed for-was afforded now in the knowledge that the boy was by nature, if not by name, a representative of one of the noblest houses in England.

As the child grew up, Timothy's bond with him became stronger, until Rupert became almost the only reason he lived. Timothy Petrick had enough family ambition in him to feel a bit of envy when, some time before this, his brother Edward had been accepted by the Honourable Harriet Mountclere, daughter of the second Viscount of that name; but once he discovered, as I mentioned before, that Rupert's father belonged to an even higher social status, those feelings of envy quickly faded. In fact, the more he thought about it after his brother's aristocratic marriage, the more content he became. His late wife took on a gentler image in his memory as he recalled her refined taste, even though she was just a plain burgher's daughter, and the reason for his affection for the child—the reason he had longed for—was now validated by the fact that the boy was, by nature if not by name, a representative of one of the noblest families in England.

'She was a woman of grand instincts, after all,' he said to himself proudly. 'To fix her choice upon the immediate successor in that ducal line-it was finely conceived! Had he been of low blood like myself or my relations she would scarce have deserved the harsh measure that I have dealt out to her and her offspring. How much less, then, when such grovelling tastes were farthest from her soul! The man Annetta loved was noble, and my boy is noble in spite of me.'

'She was a woman of great instincts, after all,' he said to himself proudly. 'Choosing the immediate successor in that ducal line—it was a brilliant decision! If he had come from a lower background like me or my family, she wouldn't have deserved the harsh treatment I've given her and her child. How much less so, when such base desires were completely foreign to her! The man Annetta loved was noble, and my son is noble despite me.'

The afterclap was inevitable, and it soon came. 'So far,' he reasoned, 'from cutting off this child from inheritance of my estates, as I have done, I should have rejoiced in the possession of him! He is of pure stock on one side at least, whilst in the ordinary run of affairs he would have been a commoner to the bone.'

The backlash was unavoidable, and it arrived quickly. 'Up to this point,' he thought, 'instead of disinheriting this child from my estates, I should have celebrated having him! He comes from a noble line on at least one side, whereas under normal circumstances, he would have been just an ordinary person.'

Being a man, whatever his faults, of good old beliefs in the divinity of kings and those about 'em, the more he overhauled the case in this light, the more strongly did his poor wife's conduct in improving the blood and breed of the Petrick family win his heart. He considered what ugly, idle, hard-drinking scamps many of his own relations had been; the miserable scriveners, usurers, and pawnbrokers that he had numbered among his forefathers, and the probability that some of their bad qualities would have come out in a merely corporeal child, to give him sorrow in his old age, turn his black hairs gray, his gray hairs white, cut down every stick of timber, and Heaven knows what all, had he not, like a skilful gardener, minded his grafting and changed the sort; till at length this right-minded man fell down on his knees every night and morning and thanked God that he was not as other meanly descended fathers in such matters.

Being a man, despite his flaws, who held strong beliefs in the divine right of kings and those around them, the more he examined the situation this way, the more he admired his wife's efforts to enhance the lineage and status of the Petrick family. He thought about how ugly, lazy, hard-drinking louts many of his own relatives had been; the pitiful scribes, moneylenders, and pawnbrokers he counted among his ancestors, and the likelihood that some of their negative traits would have surfaced in a mere physical child, causing him heartbreak in his old age, turning his dark hair gray, and his gray hair white, destroying every bit of timber, and who knows what else, had he not, like a skilled gardener, focused on grafting and changed the lineage; until eventually this decent man would drop to his knees every night and morning to thank God that he was not like other poorly descended fathers in such matters.

It was in the peculiar disposition of the Petrick family that the satisfaction which ultimately settled in Timothy's breast found nourishment. The Petricks had adored the nobility, and plucked them at the same time. That excellent man Izaak Walton's feelings about fish were much akin to those of old Timothy Petrick, and of his descendants in a lesser degree, concerning the landed aristocracy. To torture and to love simultaneously is a proceeding strange to reason, but possible to practice, as these instances show.

It was in the unusual dynamics of the Petrick family that the contentment which ultimately took root in Timothy's heart found support. The Petricks had admired the nobility while also taking advantage of them. That great man Izaak Walton’s feelings about fish were quite similar to those of the old Timothy Petrick, and to a lesser extent, his descendants, regarding the landed aristocracy. To both torment and love at the same time is a concept that doesn’t make sense, but can indeed be manifested, as these examples demonstrate.

Hence, when Timothy's brother Edward said slightingly one day that Timothy's son was well enough, but that he had nothing but shops and offices in his backward perspective, while his own children, should he have any, would be far different, in possessing such a mother as the Honourable Harriet, Timothy felt a bound of triumph within him at the power he possessed of contradicting that statement if he chose.

Hence, when Timothy's brother Edward casually remarked one day that Timothy's son was decent enough, but that he only saw shops and offices in his future, while his own children, if he ever had any, would be very different due to having such a mother as the Honorable Harriet, Timothy felt a surge of triumph inside him at the power he had to challenge that statement if he wanted to.

So much was he interested in his boy in this new aspect that he now began to read up chronicles of the illustrious house ennobled as the Dukes of Southwesterland, from their very beginning in the glories of the Restoration of the blessed Charles till the year of his own time. He mentally noted their gifts from royalty, grants of lands, purchases, intermarriages, plantings and buildings; more particularly their political and military achievements, which had been great, and their performances in art and letters, which had been by no means contemptible. He studied prints of the portraits of that family, and then, like a chemist watching a crystallization, began to examine young Rupert's face for the unfolding of those historic curves and shades that the painters Vandyke and Lely had perpetuated on canvas.

He was so intrigued by his son in this new light that he started reading up on the history of the famous family known as the Dukes of Southwesterland, from their origins during the glorious Restoration of King Charles to the present day. He mentally tracked their royal gifts, land grants, purchases, intermarriages, and constructions; particularly their significant political and military accomplishments, as well as their respectable contributions to art and literature. He looked at prints of portraits of the family and then, like a chemist observing a crystallization, began to study young Rupert's face for the emergence of those historical features and shades that painters like Vandyke and Lely had captured on canvas.

When the boy reached the most fascinating age of childhood, and his shouts of laughter ran through Stapleford House from end to end, the remorse that oppressed Timothy Petrick knew no bounds. Of all people in the world this Rupert was the one on whom he could have wished the estates to devolve; yet Rupert, by Timothy's own desperate strategy at the time of his birth, had been ousted from all inheritance of them; and, since he did not mean to remarry, the manors would pass to his brother and his brother's children, who would be nothing to him, whose boasted pedigree on one side would be nothing to his Rupert's.

When the boy reached that amazing age of childhood, and his laughter echoed through Stapleford House from one end to the other, the guilt that weighed on Timothy Petrick was overwhelming. Of all the people in the world, Rupert was the one he wanted to inherit the estates; yet Rupert, due to Timothy's own desperate decision at the time of his birth, had been cut off from any claim to them. And since Timothy didn't plan to remarry, the manors would go to his brother and his brother's kids, who would mean nothing to him, and whose impressive family tree on one side would have no value compared to Rupert's.

Had he only left the first will of his grandfather alone!

Had he just left his grandfather's first will alone!

His mind ran on the wills continually, both of which were in existence, and the first, the cancelled one, in his own possession. Night after night, when the servants were all abed, and the click of safety locks sounded as loud as a crash, he looked at that first will, and wished it had been the second and not the first.

His mind kept going over the wills that were both real, with the first one, the canceled one, right in his hands. Night after night, when all the servants were asleep and the sound of safety locks clicked loudly, he would look at that first will and wish it had been the second one instead.

The crisis came at last. One night, after having enjoyed the boy's company for hours, he could no longer bear that his beloved Rupert should be dispossessed, and he committed the felonious deed of altering the date of the earlier will to a fortnight later, which made its execution appear subsequent to the date of the second will already proved. He then boldly propounded the first will as the second.

The crisis finally hit. One night, after spending hours with the boy, he couldn't stand the thought of his beloved Rupert being left without anything. So, he did something illegal and changed the date on the earlier will to two weeks later, making it look like it was signed after the second will that had already been accepted. He then confidently presented the first will as if it were the second.

His brother Edward submitted to what appeared to be not only incontestible fact, but a far more likely disposition of old Timothy's property; for, like many others, he had been much surprised at the limitations defined in the other will, having no clue to their cause. He joined his brother Timothy in setting aside the hitherto accepted document, and matters went on in their usual course, there being no dispositions in the substituted will differing from those in the other, except such as related to a future which had not yet arrived.

His brother Edward accepted what seemed to be not only an undeniable fact but also a much more plausible arrangement for old Timothy's property; because, like many others, he had been quite surprised by the restrictions outlined in the other will, having no idea why they were there. He teamed up with his brother Timothy to disregard the previously accepted document, and things continued as normal, as there were no changes in the new will compared to the old one, except for those relating to a future that hadn't yet come.

The years moved on. Rupert had not yet revealed the anxiously expected historic lineaments which should foreshadow the political abilities of the ducal family aforesaid when it happened on a certain day that Timothy Petrick made the acquaintance of a well-known physician of Budmouth, who had been the medical adviser and friend of the late Mrs. Petrick's family for many years; though after Annetta's marriage, and consequent removal to Stapleford, he had seen no more of her, the neighbouring practitioner who attended the Petricks having then become her doctor as a matter of course. Timothy was impressed by the insight and knowledge disclosed in the conversation of the Budmouth physician, and the acquaintance ripening to intimacy, the physician alluded to a form of hallucination to which Annetta's mother and grandmother had been subject-that of believing in certain dreams as realities. He delicately inquired if Timothy had ever noticed anything of the sort in his wife during her lifetime; he, the physician, had fancied that he discerned germs of the same peculiarity in Annetta when he attended her in her girlhood. One explanation begat another, till the dumbfoundered Timothy Petrick was persuaded in his own mind that Annetta's confession to him had been based on a delusion.

The years went by. Rupert still hadn’t shown the much-anticipated traits that would hint at the political talents of the ducal family when, on one particular day, Timothy Petrick met a well-known doctor from Budmouth, who had been the medical advisor and friend of the late Mrs. Petrick's family for many years. After Annetta's marriage and move to Stapleford, he hadn’t seen her again, as the local doctor who treated the Petricks had naturally taken over her care. Timothy was struck by the insights and knowledge the Budmouth doctor shared during their conversation, and as their acquaintance grew into a friendship, the doctor mentioned a type of hallucination that Annetta's mother and grandmother had experienced—believing certain dreams were real. He gently asked Timothy if he had ever noticed anything similar in his wife during her lifetime; he, the doctor, thought he had seen signs of this same trait in Annetta when he treated her as a girl. One explanation led to another, until the stunned Timothy Petrick was convinced that Annetta's confession to him had stemmed from a delusion.

'You look down in the mouth?' said the doctor, pausing.

'You look a bit down?' said the doctor, pausing.

'A bit unmanned. 'Tis unexpected-like,' sighed Timothy.

'A little caught off guard. It's unexpected,' sighed Timothy.

But he could hardly believe it possible; and, thinking it best to be frank with the doctor, told him the whole story which, till now, he had never related to living man, save his dying grandfather. To his surprise, the physician informed him that such a form of delusion was precisely what he would have expected from Annetta's antecedents at such a physical crisis in her life.

But he could barely believe it was possible; and, thinking it would be best to be honest with the doctor, he shared the whole story that he had never told anyone alive before, except for his dying grandfather. To his surprise, the physician told him that such a delusion was exactly what he would have anticipated given Annetta's background during such a critical moment in her life.

Petrick prosecuted his inquiries elsewhere; and the upshot of his labours was, briefly, that a comparison of dates and places showed irrefutably that his poor wife's assertion could not possibly have foundation in fact. The young Marquis of her tender passion-a highly moral and bright-minded nobleman-had gone abroad the year before Annetta's marriage, and had not returned till after her death. The young girl's love for him had been a delicate ideal dream-no more.

Petrick took his investigations elsewhere, and the result of his efforts was, in short, that a comparison of dates and locations clearly proved that his poor wife's claim couldn't possibly be true. The young Marquis, the object of her affection—a highly principled and well-intentioned nobleman—had gone abroad the year before Annetta's marriage and hadn't returned until after her death. The young girl's love for him had been a fragile, idealistic dream—nothing more.

Timothy went home, and the boy ran out to meet him; whereupon a strangely dismal feeling of discontent took possession of his soul. After all, then, there was nothing but plebeian blood in the veins of the heir to his name and estates; he was not to be succeeded by a noble- natured line. To be sure, Rupert was his son; but that glory and halo he believed him to have inherited from the ages, outshining that of his brother's children, had departed from Rupert's brow for ever; he could no longer read history in the boy's face, and centuries of domination in his eyes.

Timothy went home, and the boy ran out to meet him; at that moment, a strangely heavy feeling of discontent filled his heart. After all, there was nothing but common blood in the veins of the heir to his name and estate; he wouldn’t be succeeded by a line of noble character. Sure, Rupert was his son; but the glory and aura he thought he had inherited from generations past, which once made him shine brighter than his brother's children, had vanished from Rupert's face forever. He could no longer see history reflected in the boy's features, nor could he perceive centuries of power in his eyes.

His manner towards his son grew colder and colder from that day forward; and it was with bitterness of heart that he discerned the characteristic features of the Petricks unfolding themselves by degrees. Instead of the elegant knife-edged nose, so typical of the Dukes of Southwesterland, there began to appear on his face the broad nostril and hollow bridge of his grandfather Timothy. No illustrious line of politicians was promised a continuator in that graying blue eye, for it was acquiring the expression of the orb of a particularly objectionable cousin of his own; and, instead of the mouth-curves which had thrilled Parliamentary audiences in speeches now bound in calf in every well- ordered library, there was the bull-lip of that very uncle of his who had had the misfortune with the signature of a gentleman's will, and had been transported for life in consequence.

His attitude towards his son became colder and colder from that day on; and with a heavy heart, he noticed the typical traits of the Petricks gradually showing up. Instead of the sharp, elegant nose that was characteristic of the Dukes of Southwesterland, a broad nostril and a flat bridge from his grandfather Timothy started to appear on his face. No prestigious political lineage was promised by that graying blue eye, which was taking on the look of a particularly annoying cousin of his; and instead of the mouth curves that had captivated Parliamentary audiences in speeches now bound in leather in every well-stocked library, there was the thick-lipped mouth of that very uncle of his who had suffered misfortune with the signing of a gentleman's will and had been exiled for life as a result.

To think how he himself, too, had sinned in this same matter of a will for this mere fleshly reproduction of a wretched old uncle whose very name he wished to forget! The boy's Christian name, even, was an imposture and an irony, for it implied hereditary force and brilliancy to which he plainly would never attain. The consolation of real sonship was always left him certainly; but he could not help groaning to himself, 'Why cannot a son be one's own and somebody else's likewise!'

To realize that he had sinned too in wanting this simple physical reminder of a miserable old uncle whose name he wanted to erase! Even the boy's first name was a sham and a joke, as it suggested a family legacy and greatness that he clearly would never achieve. He always had the comfort of true sonship, but he couldn’t help groaning to himself, 'Why can’t a son be both my own and belong to someone else too!'

The Marquis was shortly afterwards in the neighbourhood of Stapleford, and Timothy Petrick met him, and eyed his noble countenance admiringly. The next day, when Petrick was in his study, somebody knocked at the door.

The Marquis was soon in the Stapleford area, and Timothy Petrick ran into him, looking at his impressive face with admiration. The next day, while Petrick was in his study, someone knocked on the door.

'Who's there?'

'Rupert.'

'I'll Rupert thee, you young impostor! Say, only a poor commonplace Petrick!' his father grunted. 'Why didn't you have a voice like the Marquis's I saw yesterday?' he continued, as the lad came in. 'Why haven't you his looks, and a way of commanding, as if you'd done it for centuries-hey?'

"I'll call you out, you little fraud! Just a plain old Petrick!" his father grumbled. "Why didn't you have a voice like the Marquis I saw yesterday?" he went on as the boy entered. "Why don’t you have his looks and the kind of presence that makes it seem like you’ve been in charge forever—huh?"

'Why? How can you expect it, father, when I'm not related to him?'

'Why? How can you expect that, Dad, when I’m not related to him?'

'Ugh! Then you ought to be!' growled his father.

'Ugh! Then you should be!' growled his father.

As the narrator paused, the surgeon, the Colonel, the historian, the Spark, and others exclaimed that such subtle and instructive psychological studies as this (now that psychology was so much in demand) were precisely the tales they desired, as members of a scientific club, and begged the master-maltster to tell another curious mental delusion.

As the narrator took a break, the surgeon, the Colonel, the historian, the Spark, and others exclaimed that this kind of subtle and insightful psychological study (especially since psychology was so in demand) was exactly the kind of story they wanted as members of a scientific club, and they urged the master-maltster to share another intriguing mental illusion.

The maltster shook his head, and feared he was not genteel enough to tell another story with a sufficiently moral tone in it to suit the club; he would prefer to leave the next to a better man.

The maltster shook his head, worried that he wasn't refined enough to share another story with a moral that would fit the club; he'd rather leave the next one to someone more capable.

The Colonel had fallen into reflection. True it was, he observed, that the more dreamy and impulsive nature of woman engendered within her erratic fancies, which often started her on strange tracks, only to abandon them in sharp revulsion at the dictates of her common sense-sometimes with ludicrous effect. Events which had caused a lady's action to set in a particular direction might continue to enforce the same line of conduct, while she, like a mangle, would start on a sudden in a contrary course, and end where she began.

The Colonel had fallen into thought. It was true, he noted, that a woman's dreamy and impulsive nature led to unpredictable whims, which often sent her on odd paths, only to turn back sharply when faced with her common sense—sometimes with a hilarious outcome. Events that prompted a woman's actions to go one way could keep pushing her in that direction, while she, like a machine, would suddenly pivot in the opposite direction and end up right where she started.

The Vice-President laughed, and applauded the Colonel, adding that there surely lurked a story somewhere behind that sentiment, if he were not much mistaken.

The Vice-President laughed and clapped for the Colonel, adding that there was definitely a story behind that feeling, if he wasn't mistaken.

The Colonel fixed his face to a good narrative pose, and went on without further preamble.

The Colonel set his face in a good storytelling pose and continued without any more introduction.

DAME THE SEVENTH-ANNA, LADY BAXBY

By the Colonel

It was in the time of the great Civil War-if I should not rather, as a loyal subject, call it, with Clarendon, the Great Rebellion. It was, I say, at that unhappy period of our history, that towards the autumn of a particular year, the Parliament forces sat down before Sherton Castle with over seven thousand foot and four pieces of cannon. The Castle, as we all know, was in that century owned and occupied by one of the Earls of Severn, and garrisoned for his assistance by a certain noble Marquis who commanded the King's troops in these parts. The said Earl, as well as the young Lord Baxby, his eldest son, were away from home just now, raising forces for the King elsewhere. But there were present in the Castle, when the besiegers arrived before it, the son's fair wife Lady Baxby, and her servants, together with some friends and near relatives of her husband; and the defence was so good and well-considered that they anticipated no great danger.

It was during the great Civil War—though as a loyal subject, I might more accurately refer to it as the Great Rebellion, as Clarendon did. I say this was at that unfortunate time in our history when, in the autumn of a particular year, the Parliament forces gathered outside Sherton Castle with over seven thousand infantry and four cannons. The Castle, as we all know, was owned and occupied in that century by one of the Earls of Severn, and it was garrisoned by a certain noble Marquis who led the King's troops in the area. The Earl, along with his eldest son, the young Lord Baxby, were away from home at that moment, raising forces for the King elsewhere. However, present in the Castle when the besiegers arrived were the son’s beautiful wife, Lady Baxby, her servants, and some friends and close relatives of her husband; the defense was strong and well-planned, so they expected little danger.

The Parliamentary forces were also commanded by a noble lord-for the nobility were by no means, at this stage of the war, all on the King's side-and it had been observed during his approach in the night-time, and in the morning when the reconnoitring took place, that he appeared sad and much depressed. The truth was that, by a strange freak of destiny, it had come to pass that the stronghold he was set to reduce was the home of his own sister, whom he had tenderly loved during her maidenhood, and whom he loved now, in spite of the estrangement which had resulted from hostilities with her husband's family. He believed, too, that, notwithstanding this cruel division, she still was sincerely attached to him.

The Parliamentary forces were also led by a noble lord—since not all nobles were on the King’s side at this point in the war—and it was noted during his approach at night and in the morning during the reconnaissance that he seemed sad and very downcast. The truth was that, by a strange twist of fate, the stronghold he was assigned to capture was the home of his own sister, whom he had deeply loved in her youth, and whom he still loved now, despite the distance that had grown due to conflicts with her husband’s family. He believed that, despite this painful separation, she still genuinely cared for him.

His hesitation to point his ordnance at the walls was inexplicable to those who were strangers to his family history. He remained in the field on the north side of the Castle (called by his name to this day because of his encampment there) till it occurred to him to send a messenger to his sister Anna with a letter, in which he earnestly requested her, as she valued her life, to steal out of the place by the little gate to the south, and make away in that direction to the residence of some friends.

His reluctance to aim his weapons at the walls was puzzling to those who didn't know his family history. He stayed in the field on the north side of the Castle (still named after him today because of his camp there) until he decided to send a messenger to his sister Anna with a letter, where he urgently asked her, for her own safety, to sneak out through the small gate to the south and head toward the homes of some friends.

Shortly after he saw, to his great surprise, coming from the front of the Castle walls a lady on horseback, with a single attendant. She rode straight forward into the field, and up the slope to where his army and tents were spread. It was not till she got quite near that he discerned her to be his sister Anna; and much was he alarmed that she should have run such risk as to sally out in the face of his forces without knowledge of their proceedings, when at any moment their first discharge might have burst forth, to her own destruction in such exposure. She dismounted before she was quite close to him, and he saw that her familiar face, though pale, was not at all tearful, as it would have been in their younger days. Indeed, if the particulars as handed down are to be believed, he was in a more tearful state than she, in his anxiety about her. He called her into his tent, out of the gaze of those around; for though many of the soldiers were honest and serious- minded men, he could not bear that she who had been his dear companion in childhood should be exposed to curious observation in this her great grief.

Shortly after, to his great surprise, he saw a lady on horseback coming from the front of the Castle walls, with just one attendant. She rode straight into the field and up the slope to where his army and tents were set up. It wasn't until she got quite close that he recognized her as his sister Anna, and he was deeply alarmed that she had taken such a risk by coming out in front of his forces without knowing what was happening, when at any moment their first shot could have been fired, putting her in danger. She dismounted before getting too close, and he saw that her familiar face, though pale, was not tearful like it would have been in their younger days. In fact, if the accounts are to be trusted, he was more emotional than she was, worrying about her. He called her into his tent, away from the eyes of those around them; for although many of the soldiers were honest and serious-minded men, he couldn’t stand the thought of her—his dear childhood companion—being subjected to curious glances during this difficult time.

When they were alone in the tent he clasped her in his arms, for he had not seen her since those happier days when, at the commencement of the war, her husband and himself had been of the same mind about the arbitrary conduct of the King, and had little dreamt that they would not go to extremes together. She was the calmest of the two, it is said, and was the first to speak connectedly.

When they were alone in the tent, he wrapped his arms around her because he hadn't seen her since those happier days at the start of the war, when both she and her husband shared the same feelings about the King's unreasonable actions and had little idea they wouldn't stand by each other. She was said to be the calmer of the two and was the first to speak coherently.

'William, I have come to you,' said she, 'but not to save myself as you suppose. Why, oh, why do you persist in supporting this disloyal cause, and grieving us so?'

'William, I've come to talk to you,' she said, 'but not to save myself like you think. Why, oh, why do you keep supporting this unfaithful cause and making us suffer so?'

'Say not that,' he replied hastily. 'If truth hides at the bottom of a well, why should you suppose justice to be in high places? I am for the right at any price. Anna, leave the Castle; you are my sister; come away, my dear, and save thy life!'

'Say no more,' he replied quickly. 'If the truth is at the bottom of a well, why would you think justice is found in high places? I stand for what's right, no matter the cost. Anna, leave the Castle; you’re my sister; come on, my dear, and save yourself!'

'Never!' says she. 'Do you plan to carry out this attack, and level the Castle indeed?'

'Never!' she says. 'Are you really thinking of going through with this attack and demolishing the Castle?'

'Most certainly I do,' says he. 'What meaneth this army around us if not so?'

'Of course I do,' he says. 'What does this army surrounding us mean if not that?'

'Then you will find the bones of your sister buried in the ruins you cause!' said she. And without another word she turned and left him.

'Then you will find your sister's bones buried in the ruins you created!' she said. And without saying anything else, she turned and left him.

'Anna-abide with me!' he entreated. 'Blood is thicker than water, and what is there in common between you and your husband now?'

'Anna, stay with me!' he pleaded. 'Family is more important than anything else, and what do you really have in common with your husband now?'

But she shook her head and would not hear him and hastening out, mounted her horse, and returned towards the Castle as she had come. Ay, many's the time when I have been riding to hounds across that field that I have thought of that scene!

But she shook her head and wouldn’t listen to him. Quickly, she got on her horse and rode back to the Castle just like she had arrived. Many times when I’ve been hunting across that field, I’ve thought about that moment!

When she had quite gone down the field, and over the intervening ground, and round the bastion, so that he could no longer even see the tip of her mare's white tail, he was much more deeply moved by emotions concerning her and her welfare than he had been while she was before him. He wildly reproached himself that he had not detained her by force for her own good, so that, come what might, she would be under his protection and not under that of her husband, whose impulsive nature rendered him too open to instantaneous impressions and sudden changes of plan; he was now acting in this cause and now in that, and lacked the cool judgment necessary for the protection of a woman in these troubled times. Her brother thought of her words again and again, and sighed, and even considered if a sister were not of more value than a principle, and if he would not have acted more naturally in throwing in his lot with hers.

When she had traveled down the field, across the ground, and around the bastion, to the point where he could no longer even see the tip of her mare's white tail, he felt much more deeply moved about her and her safety than he had when she was right in front of him. He furiously blamed himself for not stopping her for her own good, so that, no matter what happened, she would be under his protection instead of her husband’s, whose impulsive nature made him too susceptible to sudden feelings and quick changes of plans; he would act for this cause one moment and the next for another, lacking the clear judgment needed to keep a woman safe in these chaotic times. Her brother thought about her words repeatedly, sighed, and even contemplated whether a sister was worth more than a principle, and if he should have acted more naturally by supporting her.

The delay of the besiegers in attacking the Castle was said to be entirely owing to this distraction on the part of their leader, who remained on the spot attempting some indecisive operations, and parleying with the Marquis, then in command, with far inferior forces, within the Castle. It never occurred to him that in the meantime the young Lady Baxby, his sister, was in much the same mood as himself. Her brother's familiar voice and eyes, much worn and fatigued by keeping the field, and by family distractions on account of this unhappy feud, rose upon her vision all the afternoon, and as day waned she grew more and more Parliamentarian in her principles, though the only arguments which had addressed themselves to her were those of family ties.

The delay of the attackers in assaulting the Castle was said to be completely due to their leader's distraction. He stayed there trying to carry out some uncertain maneuvers while negotiating with the Marquis, who had much weaker forces inside the Castle. It never crossed his mind that in the meantime, his younger sister, Lady Baxby, was feeling just as conflicted as he was. Her brother's familiar voice and eyes, which showed signs of exhaustion from the fighting and family issues stemming from this unfortunate feud, occupied her thoughts all afternoon. As the day went on, she leaned more towards Parliamentarian views, even though the only arguments she had considered were those of family loyalty.

Her husband, General Lord Baxby, had been expected to return all the day from his excursion into the east of the county, a message having been sent to him informing him of what had happened at home; and in the evening he arrived with reinforcements in unexpected numbers. Her brother retreated before these to a hill near Ivell, four or five miles off, to afford the men and himself some repose. Lord Baxby duly placed his forces, and there was no longer any immediate danger. By this time Lady Baxby's feelings were more Parliamentarian than ever, and in her fancy the fagged countenance of her brother, beaten back by her husband, seemed to reproach her for heartlessness. When her husband entered her apartment, ruddy and boisterous, and full of hope, she received him but sadly; and upon his casually uttering some slighting words about her brother's withdrawal, which seemed to convey an imputation upon his courage, she resented them, and retorted that he, Lord Baxby himself, had been against the Court-party at first, where it would be much more to his credit if he were at present, and showing her brother's consistency of opinion, instead of supporting the lying policy of the King (as she called it) for the sake of a barren principle of loyalty, which was but an empty expression when a King was not at one with his people. The dissension grew bitter between them, reaching to little less than a hot quarrel, both being quick-tempered souls.

Her husband, General Lord Baxby, was supposed to come back all day from his trip to the east part of the county since he had been informed about what was happening at home. In the evening, he showed up with an unexpected number of reinforcements. Her brother retreated to a hill near Ivell, about four or five miles away, so that both he and the men could rest. Lord Baxby organized his forces, and there was no longer any immediate threat. By this time, Lady Baxby felt more aligned with the Parliamentarian cause than ever, and in her mind, the worn face of her brother, pushed back by her husband, seemed to accuse her of being heartless. When her husband entered her room, red-faced and cheerful, full of hope, she greeted him with sadness. And when he casually made some dismissive comments about her brother’s retreat, which seemed to question his courage, she took offense and shot back that Lord Baxby himself had initially been against the Court-party, and it would be much more commendable if he were still on that side now. She pointed out her brother's consistent beliefs rather than supporting the King's deceitful policy, which she believed was driven by a mere empty principle of loyalty when a King did not stand with his people. The argument between them became intense, almost turning into a heated quarrel, both being quick-tempered people.

Lord Baxby was weary with his long day's march and other excitements, and soon retired to bed. His lady followed some time after. Her husband slept profoundly, but not so she; she sat brooding by the window-slit, and lifting the curtain looked forth upon the hills without.

Lord Baxby was tired from his long day of marching and other events, so he went to bed quickly. His wife came in a while later. While her husband slept deeply, she couldn’t. She sat thinking by the window, and lifting the curtain, she looked out at the hills beyond.

In the silence between the footfalls of the sentinels she could hear faint sounds of her brother's camp on the distant hills, where the soldiery had hardly settled as yet into their bivouac since their evening's retreat. The first frosts of autumn had touched the grass, and shrivelled the more delicate leaves of the creepers; and she thought of William sleeping on the chilly ground, under the strain of these hardships. Tears flooded her eyes as she returned to her husband's imputations upon his courage, as if there could be any doubt of Lord William's courage after what he had done in the past days.

In the quiet between the soldiers' footsteps, she could hear the faint sounds of her brother's camp in the distant hills, where the troops had barely settled into their makeshift tents after their evening retreat. The first frosts of autumn had touched the grass and shriveled the more fragile leaves of the vines, and she thought about William sleeping on the cold ground, enduring these hardships. Tears filled her eyes as she recalled her husband's doubts about his bravery, as if there could be any question of Lord William's courage after everything he had done in the past few days.

Lord Baxby's long and reposeful breathings in his comfortable bed vexed her now, and she came to a determination on an impulse. Hastily lighting a taper, she wrote on a scrap of paper:

Lord Baxby's deep, peaceful breaths in his comfortable bed annoyed her now, and she made a snap decision. Quickly lighting a candle, she wrote on a piece of paper:

'Blood is thicker than water, dear William-I will come;' and with this in her hand, she went to the door of the room, and out upon the stairs; on second thoughts turning back for a moment, to put on her husband's hat and cloak-not the one he was daily wearing-that if seen in the twilight she might at a casual glance appear as some lad or hanger-on of one of the household women; thus accoutred she descended a flight of circular stairs, at the bottom of which was a door opening upon the terrace towards the west, in the direction of her brother's position. Her object was to slip out without the sentry seeing her, get to the stables, arouse one of the varlets, and send him ahead of her along the highway with the note to warn her brother of her approach, to throw in her lot with his.

'Blood is thicker than water, dear William—I’ll come;' and with this in her hand, she went to the door of the room and out onto the stairs. After a moment's thought, she turned back to put on her husband's hat and cloak—not the one he wore every day—so that if she was seen in the twilight, she might look like some young guy or one of the household workers. Dressed this way, she descended a circular staircase, and at the bottom was a door that opened onto the terrace facing west, toward her brother's location. Her goal was to sneak out without the guard seeing her, reach the stables, wake one of the stable hands, and send him ahead of her along the highway with the note to warn her brother of her approach, so she could join him.

She was still in the shadow of the wall on the west terrace, waiting for the sentinel to be quite out of the way, when her ears were greeted by a voice, saying, from the adjoining shade-

She was still in the shadow of the wall on the west terrace, waiting for the guard to be completely out of sight, when she heard a voice coming from the nearby shade—

'Here I be!'

'Here I am!'

The tones were the tones of a woman. Lady Baxby made no reply, and stood close to the wall.

The sounds were those of a woman. Lady Baxby didn’t respond and stood right by the wall.

'My Lord Baxby,' the voice continued; and she could recognize in it the local accent of some girl from the little town of Sherton, close at hand. 'I be tired of waiting, my dear Lord Baxby! I was afeard you would never come!'

'My Lord Baxby,' the voice continued; and she could recognize in it the local accent of some girl from the little town of Sherton, nearby. 'I'm tired of waiting, my dear Lord Baxby! I was afraid you would never come!'

Lady Baxby flushed hot to her toes.

Lady Baxby blushed all the way to her toes.

'How the wench loves him!' she said to herself, reasoning from the tones of the voice, which were plaintive and sweet and tender as a bird's. She changed from the home-hating truant to the strategic wife in one moment.

'How she loves him!' she thought to herself, analyzing the tones of the voice, which were sad, sweet, and tender like a bird's. In an instant, she transformed from the rebellious daughter to the clever wife.

'Hist!' she said.

"Shh!" she said.

'My lord, you told me ten o'clock, and 'tis near twelve now,' continues the other. 'How could ye keep me waiting so if you love me as you said? I should have stuck to my lover in the Parliament troops if it had not been for thee, my dear lord!'

'My lord, you told me ten o'clock, and it's almost twelve now,' the other continues. 'How could you make me wait like this if you really love me? I would have stayed with my lover in the Parliament troops if it weren't for you, my dear lord!'

There was not the least doubt that Lady Baxby had been mistaken for her husband by this intriguing damsel. Here was a pretty underhand business! Here were sly manoeuvrings! Here was faithlessness! Here was a precious assignation surprised in the midst! Her wicked husband, whom till this very moment she had ever deemed the soul of good faith-how could he!

There was no doubt that Lady Baxby had been confused for her husband by this intriguing young woman. This was quite a sneaky situation! There were sly tactics at play! There was betrayal! A precious meeting caught in the act! Her deceitful husband, whom until this very moment she had always considered to be completely trustworthy—how could he!

Lady Baxby precipitately retreated to the door in the turret, closed it, locked it, and ascended one round of the staircase, where there was a loophole. 'I am not coming! I, Lord Baxby, despise ye and all your wanton tribe!' she hissed through the opening; and then crept upstairs, as firmly rooted in Royalist principles as any man in the Castle.

Lady Baxby quickly retreated to the door in the turret, closed it, locked it, and went up one flight of the staircase, where there was a small opening. 'I’m not coming! I, Lord Baxby, look down on you and all your reckless kind!' she hissed through the gap; then she crept upstairs, as steadfast in her Royalist beliefs as any man in the Castle.

Her husband still slept the sleep of the weary, well-fed, and well- drunken, if not of the just; and Lady Baxby quickly disrobed herself without assistance-being, indeed, supposed by her woman to have retired to rest long ago. Before lying down, she noiselessly locked the door and placed the key under her pillow. More than that, she got a staylace, and, creeping up to her lord, in great stealth tied the lace in a tight knot to one of his long locks of hair, attaching the other end of the lace to the bedpost; for, being tired herself now, she feared she might sleep heavily; and, if her husband should wake, this would be a delicate hint that she had discovered all.

Her husband was still deep in a heavy sleep, well-fed and drunk, if not completely innocent; and Lady Baxby quickly undressed herself without help, as her maid thought she had gone to bed long ago. Before lying down, she quietly locked the door and put the key under her pillow. On top of that, she grabbed a shoelace and, sneaking up to her husband, carefully tied one end to one of his long strands of hair and the other end to the bedpost; since she was tired herself, she was worried she might fall into a deep sleep; and if her husband woke up, this would serve as a subtle hint that she had figured everything out.

It is added that, to make assurance trebly sure, her gentle ladyship, when she had lain down to rest, held her lord's hand in her own during the whole of the night. But this is old-wives' gossip, and not corroborated. What Lord Baxby thought and said when he awoke the next morning, and found himself so strangely tethered, is likewise only matter of conjecture; though there is no reason to suppose that his rage was great. The extent of his culpability as regards the intrigue was this much; that, while halting at a cross-road near Sherton that day, he had flirted with a pretty young woman, who seemed nothing loth, and had invited her to the Castle terrace after dark-an invitation which he quite forgot on his arrival home.

It’s said that, to be absolutely sure, her gentle ladyship held her lord's hand in hers the whole night while she was resting. But that's just old gossip and can't be confirmed. What Lord Baxby thought and said when he woke up the next morning and found himself in such an odd situation is a matter of speculation as well; though there’s no reason to believe he was very angry. His level of guilt regarding the affair was simply this: while stopping at a crossroad near Sherton that day, he had flirted with a pretty young woman, who seemed eager, and invited her to the Castle terrace after dark—an invitation he completely forgot about when he got home.

The subsequent relations of Lord and Lady Baxby were not again greatly embittered by quarrels, so far as is known; though the husband's conduct in later life was occasionally eccentric, and the vicissitudes of his public career culminated in long exile. The siege of the Castle was not regularly undertaken till two or three years later than the time I have been describing, when Lady Baxby and all the women therein, except the wife of the then Governor, had been removed to safe distance. That memorable siege of fifteen days by Fairfax, and the surrender of the old place on an August evening, is matter of history, and need not be told by me.

The later relationship between Lord and Lady Baxby wasn't seriously affected by arguments, as far as we know. However, the husband's behavior became somewhat odd in his later years, and his public career faced ups and downs that led to a long period of exile. The siege of the Castle didn't officially begin until two or three years after the events I've been describing, when Lady Baxby and all the women there, except for the wife of the then Governor, had been moved to a safe distance. The famous fifteen-day siege by Fairfax and the surrender of the old place on an August evening are well-documented events, so there's no need for me to recount them.

The Man of Family spoke approvingly across to the Colonel when the Club had done smiling, declaring that the story was an absolutely faithful page of history, as he had good reason to know, his own people having been engaged in that well-known scrimmage. He asked if the Colonel had ever heard the equally well-authenticated, though less martial tale of a certain Lady Penelope, who lived in the same century, and not a score of miles from the same place?

The Man of the Family nodded in agreement to the Colonel after the Club stopped laughing, stating that the story was a completely accurate piece of history, as he knew firsthand, since his own family had been involved in that famous scuffle. He asked if the Colonel had ever heard the equally verified, though less battle-oriented, tale of a certain Lady Penelope, who lived in the same century and not far from the same location?

The Colonel had not heard it, nor had anybody except the local historian; and the inquirer was induced to proceed forthwith.

The Colonel hadn't heard it, and neither had anyone else except the local historian; so the person asking was encouraged to move forward immediately.

DAME THE EIGHTH-THE LADY PENELOPE

By the Man of Family

In going out of Casterbridge by the low-lying road which eventually conducts to the town of Ivell, you see on the right hand an ivied manor- house, flanked by battlemented towers, and more than usually distinguished by the size of its many mullioned windows. Though still of good capacity, the building is much reduced from its original grand proportions; it has, moreover, been shorn of the fair estate which once appertained to its lord, with the exception of a few acres of park-land immediately around the mansion. This was formerly the seat of the ancient and knightly family of the Drenghards, or Drenkhards, now extinct in the male line, whose name, according to the local chronicles, was interpreted to mean Strenuus Miles, vel Potator, though certain members of the family were averse to the latter signification, and a duel was fought by one of them on that account, as is well known. With this, however, we are not now concerned.

As you leave Casterbridge on the lower road that eventually leads to the town of Ivell, you'll see on your right a manor house covered in ivy, flanked by battlemented towers, and particularly notable for its large, multi-pane windows. Although still a decent size, the building is much smaller than it once was; it has also lost most of the impressive estate that once belonged to its owner, apart from a few acres of parkland right around the house. This was once the home of the ancient and noble Drenghard family, now extinct in the male line, whose name, according to local history, means Strenuus Miles, or Potator. However, some family members disliked the latter meaning, and one of them famously fought a duel over it, as is well known. But that’s not our concern right now.

In the early part of the reign of the first King James, there was visiting near this place of the Drenghards a lady of noble family and extraordinary beauty. She was of the purest descent; ah, there's seldom such blood nowadays as hers! She possessed no great wealth, it was said, but was sufficiently endowed. Her beauty was so perfect, and her manner so entrancing, that suitors seemed to spring out of the ground wherever she went, a sufficient cause of anxiety to the Countess her mother, her only living parent. Of these there were three in particular, whom neither her mother's complaints of prematurity, nor the ready raillery of the maiden herself, could effectually put off. The said gallants were a certain Sir John Gale, a Sir William Hervy, and the well-known Sir George Drenghard, one of the Drenghard family before- mentioned. They had, curiously enough, all been equally honoured with the distinction of knighthood, and their schemes for seeing her were manifold, each fearing that one of the others would steal a march over himself. Not content with calling, on every imaginable excuse, at the house of the relative with whom she sojourned, they intercepted her in rides and in walks; and if any one of them chanced to surprise another in the act of paying her marked attentions, the encounter often ended in an altercation of great violence. So heated and impassioned, indeed, would they become, that the lady hardly felt herself safe in their company at such times, notwithstanding that she was a brave and buxom damsel, not easily put out, and with a daring spirit of humour in her composition, if not of coquetry.

In the early days of King James's reign, a beautiful noblewoman was visiting near the Drenghards. She came from a pure lineage; there aren’t many like her these days! Although she wasn't extremely wealthy, she had enough to be considered well-off. Her beauty was stunning, and her charm was captivating, leading to suitors popping up wherever she went, which worried her mother, the Countess, her only living parent. Three suitors stood out in particular, who were not deterred by her mother’s complaints about their eagerness or the lady's own playful teasing. These suitors were Sir John Gale, Sir William Hervy, and the well-known Sir George Drenghard, a member of the previously mentioned Drenghard family. Interestingly, they all shared the honor of being knights, and each had various plans to see her, worried that one of the others would get ahead of them. They weren't satisfied with visiting her relative’s house on any excuse; they pursued her during rides and walks. If one caught another flirting with her, it often led to intense arguments. They became so heated and passionate that the lady sometimes felt unsafe around them, despite being a bold and lively young woman who wouldn’t easily back down, full of daring humor if not flirtation.

At one of these altercations, which had place in her relative's grounds, and was unusually bitter, threatening to result in a duel, she found it necessary to assert herself. Turning haughtily upon the pair of disputants, she declared that whichever should be the first to break the peace between them, no matter what the provocation, that man should never be admitted to her presence again; and thus would she effectually stultify the aggressor by making the promotion of a quarrel a distinct bar to its object.

At one of these arguments, which happened on her relative's property and was particularly intense, threatening to lead to a duel, she felt it necessary to stand her ground. Turning confidently to the two disputants, she declared that whoever broke the peace first, no matter the provocation, would never be welcome in her presence again; in this way, she would effectively undermine the aggressor by making the act of provoking a fight a clear barrier to their goal.

While the two knights were wearing rather a crest-fallen appearance at her reprimand, the third, never far off, came upon the scene, and she repeated her caveat to him also. Seeing, then, how great was the concern of all at her peremptory mood, the lady's manner softened, and she said with a roguish smile-

While the two knights looked pretty downcast at her reprimand, the third, who was never too far away, arrived on the scene, and she repeated her warning to him too. Noticing how worried everyone was about her assertive mood, the lady's demeanor softened, and she said with a playful smile—

'Have patience, have patience, you foolish men! Only bide your time quietly, and, in faith, I will marry you all in turn!'

'Be patient, be patient, you foolish guys! Just wait your turn quietly, and I promise, I will marry each of you eventually!'

They laughed heartily at this sally, all three together, as though they were the best of friends; at which she blushed, and showed some embarrassment, not having realized that her arch jest would have sounded so strange when uttered. The meeting which resulted thus, however, had its good effect in checking the bitterness of their rivalry; and they repeated her speech to their relatives and acquaintance with a hilarious frequency and publicity that the lady little divined, or she might have blushed and felt more embarrassment still.

They laughed loudly at this joke, all three of them together, like they were the best of friends; she blushed and felt a bit embarrassed, not realizing that her clever remark would sound so odd when spoken out loud. However, this encounter had a positive impact by easing the bitterness of their rivalry, and they repeated her comment to their family and friends with such hilarious frequency and openness that she barely noticed, or else she might have blushed even more and felt even more embarrassed.

In the course of time the position resolved itself, and the beauteous Lady Penelope (as she was called) made up her mind; her choice being the eldest of the three knights, Sir George Drenghard, owner of the mansion aforesaid, which thereupon became her home; and her husband being a pleasant man, and his family, though not so noble, of as good repute as her own, all things seemed to show that she had reckoned wisely in honouring him with her preference.

Over time, the situation became clear, and the lovely Lady Penelope (as she was known) made her decision; she chose the eldest of the three knights, Sir George Drenghard, who owned the mansion mentioned earlier, which then became her home. Her husband was a nice man, and his family, while not as noble, had as good of a reputation as her own. Everything indicated that she had made a wise choice by favoring him.

But what may lie behind the still and silent veil of the future none can foretell. In the course of a few months the husband of her choice died of his convivialities (as if, indeed, to bear out his name), and the Lady Penelope was left alone as mistress of his house. By this time she had apparently quite forgotten her careless declaration to her lovers collectively; but the lovers themselves had not forgotten it; and, as she would now be free to take a second one of them, Sir John Gale appeared at her door as early in her widowhood as it was proper and seemly to do so.

But what lies behind the calm and quiet curtain of the future is impossible to predict. Within a few months, the man she chose to marry passed away due to his indulgent lifestyle (as if to prove his name), leaving Lady Penelope alone as the owner of his household. By that time, she seemed to have completely forgotten her carefree statement to her suitors as a group; however, the suitors themselves had not forgotten it. Now that she was free to choose a second husband, Sir John Gale showed up at her door as soon as it was appropriate and proper to do so after her widowhood.

She gave him little encouragement; for, of the two remaining, her best beloved was Sir William, of whom, if the truth must be told, she had often thought during her short married life. But he had not yet reappeared. Her heart began to be so much with him now that she contrived to convey to him, by indirect hints through his friends, that she would not be displeased by a renewal of his former attentions. Sir William, however, misapprehended her gentle signalling, and from excellent, though mistaken motives of delicacy, delayed to intrude himself upon her for a long time. Meanwhile Sir John, now created a baronet, was unremitting, and she began to grow somewhat piqued at the backwardness of him she secretly desired to be forward.

She didn’t give him much encouragement; of the two left, her favorite was Sir William, whom she had often thought about during her short marriage. But he hadn’t returned yet. Her feelings for him had grown so strong that she found ways to hint to his friends that she wouldn’t mind if he showed her some attention again. However, Sir William misunderstood her subtle hints and, thinking he was being respectful, took a long time to reach out to her. Meanwhile, Sir John, who had just been made a baronet, was persistent, and she started to feel frustrated by the hesitation of the one she secretly hoped would be more forward.

'Never mind,' her friends said jestingly to her (knowing of her humorous remark, as everybody did, that she would marry them all three if they would have patience)-'never mind; why hesitate upon the order of them? Take 'em as they come.'

'It doesn't matter,' her friends joked with her (aware of her funny comment, like everyone else, that she would marry all three of them if they would just be patient) - 'it doesn't matter; why worry about the order? Just take them as they come.'

This vexed her still more, and regretting deeply, as she had often done, that such a careless speech should ever have passed her lips, she fairly broke down under Sir John's importunity, and accepted his hand. They were married on a fine spring morning, about the very time at which the unfortunate Sir William discovered her preference for him, and was beginning to hasten home from a foreign court to declare his unaltered devotion to her. On his arrival in England he learnt the sad truth.

This frustrated her even more, and feeling deeply regretful, as she often did, that such a careless comment had ever slipped out, she finally gave in to Sir John's persistence and accepted his proposal. They got married on a beautiful spring morning, right around the time when the unfortunate Sir William discovered her feelings for him and was starting to rush back from a foreign court to declare his unchanged love for her. Upon his arrival in England, he learned the heartbreaking truth.

If Sir William suffered at her precipitancy under what she had deemed his neglect, the Lady Penelope herself suffered more. She had not long been the wife of Sir John Gale before he showed a disposition to retaliate upon her for the trouble and delay she had put him to in winning her. With increasing frequency he would tell her that, as far as he could perceive, she was an article not worth such labour as he had bestowed in obtaining it, and such snubbings as he had taken from his rivals on the same account. These and other cruel things he repeated till he made the lady weep sorely, and wellnigh broke her spirit, though she had formerly been such a mettlesome dame. By degrees it became perceptible to all her friends that her life was a very unhappy one; and the fate of the fair woman seemed yet the harder in that it was her own stately mansion, left to her sole use by her first husband, which her second had entered into and was enjoying, his being but a mean and meagre erection.

If Sir William was hurt by her impulsiveness regarding what she thought was his neglect, Lady Penelope was suffering even more. Not long after marrying Sir John Gale, he began to take out his frustrations on her for the trouble and time he spent winning her over. More and more often, he would tell her that, as far as he could see, she wasn't worth the effort he had put into getting her and the insults he had endured from his rivals for the same reason. He repeated these cruel comments until she was in tears, nearly breaking her spirit, even though she had once been a spirited woman. Gradually, it became clear to all her friends that she was very unhappy in her life; and her situation seemed even more tragic because it was her own grand house, left to her by her first husband, that her second husband was living in and enjoying, while his own home was a small and shabby place.

But such is the flippancy of friends that when she met them, and secretly confided her grief to their ears, they would say cheerily, 'Lord, never mind, my dear; there's a third to come yet!'-at which maladroit remark she would show much indignation, and tell them they should know better than to trifle on so solemn a theme. Yet that the poor lady would have been only too happy to be the wife of the third, instead of Sir John whom she had taken, was painfully obvious, and much she was blamed for her foolish choice by some people. Sir William, however, had returned to foreign cities on learning the news of her marriage, and had never been heard of since.

But that's how thoughtless friends can be; when she saw them and quietly shared her sorrow, they would cheerfully say, "Oh, don’t worry, my dear; there’s still a third one coming!" At this clumsy comment, she would react with anger, telling them they should know better than to joke about such a serious matter. Yet it was painfully clear that the poor woman would have been much happier being the wife of the third instead of Sir John, whom she had chosen, and many people criticized her foolish decision. However, Sir William had gone back to foreign cities upon hearing the news of her marriage and hadn’t been heard from since.

Two or three years of suffering were passed by Lady Penelope as the despised and chidden wife of this man Sir John, amid regrets that she had so greatly mistaken him, and sighs for one whom she thought never to see again, till it chanced that her husband fell sick of some slight ailment. One day after this, when she was sitting in his room, looking from the window upon the expanse in front, she beheld, approaching the house on foot, a form she seemed to know well. Lady Penelope withdrew silently from the sickroom, and descended to the hall, whence, through the doorway, she saw entering between the two round towers, which at that time flanked the gateway, Sir William Hervy, as she had surmised, but looking thin and travel-worn. She advanced into the courtyard to meet him.

Two or three years of suffering went by for Lady Penelope as the unwanted and scolded wife of Sir John, filled with regret for having so greatly misjudged him, and longing for someone she thought she would never see again, until one day her husband fell ill with a minor sickness. While she was sitting in his room, gazing out the window at the view outside, she spotted a familiar figure approaching the house on foot. Lady Penelope quietly left the sickroom and made her way to the hall, where she saw, entering between the two round towers that flanked the gateway, none other than Sir William Hervy, just as she had guessed, though he appeared thin and weary from travel. She stepped into the courtyard to greet him.

'I was passing through Casterbridge,' he said, with faltering deference, 'and I walked out to ask after your ladyship's health. I felt that I could do no less; and, of course, to pay my respects to your good husband, my heretofore acquaintance . . . But oh, Penelope, th'st look sick and sorry!'

'I was passing through Casterbridge,' he said, with hesitant respect, 'and I went out to check on your health. I felt I had to do that; and, of course, to show my respects to your good husband, my former acquaintance . . . But oh, Penelope, you look unwell and upset!'

'I am heartsick, that's all,' said she.

'I am heartbroken, that's all,' she said.

They could see in each other an emotion which neither wished to express, and they stood thus a long time with tears in their eyes.

They could see in each other an emotion that neither wanted to express, and they stood there for a long time with tears in their eyes.

'He does not treat 'ee well, I hear,' said Sir William in a low voice. 'May God in Heaven forgive him; but it is asking a great deal!'

'I've heard he doesn't treat you well,' said Sir William quietly. 'May God in Heaven forgive him; but that's a big request!'

'Hush, hush!' said she hastily.

"Shh, shh!" she said quickly.

'Nay, but I will speak what I may honestly say,' he answered. 'I am not under your roof, and my tongue is free. Why didst not wait for me, Penelope, or send to me a more overt letter? I would have travelled night and day to come!'

'No, but I will say what I can truly say,' he replied. 'I'm not under your roof, and my tongue is free. Why didn't you wait for me, Penelope, or send me a clearer letter? I would have traveled day and night to come!'

'Too late, William; you must not ask it,' said she, endeavouring to quiet him as in old times. 'My husband just now is unwell. He will grow better in a day or two, maybe. You must call again and see him before you leave Casterbridge.'

'It's too late, William; you shouldn’t ask that,' she said, trying to calm him like she used to. 'My husband isn't feeling well right now. He should be better in a day or two, hopefully. You should come back and see him before you leave Casterbridge.'

As she said this their eyes met. Each was thinking of her lightsome words about taking the three men in turn; each thought that two-thirds of that promise had been fulfilled. But, as if it were unpleasant to her that this recollection should have arisen, she spoke again quickly: 'Come again in a day or two, when my husband will be well enough to see you.'

As she said this, their eyes met. Each was thinking of her cheerful words about taking the three men one by one; each thought that two-thirds of that promise had been kept. But, as if the memory was uncomfortable for her, she quickly spoke again: 'Come back in a day or two, when my husband is well enough to see you.'

Sir William departed without entering the house, and she returned to Sir John's chamber. He, rising from his pillow, said, 'To whom hast been talking, wife, in the courtyard? I heard voices there.'

Sir William left without going into the house, and she went back to Sir John's room. He, sitting up from his pillow, said, 'Who were you talking to outside, my wife? I heard voices there.'

She hesitated, and he repeated the question more impatiently.

She hesitated, and he asked the question again with more impatience.

'I do not wish to tell you now,' said she.

'I don't want to tell you right now,' she said.

'But I wooll know!' said he.

'But I will know!' said he.

Then she answered, 'Sir William Hervy.'

Then she replied, 'Sir William Hervy.'

'By G—- I thought as much!' cried Sir John, drops of perspiration standing on his white face. 'A skulking villain! A sick man's ears are keen, my lady. I heard that they were lover-like tones, and he called 'ee by your Christian name. These be your intrigues, my lady, when I am off my legs awhile!'

'By God, I figured it out!' shouted Sir John, beads of sweat on his pale face. 'A sneaky villain! A sick person's ears are sharp, my lady. I heard those were flirtatious tones, and he called you by your first name. These are your secret affairs, my lady, when I'm out of commission for a bit!'

'On my honour,' cried she, 'you do me a wrong. I swear I did not know of his coming!'

'On my honor,' she exclaimed, 'you're wronging me. I swear I had no idea he was coming!'

'Swear as you will,' said Sir John, 'I don't believe 'ee.' And with this he taunted her, and worked himself into a greater passion, which much increased his illness. His lady sat still, brooding. There was that upon her face which had seldom been there since her marriage; and she seemed to think anew of what she had so lightly said in the days of her freedom, when her three lovers were one and all coveting her hand. 'I began at the wrong end of them,' she murmured. 'My God-that did I!'

"Swear all you want," said Sir John, "but I don't believe you." With that, he mocked her and worked himself up into a greater rage, which only made his illness worse. His lady sat quietly, deep in thought. There was something on her face that hadn’t been there much since they got married, and she seemed to reconsider what she had so casually said in the days of her freedom, when all three of her lovers were vying for her hand. "I started with the wrong one," she murmured. "Oh my God, I really did!"

'What?' said he.

"What?" he asked.

'A trifle,' said she. 'I spoke to myself only.'

'A little thing,' she said. 'I was just talking to myself.'

It was somewhat strange that after this day, while she went about the house with even a sadder face than usual, her churlish husband grew worse; and what was more, to the surprise of all, though to the regret of few, he died a fortnight later. Sir William had not called upon him as he had promised, having received a private communication from Lady Penelope, frankly informing him that to do so would be inadvisable, by reason of her husband's temper.

It was kind of odd that after this day, while she moved around the house with an even sadder expression than usual, her rude husband got worse; and what was even more surprising, though hardly regretted by anyone, was that he died two weeks later. Sir William hadn’t visited him as he had promised, having received a private message from Lady Penelope, clearly stating that it would be unwise to do so because of her husband's temper.

Now when Sir John was gone, and his remains carried to his family burying-place in another part of England, the lady began in due time to wonder whither Sir William had betaken himself. But she had been cured of precipitancy (if ever woman were), and was prepared to wait her whole lifetime a widow if the said Sir William should not reappear. Her life was now passed mostly within the walls, or in promenading between the pleasaunce and the bowling-green; and she very seldom went even so far as the high road which then skirted the grounds on the north, though it has now, and for many years, been diverted to the south side. Her patience was rewarded (if love be in any case a reward); for one day, many months after her second husband's death, a messenger arrived at her gate with the intelligence that Sir William Hervy was again in Casterbridge, and would be glad to know if it were her pleasure that he should wait upon her.

Now that Sir John was gone and his body taken to his family's burial site in another part of England, the lady began to wonder where Sir William had gone. However, she had learned to be patient (if any woman ever could) and was ready to wait her entire life as a widow if Sir William didn't come back. She spent most of her time inside or walking between the gardens and the bowling green; she rarely even ventured to the main road that used to run along the north side of the property, although it has now been moved to the south side for many years. Her patience paid off (if love is ever a reward), because one day, several months after her second husband's death, a messenger arrived at her gate with the news that Sir William Hervy was back in Casterbridge and would like to know if she wanted him to come see her.

It need hardly be said that permission was joyfully granted, and within two hours her lover stood before her, a more thoughtful man than formerly, but in all essential respects the same man, generous, modest to diffidence, and sincere. The reserve which womanly decorum threw over her manner was but too obviously artificial, and when he said 'the ways of Providence are strange,' and added after a moment, 'and merciful likewise,' she could not conceal her agitation, and burst into tears upon his neck.

It hardly needs saying that permission was happily granted, and within two hours her boyfriend stood in front of her, a more reflective man than before, but in all the important ways still the same guy—kind, modest to the point of shyness, and genuine. The restraint that feminine decorum imposed on her behavior was clearly forced, and when he said, "the ways of Providence are strange," and added after a moment, "and merciful too," she couldn’t hide her emotions and broke into tears on his shoulder.

'But this is too soon,' she said, starting back.

'But this is too soon,' she said, pulling back.

'But no,' said he. 'You are eleven months gone in widowhood, and it is not as if Sir John had been a good husband to you.'

'But no,' he said. 'You've been a widow for eleven months now, and it's not like Sir John was a good husband to you.'

His visits grew pretty frequent now, as may well be guessed, and in a month or two he began to urge her to an early union. But she counselled a little longer delay.

His visits became quite frequent now, as you might expect, and within a month or two, he started to push her for an early marriage. But she advised waiting a little longer.

'Why?' said he. 'Surely I have waited long! Life is short; we are getting older every day, and I am the last of the three.'

'Why?' he asked. 'I've waited long enough! Life is short; we get older every day, and I’m the last of the three.'

'Yes,' said the lady frankly. 'And that is why I would not have you hasten. Our marriage may seem so strange to everybody, after my unlucky remark on that occasion we know so well, and which so many others know likewise, thanks to talebearers.'

'Yes,' the lady replied honestly. 'And that's why I don't want you to rush. Our marriage might seem so unusual to everyone, especially after my unfortunate comment on that occasion we both know so well, and which so many others also know, thanks to gossip.'

On this representation he conceded a little space, for the sake of her good name. But the destined day of their marriage at last arrived, and it was a gay time for the villagers and all concerned, and the bells in the parish church rang from noon till night. Thus at last she was united to the man who had loved her the most tenderly of them all, who but for his reticence might perhaps have been the first to win her. Often did he say to himself; 'How wondrous that her words should have been fulfilled! Many a truth hath been spoken in jest, but never a more remarkable one!' The noble lady herself preferred not to dwell on the coincidence, a certain shyness, if not shame, crossing her fair face at any allusion thereto.

He gave up a little ground for the sake of her reputation. But the day of their wedding finally came, and it was a joyful occasion for the villagers and everyone involved, with the bells at the parish church ringing from noon until night. At last, she was joined to the man who had loved her more tenderly than anyone else, who, if it weren't for his shyness, might have been the first to win her heart. He often thought to himself, "How amazing that her words came true! Many things are said in jest, but none more remarkable than this!" The noble lady herself preferred not to think about the coincidence, a hint of shyness, if not embarrassment, crossing her beautiful face at any mention of it.

But people will have their say, sensitive souls or none, and their sayings on this third occasion took a singular shape. 'Surely,' they whispered, 'there is something more than chance in this . . . The death of the first was possibly natural; but what of the death of the second, who ill-used her, and whom, loving the third so desperately, she must have wished out of the way?'

But people will voice their opinions, whether they're sensitive or not, and their comments on this third situation took a unique turn. 'Surely,' they whispered, 'there’s more to this than mere coincidence… The first person's death could have been natural; but what about the second, who mistreated her, and whom she must have desperately wanted out of the picture to be with the third?'

Then they pieced together sundry trivial incidents of Sir John's illness, and dwelt upon the indubitable truth that he had grown worse after her lover's unexpected visit; till a very sinister theory was built up as to the hand she may have had in Sir John's premature demise. But nothing of this suspicion was said openly, for she was a lady of noble birth-nobler, indeed, than either of her husbands-and what people suspected they feared to express in formal accusation.

Then they put together various minor events surrounding Sir John's illness and focused on the undeniable fact that he had deteriorated after her lover's unexpected visit. This led to the development of a very dark theory about her possible involvement in Sir John's early death. However, no one openly voiced this suspicion, as she was a woman of noble birth — in fact, nobler than either of her husbands — and people were afraid to make formal accusations based on their suspicions.

The mansion that she occupied had been left to her for so long a time as she should choose to reside in it, and, having a regard for the spot, she had coaxed Sir William to remain there. But in the end it was unfortunate; for one day, when in the full tide of his happiness, he was walking among the willows near the gardens, where he overheard a conversation between some basket-makers who were cutting the osiers for their use. In this fatal dialogue the suspicions of the neighbouring townsfolk were revealed to him for the first time.

The mansion she lived in had been left to her for as long as she wanted to stay there, and because she cared for the place, she convinced Sir William to stay with her. But in the end, it turned out badly; one day, while he was happily walking among the willows near the gardens, he overheard a conversation between some basket-makers who were cutting the willows for their work. In that fateful conversation, he learned for the first time about the suspicions of the local townspeople.

'A cupboard close to his bed, and the key in her pocket. Ah!' said one.

'A cupboard near his bed, and the key in her pocket. Ah!' said one.

'And a blue phial therein-h'm!' said another.

'And a blue vial in there—hmm!' said another.

'And spurge-laurel leaves among the hearth-ashes. Oh-oh!' said a third.

'And spurge-laurel leaves among the hearth ashes. Oh no!' said a third.

On his return home Sir William seemed to have aged years. But he said nothing; indeed, it was a thing impossible. And from that hour a ghastly estrangement began. She could not understand it, and simply waited. One day he said, however, 'I must go abroad.'

On his return home, Sir William seemed to have aged years. But he said nothing; it was simply impossible for him to express it. From that moment on, a terrible distance grew between them. She couldn’t understand it and just waited. One day, though, he said, “I need to go abroad.”

'Why?' said she. 'William, have I offended you?'

'Why?' she asked. 'William, did I upset you?'

'No,' said he; 'but I must go.'

'No,' he said; 'but I have to go.'

She could coax little more out of him, and in itself there was nothing unnatural in his departure, for he had been a wanderer from his youth. In a few days he started off, apparently quite another man than he who had rushed to her side so devotedly a few months before.

She couldn't get much more out of him, and there was nothing strange about his leaving since he had always been a bit of a wanderer. In a few days, he set off, looking like a completely different man than the one who had rushed to her side so devotedly just a few months earlier.

It is not known when, or how, the rumours, which were so thick in the atmosphere around her, actually reached the Lady Penelope's ears, but that they did reach her there is no doubt. It was impossible that they should not; the district teemed with them; they rustled in the air like night-birds of evil omen. Then a reason for her husband's departure occurred to her appalled mind, and a loss of health became quickly apparent. She dwindled thin in the face, and the veins in her temples could all be distinctly traced. An inner fire seemed to be withering her away. Her rings fell off her fingers, and her arms hung like the flails of the threshers, though they had till lately been so round and so elastic. She wrote to her husband repeatedly, begging him to return to her; but he, being in extreme and wretched doubt, moreover, knowing nothing of her ill-health, and never suspecting that the rumours had reached her also, deemed absence best, and postponed his return awhile, giving various good reasons for his delay.

It’s unclear when or how the rumors, which were everywhere around her, actually got to Lady Penelope, but there’s no doubt that they did. There was no way they couldn’t have; the area was filled with them, fluttering in the air like ominous night birds. Soon, a reason for her husband’s departure struck her horrified mind, and her health quickly started to decline. She became thin in the face, and the veins in her temples were clearly visible. An inner fire seemed to be consuming her. Her rings slipped off her fingers, and her arms hung limply like the tools of a farmer, even though they had been so full and strong until recently. She wrote to her husband multiple times, pleading with him to come back, but he, caught in deep and miserable uncertainty, unaware of her declining health and never suspecting that she had heard the rumors too, thought it was best to stay away and delayed his return, offering various valid excuses for his absence.

At length, however, when the Lady Penelope had given birth to a still- born child, her mother, the Countess, addressed a letter to Sir William, requesting him to come back to her if he wished to see her alive; since she was wasting away of some mysterious disease, which seemed to be rather mental than physical. It was evident that his mother-in-law knew nothing of the secret, for she lived at a distance; but Sir William promptly hastened home, and stood beside the bed of his now dying wife.

At last, when Lady Penelope had given birth to a stillborn baby, her mother, the Countess, wrote a letter to Sir William, asking him to return if he wanted to see her alive, as she was fading away from some mysterious illness that seemed more mental than physical. It was clear that his mother-in-law was unaware of the secret since she lived far away; but Sir William quickly rushed home and stood by the bedside of his dying wife.

'Believe me, William,' she said when they were alone, 'I am innocent-innocent!'

"Believe me, William," she said when they were alone, "I am innocent—innocent!"

'Of what?' said he. 'Heaven forbid that I should accuse you of anything!'

'Of what?' he said. 'God forbid that I should accuse you of anything!'

'But you do accuse me-silently!' she gasped. 'I could not write thereon-and ask you to hear me. It was too much, too degrading. But would that I had been less proud! They suspect me of poisoning him, William! But, oh my dear husband, I am innocent of that wicked crime! He died naturally. I loved you-too soon; but that was all!'

'But you do accuse me—without saying a word!' she gasped. 'I couldn't write about it and ask you to listen to me. It was too much, too humiliating. But I wish I had been less proud! They think I poisoned him, William! But, oh my dear husband, I am innocent of that terrible crime! He died of natural causes. I loved you too quickly; but that was all!'

Nothing availed to save her. The worm had gnawed too far into her heart before Sir William's return for anything to be remedial now; and in a few weeks she breathed her last. After her death the people spoke louder, and her conduct became a subject of public discussion. A little later on, the physician, who had attended the late Sir John, heard the rumour, and came down from the place near London to which he latterly had retired, with the express purpose of calling upon Sir William Hervy, now staying in Casterbridge.

Nothing could save her. The worm had already burrowed too deep into her heart before Sir William got back for anything to help now; and in a few weeks, she took her last breath. After her death, people talked more openly, and her behavior became a topic of public conversation. Soon after, the doctor who had cared for the late Sir John heard the rumors, and he traveled down from the area near London where he had recently retired, with the specific intention of visiting Sir William Hervy, who was now staying in Casterbridge.

He stated that, at the request of a relative of Sir John's, who wished to be assured on the matter by reason of its suddenness, he had, with the assistance of a surgeon, made a private examination of Sir John's body immediately after his decease, and found that it had resulted from purely natural causes. Nobody at this time had breathed a suspicion of foul play, and therefore nothing was said which might afterwards have established her innocence.

He mentioned that, at the request of a relative of Sir John's, who wanted confirmation due to the suddenness of his passing, he had, with the help of a surgeon, conducted a private examination of Sir John's body right after he died and found that it was due to purely natural causes. At that time, no one had suggested anything suspicious, so nothing was said that could later have proven her innocence.

It being thus placed beyond doubt that this beautiful and noble lady had been done to death by a vile scandal that was wholly unfounded, her husband was stung with a dreadful remorse at the share he had taken in her misfortunes, and left the country anew, this time never to return alive. He survived her but a few years, and his body was brought home and buried beside his wife's under the tomb which is still visible in the parish church. Until lately there was a good portrait of her, in weeds for her first husband, with a cross in her hand, at the ancestral seat of her family, where she was much pitied, as she deserved to be. Yet there were some severe enough to say-and these not unjust persons in other respects-that though unquestionably innocent of the crime imputed to her, she had shown an unseemly wantonness in contracting three marriages in such rapid succession; that the untrue suspicion might have been ordered by Providence (who often works indirectly) as a punishment for her self-indulgence. Upon that point I have no opinion to offer.

It was clear that this beautiful and noble lady had been killed by a completely unfounded scandal, and her husband was filled with terrible remorse for his role in her suffering. He left the country again, never to return alive. He survived her by only a few years, and his body was brought back and buried next to hers under the tomb that is still seen in the parish church. Until recently, there was a nice portrait of her, dressed in mourning for her first husband, holding a cross, at her family's ancestral home, where she was greatly pitied, as she deserved to be. However, some people were harsh enough to say—and they were not unjust in other ways—that although she was undoubtedly innocent of the crime she was accused of, she had displayed an inappropriate recklessness in marrying three times in quick succession; that the false suspicion might have been allowed by Providence (who often works in indirect ways) as a punishment for her self-indulgence. I have no opinion to offer on that matter.

The reverend the Vice-President, however, the tale being ended, offered as his opinion that her fate ought to be quite clearly recognized as a punishment. So thought the Churchwarden, and also the quiet gentleman sitting near. The latter knew many other instances in point, one of which could be narrated in a few words.

The Reverend Vice-President, after the story was finished, stated that her fate should definitely be seen as a punishment. The Churchwarden agreed, as did the calm gentleman sitting nearby. He knew several other similar cases, one of which could be summarized in just a few words.

DAME THE NINTH-THE DUCHESS OF HAMPTONSHIRE

By the Quiet Gentleman

Some fifty years ago, the then Duke of Hamptonshire, fifth of that title, was incontestibly the head man in his county, and particularly in the neighbourhood of Batton. He came of the ancient and loyal family of Saxelbye, which, before its ennoblement, had numbered many knightly and ecclesiastical celebrities in its male line. It would have occupied a painstaking county historian a whole afternoon to take rubbings of the numerous effigies and heraldic devices graven to their memory on the brasses, tablets, and altar-tombs in the aisle of the parish-church. The Duke himself, however, was a man little attracted by ancient chronicles in stone and metal, even when they concerned his own beginnings. He allowed his mind to linger by preference on the many graceless and unedifying pleasures which his position placed at his command. He could on occasion close the mouths of his dependents by a good bomb-like oath, and he argued doggedly with the parson on the virtues of cock-fighting and baiting the bull.

About fifty years ago, the Duke of Hamptonshire, the fifth to hold that title, was undeniably the top figure in his county, especially around Batton. He came from the historic and loyal Saxelbye family, which had produced many notable knights and church leaders in its male lineage before it became noble. It would take a dedicated county historian a whole afternoon to take impressions of the many statues and coats of arms created in their honor on the memorials in the parish church. However, the Duke himself was not particularly interested in ancient records made of stone and metal, even when they related to his own heritage. Instead, he preferred to think about the many unrefined and questionable pleasures that his status allowed him to enjoy. At times, he could silence his servants with a booming curse and he stubbornly debated with the vicar about the merits of cockfighting and bull-baiting.

This nobleman's personal appearance was somewhat impressive. His complexion was that of the copper-beech tree. His frame was stalwart, though slightly stooping. His mouth was large, and he carried an unpolished sapling as his walking-stick, except when he carried a spud for cutting up any thistle he encountered on his walks. His castle stood in the midst of a park, surrounded by dusky elms, except to the southward; and when the moon shone out, the gleaming stone facade, backed by heavy boughs, was visible from the distant high road as a white spot on the surface of darkness. Though called a castle, the building was little fortified, and had been erected with greater eye to internal convenience than those crannied places of defence to which the name strictly appertains. It was a castellated mansion as regular as a chessboard on its ground-plan, ornamented with make-believe bastions and machicolations, behind which were stacks of battlemented chimneys. On still mornings, at the fire-lighting hour, when ghostly house-maids stalk the corridors, and thin streaks of light through the shutter- chinks lend startling winks and smiles to ancestors on canvas, twelve or fifteen thin stems of blue smoke sprouted upwards from these chimney- tops, and spread into a flat canopy on high. Around the site stretched ten thousand acres of good, fat, unimpeachable soil, plentiful in glades and lawns wherever visible from the castle-windows, and merging in homely arable where screened from the too curious eye by ingeniously- contrived plantations.

This nobleman's appearance was quite striking. His complexion resembled that of a copper-beech tree. He had a sturdy build, although he was slightly hunched. His mouth was large, and he used an unrefined sapling as a walking stick, except when he had a spud for cutting any thistles he came across during his walks. His castle was in the middle of a park, surrounded by dark elms, except to the south. When the moon shone, the gleaming stone facade, framed by heavy branches, could be seen from the distant road as a bright spot in the darkness. Although it was called a castle, the building wasn’t heavily fortified and was built more for comfort than for defense, as the name suggests. It was a castle-like house arranged like a chessboard, decorated with fake bastions and machicolations, behind which were stacks of battlemented chimneys. On calm mornings, during the hour when fires were lit, and ghostly maids moved through the halls, thin beams of light shining through the shutter gaps would create quirky glances and smiles from the ancestors in the paintings. Twelve or fifteen wispy columns of blue smoke would rise from these chimneys and spread into a flat canopy overhead. Surrounding the property were ten thousand acres of rich, fertile soil, filled with clearings and lawns visible from the castle windows, merging into familiar farmland concealed from prying eyes by cleverly designed plantations.

Some way behind the owner of all this came the second man in the parish, the rector, the Honourable and Reverend Mr. Oldbourne, a widower, over stiff and stern for a clergyman, whose severe white neckcloth, well-kept gray hair, and right-lined face betokened none of those sympathetic traits whereon depends so much of a parson's power to do good among his fellow-creatures. The last, far-removed man of the series-altogether the Neptune of these local primaries-was the curate, Mr. Alwyn Hill. He was a handsome young deacon with curly hair, dreamy eyes-so dreamy that to look long into them was like ascending and floating among summer clouds-a complexion as fresh as a flower, and a chin absolutely beardless. Though his age was about twenty-five, he looked not much over nineteen.

Some distance behind the owner of all this was the second man in the parish, the rector, the Honorable and Reverend Mr. Oldbourne, a widower, who's a bit too stiff and stern for a clergyman. His strict white necktie, well-groomed gray hair, and sharply defined face showed none of the warm traits that are so important for a pastor’s ability to do good among people. The last man in line—truly the Neptune of these local leaders—was the curate, Mr. Alwyn Hill. He was a handsome young deacon with curly hair and dreamy eyes so deep that gazing into them felt like drifting among summer clouds. His complexion was as fresh as a flower, and he had a completely smooth chin. Even though he was around twenty-five, he appeared to be no older than nineteen.

The rector had a daughter called Emmeline, of so sweet and simple a nature that her beauty was discovered, measured, and inventoried by almost everybody in that part of the country before it was suspected by herself to exist. She had been bred in comparative solitude; a rencounter with men troubled and confused her. Whenever a strange visitor came to her father's house she slipped into the orchard and remained till he was gone, ridiculing her weakness in apostrophes, but unable to overcome it. Her virtues lay in no resistant force of character, but in a natural inappetency for evil things, which to her were as unmeaning as joints of flesh to a herbivorous creature. Her charms of person, manner, and mind, had been clear for some time to the Antinous in orders, and no less so to the Duke, who, though scandalously ignorant of dainty phrases, ever showing a clumsy manner towards the gentler sex, and, in short, not at all a lady's man, took fire to a degree that was wellnigh terrible at sudden sight of Emmeline, a short time after she was turned seventeen.

The rector had a daughter named Emmeline, with such a sweet and simple nature that almost everyone in the area noticed her beauty before she realized it herself. She had grown up in relative solitude; encountering men made her anxious and confused. Whenever a stranger visited her father's house, she would slip into the orchard and stay there until he left, mocking her own weakness in her thoughts but unable to change it. Her strengths didn't come from a strong character but from a natural disinterest in bad things, which seemed as meaningless to her as meat does to a vegetarian. Her beauty, charm, and intelligence had been evident for some time to the local boys, and especially to the Duke, who, despite being very clumsy with words and completely out of touch with how to treat women, was struck with an overwhelming attraction to Emmeline shortly after her seventeenth birthday.

It occurred one afternoon at the corner of a shrubbery between the castle and the rectory, where the Duke was standing to watch the heaving of a mole, when the fair girl brushed past at a distance of a few yards, in the full light of the sun, and without hat or bonnet. The Duke went home like a man who had seen a spirit. He ascended to the picture- gallery of his castle, and there passed some time in staring at the bygone beauties of his line as if he had never before considered what an important part those specimens of womankind had played in the evolution of the Saxelbye race. He dined alone, drank rather freely, and declared to himself that Emmeline Oldbourne must be his.

It happened one afternoon at the edge of some bushes between the castle and the rectory, where the Duke was watching a mole digging, when a beautiful girl walked by a few yards away, fully in the sunlight and without a hat or bonnet. The Duke went home like someone who had seen a ghost. He went up to the picture gallery of his castle and spent some time staring at the past beauties of his family, as if he had never really thought about how significant those women had been in the history of the Saxelbye lineage. He had dinner alone, drank a bit too much, and told himself that Emmeline Oldbourne had to be his.

Meanwhile there had unfortunately arisen between the curate and this girl some sweet and secret understanding. Particulars of the attachment remained unknown then and always, but it was plainly not approved of by her father. His procedure was cold, hard, and inexorable. Soon the curate disappeared from the parish, almost suddenly, after bitter and hard words had been heard to pass between him and the rector one evening in the garden, intermingled with which, like the cries of the dying in the din of battle, were the beseeching sobs of a woman. Not long after this it was announced that a marriage between the Duke and Miss Oldbourne was to be solemnized at a surprisingly early date.

Meanwhile, a sweet and secret understanding had unfortunately developed between the curate and the girl. Details of their relationship remained unknown then and always, but it was clear that her father did not approve. His behavior was cold, hard, and unyielding. Soon, the curate vanished from the parish almost suddenly, after heated and painful words were exchanged between him and the rector one evening in the garden, along with the desperate sobs of a woman. Shortly after this, it was announced that a marriage between the Duke and Miss Oldbourne was set to take place at a surprisingly early date.

The wedding-day came and passed; and she was a Duchess. Nobody seemed to think of the ousted man during the day, or else those who thought of him concealed their meditations. Some of the less subservient ones were disposed to speak in a jocular manner of the august husband and wife, others to make correct and pretty speeches about them, according as their sex and nature dictated. But in the evening, the ringers in the belfry, with whom Alwyn had been a favourite, eased their minds a little concerning the gentle young man, and the possible regrets of the woman he had loved.

The wedding day came and went, and she was now a Duchess. Nobody seemed to think about the man who had been pushed aside that day, or those who did kept their thoughts to themselves. Some of the less obedient attendees felt inclined to joke about the grand couple, while others made polite and flattering speeches about them, depending on their gender and character. But in the evening, the bell ringers in the belfry, who had been fond of Alwyn, found some comfort regarding the gentle young man and the potential regrets of the woman he had loved.

'Don't you see something wrong in it all?' said the third bell as he wiped his face. 'I know well enough where she would have liked to stable her horses to-night, when they have done their journey.'

'Don't you see something off about all of this?' said the third bell as he wiped his face. 'I know exactly where she would have wanted to stable her horses tonight after their journey.'

'That is, you would know if you could tell where young Mr. Hill is living, which is known to none in the parish.'

'In other words, you would know if you could figure out where young Mr. Hill is living, but no one in the parish knows that.'

'Except to the lady that this ring o' grandsire triples is in honour of.'

'Except for the lady that this ring of my grandfather's triplicates is in honor of.'

Yet these friendly cottagers were at this time far from suspecting the real dimensions of Emmeline's misery, nor was it clear even to those who came into much closer communion with her than they, so well had she concealed her heart-sickness. But bride and bridegroom had not long been home at the castle when the young wife's unhappiness became plainly enough perceptible. Her maids and men said that she was in the habit of turning to the wainscot and shedding stupid scalding tears at a time when a right-minded lady would have been overhauling her wardrobe. She prayed earnestly in the great church-pew, where she sat lonely and insignificant as a mouse in a cell, instead of counting her rings, falling asleep, or amusing herself in silent laughter at the queer old people in the congregation, as previous beauties of the family had done in their time. She seemed to care no more for eating and drinking out of crystal and silver than from a service of earthen vessels. Her head was, in truth, full of something else; and that such was the case was only too obvious to the Duke, her husband. At first he would only taunt her for her folly in thinking of that milk-and-water parson; but as time went on his charges took a more positive shape. He would not believe her assurance that she had in no way communicated with her former lover, nor he with her, since their parting in the presence of her father. This led to some strange scenes between them which need not be detailed; their result was soon to take a catastrophic shape.

Yet these friendly villagers were far from realizing how deep Emmeline's suffering really was, and even those who were closer to her didn't fully understand it, as she had hidden her heartache so well. But it didn't take long after the newlyweds returned to the castle for her unhappiness to become noticeable. Her maids and servants said she often turned to the wall, shedding tears when a sensible woman would have been organizing her wardrobe. She prayed earnestly in the large church pew, sitting alone and insignificant like a mouse in a cell, instead of admiring her rings, dozing off, or silently laughing at the quirky old folks in the congregation, as previous beauties in her family had done. She seemed indifferent to eating and drinking from crystal and silver compared to using simple earthenware. Her mind was clearly occupied with something else, a fact that was painfully obvious to her husband, the Duke. At first, he would just mock her for her infatuation with that soft-spoken clergyman; but as time passed, his accusations became more serious. He wouldn’t believe her when she assured him that she hadn’t been in touch with her former lover, nor had he with her, since they had parted in front of her father. This led to some strange confrontations between them that don’t need to be detailed; their outcome was soon to become disastrous.

One dark quiet evening, about two months after the marriage, a man entered the gate admitting from the highway to the park and avenue which ran up to the house. He arrived within two hundred yards of the walls, when he left the gravelled drive and drew near to the castle by a roundabout path leading into a shrubbery. Here he stood still. In a few minutes the strokes of the castle-clock resounded, and then a female figure entered the same secluded nook from an opposite direction. There the two indistinct persons leapt together like a pair of dewdrops on a leaf; and then they stood apart, facing each other, the woman looking down.

One dark, quiet evening, about two months after the wedding, a man walked through the gate that led from the highway to the park and avenue going up to the house. He got within two hundred yards of the walls, then left the gravel driveway and took a roundabout path into a bushy area. Here, he stopped. A few minutes later, the clock from the castle chimed, and then a woman appeared in the same secluded spot from another direction. The two blurred figures came together like a pair of dewdrops on a leaf; then they stood apart, facing each other, with the woman looking down.

'Emmeline, you begged me to come, and here I am, Heaven forgive me!' said the man hoarsely.

'Emmeline, you asked me to come, and here I am, God forgive me!' said the man hoarsely.

'You are going to emigrate, Alwyn,' she said in broken accents. 'I have heard of it; you sail from Plymouth in three days in the Western Glory?'

'You're going to emigrate, Alwyn,' she said with a shaky voice. 'I've heard about it; you're leaving from Plymouth in three days on the Western Glory?'

'Yes. I can live in England no longer. Life is as death to me here,' says he.

'Yes. I can't live in England any longer. Life feels like death to me here,' he says.

'My life is even worse-worse than death. Death would not have driven me to this extremity. Listen, Alwyn-I have sent for you to beg to go with you, or at least to be near you-to do anything so that it be not to stay here.'

'My life is even worse—worse than death. Death wouldn't have pushed me to this point. Listen, Alwyn—I asked you to come because I want to be with you, or at least close to you—anything so I don't have to stay here.'

'To go away with me?' he said in a startled tone.

"Go away with me?" he said, sounding surprised.

'Yes, yes-or under your direction, or by your help in some way! Don't be horrified at me-you must bear with me whilst I implore it. Nothing short of cruelty would have driven me to this. I could have borne my doom in silence had I been left unmolested; but he tortures me, and I shall soon be in the grave if I cannot escape.'

'Yes, yes—or with your guidance, or with your help in some way! Don't be horrified by me—you have to be patient while I beg for it. Nothing short of cruelty would have pushed me to this point. I could have accepted my fate quietly if I had been left alone; but he is tormenting me, and I will soon be in the grave if I can't find a way out.'

To his shocked inquiry how her husband tortured her, the Duchess said that it was by jealousy. 'He tries to wring admissions from me concerning you,' she said, 'and will not believe that I have not communicated with you since my engagement to him was settled by my father, and I was forced to agree to it.'

To his surprised question about how her husband mistreated her, the Duchess replied that it was due to jealousy. "He tries to force me to admit things about you," she said, "and won’t accept that I haven’t been in touch with you since my father arranged my engagement to him, which I had no choice but to accept."

The poor curate said that this was the heaviest news of all. 'He has not personally ill-used you?' he asked.

The poor curate said this was the worst news of all. "He hasn’t personally mistreated you, has he?" he asked.

'Yes,' she whispered.

'Yeah,' she whispered.

'What has he done?'

She looked fearfully around, and said, sobbing: 'In trying to make me confess to what I have never done, he adopts plans I dare not describe for terrifying me into a weak state, so that I may own to anything! I resolved to write to you, as I had no other friend.' She added, with dreary irony, 'I thought I would give him some ground for his suspicion, so as not to disgrace his judgment.'

She glanced around anxiously and said, crying, “In trying to force me to confess to something I haven’t done, he uses methods I can’t even describe to scare me into a weak state, so I’ll admit to anything! I decided to write to you since I have no other friend.” She added, with a sad irony, “I thought I’d give him some reason for his suspicion, so I wouldn’t embarrass his judgment.”

'Do you really mean, Emmeline,' he tremblingly inquired, 'that you-that you want to fly with me?'

'Do you really mean it, Emmeline,' he asked nervously, 'that you want to run away with me?'

'Can you think that I would act otherwise than in earnest at such a time as this?'

'Can you really believe that I would act any differently than seriously at a time like this?'

He was silent for a minute or more. 'You must not go with me,' he said.

He remained quiet for a minute or so. "You can't come with me," he said.

'Why?'

'It would be sin.'

'It would be a sin.'

'It cannot be sin, for I have never wanted to commit sin in my life; and it isn't likely I would begin now, when I pray every day to die and be sent to Heaven out of my misery!'

'It can't be a sin because I've never wanted to sin in my life; and it's not likely I would start now, especially when I pray every day to die and be taken to Heaven to escape my misery!'

'But it is wrong, Emmeline, all the same.'

'But it's still not right, Emmeline.'

'Is it wrong to run away from the fire that scorches you?'

'Is it wrong to escape from the fire that burns you?'

'It would look wrong, at any rate, in this case.'

'It would seem out of place, in this case.'

'Alwyn, Alwyn, take me, I beseech you!' she burst out. 'It is not right in general, I know, but it is such an exceptional instance, this. Why has such a severe strain been put upon me? I was doing no harm, injuring no one, helping many people, and expecting happiness; yet trouble came. Can it be that God holds me in derision? I had no supporter-I gave way; and now my life is a burden and a shame to me . . . Oh, if you only knew how much to me this request to you is-how my life is wrapped up in it, you could not deny me!'

'Alwyn, Alwyn, please take me, I’m begging you!' she exclaimed. 'I know this isn’t normally right, but this situation is so extraordinary. Why have I been put under such intense pressure? I wasn’t harming anyone, helping many people, and looking forward to happiness; yet trouble found me. Could it be that God is mocking me? I had no one to support me—I gave in; and now my life feels like a burden and a disgrace... Oh, if you only understood how important this request is to me—how much my life depends on it, you wouldn’t be able to deny me!'

'This is almost beyond endurance-Heaven support us,' he groaned. 'Emmy, you are the Duchess of Hamptonshire, the Duke of Hamptonshire's wife; you must not go with me!'

'This is almost unbearable—God help us,' he groaned. 'Emmy, you are the Duchess of Hamptonshire, the Duke of Hamptonshire's wife; you can't come with me!'

'And am I then refused?-Oh, am I refused?' she cried frantically. 'Alwyn, Alwyn, do you say it indeed to me?'

'So am I really being turned away? Oh, am I really being turned away?' she exclaimed in desperation. 'Alwyn, Alwyn, is that really what you're saying to me?'

'Yes, I do, dear, tender heart! I do most sadly say it. You must not go. Forgive me, for there is no alternative but refusal. Though I die, though you die, we must not fly together. It is forbidden in God's law. Good-bye, for always and ever!'

'Yes, I do, my dear, kind heart! I say this with great sadness. You can't go. Please forgive me, but I have no choice but to say no. Even if it costs me my life, or you yours, we cannot leave together. It's against God's law. Goodbye, forever!'

He tore himself away, hastened from the shrubbery, and vanished among the trees.

He pulled himself away, rushed out of the bushes, and disappeared among the trees.

Three days after this meeting and farewell, Alwyn, his soft, handsome features stamped with a haggard hardness that ten years of ordinary wear and tear in the world could scarcely have produced, sailed from Plymouth on a drizzling morning, in the passenger-ship Western Glory. When the land had faded behind him he mechanically endeavoured to school himself into a stoical frame of mind. His attempt, backed up by the strong moral staying power that had enabled him to resist the passionate temptation to which Emmeline, in her reckless trustfulness, had exposed him, was rewarded by a certain kind of success, though the murmuring stretch of waters whereon he gazed day after day too often seemed to be articulating to him in tones of her well-remembered voice.

Three days after this meeting and goodbye, Alwyn, his soft, handsome features marked by a weariness that ten years of everyday life could hardly have caused, set sail from Plymouth on a rainy morning, aboard the passenger ship Western Glory. Once the land had disappeared from sight, he tried to force himself into a stoic mindset. His effort, supported by the strong moral resolve that had helped him resist the intense temptation Emmeline, in her naive trust, had presented him, resulted in a certain level of success. However, the endless stretch of water he stared at day after day often seemed to echo her familiar voice.

He framed on his journey rules of conduct for reducing to mild proportions the feverish regrets which would occasionally arise and agitate him, when he indulged in visions of what might have been had he not hearkened to the whispers of conscience. He fixed his thoughts for so many hours a day on philosophical passages in the volumes he had brought with him, allowing himself now and then a few minutes' thought of Emmeline, with the strict yet reluctant niggardliness of an ailing epicure proportioning the rank drinks that cause his malady. The voyage was marked by the usual incidents of a sailing-passage in those days-a storm, a calm, a man overboard, a birth, and a funeral-the latter sad event being one in which he, as the only clergyman on board, officiated, reading the service ordained for the purpose. The ship duly arrived at Boston early in the month following, and thence he proceeded to Providence to seek out a distant relative.

He set some guidelines for his journey to help manage the intense regrets that would sometimes hit him when he thought about what could have been if he hadn't listened to his conscience. He dedicated several hours each day to studying philosophical texts from the books he brought along, allowing himself occasional brief thoughts about Emmeline, like a sick epicure carefully limiting the rich foods that exacerbate his condition. The voyage included the usual experiences of sailing during that time—a storm, a calm, a man overboard, a birth, and a funeral—where he, being the only clergyman on board, conducted the service as required. The ship arrived in Boston early the following month, and from there he continued on to Providence to find a distant relative.

After a short stay at Providence he returned again to Boston, and by applying himself to a serious occupation made good progress in shaking off the dreary melancholy which enveloped him even now. Distracted and weakened in his beliefs by his recent experiences, he decided that he could not for a time worthily fill the office of a minister of religion, and applied for the mastership of a school. Some introductions, given him before starting, were useful now, and he soon became known as a respectable scholar and gentleman to the trustees of one of the colleges. This ultimately led to his retirement from the school and installation in the college as Professor of rhetoric and oratory.

After a brief stay in Providence, he returned to Boston and, by focusing on a serious job, made good progress in overcoming the deep sadness that still surrounded him. Disturbed and uncertain in his beliefs due to his recent experiences, he decided that he wasn't ready to fulfill the role of a minister of religion honestly, so he applied for a position as a schoolmaster. Some introductions he received before leaving proved helpful, and he quickly became known as a respectable scholar and gentleman to the trustees of one of the colleges. This eventually led to his departure from the school and his appointment as a Professor of Rhetoric and Oratory at the college.

Here and thus he lived on, exerting himself solely because of a conscientious determination to do his duty. He passed his winter evenings in turning sonnets and elegies, often giving his thoughts voice in 'Lines to an Unfortunate Lady,' while his summer leisure at the same hour would be spent in watching the lengthening shadows from his window, and fancifully comparing them with the shades of his own life. If he walked, he mentally inquired which was the eastern quarter of the landscape, and thought of two thousand miles of water that way, and of what was beyond it. In a word he was at all spare times dreaming of her who was only a memory to him, and would probably never be more.

Here he lived on, driven only by his strong sense of responsibility to do his duty. He spent his winter evenings writing sonnets and elegies, often expressing his feelings in 'Lines to an Unfortunate Lady.' During the summer, he would spend the same time watching the shadows grow longer from his window and imagining how they reflected the darker moments of his own life. When he went for walks, he would mentally locate the eastern part of the landscape, thinking about the two thousand miles of ocean in that direction and what lay beyond it. In short, in all his free moments, he was daydreaming about her, who was just a memory to him and likely would never be anything more.

Nine years passed by, and under their wear and tear Alwyn Hill's face lost a great many of the attractive characteristics which had formerly distinguished it. He was kind to his pupils and affable to all who came in contact with him; but the kernel of his life, his secret, was kept as snugly shut up as though he had been dumb. In talking to his acquaintances of England and his life there, he omitted the episode of Batton Castle and Emmeline as if it had no existence in his calendar at all. Though of towering importance to himself, it had filled but a short and small fragment of time, an ephemeral season which would have been wellnigh imperceptible, even to him, at this distance, but for the incident it enshrined.

Nine years went by, and over time, Alwyn Hill's face lost many of the attractive features that once made it stand out. He was kind to his students and friendly to everyone he met, but the core of his life, his secret, was kept tightly locked away as if he couldn’t speak at all. When he spoke to his friends about England and his life there, he left out the part about Batton Castle and Emmeline as if it had never happened at all. Even though it was hugely important to him, it represented only a brief and insignificant moment in time, a fleeting period that would almost be unnoticeable, even to him, from this distance, if not for the event it held.

One day, at this date, when cursorily glancing over an old English newspaper, he observed a paragraph which, short as it was, contained for him whole tomes of thrilling information-rung with more passion-stirring rhythm than the collected cantos of all the poets. It was an announcement of the death of the Duke of Hamptonshire, leaving behind him a widow, but no children.

One day, on this date, while quickly looking over an old English newspaper, he noticed a short paragraph that held, for him, entire volumes of exciting information—flowing with more emotional impact than all the poems put together. It was an announcement about the death of the Duke of Hamptonshire, who left a widow but no children.

The current of Alwyn's thoughts now completely changed. On looking again at the newspaper he found it to be one that was sent him long ago, and had been carelessly thrown aside. But for an accidental overhauling of the waste journals in his study he might not have known of the event for years. At this moment of reading the Duke had already been dead seven months. Alwyn could now no longer bind himself down to machine- made synecdoche, antithesis, and climax, being full of spontaneous specimens of all these rhetorical forms, which he dared not utter. Who shall wonder that his mind luxuriated in dreams of a sweet possibility now laid open for the first time these many years? for Emmeline was to him now as ever the one dear thing in all the world. The issue of his silent romancing was that he resolved to return to her at the very earliest moment.

Alwyn's thoughts shifted completely. When he looked at the newspaper again, he realized it was one that had been sent to him a long time ago and had been carelessly tossed aside. If he hadn’t accidentally gone through the pile of waste journals in his study, he might not have known about the event for years. At that moment, the Duke had already been dead for seven months. Alwyn could no longer restrict himself to artificial language filled with clichés, contrasts, and dramatic builds, as he was bursting with genuine examples of all these rhetorical forms that he dared not express. Who wouldn't be surprised that his mind indulged in dreams of a sweet possibility now revealed for the first time in many years? Emmeline was still, as always, the one precious thing in the world to him. The result of his silent daydreaming was that he decided to return to her at the very earliest opportunity.

But he could not abandon his professional work on the instant. He did not get really quite free from engagements till four months later; but, though suffering throes of impatience continually, he said to himself every day: 'If she has continued to love me nine years she will love me ten; she will think the more tenderly of me when her present hours of solitude shall have done their proper work; old times will revive with the cessation of her recent experience, and every day will favour my return.'

But he couldn’t just drop everything for his job right away. He didn’t really get free from his commitments until four months later; but even though he felt impatient all the time, he told himself every day: 'If she has loved me for nine years, she will love me for ten; she will think more fondly of me when her current lonely moments have had their effect; memories of the past will resurface as she moves on from her recent experiences, and each day will work in my favor to come back.'

The enforced interval soon passed, and he duly arrived in England, reaching the village of Batton on a certain winter day between twelve and thirteen months subsequent to the time of the Duke's death.

The required break soon ended, and he arrived in England as expected, reaching the village of Batton on a winter day about twelve to thirteen months after the Duke's death.

It was evening; yet such was Alwyn's impatience that he could not forbear taking, this very night, one look at the castle which Emmeline had entered as unhappy mistress ten years before. He threaded the park trees, gazed in passing at well-known outlines which rose against the dim sky, and was soon interested in observing that lively country- people, in parties of two and three, were walking before and behind him up the interlaced avenue to the castle gateway. Knowing himself to be safe from recognition, Alwyn inquired of one of these pedestrians what was going on.

It was evening, but Alwyn was so impatient that he couldn’t resist taking a look at the castle that Emmeline had entered as a troubled mistress ten years ago. He moved through the park trees, glancing at the familiar shapes that stood out against the dim sky, and soon noticed that lively locals, in groups of two and three, were walking in front and behind him along the winding path to the castle entrance. Feeling confident that he wouldn’t be recognized, Alwyn asked one of these walkers what was happening.

'Her Grace gives her tenantry a ball to-night, to keep up the old custom of the Duke and his father before him, which she does not wish to change.'

'Her Grace is hosting a ball for her tenants tonight to uphold the old tradition of the Duke and his father before him, which she doesn't want to change.'

'Indeed. Has she lived here entirely alone since the Duke's death?'

'Definitely. Has she been living here all alone since the Duke passed away?'

'Quite alone. But though she doesn't receive company herself, she likes the village people to enjoy themselves, and often has 'em here.'

'All by herself. But even though she doesn't have visitors, she enjoys it when the villagers have a good time, and she often invites them over.'

'Kind-hearted, as always!' thought Alwyn.

'So thoughtful, as always!' thought Alwyn.

On reaching the castle he found that the great gates at the tradesmen's entrance were thrown back against the wall as if they were never to be closed again; that the passages and rooms in that wing were brilliantly lighted up, some of the numerous candles guttering down over the green leaves which decorated them, and upon the silk dresses of the happy farmers' wives as they passed beneath, each on her husband's arm. Alwyn found no difficulty in marching in along with the rest, the castle being Liberty Hall to-night. He stood unobserved in a corner of the large apartment where dancing was about to begin.

Upon arriving at the castle, he saw that the huge gates at the tradesmen's entrance were wide open against the wall as if they would never close again. The hallways and rooms in that wing were lit up brilliantly, with numerous candles dripping wax over the green leaves that adorned them, as well as on the silk dresses of the joyful farmers' wives as they walked by, each linked arm-in-arm with their husbands. Alwyn had no trouble blending in with the others, as the castle felt like Liberty Hall tonight. He stood unnoticed in a corner of the large room where the dancing was about to start.

'Her Grace, though hardly out of mourning, will be sure to come down and lead off the dance with neighbour Bates,' said one.

'Her Grace, even though she's still in mourning, will definitely come down and start the dance with neighbor Bates,' said one.

'Who is neighbour Bates?' asked Alwyn.

"Who is neighbor Bates?" asked Alwyn.

'An old man she respects much-the oldest of her tenant-farmers. He was seventy-eight his last birthday.'

'An old man she respects a lot—the oldest of her tenant farmers. He turned seventy-eight on his last birthday.'

'Ah, to be sure!' said Alwyn, at his ease. 'I remember.'

'Oh, definitely!' said Alwyn, feeling relaxed. 'I remember.'

The dancers formed in line, and waited. A door opened at the farther end of the hall, and a lady in black silk came forth. She bowed, smiled, and proceeded to the top of the dance.

The dancers lined up and waited. A door opened at the far end of the hall, and a woman in black silk stepped out. She bowed, smiled, and moved to the front of the dance.

'Who is that lady?' said Alwyn, in a puzzled tone. 'I thought you told me that the Duchess of Hamptonshire-'

'Who is that woman?' Alwyn asked, sounding confused. 'I thought you told me that the Duchess of Hamptonshire-'

'That is the Duchess,' said his informant.

'That’s the Duchess,’ his informant said.

'But there is another?'

'But is there another?'

'No; there is no other.'

'No, there isn't another one.'

'But she is not the Duchess of Hamptonshire-who used to-' Alwyn's tongue stuck to his mouth, he could get no farther.

'But she is not the Duchess of Hamptonshire—who used to—' Alwyn's tongue stuck to his mouth, he couldn't get any further.

'What's the matter?' said his acquaintance. Alwyn had retired, and was supporting himself against the wall.

'What's wrong?' said his friend. Alwyn had stepped back and was leaning against the wall.

The wretched Alwyn murmured something about a stitch in his side from walking. Then the music struck up, the dance went on, and his neighbour became so interested in watching the movements of this strange Duchess through its mazes as to forget Alwyn for a while.

The miserable Alwyn mumbled something about having a stitch in his side from walking. Then the music started, the dance continued, and his neighbor became so captivated by watching the strange Duchess navigate through the dance that he forgot about Alwyn for a bit.

It gave him an opportunity to brace himself up. He was a man who had suffered, and he could suffer again. 'How came that person to be your Duchess?' he asked in a firm, distinct voice, when he had attained complete self-command. 'Where is her other Grace of Hamptonshire? There certainly was another. I know it.'

It gave him a chance to gather himself. He was a man who had endured pain, and he could endure it again. "How did that person become your Duchess?" he asked in a steady, clear voice once he had fully composed himself. "Where is her other Grace of Hamptonshire? There definitely was another. I know it."

'Oh, the previous one! Yes, yes. She ran away years and years ago with the young curate. Mr. Hill was the young man's name, if I recollect.'

'Oh, the one before! Yeah, right. She ran away ages ago with the young curate. Mr. Hill was the young man's name, if I remember correctly.'

'No! She never did. What do you mean by that?' he said.

'No! She never did. What do you mean by that?' he asked.

'Yes, she certainly ran away. She met the curate in the shrubbery about a couple of months after her marriage with the Duke. There were folks who saw the meeting and heard some words of their talk. They arranged to go, and she sailed from Plymouth with him a day or two afterward.'

'Yes, she definitely ran away. She met the curate in the bushes a couple of months after she married the Duke. There were people who saw them meet and heard parts of their conversation. They made plans to leave, and she left from Plymouth with him a day or two later.'

'That's not true.'

'Then 'tis the queerest lie ever told by man. Her father believed and knew to his dying day that she went with him; and so did the Duke, and everybody about here. Ay, there was a fine upset about it at the time. The Duke traced her to Plymouth.'

'Then it's the strangest lie ever told by anyone. Her father believed and was sure until he died that she went with him; so did the Duke, and everyone around here. Yeah, there was quite a commotion about it back then. The Duke traced her to Plymouth.'

'Traced her to Plymouth?'

'Tracked her down to Plymouth?'

'He traced her to Plymouth, and set on his spies; and they found that she went to the shipping-office, and inquired if Mr. Alwyn Hill had entered his name as passenger by the Western Glory; and when she found that he had, she booked herself for the same ship, but not in her real name. When the vessel had sailed a letter reached the Duke from her, telling him what she had done. She never came back here again. His Grace lived by himself a number of years, and married this lady only twelve months before he died.'

'He tracked her down to Plymouth and sent his spies after her. They discovered that she went to the shipping office and asked if Mr. Alwyn Hill had signed up as a passenger on the Western Glory. When she learned that he had, she booked herself for the same ship, but under a different name. After the vessel sailed, the Duke received a letter from her explaining what she had done. She never returned here. His Grace lived alone for several years and married this woman only a year before his death.'

Alwyn was in a state of indescribable bewilderment. But, unmanned as he was, he called the next day on the, to him, spurious Duchess of Hamptonshire. At first she was alarmed at his statement, then cold, then she was won over by his condition to give confidence for confidence. She showed him a letter which had been found among the papers of the late Duke, corroborating what Alwyn's informant had detailed. It was from Emmeline, bearing the postmarked date at which the Western Glory sailed, and briefly stated that she had emigrated by that ship to America.

Alwyn was incredibly confused. But despite feeling overwhelmed, he visited the supposedly false Duchess of Hamptonshire the next day. At first, she was startled by his claim, then distant, but eventually, she warmed up to him, agreeing to exchange trust for trust. She showed him a letter that had been discovered among the late Duke's paperwork, confirming what Alwyn’s source had said. It was from Emmeline, dated on the day the Western Glory set sail, briefly stating that she had emigrated to America on that ship.

Alwyn applied himself body and mind to unravel the remainder of the mystery. The story repeated to him was always the same: 'She ran away with the curate.' A strangely circumstantial piece of intelligence was added to this when he had pushed his inquiries a little further. There was given him the name of a waterman at Plymouth, who had come forward at the time that she was missed and sought for by her husband, and had stated that he put her on board the Western Glory at dusk one evening before that vessel sailed.

Alwyn dedicated himself completely to figuring out the rest of the mystery. The story he heard was always the same: 'She ran away with the curate.' A surprisingly detailed piece of information came up when he pressed his investigation a bit more. He was given the name of a waterman in Plymouth who had stepped forward when she went missing and was being searched for by her husband, claiming he had put her on the Western Glory one evening just before the ship set sail.

After several days of search about the alleys and quays of Plymouth Barbican, during which these impossible words, 'She ran off with the curate,' became branded on his brain, Alwyn found this important waterman. He was positive as to the truth of his story, still remembering the incident well, and he described in detail the lady's dress, as he had long ago described it to her husband, which description corresponded in every particular with the dress worn by Emmeline on the evening of their parting.

After several days searching the alleys and docks of Plymouth Barbican, where the words "She ran off with the curate" became engrained in his mind, Alwyn finally found this important waterman. He was sure of the truth of his story, still recalling the incident clearly, and he described the lady's dress in detail, just as he had done long ago for her husband. This description matched exactly with the dress Emmeline wore on the night they parted.

Before proceeding to the other side of the Atlantic to continue his inquiries there, the puzzled and distracted Alwyn set himself to ascertain the address of Captain Wheeler, who had commanded the Western Glory in the year of Alwyn's voyage out, and immediately wrote a letter to him on the subject.

Before heading to the other side of the Atlantic to continue his investigations, the confused and distracted Alwyn made it a point to find the address of Captain Wheeler, who had captained the Western Glory during the year of Alwyn's journey out, and promptly wrote him a letter about it.

The only circumstances which the sailor could recollect or discover from his papers in connection with such a story were, that a woman bearing the name which Alwyn had mentioned as fictitious certainly did come aboard for a voyage he made about that time; that she took a common berth among the poorest emigrants; that she died on the voyage out, at about five days' sail from Plymouth; that she seemed a lady in manners and education. Why she had not applied for a first-class passage, why she had no trunks, they could not guess, for though she had little money in her pocket she had that about her which would have fetched it. 'We buried her at sea,' continued the captain. 'A young parson, one of the cabin-passengers, read the burial-service over her, I remember well.'

The only details the sailor could remember or find in his papers related to the story were that a woman with the name Alwyn had mentioned as fake indeed boarded for a voyage around that time. She took a cheap spot among the poorest emigrants, died during the journey about five days from Plymouth, and seemed to be a lady by her manners and education. They couldn't figure out why she hadn't gotten a first-class ticket or why she had no luggage, because even though she had little money, she had an air about her that suggested she could afford it. 'We buried her at sea,' the captain continued. 'A young pastor, one of the cabin passengers, read the burial service over her, I remember that well.'

The whole scene and proceedings darted upon Alwyn's recollection in a moment. It was a fine breezy morning on that long-past voyage out, and he had been told that they were running at the rate of a hundred and odd miles a day. The news went round that one of the poor young women in the other part of the vessel was ill of fever, and delirious. The tidings caused no little alarm among all the passengers, for the sanitary conditions of the ship were anything but satisfactory. Shortly after this the doctor announced that she had died. Then Alwyn had learnt that she was laid out for burial in great haste, because of the danger that would have been incurred by delay. And next the funeral scene rose before him, and the prominent part that he had taken in that solemn ceremony. The captain had come to him, requesting him to officiate, as there was no chaplain on board. This he had agreed to do; and as the sun went down with a blaze in his face he read amidst them all assembled: 'We therefore commit her body to the deep, to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body when the sea shall give up her dead.'

The whole scene and events flooded back to Alwyn's mind in an instant. It was a beautiful, breezy morning during that long-ago voyage, and he had heard they were traveling at a speed of over a hundred miles a day. News spread that one of the young women in another part of the ship was sick with fever and delirious. This news caused quite a bit of concern among the passengers since the ship's sanitary conditions were far from acceptable. Shortly after, the doctor announced that she had died. Alwyn then learned that she was prepared for burial quickly, due to the risks of waiting. Then the image of the funeral scene appeared in his mind, along with the significant role he played in that solemn ceremony. The captain had approached him, asking him to lead the service since there was no chaplain on board. He had agreed to do it, and as the sun set in a brilliant display, he read to everyone gathered: 'We therefore commit her body to the deep, to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body when the sea shall give up her dead.'

The captain also forwarded the addresses of the ship's matron and of other persons who had been engaged on board at the date. To these Alwyn went in the course of time. A categorical description of the clothes of the dead truant, the colour of her hair, and other things, extinguished for ever all hope of a mistake in identity.

The captain also sent the addresses of the ship's matron and other people who had worked on board at that time. Alwyn eventually visited them. A detailed description of the clothes of the deceased runaway, the color of her hair, and other details completely dashed any hope of a mix-up in identity.

At last, then, the course of events had become clear. On that unhappy evening when he left Emmeline in the shrubbery, forbidding her to follow him because it would be a sin, she must have disobeyed. She must have followed at his heels silently through the darkness, like a poor pet animal that will not be driven back. She could have accumulated nothing for the journey more than she might have carried in her hand; and thus poorly provided she must have embarked. Her intention had doubtless been to make her presence on board known to him as soon as she could muster courage to do so.

At last, the course of events became clear. On that unfortunate evening when he left Emmeline in the bushes, telling her not to follow him because it would be wrong, she must have disobeyed. She must have quietly trailed behind him through the darkness, like a frightened pet that won't go home. She could only have taken what she could carry in her hand, so she must have embarked with very little. Her plan was probably to let him know she was on board as soon as she found the courage to do so.

Thus the ten years' chapter of Alwyn Hill's romance wound itself up under his eyes. That the poor young woman in the steerage had been the young Duchess of Hamptonshire was never publicly disclosed. Hill had no longer any reason for remaining in England, and soon after left its shores with no intention to return. Previous to his departure he confided his story to an old friend from his native town-grandfather of the person who now relates it to you.

Thus the ten-year saga of Alwyn Hill's romance came to a close before him. The fact that the young woman in the steerage had been the young Duchess of Hamptonshire was never revealed to the public. Hill no longer had any reason to stay in England and soon left its shores with no plans to come back. Before he left, he shared his story with an old friend from his hometown—who is the grandfather of the person telling you this.

A few members, including the Bookworm, seemed to be impressed by the quiet gentleman's tale; but the member we have called the Spark-who, by the way, was getting somewhat tinged with the light of other days, and owned to eight-and-thirty-walked daintily about the room instead of sitting down by the fire with the majority and said that for his part he preferred something more lively than the last story-something in which such long-separated lovers were ultimately united. He also liked stories that were more modern in their date of action than those he had heard to-day.

A few members, including the Bookworm, seemed impressed by the quiet gentleman's story; but the member we've called the Spark—who, by the way, was starting to show signs of nostalgia and admitted to being thirty-eight—fluttered around the room instead of sitting by the fire with most of the others. He said that, for his part, he preferred something more exciting than the last story—something where long-separated lovers ended up together. He also preferred stories that were set in a more contemporary timeframe than the ones he had heard today.

Members immediately requested him to give them a specimen, to which the Spark replied that he didn't mind, as far as that went. And though the Vice-President, the Man of Family, the Colonel, and others, looked at their watches, and said they must soon retire to their respective quarters in the hotel adjoining, they all decided to sit out the Spark's story.

Members quickly asked him to share a sample, to which the Spark responded that he was okay with that. And even though the Vice-President, the Family Man, the Colonel, and others checked their watches and mentioned they needed to head back to their rooms in the nearby hotel, they all chose to stick around for the Spark's story.

DAME THE TENTH-THE HONOURABLE LAURA

By the Spark

It was a cold and gloomy Christmas Eve. The mass of cloud overhead was almost impervious to such daylight as still lingered on; the snow lay several inches deep upon the ground, and the slanting downfall which still went on threatened to considerably increase its thickness before the morning. The Prospect Hotel, a building standing near the wild north coast of Lower Wessex, looked so lonely and so useless at such a time as this that a passing wayfarer would have been led to forget summer possibilities, and to wonder at the commercial courage which could invest capital, on the basis of the popular taste for the picturesque, in a country subject to such dreary phases. That the district was alive with visitors in August seemed but a dim tradition in weather so totally opposed to all that tempts mankind from home. However, there the hotel stood immovable; and the cliffs, creeks, and headlands which were the primary attractions of the spot, rising in full view on the opposite side of the valley, were now but stern angular outlines, while the townlet in front was tinged over with a grimy dirtiness rather than the pearly gray that in summer lent such beauty to its appearance.

It was a cold and gloomy Christmas Eve. The mass of clouds overhead was almost blocking out the fading daylight; the snow was several inches deep on the ground, and the ongoing snowfall threatened to make it even thicker by morning. The Prospect Hotel, located near the wild north coast of Lower Wessex, looked so lonely and pointless at a time like this that a passing traveler might forget the possibilities of summer and wonder about the commercial bravery that could invest money, based on the public's taste for scenic views, in a place that experienced such dreary weather. The fact that the area was bustling with visitors in August felt like a distant memory in weather so completely uninviting. Still, the hotel stood firm; the cliffs, creeks, and headlands that were the main attractions of the area, visible on the opposite side of the valley, were now just harsh angular shapes, while the small town in front was covered in a grimy dirtiness rather than the pearly gray that gave it such beauty in the summer.

Within the hotel commanding this outlook the landlord walked idly about with his hands in his pockets, not in the least expectant of a visitor, and yet unable to settle down to any occupation which should compensate in some degree for the losses that winter idleness entailed on his regular profession. So little, indeed, was anybody expected, that the coffee-room waiter-a genteel boy, whose plated buttons in summer were as close together upon the front of his short jacket as peas in a pod-now appeared in the back yard, metamorphosed into the unrecognizable shape of a rough country lad in corduroys and hobnailed boots, sweeping the snow away, and talking the local dialect in all its purity, quite oblivious of the new polite accent he had learned in the hot weather from the well-behaved visitors. The front door was closed, and, as if to express still more fully the sealed and chrysalis state of the establishment, a sand-bag was placed at the bottom to keep out the insidious snowdrift, the wind setting in directly from that quarter.

Inside the hotel with this view, the owner wandered aimlessly with his hands in his pockets, not at all expecting a visitor, yet unable to focus on any task that might offset the losses caused by the winter's inactivity on his regular job. In fact, no one was really expected; even the coffee-room waiter—a dapper young man whose shiny buttons were snugly placed on the front of his short jacket during summer—now appeared in the back yard, transformed into a rough country boy in corduroys and heavy boots, sweeping snow away and speaking the local dialect perfectly, completely unaware of the refined accent he had picked up during the busy season from the polite guests. The front door was shut, and to emphasize the shutdown and dormant nature of the place, a sandbag was put at the bottom to block the sneaky snowdrift, as the wind blew straight from that direction.

The landlord, entering his own parlour, walked to the large fire which it was absolutely necessary to keep up for his comfort, no such blaze burning in the coffee-room or elsewhere, and after giving it a stir returned to a table in the lobby, whereon lay the visitors' book-now closed and pushed back against the wall. He carelessly opened it; not a name had been entered there since the 19th of the previous November, and that was only the name of a man who had arrived on a tricycle, who, indeed, had not been asked to enter at all.

The landlord, stepping into his own lounge, walked over to the big fire that he needed to keep going for his comfort, since there wasn’t a fire going in the coffee room or anywhere else. After giving it a poke, he went back to a table in the lobby, where the visitors' book was now closed and pushed against the wall. He casually opened it; not a single name had been added since the 19th of the last November, and that was just the name of a guy who had shown up on a tricycle and had, in fact, not even been invited inside.

While he was engaged thus the evening grew darker; but before it was as yet too dark to distinguish objects upon the road winding round the back of the cliffs, the landlord perceived a black spot on the distant white, which speedily enlarged itself and drew near. The probabilities were that this vehicle-for a vehicle of some sort it seemed to be-would pass by and pursue its way to the nearest railway-town as others had done. But, contrary to the landlord's expectation, as he stood conning it through the yet unshuttered windows, the solitary object, on reaching the corner, turned into the hotel-front, and drove up to the door.

While he was busy, the evening got darker; but before it was too dark to see objects on the winding road behind the cliffs, the landlord noticed a dark spot on the distant white, which quickly grew larger and drew closer. It seemed likely that this vehicle—whatever it was—would pass by and continue on to the nearest railway town like others had. But, contrary to the landlord's expectations, as he stood watching it through the still unshuttered windows, the solitary object, upon reaching the corner, turned into the hotel and pulled up to the door.

It was a conveyance particularly unsuited to such a season and weather, being nothing more substantial than an open basket-carriage drawn by a single horse. Within sat two persons, of different sexes, as could soon be discerned, in spite of their muffled attire. The man held the reins, and the lady had got some shelter from the storm by clinging close to his side. The landlord rang the hostler's bell to attract the attention of the stable-man, for the approach of the visitors had been deadened to noiselessness by the snow, and when the hostler had come to the horse's head the gentleman and lady alighted, the landlord meeting them in the hall.

It was a ride that was definitely not suitable for the season and weather, being just an open basket carriage pulled by a single horse. Inside were two people of different genders, which was clear even with their bundled-up clothing. The man was holding the reins, and the woman had found some cover from the storm by clinging closely to his side. The landlord rang the bell to get the stableman’s attention since the visitors' arrival had been muffled by the snow. When the stableman came to the horse's head, the man and woman got down, and the landlord greeted them in the hall.

The male stranger was a foreign-looking individual of about eight-and- twenty. He was close-shaven, excepting a moustache, his features being good, and even handsome. The lady, who stood timidly behind him, seemed to be much younger-possibly not more than eighteen, though it was difficult to judge either of her age or appearance in her present wrappings.

The male stranger was a foreign-looking man in his late twenties. He was clean-shaven except for a mustache, and his features were quite good-looking, even handsome. The woman standing shyly behind him appeared to be much younger—probably no more than eighteen—though it was hard to assess her age or looks because of her current attire.

The gentleman expressed his wish to stay till the morning, explaining somewhat unnecessarily, considering that the house was an inn, that they had been unexpectedly benighted on their drive. Such a welcome being given them as landlords can give in dull times, the latter ordered fires in the drawing and coffee-rooms, and went to the boy in the yard, who soon scrubbed himself up, dragged his disused jacket from its box, polished the buttons with his sleeve, and appeared civilized in the hall. The lady was shown into a room where she could take off her snow- damped garments, which she sent down to be dried, her companion, meanwhile, putting a couple of sovereigns on the table, as if anxious to make everything smooth and comfortable at starting, and requesting that a private sitting-room might be got ready. The landlord assured him that the best upstairs parlour-usually public-should be kept private this evening, and sent the maid to light the candles. Dinner was prepared for them, and, at the gentleman's desire, served in the same apartment; where, the young lady having joined him, they were left to the rest and refreshment they seemed to need.

The gentleman said he wanted to stay until morning, explaining, perhaps a bit unnecessarily since it was an inn, that they had unexpectedly been delayed on their drive. The landlords, doing their best to welcome them in slow times, ordered fires in the drawing and coffee rooms, then went out to find the boy in the yard. He quickly cleaned himself up, grabbed his old jacket from its box, polished the buttons with his sleeve, and looked presentable in the hall. The lady was shown to a room where she could change out of her snow-damp clothes, which she sent down to be dried, while her companion placed a couple of sovereigns on the table, seeming eager to ensure everything was comfortable at the start, and requested that a private sitting room be prepared. The landlord assured him that the best upstairs parlor—usually public—would be kept private for the evening and sent the maid to light the candles. Dinner was prepared for them, and at the gentleman's request, it was served in the same room; when the young lady joined him, they were left to the rest and relaxation they appeared to need.

That something was peculiar in the relations of the pair had more than once struck the landlord, though wherein that peculiarity lay it was hard to decide. But that his guest was one who paid his way readily had been proved by his conduct, and dismissing conjectures, he turned to practical affairs.

That something was off in the relationship between the two had caught the landlord's attention more than once, though it was difficult to pinpoint what that oddity was. However, it was clear that his guest was someone who paid his bills promptly, and setting aside any speculation, he focused on practical matters.

About nine o'clock he re-entered the hall, and, everything being done for the day, again walked up and down, occasionally gazing through the glass door at the prospect without, to ascertain how the weather was progressing. Contrary to prognostication, snow had ceased falling, and, with the rising of the moon, the sky had partially cleared, light fleeces of cloud drifting across the silvery disk. There was every sign that a frost was going to set in later on. For these reasons the distant rising road was even more distinct now between its high banks than it had been in the declining daylight. Not a track or rut broke the virgin surface of the white mantle that lay along it, all marks left by the lately arrived travellers having been speedily obliterated by the flakes falling at the time.

Around nine o'clock, he came back into the hall, and with everything wrapped up for the day, he walked back and forth again, occasionally looking through the glass door at the view outside to see how the weather was changing. Contrary to what was expected, the snow had stopped falling, and as the moon rose, the sky had cleared up a bit, with wispy clouds drifting across the silvery disk. There were clear signs that a frost was going to set in later. Because of this, the distant road rising between its high banks was even more visible now than it had been in the fading daylight. Not a single track or rut disturbed the pristine surface of the white blanket that lay along it, as all signs left by the recently arrived travelers had been quickly covered by the falling flakes at that time.

And now the landlord beheld by the light of the moon a sight very similar to that he had seen by the light of day. Again a black spot was advancing down the road that margined the coast. He was in a moment or two enabled to perceive that the present vehicle moved onward at a more headlong pace than the little carriage which had preceded it; next, that it was a brougham drawn by two powerful horses; next, that this carriage, like the former one, was bound for the hotel-door. This desirable feature of resemblance caused the landlord to once more withdraw the sand-bag and advance into the porch.

And now the landlord saw, by the light of the moon, a scene very similar to what he'd seen during the day. Once again, a dark shape was coming down the road that lined the coast. In just a moment, he realized that this vehicle was moving much faster than the little carriage that had come before it; then, he saw that it was a brougham pulled by two strong horses; finally, like the previous carriage, it was headed for the hotel entrance. This welcome resemblance prompted the landlord to once again put away the sandbag and step out into the porch.

An old gentleman was the first to alight. He was followed by a young one, and both unhesitatingly came forward.

An older man was the first to get off. He was followed by a younger man, and both confidently stepped forward.

'Has a young lady, less than nineteen years of age, recently arrived here in the company of a man some years her senior?' asked the old gentleman, in haste. 'A man cleanly shaven for the most part, having the appearance of an opera-singer, and calling himself Signor Smithozzi?'

'Has a young woman, under nineteen years old, recently arrived here with an older man?' asked the elderly gentleman hurriedly. 'A mostly clean-shaven man who looks like an opera singer and goes by the name Signor Smithozzi?'

'We have had arrivals lately,' said the landlord, in the tone of having had twenty at least-not caring to acknowledge the attenuated state of business that afflicted Prospect Hotel in winter.

'We've had some guests arrive recently,' said the landlord, sounding as if there had been at least twenty—not wanting to admit the slow business that the Prospect Hotel faced during the winter.

'And among them can your memory recall two persons such as those I describe?-the man a sort of baritone?'

'Can your memory bring back two people like the ones I’ve described? The man has a kind of baritone voice?'

'There certainly is or was a young couple staying in the hotel; but I could not pronounce on the compass of the gentleman's voice.'

'There definitely is or was a young couple staying at the hotel, but I couldn't judge the tone of the man's voice.'

'No, no; of course not. I am quite bewildered. They arrived in a basket-carriage, altogether badly provided?'

'No, no; of course not. I am really confused. They showed up in a basket carriage, and they were totally unprepared?'

'They came in a carriage, I believe, as most of our visitors do.'

'They arrived in a carriage, I think, like most of our guests do.'

'Yes, yes. I must see them at once. Pardon my want of ceremony, and show us in to where they are.'

'Yes, yes. I need to see them right away. Sorry for being so informal, but please take us to where they are.'

'But, sir, you forget. Suppose the lady and gentleman I mean are not the lady and gentleman you mean? It would be awkward to allow you to rush in upon them just now while they are at dinner, and might cause me to lose their future patronage.'

'But, sir, don’t forget. What if the lady and gentleman I’m referring to aren’t the same ones you’re thinking of? It would be awkward to let you go in on them right now while they’re having dinner, and it could cost me their future business.'

'True, true. They may not be the same persons. My anxiety, I perceive, makes me rash in my assumptions!'

'You're right, you're right. They might not be the same people. I realize that my anxiety makes me jump to conclusions!'

'Upon the whole, I think they must be the same, Uncle Quantock,' said the young man, who had not till now spoken. And turning to the landlord: 'You possibly have not such a large assemblage of visitors here, on this somewhat forbidding evening, that you quite forget how this couple arrived, and what the lady wore?' His tone of addressing the landlord had in it a quiet frigidity that was not without irony.

'Overall, I think they have to be the same, Uncle Quantock,' said the young man, who had been silent until now. Turning to the landlord, he added, 'You probably don’t have such a big group of visitors here on this somewhat dreary evening that you’ve completely forgotten how this couple arrived and what the lady was wearing?' His tone when speaking to the landlord had a coolness that was not without irony.

'Ah! what she wore; that's it, James. What did she wear?'

'Ah! What she wore; that's it, James. What did she wear?'

'I don't usually take stock of my guests' clothing,' replied the landlord drily, for the ready money of the first arrival had decidedly biassed him in favour of that gentleman's cause. 'You can certainly see some of it if you want to,' he added carelessly, 'for it is drying by the kitchen fire.'

'I don't usually pay attention to what my guests are wearing,' replied the landlord dryly, since the cash from the first arrival had definitely swayed him in that guy's favor. 'You can definitely check some of it out if you want,' he added casually, 'because it's drying by the kitchen fire.'

Before the words were half out of his mouth the old gentleman had exclaimed, 'Ah!' and precipitated himself along what seemed to be the passage to the kitchen; but as this turned out to be only the entrance to a dark china-closet, he hastily emerged again, after a collision with the inn-crockery had told him of his mistake.

Before he could finish speaking, the old man said, 'Ah!' and rushed down what looked like the way to the kitchen. But it turned out to be just the door to a dark china cabinet, and he quickly backed out after bumping into the dishes, realizing his mistake.

'I beg your pardon, I'm sure; but if you only knew my feelings (which I cannot at present explain), you would make allowances. Anything I have broken I will willingly pay for.'

'I’m really sorry, but if you just understood how I feel (which I can’t explain right now), you would be more forgiving. I’ll happily pay for anything I’ve damaged.'

'Don't mention it, sir,' said the landlord. And showing the way, they adjourned to the kitchen without further parley. The eldest of the party instantly seized the lady's cloak, that hung upon a clothes-horse, exclaiming: 'Ah! yes, James, it is hers. I knew we were on their track.'

"Don’t mention it, sir," said the landlord. Then, leading the way, they moved to the kitchen without any more conversation. The oldest member of the group quickly grabbed the lady's cloak, which was hanging on a clothes rack, saying, "Ah! Yes, James, it's hers. I knew we were getting close."

'Yes, it is hers,' answered the nephew quietly, for he was much less excited than his companion.

'Yes, it's hers,' answered the nephew quietly, as he was much less excited than his companion.

'Show us their room at once,' said the old man.

'Show us their room right now,' said the old man.

'William, have the lady and gentleman in the front sitting-room finished dining?'

'William, have the man and woman in the front sitting room finished eating?'

'Yes, sir, long ago,' said the hundred plated buttons.

'Yes, sir, a long time ago,' said the hundred plated buttons.

'Then show up these gentlemen to them at once. You stay here to-night, gentlemen, I presume? Shall the horses be taken out?'

'Then show these gentlemen to them right away. You’ll be staying here tonight, gentlemen, I assume? Should we take the horses out?'

'Feed the horses and wash their mouths. Whether we stay or not depends upon circumstances,' said the placid younger man, as he followed his uncle and the waiter to the staircase.

'Feed the horses and clean their mouths. Whether we stay or go depends on the situation,' said the calm younger man as he followed his uncle and the waiter to the stairs.

'I think, Nephew James,' said the former, as he paused with his foot on the first step-'I think we had better not be announced, but take them by surprise. She may go throwing herself out of the window, or do some equally desperate thing!'

'I think, Nephew James,' said the former, as he paused with his foot on the first step, 'I think we should just show up unannounced and catch them by surprise. She might throw herself out the window or do something equally crazy!'

'Yes, certainly, we'll enter unannounced.' And he called back the lad who preceded them.

'Yes, definitely, we'll go in without notice.' And he called back the boy who had gone ahead of them.

'I cannot sufficiently thank you, James, for so effectually aiding me in this pursuit!' exclaimed the old gentleman, taking the other by the hand. 'My increasing infirmities would have hindered my overtaking her to-night, had it not been for your timely aid.'

'I can't thank you enough, James, for helping me so much with this!' exclaimed the old man, shaking his hand. 'My growing health issues would have prevented me from catching up to her tonight if it weren't for your timely assistance.'

'I am only too happy, uncle, to have been of service to you in this or any other matter. I only wish I could have accompanied you on a pleasanter journey. However, it is advisable to go up to them at once, or they may hear us.' And they softly ascended the stairs.

'I’m really glad, Uncle, that I could help you with this or anything else. I just wish I could have joined you on a nicer trip. Still, we should head up to them right away, or they might hear us.' And they quietly went up the stairs.

On the door being opened, a room too large to be comfortable, lit by the best branch-candlesticks of the hotel, was disclosed, before the fire of which apartment the truant couple were sitting, very innocently looking over the hotel scrap-book and the album containing views of the neighbourhood. No sooner had the old man entered than the young lady-who now showed herself to be quite as young as described, and remarkably prepossessing as to features-perceptibly turned pale. When the nephew entered, she turned still paler, as if she were going to faint. The young man described as an opera-singer rose with grim civility, and placed chairs for his visitors.

When the door was opened, a room that was too big to feel cozy, lit by the best candle holders of the hotel, was revealed. The couple, who had gone off on their own, was sitting innocently by the fire, looking through the hotel scrapbook and the album with photos of the neighborhood. As soon as the old man walked in, the young lady—who was just as young as described and quite striking—turned noticeably pale. When the nephew walked in, she turned even paler, as if she was about to faint. The young man, who was said to be an opera singer, stood up with a polite, serious demeanor and arranged chairs for his guests.

'Caught you, thank God!' said the old gentleman breathlessly.

'Got you, thank God!' the old gentleman said breathlessly.

'Yes, worse luck, my lord!' murmured Signor Smithozzi, in native London- English, that distinguished alien having, in fact, first seen the light in the vicinity of the City Road. 'She would have been mine to-morrow. And I think that under the peculiar circumstances it would be wiser-considering how soon the breath of scandal will tarnish a lady's fame-to let her be mine to-morrow, just the same.'

'Yes, what bad luck, my lord!' whispered Signor Smithozzi, in his native London English, this notable foreigner having actually first been born near City Road. 'She would have been mine tomorrow. And I think that given the unusual circumstances, it would be smarter—considering how quickly gossip can damage a lady's reputation—to let her be mine tomorrow, just the same.'

'Never!' said the old man. 'Here is a lady under age, without experience-child-like in her maiden innocence and virtue-whom you have plied by your vile arts, till this morning at dawn-'

'Never!' said the old man. 'Here is a young lady, inexperienced and innocent in her purity and virtue, whom you have manipulated with your disgusting tricks, until this morning at dawn-'

'Lord Quantock, were I not bound to respect your gray hairs-'

'Lord Quantock, if I weren't obliged to respect your gray hair-'

'Till this morning at dawn you tempted her away from her father's roof. What blame can attach to her conduct that will not, on a full explanation of the matter, be readily passed over in her and thrown entirely on you? Laura, you return at once with me. I should not have arrived, after all, early enough to deliver you, if it had not been for the disinterestedness of your cousin, Captain Northbrook, who, on my discovering your flight this morning, offered with a promptitude for which I can never sufficiently thank him, to accompany me on my journey, as the only male relative I have near me. Come, do you hear? Put on your things; we are off at once.'

'Till this morning at dawn, you lured her away from her father's home. What blame can be placed on her actions that, with a full understanding of everything, won’t be easily overlooked in her favor and completely directed at you? Laura, you’re coming back with me right away. I wouldn’t have made it in time to bring you back if it hadn’t been for the selflessness of your cousin, Captain Northbrook, who, when I found out about your escape this morning, quickly offered his help to join me on my trip as the only close male relative I have. Come on, do you hear me? Get your things on; we’re leaving straight away.'

'I don't want to go!' pouted the young lady.

'I don't want to go!' the young woman sulked.

'I daresay you don't,' replied her father drily. 'But children never know what's best for them. So come along, and trust to my opinion.'

'I bet you don't,' her father replied dryly. 'But kids never know what's best for them. So come on, and trust my judgment.'

Laura was silent, and did not move, the opera gentleman looking helplessly into the fire, and the lady's cousin sitting meditatively calm, as the single one of the four whose position enabled him to survey the whole escapade with the cool criticism of a comparative outsider.

Laura was quiet and didn’t move, while the opera guy stared helplessly into the fire, and the lady’s cousin sat calmly, the only one of the four who could view the entire situation with the detached perspective of an outsider.

'I say to you, Laura, as the father of a daughter under age, that you instantly come with me. What? Would you compel me to use physical force to reclaim you?'

'I’m telling you, Laura, as the father of a minor daughter, that you need to come with me right now. What? Are you making me use force to bring you back?'

'I don't want to return!' again declared Laura.

'I don't want to go back!' Laura stated again.

'It is your duty to return nevertheless, and at once, I inform you.'

'You still have to go back right away, just so you know.'

'I don't want to!'

"I don't want to!"

'Now, dear Laura, this is what I say: return with me and your cousin James quietly, like a good and repentant girl, and nothing will be said. Nobody knows what has happened as yet, and if we start at once, we shall be home before it is light to-morrow morning. Come.'

'Now, dear Laura, here’s what I’m saying: come back with me and your cousin James quietly, like a good and sorry girl, and nobody will mention it. No one knows what happened yet, and if we leave right away, we’ll be home before it gets light tomorrow morning. Come on.'

'I am not obliged to come at your bidding, father, and I would rather not!'

'I don't have to come just because you say so, Dad, and I really don’t want to!'

Now James, the cousin, during this dialogue might have been observed to grow somewhat restless, and even impatient. More than once he had parted his lips to speak, but second thoughts each time held him back. The moment had come, however, when he could keep silence no longer.

Now James, the cousin, during this conversation might have been noticed becoming a bit restless and even impatient. He had opened his mouth to speak more than once, but second thoughts kept stopping him. However, the moment had arrived when he could no longer stay silent.

'Come, madam!' he spoke out, 'this farce with your father has, in my opinion, gone on long enough. Just make no more ado, and step downstairs with us.'

'Come on, ma'am!' he said, 'this act with your father has gone on long enough, in my opinion. Just quit the fuss and come downstairs with us.'

She gave herself an intractable little twist, and did not reply.

She gave herself a stubborn little twist and didn't reply.

'By the Lord Harry, Laura, I won't stand this!' he said angrily. 'Come, get on your things before I come and compel you. There is a kind of compulsion to which this talk is child's play. Come, madam-instantly, I say!'

'By God, Laura, I can't take this!' he said angrily. 'Come on, get your things on before I force you. There’s a kind of pressure that this conversation is nothing compared to. Come on, madam—right now, I’m telling you!'

The old nobleman turned to his nephew and said mildly: 'Leave me to insist, James. It doesn't become you. I can speak to her sharply enough, if I choose.'

The old nobleman turned to his nephew and said gently, 'Let me handle this, James. It doesn’t suit you. I can speak to her firmly enough if I want to.'

James, however, did not heed his uncle, and went on to the troublesome young woman: 'You say you don't want to come, indeed! A pretty story to tell me, that! Come, march out of the room at once, and leave that hulking fellow for me to deal with afterward. Get on quickly-come!' and he advanced toward her as if to pull her by the hand.

James, however, ignored his uncle and approached the difficult young woman: 'You say you don't want to come, huh? What a story! Come on, march out of the room right now, and leave that big guy for me to handle later. Hurry up—let's go!' He moved toward her as if to grab her by the hand.

'Nay, nay,' expostulated Laura's father, much surprised at his nephew's sudden demeanour. 'You take too much upon yourself. Leave her to me.'

'Nah, nah,' Laura's father protested, quite taken aback by his nephew's sudden behavior. 'You're overstepping. Leave her to me.'

'I won't leave her to you any longer!'

'I won't leave her with you anymore!'

'You have no right, James, to address either me or her in this way; so just hold your tongue. Come, my dear.'

'You have no right, James, to talk to me or her like that; so just keep quiet. Come on, my dear.'

'I have every right!' insisted James.

'I have every right!' James insisted.

'How do you make that out?'

'How do you get that?'

'I have the right of a husband.'

'I have the rights of a husband.'

'Whose husband?'

'Whose husband is it?'

'Hers.'

'Her's.'

'What?'

'What is it?'

'She's my wife.'

"She's my partner."

'James!'

'Well, to cut a long story short, I may say that she secretly married me, in spite of your lordship's prohibition, about three months ago. And I must add that, though she cooled down rather quickly, everything went on smoothly enough between us for some time; in spite of the awkwardness of meeting only by stealth. We were only waiting for a convenient moment to break the news to you when this idle Adonis turned up, and after poisoning her mind against me, brought her into this disgrace.'

'Well, to make a long story short, I can say that she secretly married me, despite your lordship's prohibition, about three months ago. I have to add that, although she lost interest rather quickly, everything went pretty well between us for a while, despite the awkwardness of only meeting in secret. We were just waiting for the right moment to tell you when this useless Adonis showed up, and after turning her against me, he brought her into this shame.'

Here the operatic luminary, who had sat in rather an abstracted and nerveless attitude till the cousin made his declaration, fired up and cried: 'I declare before Heaven that till this moment I never knew she was a wife! I found her in her father's house an unhappy girl-unhappy, as I believe, because of the loneliness and dreariness of that establishment, and the want of society, and for nothing else whatever. What this statement about her being your wife means I am quite at a loss to understand. Are you indeed married to him, Laura?'

Here, the famous opera star, who had been sitting in a somewhat distracted and lifeless manner until his cousin made the announcement, suddenly came to life and exclaimed: 'I swear to God that until this moment, I had no idea she was married! I found her in her father's home, a sad girl—sad, I believe, because of the loneliness and gloom of that place, and the lack of company, and nothing else. I have no idea what this claim of her being your wife means. Are you really married to him, Laura?'

Laura nodded from within her tearful handkerchief. 'It was because of my anomalous position in being privately married to him,' she sobbed, 'that I was unhappy at home-and-and I didn't like him so well as I did at first-and I wished I could get out of the mess I was in! And then I saw you a few times, and when you said, "We'll run off," I thought I saw a way out of it all, and then I agreed to come with you-oo-oo!'

Laura nodded while holding her tear-soaked handkerchief. "It was because I was secretly married to him," she cried, "that I was miserable at home—and I didn't like him as much as I did at first—and I wished I could escape this situation! Then I saw you a few times, and when you said, 'Let's run away,' I thought I found a way out of it all, so I agreed to come with you—oo-oo!"

'Well! well! well! And is this true?' murmured the bewildered old nobleman, staring from James to Laura, and from Laura to James, as if he fancied they might be figments of the imagination. 'Is this, then, James, the secret of your kindness to your old uncle in helping him to find his daughter? Good Heavens! What further depths of duplicity are there left for a man to learn!'

'Well! well! well! Is this really true?' muttered the confused old nobleman, looking back and forth between James and Laura, as if he thought they might be figments of his imagination. 'So, James, is this the reason behind your kindness in helping your old uncle find his daughter? Good heavens! What other levels of deceit are there for a man to discover!'

'I have married her, Uncle Quantock, as I said,' answered James coolly. 'The deed is done, and can't be undone by talking here.'

'I married her, Uncle Quantock, just like I said,' James replied calmly. 'It's done, and there's no point in discussing it here.'

'Where were you married?'

'Where did you get married?'

'At St. Mary's, Toneborough.'

'At St. Mary's, Toneborough'

'When?'

'When is it happening?'

'On the 29th of September, during the time she was visiting there.'

'On September 29th, while she was visiting there.'

'Who married you?'

'I don't know. One of the curates-we were quite strangers to the place. So, instead of my assisting you to recover her, you may as well assist me.'

'I don't know. One of the curates—we were pretty unfamiliar with the place. So, instead of me helping you find her, you might as well help me.'

'Never! never!' said Lord Quantock. 'Madam, and sir, I beg to tell you that I wash my hands of the whole affair! If you are man and wife, as it seems you are, get reconciled as best you may. I have no more to say or do with either of you. I leave you, Laura, in the hands of your husband, and much joy may you bring him; though the situation, I own, is not encouraging.'

'Never! Never!' said Lord Quantock. 'Madam, and sir, I must tell you that I'm done with this whole situation! If you are husband and wife, as it appears you are, figure it out as best as you can. I have nothing more to say or do with either of you. I leave you, Laura, in the care of your husband, and I hope you bring him a lot of happiness; although, I admit, the situation isn’t looking great.'

Saying this, the indignant speaker pushed back his chair against the table with such force that the candlesticks rocked on their bases, and left the room.

Saying this, the angry speaker pushed his chair back from the table so hard that the candlesticks wobbled on their stands, and then he left the room.

Laura's wet eyes roved from one of the young men to the other, who now stood glaring face to face, and, being much frightened at their aspect, slipped out of the room after her father. Him, however, she could hear going out of the front door, and, not knowing where to take shelter, she crept into the darkness of an adjoining bedroom, and there awaited events with a palpitating heart.

Laura's tear-filled eyes darted from one young man to the other, who were now glaring at each other. Frightened by their looks, she quickly left the room after her dad. She could hear him heading out the front door, and not knowing where to hide, she slipped into the darkness of a nearby bedroom and waited anxiously for what would happen next.

Meanwhile the two men remaining in the sitting-room drew nearer to each other, and the opera-singer broke the silence by saying, 'How could you insult me in the way you did, calling me a fellow, and accusing me of poisoning her mind toward you, when you knew very well I was as ignorant of your relation to her as an unborn babe?'

Meanwhile, the two men left in the living room moved closer to each other, and the opera singer broke the silence by saying, "How could you insult me like that, calling me a guy and accusing me of poisoning her mind against you, when you knew very well I was as clueless about your relationship with her as a newborn?"

'Oh yes, you were quite ignorant; I can believe that readily,' sneered Laura's husband.

"Oh yeah, you were really clueless; I can totally believe that," mocked Laura's husband.

'I here call Heaven to witness that I never knew!'

'I call Heaven as my witness that I never knew!'

'Recitativo-the rhythm excellent, and the tone well sustained. Is it likely that any man could win the confidence of a young fool her age, and not get that out of her? Preposterous! Tell it to the most improved new pit-stalls.'

'Recitativo—the rhythm is excellent, and the tone is well sustained. Is it likely that any man could gain the trust of a young fool her age and not get that from her? Ridiculous! Go tell that to the most improved new pit-stalls.'

'Captain Northbrook, your insinuations are as despicable as your wretched person!' cried the baritone, losing all patience. And springing forward he slapped the captain in the face with the palm of his hand.

'Captain Northbrook, your insinuations are as disgusting as your miserable self!' shouted the baritone, losing all patience. And rushing forward, he slapped the captain in the face with his open hand.

Northbrook flinched but slightly, and calmly using his handkerchief to learn if his nose was bleeding, said, 'I quite expected this insult, so I came prepared.' And he drew forth from a black valise which he carried in his hand a small case of pistols.

Northbrook flinched just a little, and calmly used his handkerchief to check if his nose was bleeding. He said, 'I totally expected this insult, so I came prepared.' Then he pulled out a small case of pistols from the black bag he was carrying.

The baritone started at the unexpected sight, but recovering from his surprise said, 'Very well, as you will,' though perhaps his tone showed a slight want of confidence.

The baritone jumped at the unexpected sight, but after getting over his shock, he said, 'Alright, as you wish,' although his tone might have revealed a bit of uncertainty.

'Now,' continued the husband, quite confidingly, 'we want no parade, no nonsense, you know. Therefore we'll dispense with seconds?'

'Now,' the husband said, quite confidently, 'we don't want any show or nonsense, you know. So, let's skip the seconds?'

The signor slightly nodded.

The signer nodded slightly.

'Do you know this part of the country well?' Cousin James went on, in the same cool and still manner. 'If you don't, I do. Quite at the bottom of the rocks out there, just beyond the stream which falls over them to the shore, is a smooth sandy space, not so much shut in as to be out of the moonlight; and the way down to it from this side is over steps cut in the cliff; and we can find our way down without trouble. We-we two-will find our way down; but only one of us will find his way up, you understand?'

'Do you know this area well?' Cousin James continued in the same calm tone. 'If you don’t, I do. Right at the bottom of the rocks out there, just past the stream that flows over them to the shore, there’s a smooth sandy spot that’s not completely blocked from the moonlight; and the path down from here is via steps carved into the cliff; we can easily make our way down. We—just the two of us—will get down there; but only one of us will make it back up, you get it?'

'Quite.'

"Totally."

'Then suppose we start; the sooner it is over the better. We can order supper before we go out-supper for two; for though we are three at present-'

'Then let's get started; the sooner it's done, the better. We can order dinner before we head out—dinner for two; even though there are three of us right now—'

'Three?'

'Yes; you and I and she-'

'Yeah; you, me, and her-'

'Oh yes.'

'Oh, definitely.'

'-We shall be only two by and by; so that, as I say, we will order supper for two; for the lady and a gentleman. Whichever comes back alive will tap at her door, and call her in to share the repast with him-she's not off the premises. But we must not alarm her now; and above all things we must not let the inn-people see us go out; it would look so odd for two to go out, and only one come in. Ha! ha!'

'-We’ll be just the two of us soon, so like I said, let’s plan dinner for two; for the lady and the gentleman. Whoever comes back alive will knock on her door and invite her to join him for the meal—she's still here on the property. But we shouldn't worry her just yet; and more than anything, we must not let the inn staff see us leave; it would look strange for two to go out and only one to come back in. Ha! ha!'

'Ha! ha! exactly.'

'Haha! Exactly.'

'Are you ready?'

"Are you ready?"

'Oh-quite.'

'Oh, quite.'

'Then I'll lead the way.'

'Then I'll take the lead.'

He went softly to the door and downstairs, ordering supper to be ready in an hour, as he had said; then making a feint of returning to the room again, he beckoned to the singer, and together they slipped out of the house by a side door.

He quietly went to the door and downstairs, telling them to have dinner ready in an hour, just as he had mentioned; then pretending to go back into the room, he signaled to the singer, and together they sneaked out of the house through a side door.

The sky was now quite clear, and the wheelmarks of the brougham which had borne away Laura's father, Lord Quantock, remained distinctly visible. Soon the verge of the down was reached, the captain leading the way, and the baritone following silently, casting furtive glances at his companion, and beyond him at the scene ahead. In due course they arrived at the chasm in the cliff which formed the waterfall. The outlook here was wild and picturesque in the extreme, and fully justified the many praises, paintings, and photographic views to which the spot had given birth. What in summer was charmingly green and gray, was now rendered weird and fantastic by the snow.

The sky was completely clear now, and the wheel tracks of the carriage that had taken away Laura's father, Lord Quantock, were still clearly visible. Soon, they reached the edge of the hill, with the captain leading the way and the baritone following silently, casting quick glances at his companion and then at the scene ahead. Eventually, they arrived at the gap in the cliff where the waterfall was located. The view here was incredibly wild and picturesque, and it completely justified the numerous praises, paintings, and photos that had been inspired by the place. What was charmingly green and gray in the summer now looked eerie and fantastic because of the snow.

From their feet the cascade plunged downward almost vertically to a depth of eighty or a hundred feet before finally losing itself in the sand, and though the stream was but small, its impact upon jutting rocks in its descent divided it into a hundred spirts and splashes that sent up a mist into the upper air. A few marginal drippings had been frozen into icicles, but the centre flowed on unimpeded.

From their feet, the waterfall dropped almost straight down to a depth of eighty or a hundred feet before disappearing into the sand. Although the stream was small, its impact on the jutting rocks below broke it into a hundred sprays and splashes that sent mist into the air above. A few drips along the edge had frozen into icicles, but the main flow continued on without interruption.

The operatic artist looked down as he halted, but his thoughts were plainly not of the beauty of the scene. His companion with the pistols was immediately in front of him, and there was no handrail on the side of the path toward the chasm. Obeying a quick impulse, he stretched out his arm, and with a superhuman thrust sent Laura's husband reeling over. A whirling human shape, diminishing downward in the moon's rays farther and farther toward invisibility, a smack-smack upon the projecting ledges of rock-at first louder and heavier than that of the brook, and then scarcely to be distinguished from it-then a cessation, then the splashing of the stream as before, and the accompanying murmur of the sea, were all the incidents that disturbed the customary flow of the little waterfall.

The operatic artist looked down as he stopped, but his thoughts clearly weren't about the beauty of the scene. His companion with the guns was right in front of him, and there was no handrail on the side of the path leading to the chasm. Following a sudden impulse, he reached out his arm and, with an extraordinary force, sent Laura's husband stumbling over the edge. A spinning figure, shrinking further down in the moonlight until it was almost gone, a thump against the jutting ledges of rock—first louder and heavier than the sound of the stream, and then barely distinguishable from it—then silence, followed by the splash of the stream as before, and the constant murmur of the sea, were all that interrupted the usual flow of the little waterfall.

The singer waited in a fixed attitude for a few minutes, then turning, he rapidly retraced his steps over the intervening upland toward the road, and in less than a quarter of an hour was at the door of the hotel. Slipping quietly in as the clock struck ten, he said to the landlord, over the bar hatchway-

The singer stood still for a few minutes, then turned and quickly made his way back over the hill toward the road. In less than fifteen minutes, he was at the hotel door. As he slipped inside just as the clock struck ten, he spoke to the landlord over the bar hatch.

'The bill as soon as you can let me have it, including charges for the supper that was ordered, though we cannot stay to eat it, I am sorry to say.' He added with forced gaiety, 'The lady's father and cousin have thought better of intercepting the marriage, and after quarrelling with each other have gone home independently.'

'Please send me the bill as soon as possible, including charges for the dinner that was ordered, even though we can't stay to eat it, I'm sorry to say.' He added with a forced cheerfulness, 'The lady's father and cousin decided against stopping the marriage, and after arguing with each other, they went home separately.'

'Well done, sir!' said the landlord, who still sided with this customer in preference to those who had given trouble and barely paid for baiting the horses. '"Love will find out the way!" as the saying is. Wish you joy, sir!'

'Well done, sir!' said the landlord, who still preferred this customer over those who caused trouble and barely paid for feeding the horses. '"Love will find a way!" as the saying goes. Wish you all the best, sir!'

Signor Smithozzi went upstairs, and on entering the sitting-room found that Laura had crept out from the dark adjoining chamber in his absence. She looked up at him with eyes red from weeping, and with symptoms of alarm.

Signor Smithozzi went upstairs, and upon entering the living room, he found that Laura had sneaked out from the dark neighboring room while he was away. She looked up at him with eyes red from crying and showed signs of worry.

'What is it?-where is he?' she said apprehensively.

'What is it? Where is he?' she asked nervously.

'Captain Northbrook has gone back. He says he will have no more to do with you.'

'Captain Northbrook has gone back. He says he won't have anything more to do with you.'

'And I am quite abandoned by them!-and they'll forget me, and nobody care about me any more!' She began to cry afresh.

'And I feel so alone without them! They'll forget me, and no one will care about me anymore!' She started crying again.

'But it is the luckiest thing that could have happened. All is just as it was before they came disturbing us. But, Laura, you ought to have told me about that private marriage, though it is all the same now; it will be dissolved, of course. You are a wid-virtually a widow.'

'But it’s the best thing that could have happened. Everything is just like it was before they came and disrupted us. But, Laura, you should have told me about that private marriage, even though it doesn’t matter now; it will definitely be annulled. You’re basically a widow.'

'It is no use to reproach me for what is past. What am I to do now?'

'There's no point in blaming me for what happened before. What should I do now?'

'We go at once to Cliff-Martin. The horse has rested thoroughly these last three hours, and he will have no difficulty in doing an additional half-dozen miles. We shall be there before twelve, and there are late taverns in the place, no doubt. There we'll sell both horse and carriage to-morrow morning; and go by the coach to Downstaple. Once in the train we are safe.'

'We head straight to Cliff-Martin. The horse has had a good rest these last three hours, so he’ll manage an extra six miles easily. We should arrive before noon, and I'm sure there are some late-night taverns around. We'll sell both the horse and carriage tomorrow morning, then take the coach to Downstaple. Once we're on the train, we’ll be safe.'

'I agree to anything,' she said listlessly.

"I'll agree to anything," she said with no enthusiasm.

In about ten minutes the horse was put in, the bill paid, the lady's dried wraps put round her, and the journey resumed.

In about ten minutes, the horse was harnessed, the bill settled, the lady's dried wraps were put around her, and they continued their journey.

When about a mile on their way, they saw a glimmering light in advance of them. 'I wonder what that is?' said the baritone, whose manner had latterly become nervous, every sound and sight causing him to turn his head.

When they were about a mile into their journey, they spotted a glimmering light ahead of them. "I wonder what that is?" said the baritone, who had recently become anxious, jumping at every sound and sight.

'It is only a turnpike,' said she. 'That light is the lamp kept burning over the door.'

'It's just a toll road,' she said. 'That light is the lamp that's kept on over the door.'

'Of course, of course, dearest. How stupid I am!'

'Of course, of course, my dear. How foolish I am!'

On reaching the gate they perceived that a man on foot had approached it, apparently by some more direct path than the roadway they pursued, and was, at the moment they drew up, standing in conversation with the gatekeeper.

On reaching the gate, they noticed that a man on foot had come up to it, likely by a more direct route than the road they were on, and at the moment they stopped, he was talking to the gatekeeper.

'It is quite impossible that he could fall over the cliff by accident or the will of God on such a light night as this,' the pedestrian was saying. 'These two children I tell you of saw two men go along the path toward the waterfall, and ten minutes later only one of 'em came back, walking fast, like a man who wanted to get out of the way because he had done something queer. There is no manner of doubt that he pushed the other man over, and, mark me, it will soon cause a hue and cry for that man.'

'There's no way he could have accidentally fallen off the cliff or that it was just fate on a night as calm as this,' the pedestrian was saying. 'These two kids I’m telling you about saw two men walk along the path toward the waterfall, and ten minutes later, only one of them came back, walking quickly, like someone trying to avoid attention because he had done something strange. There's no doubt he pushed the other guy over, and trust me, it's going to raise a big alarm for that guy soon.'

The candle shone in the face of the Signor and showed that there had arisen upon it a film of ghastliness. Laura, glancing toward him for a few moments observed it, till, the gatekeeper having mechanically swung open the gate, her companion drove through, and they were soon again enveloped in the white silence.

The candle illuminated the Signor's face, revealing a layer of eeriness on it. Laura, glancing at him for a few moments, noticed it until the gatekeeper automatically swung open the gate. Her companion drove through, and they were soon wrapped up again in the white silence.

Her conductor had said to Laura, just before, that he meant to inquire the way at this turnpike; but he had certainly not done so.

Her conductor had told Laura just before that he planned to ask for directions at this tollgate, but he definitely hadn’t done that.

As soon as they had gone a little farther the omission, intentional or not, began to cause them some trouble. Beyond the secluded district which they now traversed ran the more frequented road, where progress would be easy, the snow being probably already beaten there to some extent by traffic; but they had not yet reached it, and having no one to guide them their journey began to appear less feasible than it had done before starting. When the little lane which they had entered ascended another hill, and seemed to wind round in a direction contrary to the expected route to Cliff-Martin, the question grew serious. Ever since overhearing the conversation at the turnpike, Laura had maintained a perfect silence, and had even shrunk somewhat away from the side of her lover.

As soon as they had gone a little further, the omission, whether intentional or not, started to cause them some trouble. Beyond the quiet area they were crossing lay a busier road where travel would be easier, as the snow was likely already packed down by other travelers. But they hadn't reached it yet, and without anyone to guide them, their journey began to seem less doable than it had before they started. When the narrow lane they were on climbed another hill and appeared to curve in a direction opposite to the expected route to Cliff-Martin, the situation became more serious. Ever since overhearing the conversation at the tollgate, Laura had kept completely silent and had even pulled away somewhat from her partner.

'Why don't you talk, Laura,' he said with forced buoyancy, 'and suggest the way we should go?'

'Why don't you speak up, Laura,' he said with a forced cheerfulness, 'and suggest where we should go?'

'Oh yes, I will,' she responded, a curious fearfulness being audible in her voice.

"Oh yes, I will," she replied, a hint of curious fear in her voice.

After this she uttered a few occasional sentences which seemed to persuade him that she suspected nothing. At last he drew rein, and the weary horse stood still.

After this, she said a few random sentences that made him think she didn’t suspect anything. Finally, he pulled up, and the tired horse came to a stop.

'We are in a fix,' he said.

'We're in a tough spot,' he said.

She answered eagerly: 'I'll hold the reins while you run forward to the top of the ridge, and see if the road takes a favourable turn beyond. It would give the horse a few minutes' rest, and if you find out no change in the direction, we will retrace this lane, and take the other turning.'

She replied eagerly, "I'll take the reins while you sprint ahead to the top of the ridge and check if the road takes a better turn up ahead. It will give the horse a few minutes to rest, and if you don’t find any change in the direction, we can backtrack this lane and take the other turn."

The expedient seemed a good one in the circumstances, especially when recommended by the singular eagerness of her voice; and placing the reins in her hands-a quite unnecessary precaution, considering the state of their hack-he stepped out and went forward through the snow till she could see no more of him.

The plan seemed smart given the situation, especially with the way her voice sounded so eager. He handed her the reins—unneeded since their horse was pretty worn out—and got out, walking through the snow until she could no longer see him.

No sooner was he gone than Laura, with a rapidity which contrasted strangely with her previous stillness, made fast the reins to the corner of the phaeton, and slipping out on the opposite side, ran back with all her might down the hill, till, coming to an opening in the fence, she scrambled through it, and plunged into the copse which bordered this portion of the lane. Here she stood in hiding under one of the large bushes, clinging so closely to its umbrage as to seem but a portion of its mass, and listening intently for the faintest sound of pursuit. But nothing disturbed the stillness save the occasional slipping of gathered snow from the boughs, or the rustle of some wild animal over the crisp flake-bespattered herbage. At length, apparently convinced that her former companion was either unable to find her, or not anxious to do so, in the present strange state of affairs, she crept out from the bushes, and in less than an hour found herself again approaching the door of the Prospect Hotel.

No sooner had he left than Laura, moving quickly in a way that sharply contrasted with her earlier calm, secured the reins to the corner of the carriage. Sliding out on the opposite side, she sprinted down the hill with all her energy until she reached an opening in the fence. She crawled through and dashed into the thicket that lined this part of the road. There, she hid under one of the large bushes, pressing against it so closely that she seemed to blend into its mass, listening attentively for even the faintest sound of someone coming after her. But nothing interrupted the quiet except for the occasional sound of snow sliding off branches or the rustle of a wild animal moving over the frost-covered ground. Eventually, convinced that her earlier companion either couldn't find her or wasn't eager to, she emerged from the bushes and, in less than an hour, found herself once again approaching the door of the Prospect Hotel.

As she drew near, Laura could see that, far from being wrapped in darkness, as she might have expected, there were ample signs that all the tenants were on the alert, lights moving about the open space in front. Satisfaction was expressed in her face when she discerned that no reappearance of her baritone and his pony-carriage was causing this sensation; but it speedily gave way to grief and dismay when she saw by the lights the form of a man borne on a stretcher by two others into the porch of the hotel.

As she got closer, Laura noticed that, instead of being engulfed in darkness like she expected, there were plenty of signs that all the tenants were awake, with lights moving around the open space in front. A look of satisfaction crossed her face when she realized that the buzz wasn’t caused by the return of her baritone and his pony carriage; however, that quickly turned into grief and shock when she saw, illuminated by the lights, a man being carried on a stretcher by two others into the hotel porch.

'I have caused all this,' she murmured between her quivering lips. 'He has murdered him!' Running forward to the door, she hastily asked of the first person she met if the man on the stretcher was dead.

'I did all of this,' she whispered with trembling lips. 'He killed him!' She rushed to the door and quickly asked the first person she encountered if the man on the stretcher was dead.

'No, miss,' said the labourer addressed, eyeing her up and down as an unexpected apparition. 'He is still alive, they say, but not sensible. He either fell or was pushed over the waterfall; 'tis thoughted he was pushed. He is the gentleman who came here just now with the old lord, and went out afterward (as is thoughted) with a stranger who had come a little earlier. Anyhow, that's as I had it.'

'No, miss,' said the worker, looking her up and down like she was a surprise. 'They say he’s still alive, but not conscious. He either fell or was pushed over the waterfall; people think he was pushed. He’s the guy who just arrived with the old lord and later left with a stranger who showed up a bit earlier. Anyway, that’s what I heard.'

Laura entered the house, and acknowledging without the least reserve that she was the injured man's wife, had soon installed herself as head nurse by the bed on which he lay. When the two surgeons who had been sent for arrived, she learned from them that his wounds were so severe as to leave but a slender hope of recovery, it being little short of miraculous that he was not killed on the spot, which his enemy had evidently reckoned to be the case. She knew who that enemy was, and shuddered.

Laura walked into the house, fully accepting that she was the injured man's wife, and quickly took her place as the head nurse by his bedside. When the two surgeons who had been called arrived, she found out from them that his injuries were so serious that there was only a slim chance of recovery; it was nearly miraculous that he hadn't died instantly, which his attacker had clearly expected. She knew who that attacker was, and felt a chill.

Laura watched all night, but her husband knew nothing of her presence. During the next day he slightly recognized her, and in the evening was able to speak. He informed the surgeons that, as was surmised, he had been pushed over the cascade by Signor Smithozzi; but he communicated nothing to her who nursed him, not even replying to her remarks; he nodded courteously at any act of attention she rendered, and that was all.

Laura stayed up all night, but her husband had no idea she was there. The next day, he vaguely recognized her, and by evening, he could speak. He told the doctors that, as they had suspected, Signor Smithozzi had pushed him over the waterfall; however, he didn’t share anything with the woman who was caring for him, not even responding to her comments. He just nodded politely at any kindness she showed, and that was it.

In a day or two it was declared that everything favoured his recovery, notwithstanding the severity of his injuries. Full search was made for Smithozzi, but as yet there was no intelligence of his whereabouts, though the repentant Laura communicated all she knew. As far as could be judged, he had come back to the carriage after searching out the way, and finding the young lady missing, had looked about for her till he was tired; then had driven on to Cliff-Martin, sold the horse and carriage next morning, and disappeared, probably by one of the departing coaches which ran thence to the nearest station, the only difference from his original programme being that he had gone alone.

In a day or two, it was announced that everything indicated he would recover, despite the seriousness of his injuries. A full search was conducted for Smithozzi, but there was still no information about where he was, even though the remorseful Laura shared everything she knew. From what could be understood, he had returned to the carriage after figuring out the way and finding the young lady missing. He had searched for her until he was exhausted, then drove on to Cliff-Martin, sold the horse and carriage the next morning, and vanished, likely taking one of the departing coaches to the nearest station. The only difference from his original plan was that he had gone alone.

During the days and weeks of that long and tedious recovery, Laura watched by her husband's bedside with a zeal and assiduity which would have considerably extenuated any fault save one of such magnitude as hers. That her husband did not forgive her was soon obvious. Nothing that she could do in the way of smoothing pillows, easing his position, shifting bandages, or administering draughts, could win from him more than a few measured words of thankfulness, such as he would probably have uttered to any other woman on earth who had performed these particular services for him.

During the days and weeks of that long and exhausting recovery, Laura stayed by her husband's bedside with a dedication and commitment that could have overlooked any fault except the huge one she had. It quickly became clear that her husband did not forgive her. No matter how much she tried to adjust his pillows, make him more comfortable, change his bandages, or give him medication, he replied with only a few polite words of thanks, like he would have said to any other woman on the planet who had helped him in those ways.

'Dear, dear James,' she said one day, bending her face upon the bed in an excess of emotion. 'How you have suffered! It has been too cruel. I am more glad you are getting better than I can say. I have prayed for it-and I am sorry for what I have done; I am innocent of the worst, and-I hope you will not think me so very bad, James!'

'Oh, James,' she said one day, leaning her face on the bed in a surge of emotion. 'You've suffered so much! It's been so unfair. I'm happier that you’re getting better than I can express. I've prayed for it—and I regret what I've done; I’m not guilty of the worst, and—I hope you won't think I'm that terrible, James!'

'Oh no. On the contrary, I shall think you very good-as a nurse,' he answered, the caustic severity of his tone being apparent through its weakness.

'Oh no. On the contrary, I think you're really good—as a nurse,' he replied, the harshness of his tone evident despite its frailty.

Laura let fall two or three silent tears, and said no more that day.

Laura shed a couple of silent tears and said nothing more that day.

Somehow or other Signor Smithozzi seemed to be making good his escape. It transpired that he had not taken a passage in either of the suspected coaches, though he had certainly got out of the county; altogether, the chance of finding him was problematical.

Somehow, Signor Smithozzi appeared to be successfully getting away. It turned out that he hadn’t booked a seat on either of the suspected coaches, although he had definitely left the county; overall, the likelihood of locating him was uncertain.

Not only did Captain Northbrook survive his injuries, but it soon appeared that in the course of a few weeks he would find himself little if any the worse for the catastrophe. It could also be seen that Laura, while secretly hoping for her husband's forgiveness for a piece of folly of which she saw the enormity more clearly every day, was in great doubt as to what her future relations with him would be. Moreover, to add to the complication, whilst she, as a runaway wife, was unforgiven by her husband, she and her husband, as a runaway couple, were unforgiven by her father, who had never once communicated with either of them since his departure from the inn. But her immediate anxiety was to win the pardon of her husband, who possibly might be bearing in mind, as he lay upon his couch, the familiar words of Brabantio, 'She has deceived her father, and may thee.'

Not only did Captain Northbrook survive his injuries, but it quickly became clear that in a few weeks he would be almost completely back to normal after the disaster. It was also evident that Laura, while secretly hoping for her husband's forgiveness for a mistake she realized more and more each day was quite serious, was very uncertain about what her future with him would look like. To make things even more complicated, since she was a runaway wife, her husband had yet to forgive her, and both of them were still unforgiven by her father, who hadn’t contacted either of them since they left the inn. However, her main concern was to win back her husband’s forgiveness, who might still be remembering, as he lay on his couch, the familiar words of Brabantio, 'She has deceived her father, and may thee.'

Matters went on thus till Captain Northbrook was able to walk about. He then removed with his wife to quiet apartments on the south coast, and here his recovery was rapid. Walking up the cliffs one day, supporting him by her arm as usual, she said to him, simply, 'James, if I go on as I am going now, and always attend to your smallest want, and never think of anything but devotion to you, will you-try to like me a little?'

Matters continued like this until Captain Northbrook was able to walk again. He and his wife then moved to a quiet place on the south coast, where he recovered quickly. While walking up the cliffs one day, with her arm supporting him as usual, she simply said to him, "James, if I keep doing what I've been doing, taking care of your every need and only focusing on being devoted to you, will you try to like me a little?"

'It is a thing I must carefully consider,' he said, with the same gloomy dryness which characterized all his words to her now. 'When I have considered, I will tell you.'

'It's something I need to think about carefully,' he said, with the same bleak tone that marked all his words to her now. 'Once I've thought it through, I’ll let you know.'

He did not tell her that evening, though she lingered long at her routine work of making his bedroom comfortable, putting the light so that it would not shine into his eyes, seeing him fall asleep, and then retiring noiselessly to her own chamber. When they met in the morning at breakfast, and she had asked him as usual how he had passed the night, she added timidly, in the silence which followed his reply, 'Have you considered?'

He didn't tell her that night, even though she stayed late doing her usual task of making his bedroom cozy, adjusting the light so it wouldn’t shine in his eyes, watching him fall asleep, and then quietly heading to her own room. When they met the next morning at breakfast, and she asked him, as usual, how he had slept, she hesitantly added, in the silence that followed his answer, "Have you thought about it?"

'No, I have not considered sufficiently to give you an answer.'

'No, I haven't thought it through enough to give you an answer.'

Laura sighed, but to no purpose; and the day wore on with intense heaviness to her, and the customary modicum of strength gained to him.

Laura sighed, but it didn’t help; and the day dragged on painfully for her, while he gained his usual small amount of strength.

The next morning she put the same question, and looked up despairingly in his face, as though her whole life hung upon his reply.

The next morning, she asked the same question and looked up at him with despair, as if her entire life depended on his answer.

'Yes, I have considered,' he said.

'Yeah, I've thought about it,' he said.

'Ah!'

'Oh!'

'We must part.'

'We have to say goodbye.'

'O James!'

'Oh James!'

'I cannot forgive you; no man would. Enough is settled upon you to keep you in comfort, whatever your father may do. I shall sell out, and disappear from this hemisphere.'

'I can’t forgive you; no guy would. You have plenty settled on you to keep you comfortable, no matter what your dad does. I’m going to sell everything and vanish from this part of the world.'

'You have absolutely decided?' she asked miserably. 'I have nobody now to c-c-care for-'

'Are you really sure about this?' she asked sadly. 'I don't have anyone now to c-c-care for-'

'I have absolutely decided,' he shortly returned. 'We had better part here. You will go back to your father. There is no reason why I should accompany you, since my presence would only stand in the way of the forgiveness he will probably grant you if you appear before him alone. We will say farewell to each other in three days from this time. I have calculated on being ready to go on that day.'

'I’ve made up my mind,' he replied quickly. 'We should separate here. You should go back to your father. There’s no reason for me to go with you, since my presence would only hinder the forgiveness he will likely give you if you face him alone. We’ll say goodbye to each other in three days from now. I plan to be ready to leave on that day.'

Bowed down with trouble, she withdrew to her room, and the three days were passed by her husband in writing letters and attending to other business-matters, saying hardly a word to her the while. The morning of departure came; but before the horses had been put in to take the severed twain in different directions, out of sight of each other, possibly for ever, the postman arrived with the morning letters.

Bowed down with trouble, she retreated to her room, and her husband spent the next three days writing letters and handling other business matters, hardly speaking to her at all. The morning of their departure arrived; but before the horses were hitched up to take them in different directions, possibly forever, the postman came with the morning letters.

There was one for the captain; none for her-there were never any for her. However, on this occasion something was enclosed for her in his, which he handed her. She read it and looked up helpless.

There was one for the captain; none for her—there were never any for her. However, this time something was included for her in his, which he handed to her. She read it and looked up, feeling lost.

'My dear father-is dead!' she said. In a few moments she added, in a whisper, 'I must go to the Manor to bury him . . . Will you go with me, James?'

'My dear father is dead!' she said. After a moment, she added in a whisper, 'I need to go to the Manor to bury him... Will you come with me, James?'

He musingly looked out of the window. 'I suppose it is an awkward and melancholy undertaking for a woman alone,' he said coldly. 'Well, well-my poor uncle!-Yes, I'll go with you, and see you through the business.'

He thoughtfully looked out the window. 'I guess it's a tough and sad job for a woman to do alone,' he said coolly. 'Well, well—poor uncle!—Yeah, I'll go with you and help you with this.'

So they went off together instead of asunder, as planned. It is unnecessary to record the details of the journey, or of the sad week which followed it at her father's house. Lord Quantock's seat was a fine old mansion standing in its own park, and there were plenty of opportunities for husband and wife either to avoid each other, or to get reconciled if they were so minded, which one of them was at least. Captain Northbrook was not present at the reading of the will. She came to him afterward, and found him packing up his papers, intending to start next morning, now that he had seen her through the turmoil occasioned by her father's death.

So they left together instead of separately, as planned. There’s no need to go into the details of the journey or the sad week that followed at her father’s house. Lord Quantock's estate was a beautiful old mansion set in its own park, offering plenty of chances for the husband and wife to either avoid each other or reconcile if they chose to, which at least one of them was open to. Captain Northbrook wasn't there for the reading of the will. She visited him afterward and found him packing his papers, ready to leave the next morning now that he had helped her through the chaos caused by her father's death.

'He has left me everything that he could!' she said to her husband. 'James, will you forgive me now, and stay?'

'He’s left me everything he could!' she said to her husband. 'James, will you forgive me now and stay?'

'I cannot stay.'

"I can't stay."

'Why not?'

'I cannot stay,' he repeated.

"I can't stay," he repeated.

'But why?'

'I don't like you.'

"I don't like you."

He acted up to his word. When she came downstairs the next morning she was told that he had gone.

He kept his promise. When she came downstairs the next morning, she was told that he had left.

Laura bore her double bereavement as best she could. The vast mansion in which she had hitherto lived, with all its historic contents, had gone to her father's successor in the title; but her own was no unhandsome one. Around lay the undulating park, studded with trees a dozen times her own age; beyond it, the wood; beyond the wood, the farms. All this fair and quiet scene was hers. She nevertheless remained a lonely, repentant, depressed being, who would have given the greater part of everything she possessed to ensure the presence and affection of that husband whose very austerity and phlegm-qualities that had formerly led to the alienation between them-seemed now to be adorable features in his character.

Laura handled her double loss as best as she could. The large mansion where she had lived, with all its historic belongings, had gone to her father's successor; but her own place wasn't shabby. Surrounding her was the rolling park, filled with trees many times her age; beyond that, the woods; and beyond the woods, the farms. This beautiful and peaceful scene belonged to her. Still, she felt lonely, regretful, and downcast, wishing she could give up most of what she owned just to have her husband close and to feel his love again. The very qualities that had created distance between them—their seriousness and stoicism—now seemed to her like endearing traits in his character.

She hoped and hoped again, but all to no purpose. Captain Northbrook did not alter his mind and return. He was quite a different sort of man from one who altered his mind; that she was at last despairingly forced to admit. And then she left off hoping, and settled down to a mechanical routine of existence which in some measure dulled her grief; but at the expense of all her natural animation and the sprightly wilfulness which had once charmed those who knew her, though it was perhaps all the while a factor in the production of her unhappiness.

She hoped and hoped again, but it was all for nothing. Captain Northbrook didn’t change his mind and come back. He was just not the kind of person who changed his mind; she was finally forced to admit that with despair. Then she stopped hoping and fell into a mechanical routine of life that somewhat dulled her grief, but it came at the cost of all her natural enthusiasm and the lively stubbornness that once enchanted those who knew her, even though it had probably been a part of what made her unhappy all along.

To say that her beauty quite departed as the years rolled on would be to overstate the truth. Time is not a merciful master, as we all know, and he was not likely to act exceptionally in the case of a woman who had mental troubles to bear in addition to the ordinary weight of years. Be this as it may, eleven other winters came and went, and Laura Northbrook remained the lonely mistress of house and lands without once hearing of her husband. Every probability seemed to favour the assumption that he had died in some foreign land; and offers for her hand were not few as the probability verged on certainty with the long lapse of time. But the idea of remarriage seemed never to have entered her head for a moment. Whether she continued to hope even now for his return could not be distinctly ascertained; at all events she lived a life unmodified in the slightest degree from that of the first six months of his absence.

To say that her beauty completely faded as the years went by would be an exaggeration. Time isn't a kind master, as we all know, and it wasn’t likely to treat a woman with mental struggles any differently than it does with anyone else facing the normal burdens of aging. Regardless, eleven more winters passed, and Laura Northbrook remained the solitary owner of her home and land, without ever hearing from her husband. Everything seemed to suggest that he had died in some distant place, and there were quite a few proposals for her hand as the likelihood of his death became more certain with time. However, the thought of remarrying never seemed to cross her mind. Whether she still held onto hope for his return was unclear; in any case, she continued to live exactly as she had during the first six months of his absence.

This twelfth year of Laura's loneliness, and the thirtieth of her life drew on apace, and the season approached that had seen the unhappy adventure for which she so long had suffered. Christmas promised to be rather wet than cold, and the trees on the outskirts of Laura's estate dripped monotonously from day to day upon the turnpike-road which bordered them. On an afternoon in this week between three and four o'clock a hired fly might have been seen driving along the highway at this point, and on reaching the top of the hill it stopped. A gentleman of middle age alighted from the vehicle.

This twelfth year of Laura's loneliness, and the thirtieth of her life, moved forward quickly, and the season was approaching that had brought the unfortunate event she had suffered from for so long. Christmas was shaping up to be more rainy than cold, and the trees on the edge of Laura's estate dripped steadily day after day onto the road beside them. One afternoon this week, between three and four o'clock, a hired carriage could be seen traveling along the highway at this spot, and when it reached the top of the hill, it stopped. A middle-aged man got out of the vehicle.

'You need drive no farther,' he said to the coachman. 'The rain seems to have nearly ceased. I'll stroll a little way, and return on foot to the inn by dinner-time.'

'You don't need to drive any farther,' he told the coachman. 'The rain looks like it's almost stopped. I'll walk for a bit and head back to the inn by dinner time.'

The flyman touched his hat, turned the horse, and drove back as directed. When he was out of sight, the gentleman walked on, but he had not gone far before the rain again came down pitilessly, though of this the pedestrian took little heed, going leisurely onward till he reached Laura's park gate, which he passed through. The clouds were thick and the days were short, so that by the time he stood in front of the mansion it was dark. In addition to this his appearance, which on alighting from the carriage had been untarnished, partook now of the character of a drenched wayfarer not too well blessed with this world's goods. He halted for no more than a moment at the front entrance, and going round to the servants' quarter, as if he had a preconceived purpose in so doing, there rang the bell. When a page came to him he inquired if they would kindly allow him to dry himself by the kitchen fire.

The flyman tipped his hat, turned the horse around, and drove back as instructed. When he was out of sight, the gentleman continued on, but he hadn’t gone far before the rain started coming down heavily again. The pedestrian barely noticed, strolling along until he reached Laura's park gate, which he passed through. The clouds were thick, and the days were short, so by the time he stood in front of the mansion, it was dark. In addition to that, his appearance, which had been pristine when he got out of the carriage, now resembled that of a soaked traveler not too well off. He paused for just a moment at the front entrance and, as if he had a plan, went around to the servants' entrance and rang the bell. When a page answered, he asked if he could please dry off by the kitchen fire.

The page retired, and after a murmured colloquy returned with the cook, who informed the wet and muddy man that though it was not her custom to admit strangers, she should have no particular objection to his drying himself; the night being so damp and gloomy. Therefore the wayfarer entered and sat down by the fire.

The page left, and after a quiet conversation returned with the cook, who told the wet and muddy man that even though she usually didn't let strangers in, she wouldn't mind him drying off since the night was so damp and gloomy. So, the traveler came in and sat by the fire.

'The owner of this house is a very rich gentleman, no doubt?' he asked, as he watched the meat turning on the spit.

'The owner of this house is a very wealthy gentleman, right?' he asked, as he watched the meat cooking on the spit.

''Tis not a gentleman, but a lady,' said the cook.

''It's not a gentleman, but a lady,'' said the cook.

'A widow, I presume?'

"Are you a widow?"

'A sort of widow. Poor soul, her husband is gone abroad, and has never been heard of for many years.'

'A kind of widow. Poor thing, her husband went away and hasn't been heard from in many years.'

'She sees plenty of company, no doubt, to make up for his absence?'

'She definitely has a lot of company to keep her busy since he's not around, right?'

'No, indeed-hardly a soul. Service here is as bad as being in a nunnery.'

'No, really—barely anyone at all. The service here is just as terrible as being in a convent.'

In short, the wayfarer, who had at first been so coldly received, contrived by his frank and engaging manner to draw the ladies of the kitchen into a most confidential conversation, in which Laura's history was minutely detailed, from the day of her husband's departure to the present. The salient feature in all their discourse was her unflagging devotion to his memory.

In short, the traveler, who had initially been received with such coldness, managed with his open and charming personality to engage the kitchen ladies in a very confidential conversation, where they discussed Laura's story in detail, from the day her husband left until now. The standout point in all their talk was her unwavering devotion to his memory.

Having apparently learned all that he wanted to know-among other things that she was at this moment, as always, alone-the traveller said he was quite dry; and thanking the servants for their kindness, departed as he had come. On emerging into the darkness he did not, however, go down the avenue by which he had arrived. He simply walked round to the front door. There he rang, and the door was opened to him by a man-servant whom he had not seen during his sojourn at the other end of the house.

Having seemingly learned everything he wanted to know— including that she was at that moment, as always, alone—the traveler said he was completely dry; and after thanking the servants for their kindness, he left as he had arrived. However, as he stepped into the darkness, he didn't take the same path down the avenue that he had come by. Instead, he walked around to the front door. There, he rang the bell, and a male servant he hadn’t seen during his stay at the other end of the house opened the door for him.

In answer to the servant's inquiry for his name, he said ceremoniously, 'Will you tell The Honourable Mrs. Northbrook that the man she nursed many years ago, after a frightful accident, has called to thank her?'

In response to the servant's question about his name, he said formally, 'Could you please let The Honourable Mrs. Northbrook know that the man she cared for many years ago, after a terrible accident, has come to thank her?'

The footman retreated, and it was rather a long time before any further signs of attention were apparent. Then he was shown into the drawing- room, and the door closed behind him.

The footman stepped back, and it was quite a while before any more signs of attention showed up. Then he was led into the living room, and the door shut behind him.

On the couch was Laura, trembling and pale. She parted her lips and held out her hands to him, but could not speak. But he did not require speech, and in a moment they were in each other's arms.

On the couch was Laura, shaking and pale. She parted her lips and reached out her hands to him, but couldn't say anything. He didn't need words, and in a moment, they were in each other's arms.

Strange news circulated through that mansion and the neighbouring town on the next and following days. But the world has a way of getting used to things, and the intelligence of the return of The Honourable Mrs. Northbrook's long-absent husband was soon received with comparative calm.

Strange news spread around that mansion and the nearby town in the days that followed. But the world has a way of adapting, and the news of The Honourable Mrs. Northbrook’s long-missing husband returning was soon met with relative calm.

A few days more brought Christmas, and the forlorn home of Laura Northbrook blazed from basement to attic with light and cheerfulness. Not that the house was overcrowded with visitors, but many were present, and the apathy of a dozen years came at length to an end. The animation which set in thus at the close of the old year did not diminish on the arrival of the new; and by the time its twelve months had likewise run the course of its predecessors, a son had been added to the dwindled line of the Northbrook family.

A few days later, Christmas arrived, and the once dreary home of Laura Northbrook lit up with joy from the basement to the attic. It wasn't overflowing with guests, but there were enough people around to shake off the years of gloom. The lively atmosphere that began at the end of the old year didn't fade when the new year started; by the time the new year had completed its cycle like the ones before it, a son had been welcomed into the small Northbrook family.

At the conclusion of this narrative the Spark was thanked, with a manner of some surprise, for nobody had credited him with a taste for tale- telling. Though it had been resolved that this story should be the last, a few of the weather-bound listeners were for sitting on into the small hours over their pipes and glasses, and raking up yet more episodes of family history. But the majority murmured reasons for soon getting to their lodgings.

At the end of this story, the Spark was thanked, somewhat unexpectedly, because no one thought he had a knack for storytelling. Even though it was decided that this story would be the last, a few of the stranded listeners wanted to stay up late with their pipes and drinks, reminiscing about more family stories. But most of them muttered excuses for wanting to head back to their lodgings soon.

It was quite dark without, except in the immediate neighbourhood of the feeble street-lamps, and before a few shop-windows which had been hardily kept open in spite of the obvious unlikelihood of any chance customer traversing the muddy thoroughfares at that hour.

It was pretty dark outside, except for the immediate area around the weak streetlights and in front of a few shop windows that had stubbornly stayed open despite the clear unlikelihood of any random customers walking through the muddy streets at that time.

By one, by two, and by three the benighted members of the Field-Club rose from their seats, shook hands, made appointments, and dropped away to their respective quarters, free or hired, hoping for a fair morrow. It would probably be not until the next summer meeting, months away in the future, that the easy intercourse which now existed between them all would repeat itself. The crimson maltster, for instance, knew that on the following market-day his friends the President, the Rural Dean, and the bookworm would pass him in the street, if they met him, with the barest nod of civility, the President and the Colonel for social reasons, the bookworm for intellectual reasons, and the Rural Dean for moral ones, the latter being a staunch teetotaller, dead against John Barleycorn. The sentimental member knew that when, on his rambles, he met his friend the bookworm with a pocket-copy of something or other under his nose, the latter would not love his companionship as he had done to-day; and the President, the aristocrat, and the farmer knew that affairs political, sporting, domestic, or agricultural would exclude for a long time all rumination on the characters of dames gone to dust for scores of years, however beautiful and noble they may have been in their day.

One by one, two by two, and three by three, the confused members of the Field-Club got up from their seats, shook hands, made plans, and headed off to their respective places, whether owned or rented, hoping for a good day tomorrow. It would likely not be until the summer meeting, months away, that the friendly interactions they shared today would happen again. The maltster, for example, knew that on the next market day, his friends the President, the Rural Dean, and the bookworm would pass him on the street, giving him only a small nod of acknowledgment— the President and the Colonel for social reasons, the bookworm for intellectual ones, and the Rural Dean for moral reasons, as he was a strict teetotaler, completely against alcohol. The sentimental member understood that when he was out and about and encountered his friend the bookworm with a pocket-sized book in hand, the latter wouldn't enjoy his company as much as he had today; and the President, the aristocrat, and the farmer knew that topics like politics, sports, home life, or farming would keep them busy for a long time, leaving no space to think about the women who had passed away many years ago, no matter how beautiful and noble they had been in their time.

The last member at length departed, the attendant at the museum lowered the fire, the curator locked up the rooms, and soon there was only a single pirouetting flame on the top of a single coal to make the bones of the ichthyosaurus seem to leap, the stuffed birds to wink, and to draw a smile from the varnished skulls of Vespasian's soldiery. draw a smile from the varnished skulls of Vespasian's soldiery.

The last visitor finally left, the museum attendant dimmed the lights, the curator secured the rooms, and soon there was just one flickering flame on a single coal making the bones of the ichthyosaurus appear to jump, the stuffed birds to blink, and bringing a grin to the shiny skulls of Vespasian's soldiers.

WESSEX TALES

By Thomas Hardy

CONTENTS

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PREFACE

AN IMAGINATIVE WOMAN

THE THREE STRANGERS

THE WITHERED ARM

CHAPTER I-A LORN MILKMAID

CHAPTER II-THE YOUNG WIFE

CHAPTER III-A VISION

CHAPTER IV-A SUGGESTION

CHAPTER V-CONJUROR TRENDLE

CHAPTER VI-A SECOND ATTEMPT

CHAPTER VII-A RIDE

VIII-A WATER-SIDE HERMIT

INTERLOPERS AT THE KNAP

III

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

I-HOW HIS COLD WAS CURED

II-HOW HE SAW TWO OTHER MEN

III-THE MYSTERIOUS GREATCOAT

IV-AT THE TIME OF THE NEW MOON

V-HOW THEY WENT TO LULSTEAD COVE

VI-THE GREAT SEARCH AT NETHER-MOYNTON

VII-THE WALK TO WARM'ELL CROSS AND AFTERWARDS

PREFACE

An apology is perhaps needed for the neglect of contrast which is shown by presenting two consecutive stories of hangmen in such a small collection as the following. But in the neighbourhood of county-towns tales of executions used to form a large proportion of the local traditions; and though never personally acquainted with any chief operator at such scenes, the writer of these pages had as a boy the privilege of being on speaking terms with a man who applied for the office, and who sank into an incurable melancholy because he failed to get it, some slight mitigation of his grief being to dwell upon striking episodes in the lives of those happier ones who had held it with success and renown. His tale of disappointment used to cause some wonder why his ambition should have taken such an unfortunate form, but its nobleness was never questioned. In those days, too, there was still living an old woman who, for the cure of some eating disease, had been taken in her youth to have her 'blood turned' by a convict's corpse, in the manner described in 'The Withered Arm.'

An apology might be necessary for the lack of variety shown by presenting two consecutive stories of executioners in such a small collection as the following. However, in the vicinity of county towns, stories of executions used to make up a significant part of local folklore; and although I never met any of the main figures at these events, I had the chance as a boy to speak with a man who applied for the job and fell into a deep sadness when he didn't get it. He found some small comfort in recounting unforgettable moments in the lives of those who successfully held the role with fame and respect. His story of disappointment often led people to wonder why his ambition took such a grim turn, but nobody doubted its nobility. Back then, there was also an old woman still alive who, to cure some illness, had been taken in her youth to have her 'blood turned' by the body of a convict, as described in 'The Withered Arm.'

Since writing this story some years ago I have been reminded by an aged friend who knew 'Rhoda Brook' that, in relating her dream, my forgetfulness has weakened the facts our of which the tale grew. In reality it was while lying down on a hot afternoon that the incubus oppressed her and she flung it off, with the results upon the body of the original as described. To my mind the occurrence of such a vision in the daytime is more impressive than if it had happened in a midnight dream. Readers are therefore asked to correct the misrelation, which affords an instance of how our imperfect memories insensibly formalize the fresh originality of living fact-from whose shape they slowly depart, as machine-made castings depart by degrees from the sharp hand- work of the mould.

Since I wrote this story a few years ago, an old friend who knew 'Rhoda Brook' reminded me that my forgetfulness has clouded the facts that inspired the tale when I shared her dream. In reality, it was while she was lying down on a hot afternoon that the nightmare overwhelmed her, and she shook it off, leading to the effects described on the original body. I believe that experiencing such a vision during the day is more striking than if it had occurred in a midnight dream. Therefore, readers are invited to correct this misrepresentation, which illustrates how our imperfect memories gradually reshape the genuine originality of living experiences—moving further away from the precise craftsmanship of the original mold, just as machine-made castings slowly deviate from finely crafted handwork.

Among the many devices for concealing smuggled goods in caves and pits of the earth, that of planting an apple-tree in a tray or box which was placed over the mouth of the pit is, I believe, unique, and it is detailed in one of the tales precisely as described by an old carrier of 'tubs'-a man who was afterwards in my father's employ for over thirty years. I never gathered from his reminiscences what means were adopted for lifting the tree, which, with its roots, earth, and receptacle, must have been of considerable weight. There is no doubt, however, that the thing was done through many years. My informant often spoke, too, of the horribly suffocating sensation produced by the pair of spirit-tubs slung upon the chest and back, after stumbling with the burden of them for several miles inland over a rough country and in darkness. He said that though years of his youth and young manhood were spent in this irregular business, his profits from the same, taken all together, did not average the wages he might have earned in a steady employment, whilst the fatigues and risks were excessive.

Among the various ways to hide smuggled goods in caves and hollows in the ground, I think that using a tray or box with an apple tree planted in it, placed over the opening of a pit, is unique. This method is described in one of the stories by an old "tubs" carrier—a man who later worked for my father for over thirty years. I never learned from his memories how they managed to lift the tree, which, along with its roots, soil, and container, must have been quite heavy. There’s no doubt that this was done for many years. My source often talked about the unbearably suffocating feeling from carrying the two spirit tubs on his chest and back after trudging several miles inland over rough terrain and in the dark. He said that although he spent his youth and young adulthood in this irregular trade, the total profits he made didn’t even match what he could have earned in a regular job, while the exhaustion and dangers were extreme.

I may add that the first story in the series turns upon a physical possibility that may attach to women of imaginative temperament, and that is well supported by the experiences of medical men and other observers of such manifestations.

I should mention that the first story in the series is based on a physical possibility that might apply to women with imaginative personalities, which is well backed by the experiences of medical professionals and other observers of these phenomena.

T. H. April 1896.

AN IMAGINATIVE WOMAN

When William Marchmill had finished his inquiries for lodgings at a well-known watering-place in Upper Wessex, he returned to the hotel to find his wife. She, with the children, had rambled along the shore, and Marchmill followed in the direction indicated by the military-looking hall-porter

When William Marchmill wrapped up his search for places to stay at a popular resort in Upper Wessex, he went back to the hotel to find his wife. She had taken the kids for a walk along the shore, and Marchmill followed the direction pointed out by the military-looking front desk clerk.

'By Jove, how far you've gone! I am quite out of breath,' Marchmill said, rather impatiently, when he came up with his wife, who was reading as she walked, the three children being considerably further ahead with the nurse.

"Wow, you've really gotten far! I'm completely out of breath," Marchmill said, a bit impatiently, when he caught up with his wife, who was reading while walking, with their three kids quite a bit ahead with the nurse.

Mrs. Marchmill started out of the reverie into which the book had thrown her. 'Yes,' she said, 'you've been such a long time. I was tired of staying in that dreary hotel. But I am sorry if you have wanted me, Will?'

Mrs. Marchmill snapped out of the daydream the book had put her in. 'Yes,' she said, 'you've been gone for a while. I was getting tired of being stuck in that dull hotel. But I'm sorry if you needed me, Will?'

'Well, I have had trouble to suit myself. When you see the airy and comfortable rooms heard of, you find they are stuffy and uncomfortable. Will you come and see if what I've fixed on will do? There is not much room, I am afraid; hut I can light on nothing better. The town is rather full.'

'Well, I’ve had a hard time finding something that fits my needs. When you hear about the airy and comfortable rooms, they often turn out to be stuffy and uncomfortable. Will you come and see if what I've arranged will work? I’m afraid there isn't much space, but I can't find anything better. The town is quite busy.'

The pair left the children and nurse to continue their ramble, and went back together.

The couple left the kids and the caretaker to keep exploring and went back together.

In age well-balanced, in personal appearance fairly matched, and in domestic requirements conformable, in temper this couple differed, though even here they did not often clash, he being equable, if not lymphatic, and she decidedly nervous and sanguine. It was to their tastes and fancies, those smallest, greatest particulars, that no common denominator could be applied. Marchmill considered his wife's likes and inclinations somewhat silly; she considered his sordid and material. The husband's business was that of a gunmaker in a thriving city northwards, and his soul was in that business always; the lady was best characterized by that superannuated phrase of elegance 'a votary of the muse.' An impressionable, palpitating creature was Ella, shrinking humanely from detailed knowledge of her husband's trade whenever she reflected that everything he manufactured had for its purpose the destruction of life. She could only recover her equanimity by assuring herself that some, at least, of his weapons were sooner or later used for the extermination of horrid vermin and animals almost as cruel to their inferiors in species as human beings were to theirs.

In a well-balanced age, they were a pretty good match in looks and household needs, but they did have some differences in temperament, though they rarely clashed. He was calm, if not a bit detached, while she was definitely more anxious and optimistic. When it came to their tastes and preferences, those little details that meant the most, there was no common ground. Marchmill thought his wife's likes were a bit silly; she found his views to be materialistic and dull. He was a gunmaker in a prosperous city up north, and his heart was always in that business. Ella, on the other hand, could best be described by the outdated term 'a devotee of the arts.' She was an emotional, sensitive person who instinctively shied away from knowing the specifics of her husband's trade, especially when she thought about how everything he created was meant for taking lives. She could only calm herself by convincing herself that at least some of his weapons were eventually used to get rid of terrible pests and animals that were just as cruel to their kind as humans were to theirs.

She had never antecedently regarded this occupation of his as any objection to having him for a husband. Indeed, the necessity of getting life-leased at all cost, a cardinal virtue which all good mothers teach, kept her from thinking of it at all till she had closed with William, had passed the honeymoon, and reached the reflecting stage. Then, like a person who has stumbled upon some object in the dark, she wondered what she had got; mentally walked round it, estimated it; whether it were rare or common; contained gold, silver, or lead; were a clog or a pedestal, everything to her or nothing.

She had never previously seen his job as a reason to not marry him. In fact, the need to get married no matter what, a key lesson that all good mothers teach, kept her from thinking about it until after she committed to William, went through the honeymoon, and reached a period of reflection. Then, like someone who’s stumbled upon an object in the dark, she wondered what she had gotten; mentally examined it, evaluated it; whether it was something special or ordinary; contained gold, silver, or lead; whether it was a burden or something that uplifted her, everything to her or nothing.

She came to some vague conclusions, and since then had kept her heart alive by pitying her proprietor's obtuseness and want of refinement, pitying herself, and letting off her delicate and ethereal emotions in imaginative occupations, day-dreams, and night-sighs, which perhaps would not much have disturbed William if he had known of them.

She reached some unclear conclusions, and since then she had kept her heart alive by feeling sorry for her owner’s cluelessness and lack of sophistication, feeling sorry for herself, and expressing her delicate and ethereal emotions through creative activities, daydreams, and nighttime sighs, which probably wouldn’t have bothered William much if he had known about them.

Her figure was small, elegant, and slight in build, tripping, or rather bounding, in movement. She was dark-eyed, and had that marvellously bright and liquid sparkle in each pupil which characterizes persons of Ella's cast of soul, and is too often a cause of heartache to the possessor's male friends, ultimately sometimes to herself. Her husband was a tall, long-featured man, with a brown beard; he had a pondering regard; and was, it must be added, usually kind and tolerant to her. He spoke in squarely shaped sentences, and was supremely satisfied with a condition of sublunary things which made weapons a necessity.

Her figure was small, elegant, and slim, moving with a skip or, rather, a bounce. She had dark eyes, sparkling with a bright, liquid gleam that characterizes people like Ella and often causes heartache for her male friends, sometimes even for herself. Her husband was a tall man with pronounced features and a brown beard; he had a thoughtful demeanor and, it should be noted, was generally kind and patient with her. He spoke in straightforward sentences and was completely content with a world that required weapons.

Husband and wife walked till they had reached the house they were in search of, which stood in a terrace facing the sea, and was fronted by a small garden of wind-proof and salt-proof evergreens, stone steps leading up to the porch. It had its number in the row, but, being rather larger than the rest, was in addition sedulously distinguished as Coburg House by its landlady, though everybody else called it 'Thirteen, New Parade.' The spot was bright and lively now; but in winter it became necessary to place sandbags against the door, and to stuff up the keyhole against the wind and rain, which had worn the paint so thin that the priming and knotting showed through.

Husband and wife walked until they reached the house they were looking for, which was on a terrace facing the sea, and had a small garden of wind-resistant and salt-resistant evergreens, with stone steps leading up to the porch. It had its number in the row, but since it was a bit larger than the rest, it was also carefully labeled as Coburg House by its landlady, although everyone else referred to it as 'Thirteen, New Parade.' The place was bright and lively now; but in winter, it became necessary to put sandbags against the door and to stuff the keyhole to block the wind and rain, which had worn the paint so thin that the priming and knotting showed through.

The householder, who bad been watching for the gentleman's return, met them in the passage, and showed the rooms. She informed them that she was a professional man's widow, left in needy circumstances by the rather sudden death of her husband, and she spoke anxiously of the conveniences of the establishment.

The householder, who had been waiting for the gentleman to return, met them in the hallway and showed them the rooms. She told them that she was a professional man's widow, left in difficult circumstances by her husband's rather sudden death, and she spoke worriedly about the amenities of the place.

Mrs. Marchmill said that she liked the situation and the house; but, it being small, there would not be accommodation enough, unless she could have all the rooms.

Mrs. Marchmill said that she liked the situation and the house; however, since it was small, there wouldn't be enough space unless she could have all the rooms.

The landlady mused with an air of disappointment. She wanted the visitors to be her tenants very badly, she said, with obvious honesty. But unfortunately two of the rooms were occupied permanently by a bachelor gentleman. He did not pay season prices, it was true; but as he kept on his apartments all the year round, and was an extremely nice and interesting young man, who gave no trouble, she did not like to turn him out for a month's 'let,' even at a high figure. 'Perhaps, however,' she added, 'he might offer to go for a time.'

The landlady thought to herself, feeling quite disappointed. She really wanted the visitors to become her tenants, she said, honestly. But sadly, two of the rooms were permanently taken by a bachelor. It was true that he didn’t pay seasonal rates, but since he rented the place all year round and was a really nice and interesting young man who caused no trouble, she didn’t want to kick him out for a month’s rental, even if it was at a high price. “Maybe,” she added, “he would be willing to leave for a while.”

They would not hear of this, and went back to the hotel, intending to proceed to the agent's to inquire further. Hardly had they sat down to tea when the landlady called. Her gentleman, she said, had been so obliging as to offer to give up his rooms for three or four weeks rather than drive the new-comers away.

They wouldn't listen to this and went back to the hotel, planning to go to the agent's to ask more questions. They had barely sat down for tea when the landlady came by. She said her gentleman had been kind enough to offer to give up his rooms for three or four weeks instead of pushing the newcomers out.

'It is very kind, but we won't inconvenience him in that way,' said the Marchmills.

'That's really thoughtful, but we don't want to put him out like that,' said the Marchmills.

'O, it won't inconvenience him, I assure you!' said the landlady eloquently. 'You see, he's a different sort of young man from most-dreamy, solitary, rather melancholy-and he cares more to be here when the south-westerly gales are beating against the door, and the sea washes over the Parade, and there's not a soul in the place, than he does now in the season. He'd just as soon be where, in fact, he's going temporarily, to a little cottage on the Island opposite, for a change.' She hoped therefore that they would come.

“Oh, it won't be an issue for him, I promise!” said the landlady passionately. “You see, he’s not like most young men—he’s dreamy, a bit of a loner, and kind of melancholic. He prefers being here when the south-westerly winds are pounding against the door and the sea crashes over the Parade, with not a single person around, more than he does during the busy season. He’d be just as happy going to the little cottage on the Island across the way, just for a change.” She therefore hoped they would come.

The Marchmill family accordingly took possession of the house next day, and it seemed to suit them very well. After luncheon Mr. Marchmill strolled out towards the pier, and Mrs. Marchmill, having despatched the children to their outdoor amusements on the sands, settled herself in more completely, examining this and that article, and testing the reflecting powers of the mirror in the wardrobe door.

The Marchmill family moved into the house the next day, and it seemed to fit them perfectly. After lunch, Mr. Marchmill took a walk toward the pier, while Mrs. Marchmill, having sent the kids off to play on the beach, got comfortable, checking out various items and testing the mirror on the wardrobe door.

In the small back sitting-room, which had been the young bachelor's, she found furniture of a more personal nature than in the rest. Shabby books, of correct rather than rare editions, were piled up in a queerly reserved manner in corners, as if the previous occupant had not conceived the possibility that any incoming person of the season's bringing could care to look inside them. The landlady hovered on the threshold to rectify anything that Mrs. Marchmill might not find to her satisfaction.

In the small back sitting room that had belonged to the young bachelor, she found furniture that felt more personal than in the rest of the place. Worn-out books, more about being the right editions than rare ones, were stacked in an oddly reserved way in the corners, as if the previous occupant couldn't imagine that anyone coming in this season would want to look inside them. The landlady stood at the threshold, ready to fix anything that Mrs. Marchmill might not find satisfactory.

'I'll make this my own little room,' said the latter, 'because the books are here. By the way, the person who has left seems to have a good many. He won't mind my reading some of them, Mrs. Hooper, I hope?'

"I'll turn this into my own little space," said the latter, "since the books are here. By the way, the previous owner seems to have quite a collection. I hope he won't mind if I read some of them, Mrs. Hooper?"

'O dear no, ma'am. Yes, he has a good many. You see, he is in the literary line himself somewhat. He is a poet-yes, really a poet-and he has a little income of his own, which is enough to write verses on, but not enough for cutting a figure, even if he cared to.'

'O dear no, ma'am. Yes, he has quite a few. You see, he’s somewhat in the literary field himself. He’s a poet—yes, really a poet—and he has a small income of his own, which is enough to write verses about, but not enough to live an extravagant lifestyle, even if he wanted to.'

'A poet! O, I did not know that.'

'A poet! Oh, I didn't know that.'

Mrs. Marchmill opened one of the books, and saw the owner's name written on the title-page. 'Dear me!' she continued; 'I know his name very well-Robert Trewe-of course I do; and his writings! And it is his rooms we have taken, and him we have turned out of his home?'

Mrs. Marchmill opened one of the books and saw the owner's name written on the title page. "Oh my!" she said; "I know that name very well—Robert Trewe—of course I do; and his writings! And it's his place we've rented, and we've kicked him out of his home?"

Ella Marchmill, sitting down alone a few minutes later, thought with interested surprise of Robert Trewe. Her own latter history will best explain that interest. Herself the only daughter of a struggling man of letters, she had during the last year or two taken to writing poems, in an endeavour to find a congenial channel in which to let flow her painfully embayed emotions, whose former limpidity and sparkle seemed departing in the stagnation caused by the routine of a practical household and the gloom of bearing children to a commonplace father. These poems, subscribed with a masculine pseudonym, had appeared in various obscure magazines, and in two cases in rather prominent ones. In the second of the latter the page which bore her effusion at the bottom, in smallish print, bore at the top, in large print, a few verses on the same subject by this very man, Robert Trewe. Both of them had, in fact, been struck by a tragic incident reported in the daily papers, and had used it simultaneously as an inspiration, the editor remarking in a note upon the coincidence, and that the excellence of both poems prompted him to give them together.

Ella Marchmill, sitting down alone a few minutes later, thought with interest about Robert Trewe. Her own recent history explains that interest best. As the only daughter of a struggling writer, she had started writing poems over the last couple of years, trying to find a suitable outlet for her intense emotions, which seemed to be losing their clarity and energy due to the monotony of a practical household and the heaviness of raising kids with an ordinary father. These poems, published under a male pseudonym, appeared in several obscure magazines and in two more prominent ones. In one of those prominent magazines, the page featuring her poem at the bottom had, at the top, large print with a few verses on the same topic by none other than Robert Trewe. Both had been inspired by a tragic event reported in the daily news and wrote about it around the same time, prompting the editor to note the coincidence and the quality of both poems, which led him to publish them together.

After that event Ella, otherwise 'John Ivy,' had watched with much attention the appearance anywhere in print of verse bearing the signature of Robert Trewe, who, with a man's unsusceptibility on the question of sex, had never once thought of passing himself off as a woman. To be sure, Mrs. Marchmill had satisfied herself with a sort of reason for doing the contrary in her case; that nobody might believe in her inspiration if they found that the sentiments came from a pushing tradesman's wife, from the mother of three children by a matter-of-fact small-arms manufacturer.

After that event, Ella, also known as 'John Ivy,' closely monitored any poetry published under the name Robert Trewe. Unlike most men, he never thought to pretend he was a woman. Meanwhile, Mrs. Marchmill had convinced herself that she needed to do the opposite; she believed no one would take her seriously if they discovered the feelings came from the ambitious wife of a tradesman, the mother of three kids with a practical small-arms manufacturer.

Trewe's verse contrasted with that of the rank and file of recent minor poets in being impassioned rather than ingenious, luxuriant rather than finished. Neither symboliste nor decadent, he was a pessimist in so far as that character applies to a man who looks at the worst contingencies as well as the best in the human condition. Being little attracted by excellences of form and rhythm apart from content, he sometimes, when feeling outran his artistic speed, perpetrated sonnets in the loosely rhymed Elizabethan fashion, which every right-minded reviewer said he ought not to have done.

Trewe's poetry stood out from that of most recent minor poets because it was passionate rather than clever, rich rather than polished. He wasn't a symbolist or a decadent; he was a pessimist to the extent that he acknowledged both the worst and the best aspects of human life. He wasn't very interested in the perfection of form and rhythm if it didn't relate to the content, so sometimes, when his emotions outpaced his artistic abilities, he wrote sonnets in a loosely rhymed Elizabethan style, something every sensible reviewer said he shouldn't have done.

With sad and hopeless envy, Ella Marchmill had often and often scanned the rival poet's work, so much stronger as it always was than her own feeble lines. She had imitated him, and her inability to touch his level would send her into fits of despondency. Months passed away thus, till she observed from the publishers' list that Trewe had collected his fugitive pieces into a volume, which was duly issued, and was much or little praised according to chance, and had a sale quite sufficient to pay for the printing.

With sad and hopeless envy, Ella Marchmill often looked over the rival poet's work, which was always so much stronger than her own weak lines. She had tried to imitate him, and her inability to reach his level would leave her in fits of despair. Months went by like this until she noticed from the publishers' list that Trewe had gathered his scattered pieces into a book, which was released and received varying degrees of praise depending on luck, and had enough sales to cover the printing costs.

This step onward had suggested to John Ivy the idea of collecting her pieces also, or at any rate of making up a book of her rhymes by adding many in manuscript to the few that had seen the light, for she had been able to get no great number into print. A ruinous charge was made for costs of publication; a few reviews noticed her poor little volume; but nobody talked of it, nobody bought it, and it fell dead in a fortnight-if it had ever been alive.

This step onward made John Ivy think about collecting her pieces too, or at least putting together a book of her rhymes by adding many written ones to the few that had actually been published, since she hadn't managed to get that many into print. The costs of publication were ridiculously high; a few reviews mentioned her small book, but nobody discussed it, nobody bought it, and it disappeared without a trace in a couple of weeks—if it had ever really existed at all.

The author's thoughts were diverted to another groove just then by the discovery that she was going to have a third child, and the collapse of her poetical venture had perhaps less effect upon her mind than it might have done if she had been domestically unoccupied. Her husband had paid the publisher's bill with the doctor's, and there it all had ended for the time. But, though less than a poet of her century, Ella was more than a mere multiplier of her kind, and latterly she had begun to feel the old afflatus once more. And now by an odd conjunction she found herself in the rooms of Robert Trewe.

The author's thoughts were redirected at that moment by the news that she was having a third child, and the failure of her poetry project probably affected her less than it would have if she weren't busy with family life. Her husband had covered the publisher's bill along with the doctor's fees, and that was the end of it for now. However, even though she was not as acclaimed as a poet of her time, Ella was more than just a caretaker, and recently she had started to feel her creative spark again. Now, by a strange twist of fate, she found herself in the rooms of Robert Trewe.

She thoughtfully rose from her chair and searched the apartment with the interest of a fellow-tradesman. Yes, the volume of his own verse was among the rest. Though quite familiar with its contents, she read it here as if it spoke aloud to her, then called up Mrs. Hooper, the landlady, for some trivial service, and inquired again about the young man.

She carefully got up from her chair and looked around the apartment with the curiosity of someone in the same profession. Yes, his book of poetry was there with the others. Even though she knew it well, she read it as if it were speaking directly to her. Then she called for Mrs. Hooper, the landlady, for some minor task, and asked again about the young man.

'Well, I'm sure you'd be interested in him, ma'am, if you could see him, only he's so shy that I don't suppose you will.' Mrs. Hooper seemed nothing loth to minister to her tenant's curiosity about her predecessor. 'Lived here long? Yes, nearly two years. He keeps on his rooms even when he's not here: the soft air of this place suits his chest, and he likes to be able to come back at any time. He is mostly writing or reading, and doesn't see many people, though, for the matter of that, he is such a good, kind young fellow that folks would only be too glad to be friendly with him if they knew him. You don't meet kind- hearted people every day.'

"Well, I'm sure you'd be interested in him, ma'am, if you could see him, but he's so shy that I doubt you will." Mrs. Hooper seemed more than happy to satisfy her tenant's curiosity about her predecessor. "Lived here long? Yeah, almost two years. He keeps his rooms even when he's not here because the gentle air of this place is good for his lungs, and he likes being able to come back whenever he wants. He mostly spends his time reading or writing and doesn’t socialize much, though honestly, he’s such a kind-hearted young man that people would love to befriend him if they knew him. You don't come across kind people every day."

'Ah, he's kind-hearted . . . and good.'

'Ah, he's kind and good-hearted . . . '

'Yes; he'll oblige me in anything if I ask him. "Mr. Trewe," I say to him sometimes, "you are rather out of spirits." "Well, I am, Mrs. Hooper," he'll say, "though I don't know how you should find it out." "Why not take a little change?" I ask. Then in a day or two he'll say that he will take a trip to Paris, or Norway, or somewhere; and I assure you he comes back all the better for it.'

'Yes; he'll do anything I ask him. "Mr. Trewe," I sometimes say, "you seem a bit down." "Well, I am, Mrs. Hooper," he'll reply, "even though I don't know how you figured that out." "Why not get away for a bit?" I suggest. A day or two later, he'll mention that he's planning a trip to Paris, Norway, or somewhere else; and I can assure you he always returns feeling much better.'

'Ah, indeed! His is a sensitive nature, no doubt.'

'Oh, definitely! He has a sensitive nature, no question about it.'

'Yes. Still he's odd in some things. Once when he had finished a poem of his composition late at night he walked up and down the room rehearsing it; and the floors being so thin-jerry-built houses, you know, though I say it myself-he kept me awake up above him till I wished him further . . . But we get on very well.'

'Yes. Still, he's strange in some ways. Once, after he finished a poem he wrote late at night, he paced the room reciting it; and since the floors were so thin—these houses are poorly built, you know—he kept me awake above him until I just wanted him to stop... But we get along really well.'

This was but the beginning of a series of conversations about the rising poet as the days went on. On one of these occasions Mrs. Hooper drew Ella's attention to what she had not noticed before: minute scribblings in pencil on the wall-paper behind the curtains at the head of the bed.

This was just the start of a series of conversations about the up-and-coming poet as the days went by. During one of these talks, Mrs. Hooper pointed out to Ella something she hadn't noticed before: tiny pencil scribblings on the wallpaper behind the curtains at the head of the bed.

'O! let me look,' said Mrs. Marchmill, unable to conceal a rush of tender curiosity as she bent her pretty face close to the wall.

'O! let me see,' said Mrs. Marchmill, unable to hide her sudden wave of curiosity as she leaned her lovely face close to the wall.

'These,' said Mrs. Hooper, with the manner of a woman who knew things, 'are the very beginnings and first thoughts of his verses. He has tried to rub most of them out, but you can read them still. My belief is that he wakes up in the night, you know, with some rhyme in his head, and jots it down there on the wall lest he should forget it by the morning. Some of these very lines you see here I have seen afterwards in print in the magazines. Some are newer; indeed, I have not seen that one before. It must have been done only a few days ago.'

'These,' said Mrs. Hooper, in a way that suggested she knew a lot, 'are the very beginnings and initial thoughts of his poems. He’s tried to erase most of them, but you can still read them. I believe he wakes up in the night, you know, with a rhyme in his head and jots it down on the wall so he won’t forget it by morning. Some of these lines you see here I have seen later published in the magazines. Some are newer; in fact, I haven’t seen that one before. It must have been written just a few days ago.'

'O yes! . . . '

Ella Marchmill flushed without knowing why, and suddenly wished her companion would go away, now that the information was imparted. An indescribable consciousness of personal interest rather than literary made her anxious to read the inscription alone; and she accordingly waited till she could do so, with a sense that a great store of emotion would be enjoyed in the act.

Ella Marchmill blushed without understanding why and suddenly wanted her companion to leave now that the information was shared. A vague feeling of personal significance rather than literary interest made her eager to read the inscription by herself; so she waited until she could do so, feeling that a deep emotional experience awaited her in that moment.

Perhaps because the sea was choppy outside the Island, Ella's husband found it much pleasanter to go sailing and steaming about without his wife, who was a bad sailor, than with her. He did not disdain to go thus alone on board the steamboats of the cheap-trippers, where there was dancing by moonlight, and where the couples would come suddenly down with a lurch into each other's arms; for, as he blandly told her, the company was too mixed for him to take her amid such scenes. Thus, while this thriving manufacturer got a great deal of change and sea-air out of his sojourn here, the life, external at least, of Ella was monotonous enough, and mainly consisted in passing a certain number of hours each day in bathing and walking up and down a stretch of shore. But the poetic impulse having again waxed strong, she was possessed by an inner flame which left her hardly conscious of what was proceeding around her.

Maybe because the sea was rough outside the Island, Ella's husband found it much more enjoyable to sail and steam around without her, since she wasn't a great sailor. He didn't mind going alone on the steamboats packed with cheap tourists, where they danced under the moonlight and couples would suddenly stumble into each other's arms; as he casually told her, the crowd was too mixed for him to bring her along. So, while this successful manufacturer enjoyed the fresh air and change of pace during his stay, Ella's life, at least on the outside, was pretty dull. Her days mainly involved a set number of hours spent swimming and walking back and forth along a stretch of beach. However, with a renewed creative spark, she was filled with a passion that made her barely aware of what was happening around her.

She had read till she knew by heart Trewe's last little volume of verses, and spent a great deal of time in vainly attempting to rival some of them, till, in her failure, she burst into tears. The personal element in the magnetic attraction exercised by this circumambient, unapproachable master of hers was so much stronger than the intellectual and abstract that she could not understand it. To be sure, she was surrounded noon and night by his customary environment, which literally whispered of him to her at every moment; but he was a man she had never seen, and that all that moved her was the instinct to specialize a waiting emotion on the first fit thing that came to hand did not, of course, suggest itself to Ella.

She had read Trewe's latest collection of poems so much that she knew it by heart, and she spent a lot of time trying, without success, to match some of them, until she finally broke down in tears. The personal connection she felt towards this untouchable master of hers was much stronger than anything intellectual or abstract, and she couldn’t grasp it. Sure, she was surrounded day and night by the familiar things that constantly reminded her of him; but he was a man she had never met, and the fact that her feelings were just her instinct to project her emotions onto the first suitable thing that came along didn’t really occur to Ella.

In the natural way of passion under the too practical conditions which civilization has devised for its fruition, her husband's love for her had not survived, except in the form of fitful friendship, any more than, or even so much as, her own for him; and, being a woman of very living ardours, that required sustenance of some sort, they were beginning to feed on this chancing material, which was, indeed, of a quality far better than chance usually offers.

In the natural course of love, shaped by the practical realities civilization has created, her husband's love for her had faded into an inconsistent friendship, just like her feelings for him; and being a woman full of vibrant passions that needed some kind of nourishment, they were starting to draw from this random connection, which, in fact, was of a much higher quality than what chance typically provides.

One day the children had been playing hide-and-seek in a closet, whence, in their excitement, they pulled out some clothing. Mrs. Hooper explained that it belonged to Mr. Trewe, and hung it up in the closet again. Possessed of her fantasy, Ella went later in the afternoon, when nobody was in that part of the house, opened the closet, unhitched one of the articles, a mackintosh, and put it on, with the waterproof cap belonging to it.

One day, the kids were playing hide-and-seek in a closet, and in their excitement, they pulled out some clothes. Mrs. Hooper explained that the clothes belonged to Mr. Trewe and hung them back up in the closet. Later in the afternoon, when no one was around, Ella, fueled by her imagination, opened the closet, took one of the items, a raincoat, and put it on along with the waterproof cap that went with it.

'The mantle of Elijah!' she said. 'Would it might inspire me to rival him, glorious genius that he is!'

'The cloak of Elijah!' she said. 'I wish it could inspire me to match him, the brilliant genius that he is!'

Her eyes always grew wet when she thought like that, and she turned to look at herself in the glass. His heart had beat inside that coat, and his brain had worked under that hat at levels of thought she would never reach. The consciousness of her weakness beside him made her feel quite sick. Before she had got the things off her the door opened, and her husband entered the room.

Her eyes always got watery when she thought like that, and she turned to look at herself in the mirror. His heart had beat inside that coat, and his mind had worked under that hat at levels of thought she would never reach. The awareness of her weakness next to him made her feel pretty nauseous. Before she could take off her things, the door opened, and her husband walked into the room.

'What the devil-'

'What the heck-'

She blushed, and removed them

She blushed and took them off.

'I found them in the closet here,' she said, 'and put them on in a freak. What have I else to do? You are always away!'

'I found them in the closet here,' she said, 'and put them on on a whim. What else do I have to do? You’re always away!'

'Always away? Well . . . '

That evening she had a further talk with the landlady, who might herself have nourished a half-tender regard for the poet, so ready was she to discourse ardently about him.

That evening she had another conversation with the landlady, who might have had a soft spot for the poet, since she was so eager to talk passionately about him.

'You are interested in Mr. Trewe, I know, ma'am,' she said; 'and he has just sent to say that he is going to call to-morrow afternoon to look up some books of his that he wants, if I'll be in, and he may select them from your room?'

'You want to see Mr. Trewe, I know, ma'am,' she said; 'and he just let me know that he is planning to stop by tomorrow afternoon to look for some books of his that he needs, if I’m around, and he might choose them from your room?'

'O yes!'

'Oh yes!'

'You could very well meet Mr Trewe then, if you'd like to be in the way!'

'You might actually meet Mr. Trewe then, if you want to be in the way!'

She promised with secret delight, and went to bed musing of him.

She promised with hidden joy and went to bed thinking about him.

Next morning her husband observed: 'I've been thinking of what you said, Ell: that I have gone about a good deal and left you without much to amuse you. Perhaps it's true. To-day, as there's not much sea, I'll take you with me on board the yacht.'

Next morning her husband said, "I've been thinking about what you mentioned, Ell: that I go out a lot and leave you without much to do. Maybe that's true. Since the sea isn't too rough today, I'll take you with me on the yacht."

For the first time in her experience of such an offer Ella was not glad. But she accepted it for the moment. The time for setting out drew near, and she went to get ready. She stood reflecting. The longing to see the poet she was now distinctly in love with overpowered all other considerations.

For the first time in her experience of such an offer, Ella wasn't happy about it. But she accepted it for the moment. The time to leave was approaching, and she went to get ready. She stood there thinking. The desire to see the poet she was now clearly in love with overwhelmed all other thoughts.

'I don't want to go,' she said to herself. 'I can't bear to be away! And I won't go.'

'I don't want to go,' she said to herself. 'I can't handle being away! And I won't go.'

She told her husband that she had changed her mind about wishing to sail. He was indifferent, and went his way.

She told her husband that she had changed her mind about wanting to sail. He didn’t care and walked away.

For the rest of the day the house was quiet, the children having gone out upon the sands. The blinds waved in the sunshine to the soft, steady stroke of the sea beyond the wall; and the notes of the Green Silesian band, a troop of foreign gentlemen hired for the season, had drawn almost all the residents and promenaders away from the vicinity of Coburg House. A knock was audible at the door.

For the rest of the day, the house was quiet, with the children out playing on the beach. The blinds swayed in the sunshine to the gentle, rhythmic sound of the sea beyond the wall, and the music from the Green Silesian band, a group of foreign gentlemen hired for the season, had lured almost all the residents and passersby away from the area around Coburg House. A knock could be heard at the door.

Mrs. Marchmill did not hear any servant go to answer it, and she became impatient. The books were in the room where she sat; but nobody came up. She rang the bell.

Mrs. Marchmill didn't hear any servant go to answer it, and she got impatient. The books were in the room where she was sitting, but no one came up. She rang the bell.

'There is some person waiting at the door,' she said.

'There's someone waiting at the door,' she said.

'O no, ma'am! He's gone long ago. I answered it.'

'O no, ma'am! He left a while ago. I took care of it.'

Mrs. Hooper came in herself.

Mrs. Hooper came in personally.

'So disappointing!' she said. 'Mr. Trewe not coming after all!'

'So disappointing!' she said. 'Mr. Trewe isn't coming after all!'

'But I heard him knock, I fancy!'

'But I think I heard him knock!'

'No; that was somebody inquiring for lodgings who came to the wrong house. I forgot to tell you that Mr. Trewe sent a note just before lunch to say I needn't get any tea for him, as he should not require the books, and wouldn't come to select them.'

'No; that was someone asking for a place to stay who came to the wrong house. I forgot to mention that Mr. Trewe sent a note just before lunch saying I don't need to get any tea for him, as he wouldn't need the books and isn't coming to pick them out.'

Ella was miserable, and for a long time could not even re-read his mournful ballad on 'Severed Lives,' so aching was her erratic little heart, and so tearful her eyes. When the children came in with wet stockings, and ran up to her to tell her of their adventures, she could not feel that she cared about them half as much as usual.

Ella was unhappy, and for a long time she couldn't even re-read his sad ballad on 'Severed Lives,' as her restless little heart ached so much and her eyes were so filled with tears. When the kids came in with wet socks and rushed to her to share their adventures, she couldn't shake the feeling that she didn't care about them nearly as much as she normally did.

'Mrs. Hooper, have you a photograph of-the gentleman who lived here?' She was getting to be curiously shy in mentioning his name.

'Mrs. Hooper, do you have a photo of the gentleman who lived here?' She was becoming oddly shy about mentioning his name.

'Why, yes. It's in the ornamental frame on the mantelpiece in your own bedroom, ma'am.'

'Yes, it's in the decorative frame on the mantel in your bedroom, ma'am.'

'No; the Royal Duke and Duchess are in that.'

'Yes, so they are; but he's behind them. He belongs rightly to that frame, which I bought on purpose; but as he went away he said: "Cover me up from those strangers that are coming, for God's sake. I don't want them staring at me, and I am sure they won't want me staring at them." So I slipped in the Duke and Duchess temporarily in front of him, as they had no frame, and Royalties are more suitable for letting furnished than a private young man. If you take 'em out you'll see him under. Lord, ma'am, he wouldn't mind if he knew it! He didn't think the next tenant would be such an attractive lady as you, or he wouldn't have thought of hiding himself; perhaps.'

'Yes, they are; but he’s behind them. He rightly belongs to that frame, which I bought specifically for him; but as he left, he said, “Please cover me up from those strangers that are coming, for God’s sake. I don’t want them staring at me, and I’m sure they won’t want me staring at them.” So I temporarily put the Duke and Duchess in front of him since they didn’t have a frame, and Royalties are more appropriate for being displayed than a private young man. If you take them out, you’ll see him underneath. Honestly, ma’am, he wouldn’t mind if he knew! He didn’t think the next tenant would be such an attractive lady as you, or he wouldn’t have thought of hiding himself; maybe.'

'Is he handsome?' she asked timidly.

'Is he good-looking?' she asked shyly.

'I call him so. Some, perhaps, wouldn't.'

'I call him that. Some, maybe, wouldn't.'

'Should I?' she asked, with eagerness.

"Should I?" she asked excitedly.

'I think you would, though some would say he's more striking than handsome; a large-eyed thoughtful fellow, you know, with a very electric flash in his eye when he looks round quickly, such as you'd expect a poet to be who doesn't get his living by it.'

'I think you would, though some might say he's more eye-catching than handsome; a large-eyed, thoughtful guy, you know, with a very electric spark in his eye when he glances around quickly, just what you'd expect from a poet who isn’t making a living off it.'

'How old is he?'

'How old is he now?'

'Several years older than yourself, ma'am; about thirty-one or two, I think.'

'She's several years older than you, ma'am; I think she's about thirty-one or two.'

Ella was, as a matter of fact, a few months over thirty herself; but she did not look nearly so much. Though so immature in nature, she was entering on that tract of life in which emotional women begin to suspect that last love may be stronger than first love; and she would soon, alas, enter on the still more melancholy tract when at least the vainer ones of her sex shrink from receiving a male visitor otherwise than with their backs to the window or the blinds half down. She reflected on Mrs. Hooper's remark, and said no more about age.

Ella was actually just a few months over thirty, but she didn’t look it at all. Although she seemed quite young at heart, she was starting to realize that some emotional women begin to think that last love could be stronger than first love; and soon, unfortunately, she would move into an even more bittersweet phase when, at least some of the more vain women her age, would hesitate to have a male visitor unless they were standing with their backs to the window or with the blinds half-closed. She thought about Mrs. Hooper's comment and decided not to bring up age again.

Just then a telegram was brought up. It came from her husband, who had gone down the Channel as far as Budmouth with his friends in the yacht, and would not be able to get back till next day.

Just then, a telegram arrived. It was from her husband, who had sailed down the Channel as far as Budmouth with his friends on the yacht and wouldn't be able to return until the next day.

After her light dinner Ella idled about the shore with the children till dusk, thinking of the yet uncovered photograph in her room, with a serene sense of something ecstatic to come. For, with the subtle luxuriousness of fancy in which this young woman was an adept, on learning that her husband was to be absent that night she had refrained from incontinently rushing upstairs and opening the picture-frame, preferring to reserve the inspection till she could be alone, and a more romantic tinge be imparted to the occasion by silence, candles, solemn sea and stars outside, than was afforded by the garish afternoon sunlight.

After her light dinner, Ella lingered by the shore with the kids until dusk, thinking about the still-unopened photograph in her room, feeling a calm anticipation for something extraordinary to come. With her knack for indulging in daydreams, upon learning that her husband would be away that night, she held back from rushing upstairs to look at the picture, choosing instead to wait until she could be alone and create a more romantic atmosphere with silence, candles, and the solemn sea and stars outside, rather than the harsh afternoon sunlight.

The children had been sent to bed, and Ella soon followed, though it was not yet ten o'clock. To gratify her passionate curiosity she now made her preparations, first getting rid of superfluous garments and putting on her dressing-gown, then arranging a chair in front of the table and reading several pages of Trewe's tenderest utterances. Then she fetched the portrait-frame to the light, opened the back, took out the likeness, and set it up before her.

The kids had been sent to bed, and Ella soon went to bed too, even though it wasn’t yet ten o’clock. To satisfy her intense curiosity, she now got ready, first removing extra clothes and putting on her robe, then moving a chair in front of the table and reading several pages of Trewe's most heartfelt words. After that, she brought the picture frame to the light, opened the back, took out the photo, and set it up in front of her.

It was a striking countenance to look upon. The poet wore a luxuriant black moustache and imperial, and a slouched hat which shaded the forehead. The large dark eyes, described by the landlady, showed an unlimited capacity for misery; they looked out from beneath well-shaped brows as if they were reading the universe in the microcosm of the confronter's face, and were not altogether overjoyed at what the spectacle portended.

It was an impressive face to see. The poet had a thick black mustache and goatee, and a slouchy hat that cast a shadow over his forehead. His large dark eyes, as the landlady described, revealed a deep understanding of suffering; they peered out from beneath nicely shaped eyebrows as if they were interpreting the universe in the small world of the person in front of him, and they weren't exactly thrilled about what they saw.

Ella murmured in her lowest, richest, tenderest tone: 'And it's you who've so cruelly eclipsed me these many times!'

Ella whispered in her softest, warmest, most loving voice: 'And it's you who have so harshly overshadowed me all these times!'

As she gazed long at the portrait she fell into thought, till her eyes filled with tears, and she touched the cardboard with her lips. Then she laughed with a nervous lightness, and wiped her eyes.

As she looked intently at the portrait, she fell into deep thought until her eyes filled with tears, and she pressed her lips against the cardboard. Then she laughed with a jittery brightness and wiped her eyes.

She thought how wicked she was, a woman having a husband and three children, to let her mind stray to a stranger in this unconscionable manner. No, he was not a stranger! She knew his thoughts and feelings as well as she knew her own; they were, in fact, the self-same thoughts and feelings as hers, which her husband distinctly lacked; perhaps luckily for himself; considering that he had to provide for family expenses.

She realized how wrong she was, a woman with a husband and three kids, to let her thoughts wander to someone else like this. No, he wasn't a stranger! She understood his thoughts and feelings just as well as her own; they were, in fact, the exact same thoughts and feelings she had, which her husband completely lacked; maybe that's for the best for him, given that he had to take care of the family's expenses.

'He's nearer my real self, he's more intimate with the real me than Will is, after all, even though I've never seen him,' she said.

"He's closer to my true self; he knows the real me better than Will does, even though I've never met him," she said.

She laid his book and picture on the table at the bedside, and when she was reclining on the pillow she re-read those of Robert Trewe's verses which she had marked from time to time as most touching and true. Putting these aside, she set up the photograph on its edge upon the coverlet, and contemplated it as she lay. Then she scanned again by the light of the candle the half-obliterated pencillings on the wall-paper beside her head. There they were-phrases, couplets, bouts-rimes, beginnings and middles of lines, ideas in the rough, like Shelley's scraps, and the least of them so intense, so sweet, so palpitating, that it seemed as if his very breath, warm and loving, fanned her cheeks from those walls, walls that had surrounded his head times and times as they surrounded her own now. He must often have put up his hand so-with the pencil in it. Yes, the writing was sideways, as it would be if executed by one who extended his arm thus.

She placed his book and photo on the bedside table, and as she lay back on the pillow, she re-read the verses of Robert Trewe that she had marked as especially moving and true. After setting those aside, she propped up the photograph on the bedspread and looked at it while she rested. Then she once again examined the faint pencil marks on the wallpaper by her head in the light of the candle. There they were—phrases, couplets, rhyme sketches, beginnings and middles of lines, rough ideas, like Shelley's scraps, and even the smallest of them so powerful, so sweet, so lively, that it felt like his warm, loving breath was brushing her cheeks from those walls, walls that had enclosed his head many times just as they enclosed hers now. He must have often raised his hand like that—with the pencil in his grip. Yes, the writing was sideways, exactly how it would look if someone extended their arm that way.

These inscribed shapes of the poet's world,

These engraved shapes of the poet's world,

'Forms more real than living man, Nurslings of immortality,'

'Forms more real than living humans, Nurslings of immortality,'

were, no doubt, the thoughts and spirit-strivings which had come to him in the dead of night, when he could let himself go and have no fear of the frost of criticism. No doubt they had often been written up hastily by the light of the moon, the rays of the lamp, in the blue-grey dawn, in full daylight perhaps never. And now her hair was dragging where his arm had lain when he secured the fugitive fancies; she was sleeping on a poet's lips, immersed in the very essence of him, permeated by his spirit as by an ether.

were undoubtedly the thoughts and passionate struggles that had come to him in the dead of night, when he could freely express himself without fearing criticism. They had likely been quickly jotted down by the light of the moon, the glow of the lamp, during the blue-grey dawn, and probably never in full daylight. And now her hair was tousled where his arm had rested when he captured those fleeting ideas; she was sleeping on a poet's lips, completely absorbed in his essence, filled with his spirit as if it were an atmosphere surrounding her.

While she was dreaming the minutes away thus, a footstep came upon the stairs, and in a moment she heard her husband's heavy step on the landing immediately without.

While she was lost in her dreams, she suddenly heard footsteps on the stairs, and a moment later, she heard her husband’s heavy footsteps on the landing right outside.

'Ell, where are you?'

"Hey, where are you?"

What possessed her she could not have described, but, with an instinctive objection to let her husband know what she had been doing, she slipped the photograph under the pillow just as he flung open the door, with the air of a man who had dined not badly.

What got into her, she couldn't explain, but with a natural urge to keep her husband from knowing what she had been up to, she tucked the photograph under the pillow just as he burst through the door, looking like a man who had enjoyed a decent dinner.

'O, I beg pardon,' said William Marchmill. 'Have you a headache? I am afraid I have disturbed you.'

'O, I'm so sorry,' said William Marchmill. 'Do you have a headache? I’m afraid I’ve interrupted you.'

'No, I've not got a headache,' said she. 'How is it you've come?'

'No, I don't have a headache,' she said. 'How did you get here?'

'Well, we found we could get back in very good time after all, and I didn't want to make another day of it, because of going somewhere else to-morrow.'

'Well, we realized we could get back in no time, and I didn’t want to stretch it into another day since we were going somewhere else tomorrow.'

'Shall I come down again?'

"Should I come down again?"

'O no. I'm as tired as a dog. I've had a good feed, and I shall turn in straight off. I want to get out at six o'clock to-morrow if I can . . . I shan't disturb you by my getting up; it will be long before you are awake.' And he came forward into the room.

'O no. I'm as tired as can be. I've had a good meal, and I’m going to bed right away. I want to wake up at six o'clock tomorrow if I can... I won’t disturb you when I get up; it’ll be a while before you’re awake.' And he stepped into the room.

While her eyes followed his movements, Ella softly pushed the photograph further out of sight.

While her eyes tracked his movements, Ella gently pushed the photograph further out of view.

'Sure you're not ill?' he asked, bending over her.

"Are you sure you're not sick?" he asked, leaning over her.

'No, only wicked!'

'No, just wicked!'

'Never mind that.' And he stooped and kissed her.

'Forget about that.' And he bent down and kissed her.

Next morning Marchmill was called at six o'clock; and in waking and yawning she heard him muttering to himself: 'What the deuce is this that's been crackling under me so?' Imagining her asleep he searched round him and withdrew something. Through her half-opened eyes she perceived it to be Mr. Trewe.

Next morning, Marchmill was called at six o'clock, and as she woke up and yawned, she heard him mumbling to himself, "What the heck is this crackling under me?" Thinking she was still asleep, he looked around and pulled something out. Through her half-open eyes, she realized it was Mr. Trewe.

'Well, I'm damned!' her husband exclaimed.

'What, dear?' said she.

"What is it, dear?" she asked.

'O, you are awake? Ha! ha!'

"Oh, you’re up? Ha! Ha!"

'What do you mean?'

'Some bloke's photograph-a friend of our landlady's, I suppose. I wonder how it came here; whisked off the table by accident perhaps when they were making the bed.'

'Some guy's photo—a friend of our landlady's, I guess. I wonder how it ended up here; maybe it was accidentally whisked off the table while they were making the bed.'

'I was looking at it yesterday, and it must have dropped in then.'

'I was checking it out yesterday, and it must have fallen in then.'

'O, he's a friend of yours? Bless his picturesque heart!'

'O, he's your friend? Bless his charming heart!'

Ella's loyalty to the object of her admiration could not endure to hear him ridiculed. 'He's a clever man!' she said, with a tremor in her gentle voice which she herself felt to be absurdly uncalled for.

Ella's loyalty to the person she admired couldn't stand hearing him mocked. "He's a smart guy!" she said, her soft voice trembling, which she knew was utterly unnecessary.

'He is a rising poet-the gentleman who occupied two of these rooms before we came, though I've never seen him.'

'He is an emerging poet—the guy who used to occupy two of these rooms before we arrived, although I’ve never met him.'

'How do you know, if you've never seen him?'

'How do you know, if you've never met him?'

'Mrs. Hooper told me when she showed me the photograph.'

'Mrs. Hooper told me when she showed me the picture.'

'O; well, I must up and be off. I shall be home rather early. Sorry I can't take you to-day, dear. Mind the children don't go getting drowned.'

'O, well, I need to get going. I should be home pretty early. Sorry I can't take you today, dear. Make sure the kids don't drown.'

That day Mrs. Marchmill inquired if Mr. Trewe were likely to call at any other time.

That day, Mrs. Marchmill asked if Mr. Trewe was going to drop by again.

'Yes,' said Mrs. Hooper. 'He's coming this day week to stay with a friend near here till you leave. He'll be sure to call.'

'Yes,' said Mrs. Hooper. 'He's coming a week from today to stay with a friend nearby until you leave. He'll definitely call.'

Marchmill did return quite early in the afternoon; and, opening some letters which had arrived in his absence, declared suddenly that he and his family would have to leave a week earlier than they had expected to do-in short, in three days.

Marchmill came back pretty early in the afternoon. After he opened some letters that had come while he was away, he suddenly announced that he and his family would have to leave a week earlier than they had planned—in just three days.

'Surely we can stay a week longer?' she pleaded. 'I like it here.'

'Surely we can stay a week longer?' she begged. 'I really like it here.'

'I don't. It is getting rather slow.'

'I don't. It's getting pretty slow.'

'Then you might leave me and the children!'

'Then you might leave me and the kids!'

'How perverse you are, Ell! What's the use? And have to come to fetch you! No: we'll all return together; and we'll make out our time in North Wales or Brighton a little later on. Besides, you've three days longer yet.'

'How twisted you are, Ell! What’s the point? And I have to come to get you! No way: we’ll all head back together; and we’ll spend our time in North Wales or Brighton a bit later. Plus, you still have three more days.'

It seemed to be her doom not to meet the man for whose rival talent she had a despairing admiration, and to whose person she was now absolutely attached. Yet she determined to make a last effort; and having gathered from her landlady that Trewe was living in a lonely spot not far from the fashionable town on the Island opposite, she crossed over in the packet from the neighbouring pier the following afternoon.

It seemed like it was her fate not to meet the man whose rival talent she admired with such despair, and to whom she was now completely attached. Still, she decided to make one last effort; after finding out from her landlady that Trewe was living in a secluded place not far from the trendy town on the island across, she took the ferry from the nearby pier the next afternoon.

What a useless journey it was! Ella knew but vaguely where the house stood, and when she fancied she had found it, and ventured to inquire of a pedestrian if he lived there, the answer returned by the man was that he did not know. And if he did live there, how could she call upon him? Some women might have the assurance to do it, but she had not. How crazy he would think her. She might have asked him to call upon her, perhaps; but she had not the courage for that, either. She lingered mournfully about the picturesque seaside eminence till it was time to return to the town and enter the steamer for recrossing, reaching home for dinner without having been greatly missed.

What a pointless journey it was! Ella only somewhat knew where the house was, and when she thought she had found it and dared to ask a passerby if he lived there, his response was that he didn’t know. And even if he did live there, how could she go and see him? Some women might have the confidence to do it, but she didn’t. How ridiculous he would think she was. She might have asked him to visit her, but she didn’t have the courage for that either. She hung around the scenic seaside hill sadly until it was time to head back to the town and board the steamer to return, getting home for dinner without being missed much.

At the last moment, unexpectedly enough, her husband said that he should have no objection to letting her and the children stay on till the end of the week, since she wished to do so, if she felt herself able to get home without him. She concealed the pleasure this extension of time gave her; and Marchmill went off the next morning alone.

At the last minute, quite unexpectedly, her husband said that he didn't mind letting her and the kids stay until the end of the week if she wanted to, as long as she felt she could get home without him. She hid the happiness this extra time brought her, and Marchmill left alone the next morning.

But the week passed, and Trewe did not call.

But the week went by, and Trewe didn’t call.

On Saturday morning the remaining members of the Marchmill family departed from the place which had been productive of so much fervour in her. The dreary, dreary train; the sun shining in moted beams upon the hot cushions; the dusty permanent way; the mean rows of wire-these things were her accompaniment: while out of the window the deep blue sea-levels disappeared from her gaze, and with them her poet's home. Heavy-hearted, she tried to read, and wept instead.

On Saturday morning, the remaining members of the Marchmill family left the place that had inspired so much passion in her. The dull, dull train; the sun shining in speckled beams on the warm seats; the dusty tracks; the shabby rows of wires—these were her companions: while out the window, the deep blue sea levels faded from her view, taking her poet's home with them. Feeling downcast, she attempted to read but ended up crying instead.

Mr. Marchmill was in a thriving way of business, and he and his family lived in a large new house, which stood in rather extensive grounds a few miles outside the city wherein he carried on his trade. Ella's life was lonely here, as the suburban life is apt to be, particularly at certain seasons; and she had ample time to indulge her taste for lyric and elegiac composition. She had hardly got back when she encountered a piece by Robert Trewe in the new number of her favourite magazine, which must have been written almost immediately before her visit to Solentsea, for it contained the very couplet she had seen pencilled on the wallpaper by the bed, and Mrs. Hooper had declared to be recent. Ella could resist no longer, but seizing a pen impulsively, wrote to him as a brother-poet, using the name of John Ivy, congratulating him in her letter on his triumphant executions in metre and rhythm of thoughts that moved his soul, as compared with her own brow-beaten efforts in the same pathetic trade.

Mr. Marchmill was doing really well in his business, and he and his family lived in a large, new house set on a pretty big piece of land a few miles outside the city where he worked. Ella found her life lonely here, which is common in suburban areas, especially during certain times of the year; she had plenty of time to indulge her love for writing lyrics and elegies. She had barely returned when she came across a piece by Robert Trewe in the latest issue of her favorite magazine, which must have been written almost right before her trip to Solentsea, because it included the exact couplet she had seen written on the wallpaper by the bed, which Mrs. Hooper said was new. Ella could no longer hold back, so she grabbed a pen impulsively and wrote to him as a fellow poet, using the name John Ivy, congratulating him in her letter on his amazing execution of meter and rhythm of thoughts that resonated with his soul, compared to her own downtrodden attempts in the same emotional craft.

To this address there came a response in a few days, little as she had dared to hope for it-a civil and brief note, in which the young poet stated that, though he was not well acquainted with Mr. Ivy's verse, he recalled the name as being one he had seen attached to some very promising pieces; that he was glad to gain Mr. Ivy's acquaintance by letter, and should certainly look with much interest for his productions in the future.

To this address, a reply arrived a few days later, more than she had dared to hope for—a polite and short note, where the young poet mentioned that, although he wasn't very familiar with Mr. Ivy's poetry, he recognized the name from some very promising works; he expressed his pleasure in getting to know Mr. Ivy through the letter and said he would definitely look forward to his future creations.

There must have been something juvenile or timid in her own epistle, as one ostensibly coming from a man, she declared to herself; for Trewe quite adopted the tone of an elder and superior in this reply. But what did it matter? he had replied; he had written to her with his own hand from that very room she knew so well, for he was now back again in his quarters.

There must have been something childish or shy in her own letter, as one that clearly came from a man, she told herself; because Trewe really took on the tone of someone older and more important in this reply. But what did it matter? He had replied; he had written to her with his own hand from that very room she knew so well, since he was back in his quarters again.

The correspondence thus begun was continued for two months or more, Ella Marchmill sending him from time to time some that she considered to be the best of her pieces, which he very kindly accepted, though he did not say he sedulously read them, nor did he send her any of his own in return. Ella would have been more hurt at this than she was if she had not known that Trewe laboured under the impression that she was one of his own sex.

The correspondence that started continued for over two months, with Ella Marchmill occasionally sending him what she thought were her best pieces. He kindly accepted them, but he didn’t say he carefully read them, nor did he send her any of his own in response. Ella would have been more upset about this if she didn’t know that Trewe believed she was one of his own gender.

Yet the situation was unsatisfactory. A flattering little voice told her that, were he only to see her, matters would be otherwise. No doubt she would have helped on this by making a frank confession of womanhood, to begin with, if something had not happened, to her delight, to render it unnecessary. A friend of her husband's, the editor of the most important newspaper in the city and county, who was dining with them one day, observed during their conversation about the poet that his (the editor's) brother the landscape-painter was a friend of Mr. Trewe's, and that the two men were at that very moment in Wales together.

Yet the situation was unsatisfactory. A flattering little voice told her that if he could just see her, things would be different. No doubt she would have contributed to this by openly embracing her femininity, to start with, if something had not happened, much to her delight, to make it unnecessary. A friend of her husband's, the editor of the city's most important newspaper, who was dining with them one day, mentioned during their conversation about the poet that his (the editor's) brother, a landscape painter, was a friend of Mr. Trewe's, and that the two of them were currently in Wales together.

Ella was slightly acquainted with the editor's brother. The next morning down she sat and wrote, inviting him to stay at her house for a short time on his way back, and requesting him to bring with him, if practicable, his companion Mr. Trewe, whose acquaintance she was anxious to make. The answer arrived after some few days. Her correspondent and his friend Trewe would have much satisfaction in accepting her invitation on their way southward, which would be on such and such a day in the following week.

Ella was casually acquainted with the editor's brother. The next morning, she sat down and wrote, inviting him to stay at her house for a short while on his way back, and asking if he could bring along his friend Mr. Trewe, whose acquaintance she was eager to make. The reply came a few days later. Her correspondent and his friend Trewe were pleased to accept her invitation on their way south, which would be on a specific day in the following week.

Ella was blithe and buoyant. Her scheme had succeeded; her beloved though as yet unseen one was coming. "Behold, he standeth behind our wall; he looked forth at the windows, showing himself through the lattice," she thought ecstatically. "And, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone, the flowers appear on the earth, the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land."

Ella was cheerful and lively. Her plan had worked; her beloved, though still unseen, was on his way. "Look, he's standing behind our wall; he peeked through the windows, showing himself through the lattice," she thought with joy. "And, look, the winter is over, the rain is gone, the flowers are blooming on the earth, the time for birds to sing has come, and the sound of the turtle dove is heard in our land."

But it was necessary to consider the details of lodging and feeding him. This she did most solicitously, and awaited the pregnant day and hour.

But it was important to think about the details of his accommodation and meals. She did this very carefully and looked forward to the important day and time.

It was about five in the afternoon when she heard a ring at the door and the editor's brother's voice in the hall. Poetess as she was, or as she thought herself, she had not been too sublime that day to dress with infinite trouble in a fashionable robe of rich material, having a faint resemblance to the chiton of the Greeks, a style just then in vogue among ladies of an artistic and romantic turn, which had been obtained by Ella of her Bond Street dressmaker when she was last in London. Her visitor entered the drawing-room. She looked towards his rear; nobody else came through the door. Where, in the name of the God of Love, was Robert Trewe?

It was around five in the afternoon when she heard a ring at the door and the editor's brother's voice in the hallway. Even though she considered herself a poetess, she hadn’t been too elevated that day to struggle into a fashionable dress made of rich fabric, which had a slight resemblance to the Greek chiton, a style currently popular among women with artistic and romantic inclinations. Ella had gotten it from her Bond Street dressmaker during her last trip to London. Her visitor walked into the drawing room. She glanced behind him; no one else came through the door. Where, for the love of God, was Robert Trewe?

'O, I'm sorry,' said the painter, after their introductory words had been spoken. 'Trewe is a curious fellow, you know, Mrs. Marchmill. He said he'd come; then he said he couldn't. He's rather dusty. We've been doing a few miles with knapsacks, you know; and he wanted to get on home.'

'O, I'm sorry,' said the painter, after their introductory words had been spoken. 'Trewe is a strange guy, you know, Mrs. Marchmill. He said he would come; then he said he couldn't. He's quite dirty. We've been hiking a few miles with backpacks, you know; and he wanted to head home.'

'He-he's not coming?'

'He’s not coming?'

'He's not; and he asked me to make his apologies.'

'He’s not here; and he asked me to send his apologies.'

'When did you p-p-part from him?' she asked, her nether lip starting off quivering so much that it was like a tremolo-stop opened in her speech. She longed to run away from this dreadful bore and cry her eyes out.

'When did you break up with him?' she asked, her lower lip quivering so much that it felt like a tremolo-stop was turned on in her voice. She wanted to escape this awful conversation and cry her eyes out.

'Just now, in the turnpike road yonder there.'

'Right now, on the highway over there.'

'What! he has actually gone past my gates?'

'What! He has actually gone past my gates?'

'Yes. When we got to them-handsome gates they are, too, the finest bit of modern wrought-iron work I have seen-when we came to them we stopped, talking there a little while, and then he wished me good-bye and went on. The truth is, he's a little bit depressed just now, and doesn't want to see anybody. He's a very good fellow, and a warm friend, but a little uncertain and gloomy sometimes; he thinks too much of things. His poetry is rather too erotic and passionate, you know, for some tastes; and he has just come in for a terrible slating from the —- Review that was published yesterday; he saw a copy of it at the station by accident. Perhaps you've read it?'

'Yes. When we got to the gates—they're really beautiful, the best piece of modern wrought-iron work I've seen—we stopped there for a bit, chatting, and then he said goodbye and went on his way. The truth is, he's feeling a little down right now and doesn't want to see anyone. He's a really good guy and a close friend, but he can be a bit uncertain and gloomy at times; he tends to overthink things. His poetry can be a bit too erotic and passionate for some people's tastes, and he just got harshly criticized in the —- Review that came out yesterday; he accidentally spotted a copy of it at the station. Maybe you've read it?'

'No.'

'So much the better. O, it is not worth thinking of; just one of those articles written to order, to please the narrow-minded set of subscribers upon whom the circulation depends. But he's upset by it. He says it is the misrepresentation that hurts him so; that, though he can stand a fair attack, he can't stand lies that he's powerless to refute and stop from spreading. That's just Trewe's weak point. He lives so much by himself that these things affect him much more than they would if he were in the bustle of fashionable or commercial life. So he wouldn't come here, making the excuse that it all looked so new and monied-if you'll pardon-'

So much the better. Oh, it’s not worth thinking about; just one of those articles written to please the narrow-minded audience that the circulation relies on. But it's really getting to him. He says it’s the lies that hurt him the most; that while he can handle a fair critique, he can’t stand the falsehoods that he feels powerless to refute and stop from spreading. That’s just Trewe’s weak spot. He spends so much time alone that these things hit him harder than they would if he were in the hustle and bustle of fashionable or commercial life. So he wouldn’t come here, using the excuse that it all looks so new and wealthy—if you’ll pardon the expression—

'But-he must have known-there was sympathy here! Has he never said anything about getting letters from this address?'

'But he must have known there was sympathy here! Has he never mentioned getting letters from this address?'

'Yes, yes, he has, from John Ivy-perhaps a relative of yours, he thought, visiting here at the time?'

'Yes, yes, he has, from John Ivy—maybe a relative of yours, he thought, visiting here at the time?'

'Did he-like Ivy, did he say?'

'Did he—like Ivy, did he say?'

'Well, I don't know that he took any great interest in Ivy.'

'Well, I’m not sure he had much interest in Ivy.'

'Or in his poems?'

'Or in his verses?'

'Or in his poems-so far as I know, that is.'

'Or in his poems—as far as I know, that is.'

Robert Trewe took no interest in her house, in her poems, or in their writer. As soon as she could get away she went into the nursery and tried to let off her emotion by unnecessarily kissing the children, till she had a sudden sense of disgust at being reminded how plain-looking they were, like their father.

Robert Trewe didn’t care about her house, her poems, or the person who wrote them. As soon as she could, she went into the nursery and tried to let out her feelings by overly kissing the kids, until she suddenly felt disgusted at being reminded of how plain they looked, just like their dad.

The obtuse and single-minded landscape-painter never once perceived from her conversation that it was only Trewe she wanted, and not himself. He made the best of his visit, seeming to enjoy the society of Ella's husband, who also took a great fancy to him, and showed him everywhere about the neighbourhood, neither of them noticing Ella's mood.

The clueless and stubborn landscape painter never realized from their conversation that she only wanted Trewe and not him. He made the most of his visit, pretending to enjoy the company of Ella's husband, who also took a liking to him and showed him around the neighborhood, neither of them aware of Ella's mood.

The painter had been gone only a day or two when, while sitting upstairs alone one morning, she glanced over the London paper just arrived, and read the following paragraph:-

The painter had been gone only a day or two when, while sitting upstairs alone one morning, she glanced at the London paper that had just arrived and read the following paragraph: -

'SUICIDE OF A POET

'Mr. Robert Trewe, who has been favourably known for some years as one of our rising lyrists, committed suicide at his lodgings at Solentsea on Saturday evening last by shooting himself in the right temple with a revolver. Readers hardly need to be reminded that Mr. Trewe has recently attracted the attention of a much wider public than had hitherto known him, by his new volume of verse, mostly of an impassioned kind, entitled "Lyrics to a Woman Unknown," which has been already favourably noticed in these pages for the extraordinary gamut of feeling it traverses, and which has been made the subject of a severe, if not ferocious, criticism in the —- Review. It is supposed, though not certainly known, that the article may have partially conduced to the sad act, as a copy of the review in question was found on his writing-table; and he has been observed to be in a somewhat depressed state of mind since the critique appeared.'

Mr. Robert Trewe, who has been well-known for years as one of our up-and-coming lyricists, took his own life at his apartment in Solentsea last Saturday evening by shooting himself in the right temple with a revolver. Readers likely remember that Mr. Trewe recently caught the attention of a much larger audience than he had before, thanks to his new collection of poems, mostly passionate in nature, titled "Lyrics to a Woman Unknown," which has already received favorable mentions in these pages for the wide range of emotions it covers and has been the subject of harsh, if not brutal, criticism in the —- Review. It is believed, though not confirmed, that the article may have contributed to his tragic decision, as a copy of the review was found on his writing desk, and he had been seen in a somewhat depressed state of mind since the critique was published.

Then came the report of the inquest, at which the following letter was read, it having been addressed to a friend at a distance:-

Then came the report of the inquest, during which the following letter was read, as it had been addressed to a friend far away:-

'DEAR -,-Before these lines reach your hands I shall be delivered from the inconveniences of seeing, hearing, and knowing more of the things around me. I will not trouble you by giving my reasons for the step I have taken, though I can assure you they were sound and logical. Perhaps had I been blessed with a mother, or a sister, or a female friend of another sort tenderly devoted to me, I might have thought it worth while to continue my present existence. I have long dreamt of such an unattainable creature, as you know, and she, this undiscoverable, elusive one, inspired my last volume; the imaginary woman alone, for, in spite of what has been said in some quarters, there is no real woman behind the title. She has continued to the last unrevealed, unmet, unwon. I think it desirable to mention this in order that no blame may attach to any real woman as having been the cause of my decease by cruel or cavalier treatment of me. Tell my landlady that I am sorry to have caused her this unpleasantness; but my occupancy of the rooms will soon be forgotten. There are ample funds in my name at the bank to pay all expenses. R. TREWE.'

'DEAR -,- Before you read this, I will have freed myself from the hassle of seeing, hearing, and knowing about everything around me. I won’t bother you with my reasons for what I’ve done, but I can assure you they were rational and considered. Maybe if I had been lucky enough to have a mother, sister, or a close female friend who truly cared for me, I might have found it worthwhile to keep living. I’ve long imagined such an unattainable person, as you know, and she, this impossible, elusive figure, inspired my last book; the imaginary woman only, because despite what some people have claimed, there is no real woman behind the title. She has remained hidden, unmet, and unacquired until the end. I feel it’s important to mention this so that no real woman is blamed for my death due to any cruel or indifferent treatment. Please tell my landlady that I’m sorry to have caused her this trouble; but soon, my staying in the rooms will be forgotten. There are sufficient funds in my name at the bank to cover all expenses. R. TREWE.'

Ella sat for a while as if stunned, then rushed into the adjoining chamber and flung herself upon her face on the bed.

Ella sat there for a moment, as if in shock, then ran into the next room and threw herself onto the bed, face down.

Her grief and distraction shook her to pieces; and she lay in this frenzy of sorrow for more than an hour. Broken words came every now and then from her quivering lips: 'O, if he had only known of me-known of me-me! . . . O, if I had only once met him-only once; and put my hand upon his hot forehead-kissed him-let him know how I loved him-that I would have suffered shame and scorn, would have lived and died, for him! Perhaps it would have saved his dear life! . . . But no-it was not allowed! God is a jealous God; and that happiness was not for him and me!'

Her grief and distraction shattered her; she lay there in this storm of sorrow for over an hour. Broken words escaped her trembling lips now and then: 'Oh, if he had only known about me—known about me—me! . . . Oh, if I had just met him—just once; and touched his hot forehead—kissed him—let him know how much I loved him—that I would have faced shame and scorn, would have lived and died for him! Maybe it would have saved his precious life! . . . But no—it wasn’t meant to be! God is a jealous God; and that happiness wasn’t for him and me!'

All possibilities were over; the meeting was stultified. Yet it was almost visible to her in her fantasy even now, though it could never be substantiated -

All possibilities were gone; the meeting was pointless. Yet it was almost clear to her in her imagination even now, though it could never be proven -

'The hour which might have been, yet might not be, Which man's and woman's heart conceived and bore, Yet whereof life was barren.'

'The hour that could have been, but isn't, That both man's and woman's hearts imagined and brought to life, Yet from which life was empty.'

She wrote to the landlady at Solentsea in the third person, in as subdued a style as she could command, enclosing a postal order for a sovereign, and informing Mrs. Hooper that Mrs. Marchmill had seen in the papers the sad account of the poet's death, and having been, as Mrs. Hooper was aware, much interested in Mr. Trewe during her stay at Coburg House, she would be obliged if Mrs. Hooper could obtain a small portion of his hair before his coffin was closed down, and send it her as a memorial of him, as also the photograph that was in the frame.

She wrote to the landlady at Solentsea in the third person, in as calm a tone as she could manage, enclosing a postal order for a pound, and letting Mrs. Hooper know that Mrs. Marchmill had read in the papers about the sad news of the poet's death. Since Mrs. Hooper knew that Mrs. Marchmill had been quite interested in Mr. Trewe during her stay at Coburg House, she would appreciate it if Mrs. Hooper could get a small lock of his hair before they closed the coffin and send it to her as a keepsake, along with the photograph that was in the frame.

By the return-post a letter arrived containing what had been requested. Ella wept over the portrait and secured it in her private drawer; the lock of hair she tied with white ribbon and put in her bosom, whence she drew it and kissed it every now and then in some unobserved nook.

By the return mail, a letter arrived with what had been requested. Ella cried over the portrait and stored it in her private drawer; she tied the lock of hair with a white ribbon and kept it close to her heart, pulling it out to kiss it now and then in a secret spot.

'What's the matter?' said her husband, looking up from his newspaper on one of these occasions. 'Crying over something? A lock of hair? Whose is it?'

"What's wrong?" her husband asked, glancing up from his newspaper during one of those moments. "Are you crying over something? A lock of hair? Whose is it?"

'He's dead!' she murmured.

"He's gone!" she murmured.

'Who?'

'I don't want to tell you, Will, just now, unless you insist!' she said, a sob hanging heavy in her voice.

"I don't want to tell you right now, Will, unless you really want me to!" she said, a sob weighing heavily in her voice.

'O, all right.'

'Oh, fine.'

'Do you mind my refusing? I will tell you some day.'

'Do you mind if I refuse? I’ll explain it to you someday.'

'It doesn't matter in the least, of course.'

'It doesn't matter at all, of course.'

He walked away whistling a few bars of no tune in particular; and when he had got down to his factory in the city the subject came into Marchmill's head again.

He walked away whistling a few random notes, and when he reached his factory in the city, the topic popped back into Marchmill's mind.

He, too, was aware that a suicide had taken place recently at the house they had occupied at Solentsea. Having seen the volume of poems in his wife's hand of late, and heard fragments of the landlady's conversation about Trewe when they were her tenants, he all at once said to himself; 'Why of course it's he! How the devil did she get to know him? What sly animals women are!'

He also knew that a suicide had recently happened at the house they rented in Solentsea. Having noticed the book of poems in his wife's hands lately, and overheard bits of the landlady's talk about Trewe when they lived there, he suddenly thought to himself, 'Of course it's him! How on earth did she get to know him? Women are such sly creatures!'

Then he placidly dismissed the matter, and went on with his daily affairs. By this time Ella at home had come to a determination. Mrs. Hooper, in sending the hair and photograph, had informed her of the day of the funeral; and as the morning and noon wore on an overpowering wish to know where they were laying him took possession of the sympathetic woman. Caring very little now what her husband or any one else might think of her eccentricities; she wrote Marchmill a brief note, stating that she was called away for the afternoon and evening, but would return on the following morning. This she left on his desk, and having given the same information to the servants, went out of the house on foot.

Then he calmly brushed off the issue and continued with his daily routine. By this time, Ella at home had made up her mind. Mrs. Hooper, in sending the hair and photograph, had informed her of the day of the funeral; and as the morning and noon passed, an overwhelming urge to know where they were burying him took hold of the caring woman. Not worrying much anymore about what her husband or anyone else might think of her quirks, she wrote Marchmill a short note, saying that she had to be out for the afternoon and evening but would be back the following morning. She left this on his desk, and after informing the servants, she left the house on foot.

When Mr. Marchmill reached home early in the afternoon the servants looked anxious. The nurse took him privately aside, and hinted that her mistress's sadness during the past few days had been such that she feared she had gone out to drown herself. Marchmill reflected. Upon the whole he thought that she had not done that. Without saying whither he was bound he also started off, telling them not to sit up for him. He drove to the railway-station, and took a ticket for Solentsea.

When Mr. Marchmill got home early in the afternoon, the staff seemed worried. The nurse pulled him aside and suggested that his wife's melancholy over the past few days was so severe that she was afraid she had gone out to kill herself. Marchmill thought about it. Overall, he believed she hadn’t done that. Without revealing where he was headed, he left, telling them not to wait up for him. He drove to the train station and bought a ticket to Solentsea.

It was dark when he reached the place, though he had come by a fast train, and he knew that if his wife had preceded him thither it could only have been by a slower train, arriving not a great while before his own. The season at Solentsea was now past: the parade was gloomy, and the flys were few and cheap. He asked the way to the Cemetery, and soon reached it. The gate was locked, but the keeper let him in, declaring, however, that there was nobody within the precincts. Although it was not late, the autumnal darkness had now become intense; and he found some difficulty in keeping to the serpentine path which led to the quarter where, as the man had told him, the one or two interments for the day had taken place. He stepped upon the grass, and, stumbling over some pegs, stooped now and then to discern if possible a figure against the sky.

It was dark when he arrived, even though he had traveled by a fast train, and he realized that if his wife had gotten there before him, it must have been on a slower train that arrived not too long before his. The season at Solentsea was over: the promenade looked dreary, and there were few, inexpensive taxis. He asked for directions to the Cemetery and soon found it. The gate was locked, but the caretaker let him in, stating that there was nobody inside. Even though it wasn't late, the autumn darkness had become quite thick, making it hard for him to follow the winding path that led to the area where, as the man had mentioned, a couple of burials had taken place that day. He walked onto the grass and, tripping over some pegs, bent down now and then to see if he could make out a figure against the sky.

He could see none; but lighting on a spot where the soil was trodden, beheld a crouching object beside a newly made grave. She heard him, and sprang up.

He couldn’t see anyone; but when he spotted a place where the ground was disturbed, he saw a crouching figure next to a freshly dug grave. She heard him and jumped up.

'Ell, how silly this is!' he said indignantly. 'Running away from home-I never heard such a thing! Of course I am not jealous of this unfortunate man; but it is too ridiculous that you, a married woman with three children and a fourth coming, should go losing your head like this over a dead lover! . . . Do you know you were locked in? You might not have been able to get out all night.'

“Wow, how ridiculous is this!” he said angrily. “Running away from home—I’ve never heard anything like it! Of course I’m not jealous of this poor guy, but it’s just absurd that you, a married woman with three kids and another on the way, are losing your mind over a dead lover! ... Do you realize you were locked in? You could have been stuck there all night.”

She did not answer.

She didn't answer.

'I hope it didn't go far between you and him, for your own sake.'

"I hope it didn't go too far between you and him, for your own sake."

'Don't insult me, Will.'

"Don't dis me, Will."

'Mind, I won't have any more of this sort of thing; do you hear?'

'Listen, I won’t put up with this kind of thing anymore; do you understand?'

'Very well,' she said.

"Sure," she said.

He drew her arm within his own, and conducted her out of the Cemetery. It was impossible to get back that night; and not wishing to be recognized in their present sorry condition, he took her to a miserable little coffee-house close to the station, whence they departed early in the morning, travelling almost without speaking, under the sense that it was one of those dreary situations occurring in married life which words could not mend, and reaching their own door at noon.

He linked his arm with hers and led her out of the cemetery. There was no way to return that night, and not wanting to be seen in their current sad state, he took her to a rundown little coffee shop near the station, where they left early in the morning, barely speaking, feeling like they were in one of those bleak moments in married life that words couldn't fix, and they finally reached their front door by noon.

The months passed, and neither of the twain ever ventured to start a conversation upon this episode. Ella seemed to be only too frequently in a sad and listless mood, which might almost have been called pining. The time was approaching when she would have to undergo the stress of childbirth for a fourth time, and that apparently did not tend to raise her spirits.

The months went by, and neither of them ever dared to bring up this incident. Ella often appeared to be in a sad and indifferent state, which could almost be described as longing. The time was drawing near for her to face the challenges of childbirth for the fourth time, and that clearly wasn’t helping her mood.

'I don't think I shall get over it this time!' she said one day.

'I don't think I'll get over it this time!' she said one day.

'Pooh! what childish foreboding! Why shouldn't it be as well now as ever?'

'Pooh! What a silly worry! Why shouldn't it be as good now as it ever was?'

She shook her head. 'I feel almost sure I am going to die; and I should be glad, if it were not for Nelly, and Frank, and Tiny.'

She shook her head. 'I feel pretty sure I'm going to die; and I'd be okay with it, if it weren't for Nelly, and Frank, and Tiny.'

'And me!'

'Me too!'

'You'll soon find somebody to fill my place,' she murmured, with a sad smile. 'And you'll have a perfect right to; I assure you of that.'

"You'll soon find someone to take my place," she said quietly, with a sad smile. "And you'll have every right to do so; I promise you that."

'Ell, you are not thinking still about that-poetical friend of yours?'

'Ell, are you still thinking about that poetic friend of yours?'

She neither admitted nor denied the charge. 'I am not going to get over my illness this time,' she reiterated. 'Something tells me I shan't.'

She neither admitted nor denied the charge. 'I’m not going to recover from my illness this time,' she repeated. 'Something tells me I won’t.'

This view of things was rather a bad beginning, as it usually is; and, in fact, six weeks later, in the month of May, she was lying in her room, pulseless and bloodless, with hardly strength enough left to follow up one feeble breath with another, the infant for whose unnecessary life she was slowly parting with her own being fat and well. Just before her death she spoke to Marchmill softly:-

This perspective was a pretty bad start, as it often is; and, in fact, six weeks later, in May, she was lying in her room, lifeless and pale, with barely enough strength to take one weak breath after another, while the baby she was slowly giving her life for was healthy and thriving. Just before she passed away, she spoke softly to Marchmill:

'Will, I want to confess to you the entire circumstances of that-about you know what-that time we visited Solentsea. I can't tell what possessed me-how I could forget you so, my husband! But I had got into a morbid state: I thought you had been unkind; that you had neglected me; that you weren't up to my intellectual level, while he was, and far above it. I wanted a fuller appreciator, perhaps, rather than another lover-'

'Will, I need to confess everything about that time we went to Solentsea. I don’t even know what came over me—how I could forget you like that, my husband! I had gotten into a really dark state: I thought you were being unkind, that you were neglecting me, and that you weren’t on my intellectual level, while he was, and even beyond it. Maybe I just wanted someone who could appreciate me more, rather than just another lover—'

She could get no further then for very exhaustion; and she went off in sudden collapse a few hours later, without having said anything more to her husband on the subject of her love for the poet. William Marchmill, in truth, like most husbands of several years' standing, was little disturbed by retrospective jealousies, and had not shown the least anxiety to press her for confessions concerning a man dead and gone beyond any power of inconveniencing him more.

She couldn't go any further due to sheer exhaustion; and a few hours later, she suddenly collapsed, not having said anything more to her husband about her feelings for the poet. William Marchmill, like most husbands after several years of marriage, wasn't very bothered by jealous thoughts from the past and hadn't shown any urgency to push her for confessions about a man who was long gone and couldn't cause him any more trouble.

But when she had been buried a couple of years it chanced one day that, in turning over some forgotten papers that he wished to destroy before his second wife entered the house, he lighted on a lock of hair in an envelope, with the photograph of the deceased poet, a date being written on the back in his late wife's hand. It was that of the time they spent at Solentsea.

But a couple of years after her burial, he happened to come across some old papers he wanted to get rid of before his second wife came home. Among them, he found a lock of hair in an envelope, along with a photo of the late poet, and on the back, written in his deceased wife's handwriting, was the date marking the time they spent at Solentsea.

Marchmill looked long and musingly at the hair and portrait, for something struck him. Fetching the little boy who had been the death of his mother, now a noisy toddler, he took him on his knee, held the lock of hair against the child's head, and set up the photograph on the table behind, so that he could closely compare the features each countenance presented. There were undoubtedly strong traces of resemblance; the dreamy and peculiar expression of the poet's face sat, as the transmitted idea, upon the child's, and the hair was of the same hue.

Marchmill stared thoughtfully at the hair and the portrait, feeling something click in his mind. He called over the little boy who had caused his mother's death, now a loud toddler, and placed him on his lap. He held the lock of hair against the child's head and set the photograph on the table behind him to closely compare the features of each face. There were definitely strong similarities; the dreamy and unique expression of the poet's face was reflected in the child's, and the hair was the same color.

'I'm damned if I didn't think so!' murmured Marchmill. 'Then she did play me false with that fellow at the lodgings! Let me see: the dates-the second week in August . . . the third week in May . . . Yes . . . yes . . . Get away, you poor little brat! You are nothing to me!'

"I'm damned if I didn't think so!" murmured Marchmill. "So she did betray me with that guy at the lodgings! Let me see: the dates—the second week in August... the third week in May... Yes... yes... Get lost, you poor little brat! You mean nothing to me!"

1893.

THE THREE STRANGERS

Among the few features of agricultural England which retain an appearance but little modified by the lapse of centuries, may be reckoned the high, grassy and furzy downs, coombs, or ewe-leases, as they are indifferently called, that fill a large area of certain counties in the south and south-west. If any mark of human occupation is met with hereon, it usually takes the form of the solitary cottage of some shepherd.

Among the few features of agricultural England that still look much the same after centuries are the high, grassy, and bushy hills, valleys, or sheep pastures, as they are variously called, that cover a large part of certain counties in the south and southwest. If there's any sign of human presence here, it typically shows up as the lone cottage of a shepherd.

Fifty years ago such a lonely cottage stood on such a down, and may possibly be standing there now. In spite of its loneliness, however, the spot, by actual measurement, was not more than five miles from a county-town. Yet that affected it little. Five miles of irregular upland, during the long inimical seasons, with their sleets, snows, rains, and mists, afford withdrawing space enough to isolate a Timon or a Nebuchadnezzar; much less, in fair weather, to please that less repellent tribe, the poets, philosophers, artists, and others who 'conceive and meditate of pleasant things.'

Fifty years ago, a lonely cottage stood on a hill, and it might still be there today. Despite its isolation, the location was just five miles from a county town. However, that didn’t change much. Five miles of uneven high ground, during the long harsh seasons filled with sleet, snow, rain, and fog, provided enough separation to isolate someone like Timon or Nebuchadnezzar; not to mention, in good weather, it was enough to attract the less standoffish group of poets, philosophers, artists, and others who "think and reflect on enjoyable things."

Some old earthen camp or barrow, some clump of trees, at least some starved fragment of ancient hedge is usually taken advantage of in the erection of these forlorn dwellings. But, in the present case, such a kind of shelter had been disregarded. Higher Crowstairs, as the house was called, stood quite detached and undefended. The only reason for its precise situation seemed to be the crossing of two footpaths at right angles hard by, which may have crossed there and thus for a good five hundred years. Hence the house was exposed to the elements on all sides. But, though the wind up here blew unmistakably when it did blow, and the rain hit hard whenever it fell, the various weathers of the winter season were not quite so formidable on the coomb as they were imagined to be by dwellers on low ground. The raw rimes were not so pernicious as in the hollows, and the frosts were scarcely so severe. When the shepherd and his family who tenanted the house were pitied for their sufferings from the exposure, they said that upon the whole they were less inconvenienced by 'wuzzes and flames' (hoarses and phlegms) than when they had lived by the stream of a snug neighbouring valley.

Some old earthen camp or mound, some cluster of trees, or at least some ragged piece of an old hedge is usually used when building these sad homes. But, in this case, that kind of shelter was ignored. Higher Crowstairs, as the house was called, stood completely isolated and unprotected. The only reason for its specific location seemed to be the crossing of two footpaths at right angles nearby, which may have intersected there for a good five hundred years. As a result, the house was open to the weather on all sides. However, although the wind up here blew clearly when it blew, and the rain came down hard whenever it fell, the various weather conditions of winter were not as harsh in the coomb as the people living in low ground believed. The raw cold wasn’t as harmful as in the valleys, and the frosts were hardly as intense. When the shepherd and his family, who lived in the house, were sympathized with for their struggles against the exposure, they said that overall, they were less bothered by 'wuzzes and flames' (coughs and phlegm) than when they had lived by the stream in a cozy nearby valley.

The night of March 28, 182-, was precisely one of the nights that were wont to call forth these expressions of commiseration. The level rainstorm smote walls, slopes, and hedges like the clothyard shafts of Senlac and Crecy. Such sheep and outdoor animals as had no shelter stood with their buttocks to the winds; while the tails of little birds trying to roost on some scraggy thorn were blown inside-out like umbrellas. The gable-end of the cottage was stained with wet, and the eavesdroppings flapped against the wall. Yet never was commiseration for the shepherd more misplaced. For that cheerful rustic was entertaining a large party in glorification of the christening of his second girl.

The night of March 28, 182-, was definitely one of those nights that prompted feelings of sympathy. The heavy rainstorm hit walls, slopes, and hedges like the arrows at Senlac and Crecy. The sheep and other outdoor animals without shelter huddled with their backs to the wind, while the tails of small birds trying to roost on a scraggly thorn were blown inside out like umbrellas. The gable end of the cottage was soaked, and the water dripped against the wall. Yet, the sympathy for the shepherd was completely misplaced, as that cheerful farmer was hosting a big gathering to celebrate the christening of his second daughter.

The guests had arrived before the rain began to fall, and they were all now assembled in the chief or living room of the dwelling. A glance into the apartment at eight o'clock on this eventful evening would have resulted in the opinion that it was as cosy and comfortable a nook as could be wished for in boisterous weather. The calling of its inhabitant was proclaimed by a number of highly-polished sheep-crooks without stems that were hung ornamentally over the fireplace, the curl of each shining crook varying from the antiquated type engraved in the patriarchal pictures of old family Bibles to the most approved fashion of the last local sheep-fair. The room was lighted by half-a-dozen candles, having wicks only a trifle smaller than the grease which enveloped them, in candlesticks that were never used but at high-days, holy-days, and family feasts. The lights were scattered about the room, two of them standing on the chimney-piece. This position of candles was in itself significant. Candles on the chimney-piece always meant a party.

The guests had arrived before the rain started, and now they were all gathered in the main living room of the house. A look into the room at eight o'clock on this significant evening would have shown that it was as cozy and comfortable a place as anyone could hope for in wild weather. The profession of its owner was showcased by several highly-polished sheep-crooks without stems, which were hung decoratively over the fireplace. Each shiny crook varied from the old-fashioned style seen in the family Bibles to the latest trend from the last local sheep fair. The room was lit by half a dozen candles, with wicks just slightly smaller than the wax surrounding them, in candlesticks that were only used on special occasions, holidays, and family gatherings. The lights were spread throughout the room, with two of them perched on the mantel. The placement of candles here was telling—candles on the mantel always signified a party.

On the hearth, in front of a back-brand to give substance, blazed a fire of thorns, that crackled 'like the laughter of the fool.'

On the hearth, in front of a back-brand to give depth, a fire of thorns blazed, crackling 'like the laughter of a fool.'

Nineteen persons were gathered here. Of these, five women, wearing gowns of various bright hues, sat in chairs along the wall; girls shy and not shy filled the window-bench; four men, including Charley Jake the hedge-carpenter, Elijah New the parish-clerk, and John Pitcher, a neighbouring dairyman, the shepherd's father-in-law, lolled in the settle; a young man and maid, who were blushing over tentative pourparlers on a life-companionship, sat beneath the corner-cupboard; and an elderly engaged man of fifty or upward moved restlessly about from spots where his betrothed was not to the spot where she was. Enjoyment was pretty general, and so much the more prevailed in being unhampered by conventional restrictions. Absolute confidence in each other's good opinion begat perfect ease, while the finishing stroke of manner, amounting to a truly princely serenity, was lent to the majority by the absence of any expression or trait denoting that they wished to get on in the world, enlarge their minds, or do any eclipsing thing whatever-which nowadays so generally nips the bloom and bonhomie of all except the two extremes of the social scale.

Nineteen people were gathered here. Of these, five women, dressed in various bright-colored gowns, sat in chairs along the wall; both shy and outgoing girls filled the window bench; four men, including Charley Jake the hedge carpenter, Elijah New the parish clerk, and John Pitcher, a neighboring dairyman and the shepherd’s father-in-law, lounged on the settle; a young man and woman, who were blushing over tentative conversations about a life together, sat beneath the corner cupboard; and an older engaged man in his fifties moved restlessly between spots where his fiancée wasn’t and where she was. The atmosphere was generally enjoyable, and it was even more so because there were no conventional restrictions. Absolute confidence in each other's good opinion created perfect ease, while a truly regal calm was exhibited by the majority, as there were no signs or traits indicating they wanted to get ahead in life, broaden their horizons, or do anything showy—which nowadays often stifles the joy and friendliness of all except for those at the two extremes of the social ladder.

Shepherd Fennel had married well, his wife being a dairyman's daughter from a vale at a distance, who brought fifty guineas in her pocket-and kept them there, till they should be required for ministering to the needs of a coming family. This frugal woman had been somewhat exercised as to the character that should be given to the gathering. A sit-still party had its advantages; but an undisturbed position of ease in chairs and settles was apt to lead on the men to such an unconscionable deal of toping that they would sometimes fairly drink the house dry. A dancing- party was the alternative; but this, while avoiding the foregoing objection on the score of good drink, had a counterbalancing disadvantage in the matter of good victuals, the ravenous appetites engendered by the exercise causing immense havoc in the buttery. Shepherdess Fennel fell back upon the intermediate plan of mingling short dances with short periods of talk and singing, so as to hinder any ungovernable rage in either. But this scheme was entirely confined to her own gentle mind: the shepherd himself was in the mood to exhibit the most reckless phases of hospitality.

Shepherd Fennel had married well, his wife being a dairyman's daughter from a nearby valley who brought fifty guineas with her—and kept them safe until needed for their future family's needs. This thrifty woman was a little concerned about what kind of gathering to host. A sit-down party had its benefits, but letting the men relax in chairs and settle in often led them to drink way too much, sometimes even emptying the house of its supply. A dancing party was another option; however, while it avoided excessive drinking, it had the downside of leaving very little food, as the appetites stirred by dancing would cause a huge mess in the kitchen. Shepherdess Fennel decided on a mixed approach, combining short dances with brief periods of chatting and singing to control any wild behavior from either side. But this plan was entirely her own; the shepherd himself was in the mood to be extremely generous with his hospitality.

The fiddler was a boy of those parts, about twelve years of age, who had a wonderful dexterity in jigs and reels, though his fingers were so small and short as to necessitate a constant shifting for the high notes, from which he scrambled back to the first position with sounds not of unmixed purity of tone. At seven the shrill tweedle-dee of this youngster had begun, accompanied by a booming ground-bass from Elijah New, the parish-clerk, who had thoughtfully brought with him his favourite musical instrument, the serpent. Dancing was instantaneous, Mrs. Fennel privately enjoining the players on no account to let the dance exceed the length of a quarter of an hour.

The fiddler was a local boy, about twelve years old, who had an amazing talent for playing jigs and reels, even though his fingers were so small and short that he constantly had to adjust for the high notes, often scrambling back to the starting position with a sound that wasn't completely pure. By the age of seven, this kid's high-pitched tweedle-dee had started, accompanied by the booming bass from Elijah New, the parish clerk, who had thoughtfully brought along his favorite instrument, the serpent. Dancing started right away, with Mrs. Fennel privately instructing the players to make sure the dance didn't last longer than a quarter of an hour.

But Elijah and the boy, in the excitement of their position, quite forgot the injunction. Moreover, Oliver Giles, a man of seventeen, one of the dancers, who was enamoured of his partner, a fair girl of thirty- three rolling years, had recklessly handed a new crown-piece to the musicians, as a bribe to keep going as long as they had muscle and wind. Mrs. Fennel, seeing the steam begin to generate on the countenances of her guests, crossed over and touched the fiddler's elbow and put her hand on the serpent's mouth. But they took no notice, and fearing she might lose her character of genial hostess if she were to interfere too markedly, she retired and sat down helpless. And so the dance whizzed on with cumulative fury, the performers moving in their planet-like courses, direct and retrograde, from apogee to perigee, till the hand of the well-kicked clock at the bottom of the room had travelled over the circumference of an hour.

But Elijah and the boy, caught up in the excitement of the moment, completely forgot the instructions. Meanwhile, Oliver Giles, a seventeen-year-old dancer who was infatuated with his partner, a pretty thirty-three-year-old woman, had carelessly given a new crown coin to the musicians as a bribe to keep playing as long as they could. Mrs. Fennel, noticing the sweat starting to form on her guests' faces, approached and tapped the fiddler's elbow, putting her hand over the serpent's mouth. But they ignored her, and worried that she might lose her status as a friendly hostess if she intervened too forcefully, she pulled back and sat down feeling helpless. And so the dance continued with growing intensity, the dancers moving in their orbits, both forward and backward, from their highest to lowest points, until the hand of the well-worn clock at the bottom of the room had moved around the face for an hour.

While these cheerful events were in course of enactment within Fennel's pastoral dwelling, an incident having considerable bearing on the party had occurred in the gloomy night without. Mrs. Fennel's concern about the growing fierceness of the dance corresponded in point of time with the ascent of a human figure to the solitary hill of Higher Crowstairs from the direction of the distant town. This personage strode on through the rain without a pause, following the little-worn path which, further on in its course, skirted the shepherd's cottage.

While all these cheerful events were happening at Fennel's cozy home, something significant was taking place outside in the dark night. Mrs. Fennel's worry about the increasingly intense dance coincided with a figure making their way up the lonely hill of Higher Crowstairs from the distant town. This person walked through the rain without stopping, following the seldom-used path that, further along, passed by the shepherd's cottage.

It was nearly the time of full moon, and on this account, though the sky was lined with a uniform sheet of dripping cloud, ordinary objects out of doors were readily visible. The sad wan light revealed the lonely pedestrian to be a man of supple frame; his gait suggested that he had somewhat passed the period of perfect and instinctive agility, though not so far as to be otherwise than rapid of motion when occasion required. At a rough guess, he might have been about forty years of age. He appeared tall, but a recruiting sergeant, or other person accustomed to the judging of men's heights by the eye, would have discerned that this was chiefly owing to his gauntness, and that he was not more than five-feet-eight or nine.

It was almost time for the full moon, and because of this, even though the sky was covered by a uniform layer of dripping clouds, ordinary things outside were easily visible. The dim, sad light showed that the lone walker was a fit man; his walk indicated that he had somewhat moved past the peak of natural agility, but he was still quick on his feet when needed. Roughly speaking, he looked to be around forty years old. He seemed tall, but a recruiting sergeant or anyone experienced at estimating men's heights would have noticed that this was mostly due to his thinness, and he was likely no more than five feet eight or nine inches tall.

Notwithstanding the regularity of his tread, there was caution in it, as in that of one who mentally feels his way; and despite the fact that it was not a black coat nor a dark garment of any sort that he wore, there was something about him which suggested that he naturally belonged to the black-coated tribes of men. His clothes were of fustian, and his boots hobnailed, yet in his progress he showed not the mud-accustomed bearing of hobnailed and fustianed peasantry.

Despite his steady walk, there was a sense of caution in it, like someone who is carefully navigating in their mind. And even though he wasn't wearing a black coat or any dark clothing, there was something about him that made it seem like he naturally fit in with the black-coated groups. His clothes were made of fustian, and his boots had hobnails, yet as he moved, he didn’t have the rough, muddy demeanor typical of peasant workers in hobnailed boots and fustian.

By the time that he had arrived abreast of the shepherd's premises the rain came down, or rather came along, with yet more determined violence. The outskirts of the little settlement partially broke the force of wind and rain, and this induced him to stand still. The most salient of the shepherd's domestic erections was an empty sty at the forward corner of his hedgeless garden, for in these latitudes the principle of masking the homelier features of your establishment by a conventional frontage was unknown. The traveller's eye was attracted to this small building by the pallid shine of the wet slates that covered it. He turned aside, and, finding it empty, stood under the pent-roof for shelter.

By the time he reached the shepherd's place, the rain was coming down harder than ever. The edges of the small settlement offered some protection from the wind and rain, prompting him to pause. The most noticeable feature of the shepherd’s property was an empty pigpen at the front corner of his garden, as it was common here not to hide the simpler parts of your property behind a fancy facade. The traveler’s attention was drawn to this small structure by the dull shine of the wet slate roof. He stepped over and, finding it empty, stood under the overhang for some shelter.

While he stood, the boom of the serpent within the adjacent house, and the lesser strains of the fiddler, reached the spot as an accompaniment to the surging hiss of the flying rain on the sod, its louder beating on the cabbage-leaves of the garden, on the eight or ten beehives just discernible by the path, and its dripping from the eaves into a row of buckets and pans that had been placed under the walls of the cottage. For at Higher Crowstairs, as at all such elevated domiciles, the grand difficulty of housekeeping was an insufficiency of water; and a casual rainfall was utilized by turning out, as catchers, every utensil that the house contained. Some queer stories might be told of the contrivances for economy in suds and dish-waters that are absolutely necessitated in upland habitations during the droughts of summer. But at this season there were no such exigencies; a mere acceptance of what the skies bestowed was sufficient for an abundant store.

While he stood, the loud sound of the snake from the nearby house and the softer music from the fiddler filled the air, mixing with the hissing of the heavy rain on the ground, its stronger impact on the cabbage leaves in the garden, on the eight or ten beehives that were just visible by the path, and its dripping from the eaves into a row of buckets and pans placed under the cottage walls. For at Higher Crowstairs, like at all such higher homes, the main challenge of housekeeping was a lack of water; and whenever it rained, every container the house had was used to collect it. There could be some strange stories about the creative ways people conserved soap and dishwater that are completely necessary in highland homes during summer droughts. But at this time of year, there were no such challenges; simply accepting what the skies provided was enough for a plentiful supply.

At last the notes of the serpent ceased and the house was silent. This cessation of activity aroused the solitary pedestrian from the reverie into which he had lapsed, and, emerging from the shed, with an apparently new intention, he walked up the path to the house-door. Arrived here, his first act was to kneel down on a large stone beside the row of vessels, and to drink a copious draught from one of them. Having quenched his thirst he rose and lifted his hand to knock, but paused with his eye upon the panel. Since the dark surface of the wood revealed absolutely nothing, it was evident that he must be mentally looking through the door, as if he wished to measure thereby all the possibilities that a house of this sort might include, and how they might bear upon the question of his entry.

At last, the sound of the serpent stopped, and the house became quiet. This break in activity pulled the lone walker from his daydream, and as he stepped out of the shed with a seemingly new purpose, he walked up the path to the front door. Once there, his first move was to kneel on a large stone next to the line of containers and take a big drink from one of them. After quenching his thirst, he stood up and raised his hand to knock but hesitated, eyeing the door. Since the dark wood didn’t show anything at all, it was clear he was mentally trying to see through the door, considering all the possibilities a house like this could hold and how they might affect his decision to enter.

In his indecision he turned and surveyed the scene around. Not a soul was anywhere visible. The garden-path stretched downward from his feet, gleaming like the track of a snail; the roof of the little well (mostly dry), the well-cover, the top rail of the garden-gate, were varnished with the same dull liquid glaze; while, far away in the vale, a faint whiteness of more than usual extent showed that the rivers were high in the meads. Beyond all this winked a few bleared lamplights through the beating drops-lights that denoted the situation of the county-town from which he had appeared to come. The absence of all notes of life in that direction seemed to clinch his intentions, and he knocked at the door.

In his uncertainty, he turned and looked around. There wasn’t a soul in sight. The garden path stretched down from his feet, shining like a snail's trail; the roof of the little well (mostly dry), the well cover, and the top rail of the garden gate were all coated with the same dull glaze. Meanwhile, far away in the valley, a faint white area, larger than usual, indicated that the rivers were high in the meadows. Beyond all this, a few dim lamplights flickered through the falling rain—lights that marked the location of the county town he seemed to have come from. The complete lack of any signs of life in that direction seemed to solidify his decision, and he knocked on the door.

Within, a desultory chat had taken the place of movement and musical sound. The hedge-carpenter was suggesting a song to the company, which nobody just then was inclined to undertake, so that the knock afforded a not unwelcome diversion.

Within, a scattered conversation had replaced the activity and music. The hedge carpenter was proposing a song to the group, but no one was in the mood to sing at that moment, making the knock a surprisingly welcome distraction.

'Walk in!' said the shepherd promptly.

'Come on in!' said the shepherd right away.

The latch clicked upward, and out of the night our pedestrian appeared upon the door-mat. The shepherd arose, snuffed two of the nearest candles, and turned to look at him.

The latch clicked up, and out of the night, our passerby stepped onto the doormat. The shepherd got up, sniffed two of the nearest candles, and turned to look at him.

Their light disclosed that the stranger was dark in complexion and not unprepossessing as to feature. His hat, which for a moment he did not remove, hung low over his eyes, without concealing that they were large, open, and determined, moving with a flash rather than a glance round the room. He seemed pleased with his survey, and, baring his shaggy head, said, in a rich deep voice, 'The rain is so heavy, friends, that I ask leave to come in and rest awhile.'

Their light revealed that the stranger had dark skin and wasn't unattractive. His hat, which he didn't take off for a moment, hung low over his eyes, but it didn't hide the fact that they were large, wide open, and determined, quickly scanning the room instead of just glancing around. He appeared satisfied with what he saw, and as he took off his thick hair, he said in a rich, deep voice, 'The rain is so heavy, friends, that I ask for permission to come in and rest for a bit.'

'To be sure, stranger,' said the shepherd. 'And faith, you've been lucky in choosing your time, for we are having a bit of a fling for a glad cause-though, to be sure, a man could hardly wish that glad cause to happen more than once a year.'

'Of course, stranger,' said the shepherd. 'And honestly, you've picked a great time to be here, because we're having a little celebration for a joyful reason—though, really, who would want that joyful reason to happen more than once a year?'

'Nor less,' spoke up a woman. 'For 'tis best to get your family over and done with, as soon as you can, so as to be all the earlier out of the fag o't.'

'Not at all,' a woman interjected. 'It's better to get your family sorted out as soon as possible, so you can be done with it all sooner.'

'And what may be this glad cause?' asked the stranger.

'And what could this happy reason be?' asked the stranger.

'A birth and christening,' said the shepherd.

The stranger hoped his host might not be made unhappy either by too many or too few of such episodes, and being invited by a gesture to a pull at the mug, he readily acquiesced. His manner, which, before entering, had been so dubious, was now altogether that of a careless and candid man.

The stranger hoped his host wouldn't be bothered by either too many or too few of these moments, and when he was invited with a gesture to take a sip from the mug, he gladly accepted. His demeanor, which had been so uncertain before entering, was now completely that of a relaxed and open person.

'Late to be traipsing athwart this coomb-hey?' said the engaged man of fifty.

'Isn't it a bit late to be wandering around this valley?' said the engaged man of fifty.

'Late it is, master, as you say.-I'll take a seat in the chimney-corner, if you have nothing to urge against it, ma'am; for I am a little moist on the side that was next the rain.'

'It’s late, master, as you said. I’ll take a seat by the fireplace if you have no objections, ma'am; because I’m a bit damp on the side that was facing the rain.'

Mrs. Shepherd Fennel assented, and made room for the self-invited comer, who, having got completely inside the chimney-corner, stretched out his legs and his arms with the expansiveness of a person quite at home.

Mrs. Shepherd Fennel agreed and made space for the unexpected guest, who, once fully settled into the chimney corner, stretched out his legs and arms with the comfort of someone who felt completely at home.

'Yes, I am rather cracked in the vamp,' he said freely, seeing that the eyes of the shepherd's wife fell upon his boots, 'and I am not well fitted either. I have had some rough times lately, and have been forced to pick up what I can get in the way of wearing, but I must find a suit better fit for working-days when I reach home.'

'Yeah, I’m kind of worn out in the vamp,' he said honestly, noticing the shepherd's wife's gaze on his boots, 'and I’m not exactly well-equipped either. I've been through some tough times lately and have had to grab whatever I could find to wear, but I need to get a better outfit for workdays when I get back home.'

'One of hereabouts?' she inquired.

'One of the locals?' she asked.

'Not quite that-further up the country.'

'Not quite that—further up the country.'

'I thought so. And so be I; and by your tongue you come from my neighbourhood.'

'I thought so. And so it is; and from your accent, I can tell you’re from my area.'

'But you would hardly have heard of me,' he said quickly. 'My time would be long before yours, ma'am, you see.'

'But you probably wouldn't have heard of me,' he said quickly. 'I lived a long time before you, ma'am, you see.'

This testimony to the youthfulness of his hostess had the effect of stopping her cross-examination.

This praise of his hostess's youth made her stop the questioning.

'There is only one thing more wanted to make me happy,' continued the new-comer. 'And that is a little baccy, which I am sorry to say I am out of.'

'There is just one more thing I need to make me happy,' continued the newcomer. 'And that's some tobacco, which I'm sorry to say I'm out of.'

'I'll fill your pipe,' said the shepherd.

"I'll fill your pipe," said the shepherd.

'I must ask you to lend me a pipe likewise.'

'I need to ask you to lend me a pipe too.'

'A smoker, and no pipe about 'ee?'

'A smoker, and no pipe around?'

'I have dropped it somewhere on the road.'

'I dropped it somewhere on the road.'

The shepherd filled and handed him a new clay pipe, saying, as he did so, 'Hand me your baccy-box-I'll fill that too, now I am about it.'

The shepherd filled and handed him a new clay pipe, saying, as he did so, 'Give me your tobacco box—I'll fill that too, since I'm at it.'

The man went through the movement of searching his pockets.

The man went through the motions of searching his pockets.

'Lost that too?' said his entertainer, with some surprise.

"Lost that too?" his entertainer said, sounding a bit surprised.

'I am afraid so,' said the man with some confusion. 'Give it to me in a screw of paper.' Lighting his pipe at the candle with a suction that drew the whole flame into the bowl, he resettled himself in the corner and bent his looks upon the faint steam from his damp legs, as if he wished to say no more.

"I'm afraid so," said the man, looking a bit confused. "Just wrap it up in a piece of paper." He lit his pipe with the candle, sucking the entire flame into the bowl, then settled back into the corner and focused on the faint steam rising from his damp legs, as if he didn't want to say anything more.

Meanwhile the general body of guests had been taking little notice of this visitor by reason of an absorbing discussion in which they were engaged with the band about a tune for the next dance. The matter being settled, they were about to stand up when an interruption came in the shape of another knock at the door.

Meanwhile, the majority of the guests were paying little attention to this newcomer because they were caught up in a lively discussion with the band about a song for the next dance. Once that was settled, they were just about to get up when another knock at the door interrupted them.

At sound of the same the man in the chimney-corner took up the poker and began stirring the brands as if doing it thoroughly were the one aim of his existence; and a second time the shepherd said, 'Walk in!' In a moment another man stood upon the straw-woven door-mat. He too was a stranger.

At the sound of this, the man in the corner by the fireplace picked up the poker and started poking the logs as if that were the only purpose in his life; and for a second time, the shepherd said, 'Come in!' In a moment, another man stood on the straw door mat. He was also a stranger.

This individual was one of a type radically different from the first. There was more of the commonplace in his manner, and a certain jovial cosmopolitanism sat upon his features. He was several years older than the first arrival, his hair being slightly frosted, his eyebrows bristly, and his whiskers cut back from his cheeks. His face was rather full and flabby, and yet it was not altogether a face without power. A few grog-blossoms marked the neighbourhood of his nose. He flung back his long drab greatcoat, revealing that beneath it he wore a suit of cinder-gray shade throughout, large heavy seals, of some metal or other that would take a polish, dangling from his fob as his only personal ornament. Shaking the water-drops from his low-crowned glazed hat, he said, 'I must ask for a few minutes' shelter, comrades, or I shall be wetted to my skin before I get to Casterbridge.'

This person was completely different from the first. He had a more ordinary demeanor, and a kind of friendly cosmopolitan vibe showed on his face. He was several years older than the first arrival, with slightly grey hair, bristly eyebrows, and his whiskers trimmed back from his cheeks. His face was rather round and soft, yet it still had a sense of strength. A few red spots marked the area around his nose. He tossed back his long dull coat, revealing that underneath he wore a full cinder-gray suit, with large heavy seals made of some shiny metal hanging from his pocket as his only accessory. Shaking the raindrops from his low-crowned shiny hat, he said, 'I need to ask for a few minutes' shelter, friends, or I'll be soaked to the skin before I reach Casterbridge.'

'Make yourself at home, master,' said the shepherd, perhaps a trifle less heartily than on the first occasion. Not that Fennel had the least tinge of niggardliness in his composition; but the room was far from large, spare chairs were not numerous, and damp companions were not altogether desirable at close quarters for the women and girls in their bright-coloured gowns.

'Make yourself at home, master,' said the shepherd, maybe a bit less enthusiastically than before. Not that Fennel was stingy at all; it was just that the room was small, there weren't many extra chairs, and wet guests weren't exactly welcome up close for the women and girls in their colorful gowns.

However, the second comer, after taking off his greatcoat, and hanging his hat on a nail in one of the ceiling-beams as if he had been specially invited to put it there, advanced and sat down at the table. This had been pushed so closely into the chimney-corner, to give all available room to the dancers, that its inner edge grazed the elbow of the man who had ensconced himself by the fire; and thus the two strangers were brought into close companionship. They nodded to each other by way of breaking the ice of unacquaintance, and the first stranger handed his neighbour the family mug-a huge vessel of brown ware, having its upper edge worn away like a threshold by the rub of whole generations of thirsty lips that had gone the way of all flesh, and bearing the following inscription burnt upon its rotund side in yellow letters

However, the second newcomer, after taking off his coat and hanging his hat on a nail in one of the ceiling beams as if he had been specifically invited to do so, moved forward and sat down at the table. This table had been pushed so tightly into the corner by the fireplace to make room for the dancers that its inner edge was nearly touching the elbow of the man sitting by the fire. As a result, the two strangers found themselves in close proximity. They nodded to each other to break the ice of not knowing each other, and the first stranger handed his neighbor the family mug—a large brown ceramic vessel, its upper edge worn down like a threshold from generations of thirsty lips that had passed away, and it bore the following inscription burned into its round side in yellow letters.

THERE IS NO FUN UNTiLL i CUM.

THERE IS NO FUN UNTIL I CUM.

The other man, nothing loth, raised the mug to his lips, and drank on, and on, and on-till a curious blueness overspread the countenance of the shepherd's wife, who had regarded with no little surprise the first stranger's free offer to the second of what did not belong to him to dispense.

The other man, not hesitant at all, lifted the mug to his lips and kept drinking until a strange blueness appeared on the face of the shepherd's wife, who had watched with some surprise as the first stranger freely offered the second something that wasn’t his to give away.

'I knew it!' said the toper to the shepherd with much satisfaction. 'When I walked up your garden before coming in, and saw the hives all of a row, I said to myself; "Where there's bees there's honey, and where there's honey there's mead." But mead of such a truly comfortable sort as this I really didn't expect to meet in my older days.' He took yet another pull at the mug, till it assumed an ominous elevation.

'I knew it!' said the drunkard to the shepherd with great satisfaction. 'When I walked by your garden before coming in and saw the hives lined up, I thought to myself, "Where there are bees, there's honey, and where there's honey, there's mead." But mead as wonderfully comforting as this, I honestly didn't expect to find in my older years.' He took another sip from the mug, until it reached a dangerously high level.

'Glad you enjoy it!' said the shepherd warmly.

"Glad you like it!" said the shepherd warmly.

'It is goodish mead,' assented Mrs. Fennel, with an absence of enthusiasm which seemed to say that it was possible to buy praise for one's cellar at too heavy a price. 'It is trouble enough to make-and really I hardly think we shall make any more. For honey sells well, and we ourselves can make shift with a drop o' small mead and metheglin for common use from the comb-washings.'

'It’s decent mead,' Mrs. Fennel agreed, her lack of enthusiasm suggesting that you could pay too much for a compliment about your cellar. 'It’s a hassle to make—and honestly, I don’t think we’ll be making any more. Honey sells well, and we can manage with a bit of cheap mead and metheglin for everyday use from the honeycomb washings.'

'O, but you'll never have the heart!' reproachfully cried the stranger in cinder-gray, after taking up the mug a third time and setting it down empty. 'I love mead, when 'tis old like this, as I love to go to church o' Sundays, or to relieve the needy any day of the week.'

'O, but you'll never have the heart!' the stranger in cinder-gray said reproachfully after picking up the mug for the third time and setting it down empty. 'I love mead, especially when it's aged like this, just like I love going to church on Sundays or helping those in need any day of the week.'

'Ha, ha, ha!' said the man in the chimney-corner, who, in spite of the taciturnity induced by the pipe of tobacco, could not or would not refrain from this slight testimony to his comrade's humour.

'Ha, ha, ha!' said the man in the corner by the fireplace, who, despite being quiet because of his smoking pipe, couldn't or wouldn't hold back this small sign of appreciation for his friend's sense of humor.

Now the old mead of those days, brewed of the purest first-year or maiden honey, four pounds to the gallon-with its due complement of white of eggs, cinnamon, ginger, cloves, mace, rosemary, yeast, and processes of working, bottling, and cellaring-tasted remarkably strong; but it did not taste so strong as it actually was. Hence, presently, the stranger in cinder-gray at the table, moved by its creeping influence, unbuttoned his waistcoat, threw himself back in his chair, spread his legs, and made his presence felt in various ways.

Now, the old mead from back then, made with the purest first-year honey, four pounds per gallon—with the right mix of egg whites, cinnamon, ginger, cloves, mace, rosemary, yeast, and the steps of brewing, bottling, and aging—tasted incredibly strong; but it didn’t taste as strong as it actually was. So, soon enough, the stranger in gray at the table, affected by its gradual influence, unbuttoned his waistcoat, leaned back in his chair, spread his legs, and made his presence known in various ways.

'Well, well, as I say,' he resumed, 'I am going to Casterbridge, and to Casterbridge I must go. I should have been almost there by this time; but the rain drove me into your dwelling, and I'm not sorry for it.'

'Well, well, like I said,' he continued, 'I'm heading to Casterbridge, and I have to go to Casterbridge. I should have almost made it by now, but the rain forced me into your home, and I'm not regretting it.'

'You don't live in Casterbridge?' said the shepherd.

'You don't live in Casterbridge?' the shepherd asked.

'Not as yet; though I shortly mean to move there.'

'Not yet; but I plan to move there soon.'

'Going to set up in trade, perhaps?'

'Are you thinking about starting a business, maybe?'

'No, no,' said the shepherd's wife. 'It is easy to see that the gentleman is rich, and don't want to work at anything.'

'No, no,' said the shepherd's wife. 'It's clear that the gentleman is wealthy and doesn't want to do any work.'

The cinder-gray stranger paused, as if to consider whether he would accept that definition of himself. He presently rejected it by answering, 'Rich is not quite the word for me, dame. I do work, and I must work. And even if I only get to Casterbridge by midnight I must begin work there at eight to-morrow morning. Yes, het or wet, blow or snow, famine or sword, my day's work to-morrow must be done.'

The cinder-gray stranger stopped, as if he was thinking about whether he would accept that description of himself. He quickly dismissed it by saying, "Rich isn't really the right word for me, ma'am. I do work, and I have to work. And even if I only make it to Casterbridge by midnight, I have to start work there at eight tomorrow morning. Yes, rain or shine, no matter what, my work for tomorrow has to get done."

'Poor man! Then, in spite o' seeming, you be worse off than we?' replied the shepherd's wife.

'Poor man! So, despite appearances, you are worse off than we are?' replied the shepherd's wife.

''Tis the nature of my trade, men and maidens. 'Tis the nature of my trade more than my poverty . . . But really and truly I must up and off, or I shan't get a lodging in the town.' However, the speaker did not move, and directly added, 'There's time for one more draught of friendship before I go; and I'd perform it at once if the mug were not dry.'

"It's the nature of my job, guys and gals. It's the nature of my job more than my being broke... But honestly, I have to get going, or I won't find a place to stay in town." However, the speaker didn't move and quickly added, "There's time for one more drink with friends before I leave; I'd do it right now if the mug weren't empty."

'Here's a mug o' small,' said Mrs. Fennel. 'Small, we call it, though to be sure 'tis only the first wash o' the combs.'

'Here's a cup of small,' said Mrs. Fennel. 'We call it small, even though it's really just the first wash of the combs.'

'No,' said the stranger disdainfully. 'I won't spoil your first kindness by partaking o' your second.'

'No,' the stranger said dismissively. 'I won’t ruin your first act of kindness by accepting your second.'

'Certainly not,' broke in Fennel. 'We don't increase and multiply every day, and I'll fill the mug again.' He went away to the dark place under the stairs where the barrel stood. The shepherdess followed him.

'Definitely not,' interrupted Fennel. 'We don't just keep increasing every day, and I'll refill the mug.' He went off to the dark spot under the stairs where the barrel was. The shepherdess followed him.

'Why should you do this?' she said reproachfully, as soon as they were alone. 'He's emptied it once, though it held enough for ten people; and now he's not contented wi' the small, but must needs call for more o' the strong! And a stranger unbeknown to any of us. For my part, I don't like the look o' the man at all.'

'Why would you do this?' she said disapprovingly as soon as they were alone. 'He’s finished it once, even though it was enough for ten people; and now he’s not satisfied with the little left, but must insist on asking for more of the strong stuff! And a stranger none of us know. For my part, I really don’t like the look of him at all.'

'But he's in the house, my honey; and 'tis a wet night, and a christening. Daze it, what's a cup of mead more or less? There'll be plenty more next bee-burning.'

'But he's in the house, my dear; and it's a rainy night and a christening. Darn it, what's one more cup of mead? There will be plenty more at the next bee-burning.'

'Very well-this time, then,' she answered, looking wistfully at the barrel. 'But what is the man's calling, and where is he one of; that he should come in and join us like this?'

'Alright—this time, then,' she replied, gazing longingly at the barrel. 'But what does the man do for a living, and where is he from that he should just come in and join us like this?'

'I don't know. I'll ask him again.'

'I don't know. I'll check with him again.'

The catastrophe of having the mug drained dry at one pull by the stranger in cinder-gray was effectually guarded against this time by Mrs. Fennel. She poured out his allowance in a small cup, keeping the large one at a discreet distance from him. When he had tossed off his portion the shepherd renewed his inquiry about the stranger's occupation.

The disaster of having the mug emptied in one go by the guy in gray was successfully avoided this time by Mrs. Fennel. She served his portion in a small cup, keeping the big one far away from him. After he finished his drink, the shepherd asked again about the stranger's job.

The latter did not immediately reply, and the man in the chimney-corner, with sudden demonstrativeness, said, 'Anybody may know my trade-I'm a wheelwright.'

The latter didn't respond right away, and the man in the corner by the fireplace, suddenly enthusiastic, said, 'Anyone can see what I do—I'm a wheelwright.'

'A very good trade for these parts,' said the shepherd.

'A really good trade for this area,' said the shepherd.

'And anybody may know mine-if they've the sense to find it out,' said the stranger in cinder-gray.

'And anyone can know mine—if they've got the sense to figure it out,' said the stranger in cinder-gray.

'You may generally tell what a man is by his claws,' observed the hedge- carpenter, looking at his own hands. 'My fingers be as full of thorns as an old pin-cushion is of pins.'

'You can usually tell what a person is like by their hands,' said the hedge carpenter, looking at his own. 'My fingers are as full of thorns as an old pin cushion is of pins.'

The hands of the man in the chimney-corner instinctively sought the shade, and he gazed into the fire as he resumed his pipe. The man at the table took up the hedge-carpenter's remark, and added smartly, 'True; but the oddity of my trade is that, instead of setting a mark upon me, it sets a mark upon my customers.'

The man in the chimney corner instinctively reached for the shade and stared into the fire as he picked up his pipe again. The guy at the table jumped in with the hedge-carpenter's comment and added with a clever twist, "That's true, but the funny thing about my job is that, instead of marking me, it marks my customers."

No observation being offered by anybody in elucidation of this enigma, the shepherd's wife once more called for a song. The same obstacles presented themselves as at the former time-one had no voice, another had forgotten the first verse. The stranger at the table, whose soul had now risen to a good working temperature, relieved the difficulty by exclaiming that, to start the company, he would sing himself. Thrusting one thumb into the arm-hole of his waistcoat, he waved the other hand in the air, and, with an extemporizing gaze at the shining sheep-crooks above the mantelpiece, began:-

No one offered any explanations for this mystery, so the shepherd's wife asked for a song again. The same issues came up as before—one person had no voice, another had forgotten the first verse. The stranger at the table, now feeling lively, solved the problem by announcing that he would sing to get the group started. With one thumb tucked into the armhole of his waistcoat, he waved the other hand in the air and, looking up at the shining sheep-crooks above the mantelpiece, began:

'O my trade it is the rarest one, Simple shepherds all -My trade is a sight to see; For my customers I tie, and take them up on high, And waft 'em to a far countree!'

'O my job is the rarest one, simple shepherds all - My work is a sight to see; For my clients, I tie them up and take them high, and send them off to a faraway country!'

The room was silent when he had finished the verse-with one exception, that of the man in the chimney-corner, who, at the singer's word, 'Chorus! 'joined him in a deep bass voice of musical relish -

The room was quiet when he finished the verse—except for the guy in the corner by the chimney, who, at the singer's word, 'Chorus!' chimed in with a rich, deep bass voice full of musical enjoyment—

'And waft 'em to a far countree!'

'And send them off to a faraway country!'

Oliver Giles, John Pitcher the dairyman, the parish-clerk, the engaged man of fifty, the row of young women against the wall, seemed lost in thought not of the gayest kind. The shepherd looked meditatively on the ground, the shepherdess gazed keenly at the singer, and with some suspicion; she was doubting whether this stranger were merely singing an old song from recollection, or was composing one there and then for the occasion. All were as perplexed at the obscure revelation as the guests at Belshazzar's Feast, except the man in the chimney-corner, who quietly said, 'Second verse, stranger,' and smoked on.

Oliver Giles, John Pitcher the dairyman, the parish clerk, the engaged fifty-year-old, and the row of young women leaning against the wall all seemed deep in thought, and not in the happiest way. The shepherd stared thoughtfully at the ground, while the shepherdess watched the singer intently, with a hint of suspicion; she was unsure if this stranger was just singing an old song from memory or creating one right there on the spot. Everyone was as confused by the mysterious performance as the guests at Belshazzar's Feast, except for the man in the corner by the chimney, who calmly said, "Second verse, stranger," and continued smoking.

The singer thoroughly moistened himself from his lips inwards, and went on with the next stanza as requested:-

The singer soaked his lips and continued with the next stanza as asked:---

'My tools are but common ones, Simple shepherds all -My tools are no sight to see: A little hempen string, and a post whereon to swing, Are implements enough for me!'

'My tools are just ordinary ones, Simple shepherds all -My tools are nothing special to look at: A little hemp string and a post to hang on, Are all the tools I need!'

Shepherd Fennel glanced round. There was no longer any doubt that the stranger was answering his question rhythmically. The guests one and all started back with suppressed exclamations. The young woman engaged to the man of fifty fainted half-way, and would have proceeded, but finding him wanting in alacrity for catching her she sat down trembling.

Shepherd Fennel looked around. There was no doubt anymore that the stranger was responding to his question in a rhythmic way. All the guests gasped and pulled back. The young woman who was engaged to the fifty-year-old man fainted halfway but would have continued; however, when she saw he wasn't quick enough to catch her, she sat down, shaking.

'O, he's the-!' whispered the people in the background, mentioning the name of an ominous public officer. 'He's come to do it! 'Tis to be at Casterbridge jail to-morrow-the man for sheep-stealing-the poor clock- maker we heard of; who used to live away at Shottsford and had no work to do-Timothy Summers, whose family were a-starving, and so he went out of Shottsford by the high-road, and took a sheep in open daylight, defying the farmer and the farmer's wife and the farmer's lad, and every man jack among 'em. He' (and they nodded towards the stranger of the deadly trade) 'is come from up the country to do it because there's not enough to do in his own county-town, and he's got the place here now our own county man's dead; he's going to live in the same cottage under the prison wall.'

“Oh, he’s the—!” whispered the people in the background, referring to a notorious public officer. “He’s come to carry it out! Tomorrow at Casterbridge jail—the man for sheep-stealing—the poor clockmaker we heard about; he used to live far away in Shottsford and had no work—Timothy Summers, whose family was starving, so he left Shottsford by the main road and took a sheep in broad daylight, daring the farmer, the farmer's wife, and the farmer’s son, and every man among them. He” (and they nodded toward the stranger with the grim job) “has come from another part of the country to do it because there isn’t enough work in his own town, and he’s taken over here now that our own county man is dead; he’ll be living in the same cottage under the prison wall.”

The stranger in cinder-gray took no notice of this whispered string of observations, but again wetted his lips. Seeing that his friend in the chimney-corner was the only one who reciprocated his joviality in any way, he held out his cup towards that appreciative comrade, who also held out his own. They cWESSEXlinked together, the eyes of the rest of the room hanging upon the singer's actions. He parted his lips for the third verse; but at that moment another knock was audible upon the door. This time the knock was faint and hesitating.

The stranger in gray didn’t pay attention to the whispered comments but wet his lips again. Noticing that his friend in the corner was the only one who responded to his cheerfulness, he raised his cup toward that appreciative companion, who also raised his own. They clinked together, while everyone else in the room watched the singer’s actions. He opened his mouth for the third verse, but at that moment, another knock was heard at the door. This knock was soft and tentative.

The company seemed scared; the shepherd looked with consternation towards the entrance, and it was with some effort that he resisted his alarmed wife's deprecatory glance, and uttered for the third time the welcoming words, 'Walk in!'

The company seemed anxious; the shepherd looked worriedly towards the entrance, and he struggled to ignore his alarmed wife's disapproving look as he said for the third time the welcoming words, 'Come in!'

The door was gently opened, and another man stood upon the mat. He, like those who had preceded him, was a stranger. This time it was a short, small personage, of fair complexion, and dressed in a decent suit of dark clothes.

The door was gently opened, and another man stood on the mat. He, like those who came before him, was a stranger. This time it was a short, small person, with a fair complexion, dressed in a nice dark suit.

'Can you tell me the way to-?' he began: when, gazing round the room to observe the nature of the company amongst whom he had fallen, his eyes lighted on the stranger in cinder-gray. It was just at the instant when the latter, who had thrown his mind into his song with such a will that he scarcely heeded the interruption, silenced all whispers and inquiries by bursting into his third verse:-

'Can you tell me the way to-?' he started to ask. But as he looked around the room to get a sense of the people he had joined, his eyes landed on the stranger in cinder-gray. It was just at that moment when the stranger, deeply immersed in his song, barely noticed the interruption and silenced all murmurs and questions by launching into his third verse:

'To-morrow is my working day, Simple shepherds all -To-morrow is a working day for me: For the farmer's sheep is slain, and the lad who did it ta'en, And on his soul may God ha' merc-y!'

'Tomorrow is my working day, simple shepherds all - Tomorrow is a working day for me: For the farmer's sheep is slain, and the boy who did it is caught, and may God have mercy on his soul!'

The stranger in the chimney-corner, waving cups with the singer so heartily that his mead splashed over on the hearth, repeated in his bass voice as before:-

The stranger in the corner by the chimney, enthusiastically clinking cups with the singer so much that his mead spilled onto the hearth, repeated in his deep voice as before:

'And on his soul may God ha' merc-y!'

'And may God have mercy on his soul!'

All this time the third stranger had been standing in the doorway. Finding now that he did not come forward or go on speaking, the guests particularly regarded him. They noticed to their surprise that he stood before them the picture of abject terror-his knees trembling, his hand shaking so violently that the door-latch by which he supported himself rattled audibly: his white lips were parted, and his eyes fixed on the merry officer of justice in the middle of the room. A moment more and he had turned, closed the door, and fled.

All this time, the third stranger had been standing in the doorway. Noticing that he didn't step forward or continue speaking, the guests paid particular attention to him. To their surprise, they saw that he looked completely terrified—his knees were shaking, his hand was trembling so much that the door latch he was leaning on rattled loudly. His lips were pale, and his eyes were locked on the cheerful officer of the law in the middle of the room. After a moment, he turned, closed the door, and ran away.

'What a man can it be?' said the shepherd.

'What kind of man could it be?' asked the shepherd.

The rest, between the awfulness of their late discovery and the odd conduct of this third visitor, looked as if they knew not what to think, and said nothing. Instinctively they withdrew further and further from the grim gentleman in their midst, whom some of them seemed to take for the Prince of Darkness himself; till they formed a remote circle, an empty space of floor being left between them and him -

The others, caught between the shock of their recent discovery and the strange behavior of this third visitor, appeared unsure of what to make of it all and remained silent. Instinctively, they moved further away from the grim figure among them, whom some seemed to regard as the Prince of Darkness himself; eventually, they created a distant circle, leaving an empty space on the floor between him and them -

' . . . circulus, cujus centrum diabolus.'

' . . . circle, whose center is the devil.'

The room was so silent-though there were more than twenty people in it-that nothing could be heard but the patter of the rain against the window-shutters, accompanied by the occasional hiss of a stray drop that fell down the chimney into the fire, and the steady puffing of the man in the corner, who had now resumed his pipe of long clay.

The room was so quiet—despite having more than twenty people in it—that all that could be heard was the rain pattering against the window shutters, along with the occasional hiss of a stray drop falling down the chimney into the fire, and the steady puffing of the man in the corner, who had now picked up his long clay pipe again.

The stillness was unexpectedly broken. The distant sound of a gun reverberated through the air-apparently from the direction of the county-town.

The quiet was suddenly disrupted. A gunshot echoed through the air—seemingly from the direction of the county town.

'Be jiggered!' cried the stranger who had sung the song, jumping up.

'No way!' shouted the stranger who had sung the song, jumping up.

'What does that mean?' asked several.

"What does that mean?" several people asked.

'A prisoner escaped from the jail-that's what it means.'

'A prisoner escaped from jail—that's what it means.'

All listened. The sound was repeated, and none of them spoke but the man in the chimney-corner, who said quietly, 'I've often been told that in this county they fire a gun at such times; but I never heard it till now.'

All listened. The sound was repeated, and none of them spoke except the man in the corner by the fireplace, who said quietly, "I've often heard that they fire a gun at times like this in this county, but I’ve never heard it until now."

'I wonder if it is my man?' murmured the personage in cinder-gray.

"I wonder if that's my guy?" murmured the figure in ash-gray.

'Surely it is!' said the shepherd involuntarily. 'And surely we've zeed him! That little man who looked in at the door by now, and quivered like a leaf when he zeed ye and heard your song!'

'Surely it is!' said the shepherd without thinking. 'And surely we've seen him! That little man who looked in at the door just now, and shook like a leaf when he saw you and heard your song!'

'His teeth chattered, and the breath went out of his body,' said the dairyman.

'His teeth were chattering, and he gasped for breath,' said the dairyman.

'And his heart seemed to sink within him like a stone,' said Oliver Giles.

'And his heart felt like it was dropping like a stone,' said Oliver Giles.

'And he bolted as if he'd been shot at,' said the hedge-carpenter.

'And he took off like he'd been shot at,' said the hedge-carpenter.

'True-his teeth chattered, and his heart seemed to sink; and he bolted as if he'd been shot at,' slowly summed up the man in the chimney- corner.

'It's true—his teeth were chattering, and his heart felt like it was dropping; he ran off as if he'd been shot at,' the man by the fireplace slowly summed up.

'I didn't notice it,' remarked the hangman.

'I didn't see it,' said the hangman.

'We were all a-wondering what made him run off in such a fright,' faltered one of the women against the wall, 'and now 'tis explained!'

'We were all wondering what made him run off in such a fright,' stammered one of the women against the wall, 'and now it's explained!'

The firing of the alarm-gun went on at intervals, low and sullenly, and their suspicions became a certainty. The sinister gentleman in cinder- gray roused himself. 'Is there a constable here?' he asked, in thick tones. 'If so, let him step forward.'

The sound of the alarm gun kept going off at intervals, dull and gloomy, and their suspicions turned into certainty. The mysterious guy in the grayish outfit stirred. "Is there a cop here?" he asked in a heavy voice. "If so, let him come forward."

The engaged man of fifty stepped quavering out from the wall, his betrothed beginning to sob on the back of the chair.

The engaged man in his fifties stepped shakily away from the wall, while his fiancée began to cry on the back of the chair.

'You are a sworn constable?'

"Are you a sworn constable?"

'I be, sir.'

"I'm here, sir."

'Then pursue the criminal at once, with assistance, and bring him back here. He can't have gone far.'

'Then go after the criminal right away, with help, and bring him back here. He can't have gone far.'

'I will, sir, I will-when I've got my staff. I'll go home and get it, and come sharp here, and start in a body.'

'I will, sir, I will—once I have my team. I'll head home to grab it, and I'll be back here quickly to start working together.'

'Staff!-never mind your staff; the man'll be gone!'

'Staff! - never mind your staff; the guy will be gone!'

'But I can't do nothing without my staff-can I, William, and John, and Charles Jake? No; for there's the king's royal crown a painted on en in yaller and gold, and the lion and the unicorn, so as when I raise en up and hit my prisoner, 'tis made a lawful blow thereby. I wouldn't 'tempt to take up a man without my staff-no, not I. If I hadn't the law to gie me courage, why, instead o' my taking up him he might take up me!'

'But I can't do anything without my staff—can I, William, John, and Charles Jake? No; because there's the king's royal crown painted on it in yellow and gold, and the lion and the unicorn, so when I raise it up and strike my prisoner, it counts as a legal blow. I wouldn't try to take a man down without my staff—not me. If I didn't have the law to give me courage, instead of me taking him down, he might take me down!'

'Now, I'm a king's man myself; and can give you authority enough for this,' said the formidable officer in gray. 'Now then, all of ye, be ready. Have ye any lanterns?'

'Now, I'm a king's man myself, and I can give you enough authority for this,' said the intimidating officer in gray. 'Alright, everyone, be ready. Do you have any lanterns?'

'Yes-have ye any lanterns?-I demand it!' said the constable.

'Yes—do you have any lanterns? I need them!' said the constable.

'And the rest of you able-bodied-'

'And the rest of you who are capable-'

'Able-bodied men-yes-the rest of ye!' said the constable.

'Able-bodied men—yes—the rest of you!' said the constable.

'Have you some good stout staves and pitch-forks-'

'Do you have some good stout poles and pitchforks?'

'Staves and pitchforks-in the name o' the law! And take 'em in yer hands and go in quest, and do as we in authority tell ye!'

'Clubs and pitchforks—in the name of the law! Take them in your hands and go on a mission, and do as we in authority instruct you!'

Thus aroused, the men prepared to give chase. The evidence was, indeed, though circumstantial, so convincing, that but little argument was needed to show the shepherd's guests that after what they had seen it would look very much like connivance if they did not instantly pursue the unhappy third stranger, who could not as yet have gone more than a few hundred yards over such uneven country.

Thus awakened, the men got ready to pursue. The evidence was, indeed, although indirect, so convincing that hardly any debate was necessary to make the shepherd's guests understand that after what they had witnessed, it would seem like they were complicit if they did not immediately chase after the unfortunate third stranger, who couldn't have gone more than a few hundred yards over such rough terrain.

A shepherd is always well provided with lanterns; and, lighting these hastily, and with hurdle-staves in their hands, they poured out of the door, taking a direction along the crest of the hill, away from the town, the rain having fortunately a little abated.

A shepherd always has plenty of lanterns on hand; and, quickly lighting them, with fence posts in their hands, they rushed out the door, heading along the top of the hill, away from the town, as the rain had thankfully eased up a bit.

Disturbed by the noise, or possibly by unpleasant dreams of her baptism, the child who had been christened began to cry heart-brokenly in the room overhead. These notes of grief came down through the chinks of the floor to the ears of the women below, who jumped up one by one, and seemed glad of the excuse to ascend and comfort the baby, for the incidents of the last half-hour greatly oppressed them. Thus in the space of two or three minutes the room on the ground-floor was deserted quite.

Disturbed by the noise, or maybe by bad dreams about her baptism, the child who had been baptized started crying heart-wrenchingly in the room above. These sounds of sadness traveled through the cracks in the floor to the ears of the women below, who got up one by one and seemed happy for the chance to go upstairs and comfort the baby, as the events of the last half-hour weighed heavily on them. In just two or three minutes, the room on the ground floor was completely empty.

But it was not for long. Hardly had the sound of footsteps died away when a man returned round the corner of the house from the direction the pursuers had taken. Peeping in at the door, and seeing nobody there, he entered leisurely. It was the stranger of the chimney-corner, who had gone out with the rest. The motive of his return was shown by his helping himself to a cut piece of skimmer-cake that lay on a ledge beside where he had sat, and which he had apparently forgotten to take with him. He also poured out half a cup more mead from the quantity that remained, ravenously eating and drinking these as he stood. He had not finished when another figure came in just as quietly-his friend in cinder-gray.

But it didn’t last long. Hardly had the sound of footsteps faded away when a man came back around the corner of the house from where the pursuers had gone. Peeking in at the door and seeing that no one was there, he strolled inside. It was the stranger from the fireplace, who had gone out with the others. The reason for his return was clear as he helped himself to a piece of skimmer-cake that was resting on a ledge by where he had been sitting, which he had apparently forgotten to grab. He also poured himself half a cup of mead from what was left, eagerly eating and drinking as he stood there. He hadn’t finished when another figure entered just as quietly—his friend in cinder-gray.

'O-you here?' said the latter, smiling. 'I thought you had gone to help in the capture.' And this speaker also revealed the object of his return by looking solicitously round for the fascinating mug of old mead.

'O, you here?' said the other, smiling. 'I thought you had gone to help with the capture.' And this person also showed why he had come back by looking around anxiously for the tempting mug of old mead.

'And I thought you had gone,' said the other, continuing his skimmer- cake with some effort.

'And I thought you had left,' said the other, continuing to work on his skimmer-cake with some effort.

'Well, on second thoughts, I felt there were enough without me,' said the first confidentially, 'and such a night as it is, too. Besides, 'tis the business o' the Government to take care of its criminals-not mine.'

'Well, on second thoughts, I felt there were enough without me,' said the first quietly, 'and with a night like this, too. Besides, it's the Government's job to take care of its criminals—not mine.'

'True; so it is. And I felt as you did, that there were enough without me.'

'True, that's how it is. And I felt the same way you did, that there were plenty without me.'

'I don't want to break my limbs running over the humps and hollows of this wild country.'

'I don't want to injure myself running over the bumps and dips of this untamed land.'

'Nor I neither, between you and me.'

'Neither do I, between you and me.'

'These shepherd-people are used to it-simple-minded souls, you know, stirred up to anything in a moment. They'll have him ready for me before the morning, and no trouble to me at all.'

'These shepherd folks are used to it—simple-minded souls, you know, easily stirred up at any moment. They'll have him ready for me before morning, and it won’t be any trouble for me at all.'

'They'll have him, and we shall have saved ourselves all labour in the matter.'

'They'll get him, and we will have saved ourselves all the effort in the process.'

'True, true. Well, my way is to Casterbridge; and 'tis as much as my legs will do to take me that far. Going the same way?'

'That's right, that's right. Well, I'm heading to Casterbridge; and it's all my legs can manage to get me that far. Are you going the same way?'

'No, I am sorry to say! I have to get home over there' (he nodded indefinitely to the right), 'and I feel as you do, that it is quite enough for my legs to do before bedtime.'

'No, I’m sorry to say! I have to get home over there' (he nodded vaguely to the right), 'and I feel like you do, that it’s plenty for my legs to handle before bedtime.'

The other had by this time finished the mead in the mug, after which, shaking hands heartily at the door, and wishing each other well, they went their several ways.

The other had by this time finished the mead in the mug. After shaking hands warmly at the door and wishing each other well, they went their separate ways.

In the meantime the company of pursuers had reached the end of the hog's-back elevation which dominated this part of the down. They had decided on no particular plan of action; and, finding that the man of the baleful trade was no longer in their company, they seemed quite unable to form any such plan now. They descended in all directions down the hill, and straightway several of the party fell into the snare set by Nature for all misguided midnight ramblers over this part of the cretaceous formation. The 'lanchets,' or flint slopes, which belted the escarpment at intervals of a dozen yards, took the less cautious ones unawares, and losing their footing on the rubbly steep they slid sharply downwards, the lanterns rolling from their hands to the bottom, and there lying on their sides till the horn was scorched through.

In the meantime, the group of pursuers had reached the end of the ridge that overlooked this part of the downs. They hadn't decided on any specific plan of action, and with the man with the bad intentions no longer with them, they seemed unable to come up with one now. They scattered in all directions down the hill, and before long, several members of the group fell into the traps set by Nature for all misguided late-night wanderers in this area of the chalk formation. The flint slopes, which lined the escarpment every dozen yards or so, caught the less cautious off guard, and losing their footing on the rocky incline, they slid downwards sharply, their lanterns rolling from their hands to the bottom, where they lay on their sides until the glass was scorched through.

When they had again gathered themselves together, the shepherd, as the man who knew the country best, took the lead, and guided them round these treacherous inclines. The lanterns, which seemed rather to dazzle their eyes and warn the fugitive than to assist them in the exploration, were extinguished, due silence was observed; and in this more rational order they plunged into the vale. It was a grassy, briery, moist defile, affording some shelter to any person who had sought it; but the party perambulated it in vain, and ascended on the other side. Here they wandered apart, and after an interval closed together again to report progress.

When they came together again, the shepherd, being the most familiar with the area, took the lead and guided them around the dangerous slopes. The lanterns, which seemed to dazzle their eyes and alert the person hiding instead of helping them explore, were put out, and they maintained silence. Following this more sensible approach, they descended into the valley. It was a grassy, thorny, damp path that offered some shelter to anyone who might have sought it, but the group searched it in vain and climbed up the other side. Here, they wandered off individually, then regrouped after a while to share what they had found.

At the second time of closing in they found themselves near a lonely ash, the single tree on this part of the coomb, probably sown there by a passing bird some fifty years before. And here, standing a little to one side of the trunk, as motionless as the trunk itself; appeared the man they were in quest of; his outline being well defined against the sky beyond. The band noiselessly drew up and faced him.

At the second time they closed in, they found themselves by a lonely ash tree, the only one in this area of the valley, likely planted there by a passing bird about fifty years ago. And here, standing a little to one side of the trunk, as still as the trunk itself, was the man they were looking for; his figure clearly outlined against the sky behind him. The group silently gathered and faced him.

'Your money or your life!' said the constable sternly to the still figure.

'Your money or your life!' the constable said firmly to the motionless figure.

'No, no,' whispered John Pitcher. ''Tisn't our side ought to say that. That's the doctrine of vagabonds like him, and we be on the side of the law.'

'No, no,' whispered John Pitcher. 'It's not our side that should say that. That's the belief of drifters like him, and we're on the side of the law.'

'Well, well,' replied the constable impatiently; 'I must say something, mustn't I? and if you had all the weight o' this undertaking upon your mind, perhaps you'd say the wrong thing too!-Prisoner at the bar, surrender, in the name of the Father-the Crown, I mane!'

'Well, well,' the constable replied impatiently, 'I have to say something, right? And if you had all this responsibility on your mind, maybe you'd say the wrong thing too! - Prisoner at the bar, surrender, in the name of the Father - I mean the Crown!'

The man under the tree seemed now to notice them for the first time, and, giving them no opportunity whatever for exhibiting their courage, he strolled slowly towards them. He was, indeed, the little man, the third stranger; but his trepidation had in a great measure gone.

The man under the tree now seemed to notice them for the first time, and without giving them any chance to show their bravery, he walked slowly towards them. He was, in fact, the little man, the third stranger; but his fear had mostly disappeared.

'Well, travellers,' he said, 'did I hear ye speak to me?'

'Well, travelers,' he said, 'did I hear you talking to me?'

'You did: you've got to come and be our prisoner at once!' said the constable. 'We arrest 'ee on the charge of not biding in Casterbridge jail in a decent proper manner to be hung to-morrow morning. Neighbours, do your duty, and seize the culpet!'

'You did: you need to come and be our prisoner right now!' said the constable. 'We're arresting you for not staying in Casterbridge jail like you're supposed to, to be hung tomorrow morning. Neighbors, do your duty and grab the culprit!'

On hearing the charge, the man seemed enlightened, and, saying not another word, resigned himself with preternatural civility to the search-party, who, with their staves in their hands, surrounded him on all sides, and marched him back towards the shepherd's cottage.

On hearing the accusation, the man appeared to understand, and, without saying another word, accepted the search party's presence with unnerving politeness as they surrounded him with their staffs and escorted him back to the shepherd's cottage.

It was eleven o'clock by the time they arrived. The light shining from the open door, a sound of men's voices within, proclaimed to them as they approached the house that some new events had arisen in their absence. On entering they discovered the shepherd's living room to be invaded by two officers from Casterbridge jail, and a well-known magistrate who lived at the nearest country-seat, intelligence of the escape having become generally circulated.

It was eleven o'clock when they arrived. The light coming from the open door and the sound of men's voices inside indicated to them as they approached the house that something new had happened while they were away. Once they went in, they found the shepherd's living room filled with two officers from Casterbridge jail and a well-known magistrate who lived at the closest country estate, as news of the escape had spread widely.

'Gentlemen,' said the constable, 'I have brought back your man-not without risk and danger; but every one must do his duty! He is inside this circle of able-bodied persons, who have lent me useful aid, considering their ignorance of Crown work. Men, bring forward your prisoner!' And the third stranger was led to the light.

'Gentlemen,' said the constable, 'I’ve brought your man back - not without risk and danger; but everyone has to do their duty! He’s inside this circle of able-bodied folks who have helped me, despite not knowing much about Crown work. Men, bring your prisoner forward!' And the third stranger was brought into the light.

'Who is this?' said one of the officials.

'Who is this?' asked one of the officials.

'The man,' said the constable.

"The guy," said the cop.

'Certainly not,' said the turnkey; and the first corroborated his statement.

'Definitely not,' said the jailer; and the first one backed him up.

'But how can it be otherwise?' asked the constable. 'Or why was he so terrified at sight o' the singing instrument of the law who sat there?' Here he related the strange behaviour of the third stranger on entering the house during the hangman's song.

'But how can it be any different?' asked the constable. 'Or why was he so scared when he saw the law enforcement officer sitting there?' Then he described the odd actions of the third stranger when he entered the house during the hangman's song.

'Can't understand it,' said the officer coolly. 'All I know is that it is not the condemned man. He's quite a different character from this one; a gauntish fellow, with dark hair and eyes, rather good-looking, and with a musical bass voice that if you heard it once you'd never mistake as long as you lived.'

"Can't figure it out," said the officer calmly. "All I know is that this isn't the condemned man. He’s completely different; a lanky guy with dark hair and eyes, kind of good-looking, and he has a deep voice that, if you heard it once, you'd never forget it."

'Why, souls-'twas the man in the chimney-corner!'

'Why, folks—it was the guy in the corner by the fireplace!'

'Hey-what?' said the magistrate, coming forward after inquiring particulars from the shepherd in the background. 'Haven't you got the man after all?'

'Hey, what?' said the magistrate, stepping forward after asking the shepherd in the back for details. 'Don't you have the man after all?'

'Well, sir,' said the constable, 'he's the man we were in search of, that's true; and yet he's not the man we were in search of. For the man we were in search of was not the man we wanted, sir, if you understand my everyday way; for 'twas the man in the chimney-corner!'

'Well, sir,' said the constable, 'he's the guy we were looking for, that's true; but he's not the guy we wanted. The guy we were looking for wasn't the guy we needed, sir, if you get what I mean; it was the guy in the chimney corner!'

'A pretty kettle of fish altogether!' said the magistrate. 'You had better start for the other man at once.'

'A real mess we're in!' said the magistrate. 'You should head out for the other man right away.'

The prisoner now spoke for the first time. The mention of the man in the chimney-corner seemed to have moved him as nothing else could do. 'Sir,' he said, stepping forward to the magistrate, 'take no more trouble about me. The time is come when I may as well speak. I have done nothing; my crime is that the condemned man is my brother. Early this afternoon I left home at Shottsford to tramp it all the way to Casterbridge jail to bid him farewell. I was benighted, and called here to rest and ask the way. When I opened the door I saw before me the very man, my brother, that I thought to see in the condemned cell at Casterbridge. He was in this chimney-corner; and jammed close to him, so that he could not have got out if he had tried, was the executioner who'd come to take his life, singing a song about it and not knowing that it was his victim who was close by, joining in to save appearances. My brother looked a glance of agony at me, and I knew he meant, "Don't reveal what you see; my life depends on it." I was so terror-struck that I could hardly stand, and, not knowing what I did, I turned and hurried away.'

The prisoner spoke for the first time. The mention of the man in the chimney corner seemed to affect him more than anything else. “Sir,” he said, stepping forward to the magistrate, “don’t worry about me anymore. The time has come for me to speak. I haven’t done anything; my only crime is that the man who’s about to be executed is my brother. Earlier today, I left home in Shottsford to walk all the way to Casterbridge jail to say goodbye to him. I got caught out after dark and stopped here to rest and ask for directions. When I opened the door, I saw my brother, the very man I thought I’d find in the condemned cell at Casterbridge. He was right there in this chimney corner, and pressed up against him, so tightly he couldn’t escape if he tried, was the executioner who’d come to take his life, singing a song about it and completely unaware that his victim was so close, joining in to keep up appearances. My brother shot me a look of agony, and I understood he was saying, “Don’t reveal what you see; my life depends on it.” I was so terrified I could barely stand, and without knowing what I was doing, I turned and rushed away.”

The narrator's manner and tone had the stamp of truth, and his story made a great impression on all around. 'And do you know where your brother is at the present time?' asked the magistrate.

The narrator's manner and tone felt genuine, and his story left a strong impact on everyone present. 'Do you know where your brother is right now?' the magistrate asked.

'I do not. I have never seen him since I closed this door.'

'I don’t. I haven’t seen him since I closed this door.'

'I can testify to that, for we've been between ye ever since,' said the constable.

"I can back that up, because we've been stuck in the middle of it ever since," said the constable.

'Where does he think to fly to?-what is his occupation?'

'Where does he think he's flying to? What does he do for a living?'

'He's a watch-and-clock-maker, sir.'

"He's a watch and clock maker, sir."

''A said 'a was a wheelwright-a wicked rogue,' said the constable.

''A said 'a was a wheelwright—a wicked trickster,' said the constable.

'The wheels of clocks and watches he meant, no doubt,' said Shepherd Fennel. 'I thought his hands were palish for's trade.'

'He was talking about the gears of clocks and watches, obviously,' said Shepherd Fennel. 'I thought his hands were a bit too pale for his job.'

'Well, it appears to me that nothing can be gained by retaining this poor man in custody,' said the magistrate; 'your business lies with the other, unquestionably.'

'Well, it seems to me that keeping this poor man in custody isn't going to help anyone,' said the magistrate; 'your issue is definitely with the other person.'

And so the little man was released off-hand; but he looked nothing the less sad on that account, it being beyond the power of magistrate or constable to raze out the written troubles in his brain, for they concerned another whom he regarded with more solicitude than himself. When this was done, and the man had gone his way, the night was found to be so far advanced that it was deemed useless to renew the search before the next morning.

And so the little man was let go casually; but he looked just as sad because it was beyond the ability of any official to erase the worries in his mind, as they were about someone he cared about more than himself. Once this was done, and the man had left, it was noticed that the night was so far along that it was considered pointless to continue the search until the next morning.

Next day, accordingly, the quest for the clever sheep-stealer became general and keen, to all appearance at least. But the intended punishment was cruelly disproportioned to the transgression, and the sympathy of a great many country-folk in that district was strongly on the side of the fugitive. Moreover, his marvellous coolness and daring in hob-and-nobbing with the hangman, under the unprecedented circumstances of the shepherd's party, won their admiration. So that it may be questioned if all those who ostensibly made themselves so busy in exploring woods and fields and lanes were quite so thorough when it came to the private examination of their own lofts and outhouses. Stories were afloat of a mysterious figure being occasionally seen in some old overgrown trackway or other, remote from turnpike roads; but when a search was instituted in any of these suspected quarters nobody was found. Thus the days and weeks passed without tidings.

The next day, the search for the clever sheep-stealer became widespread and intense, or at least it seemed that way. However, the punishment proposed was ridiculously harsh compared to the crime, and many locals sympathized with the fugitive. Additionally, his incredible calmness and bravery in interacting with the hangman during the unusual situation at the shepherd's gathering earned him their respect. So it might be questioned whether all those who seemed so busy searching through woods, fields, and lanes were actually as diligent when it came to checking their own barns and outbuildings. There were rumors of a mysterious figure sometimes spotted in some overgrown paths away from the main roads, but whenever searches were conducted in these areas, no one was found. Thus, days and weeks went by without any news.

In brief; the bass-voiced man of the chimney-corner was never recaptured. Some said that he went across the sea, others that he did not, but buried himself in the depths of a populous city. At any rate, the gentleman in cinder-gray never did his morning's work at Casterbridge, nor met anywhere at all, for business purposes, the genial comrade with whom he had passed an hour of relaxation in the lonely house on the coomb.

In short, the man with the deep voice who used to sit by the fireplace was never found again. Some said he went overseas, while others believed he simply disappeared into the hustle and bustle of a big city. Regardless, the gentleman in cinder-gray never returned to work in Casterbridge, nor did he run into the friendly companion with whom he had shared an hour of relaxation in the secluded house on the hill.

The grass has long been green on the graves of Shepherd Fennel and his frugal wife; the guests who made up the christening party have mainly followed their entertainers to the tomb; the baby in whose honour they all had met is a matron in the sere and yellow leaf. But the arrival of the three strangers at the shepherd's that night, and the details connected therewith, is a story as well known as ever in the country about Higher Crowstairs.

The grass has been green for a long time on the graves of Shepherd Fennel and his thrifty wife; most of the guests from the christening party have followed their hosts to the grave; the baby they all gathered for is now a woman in the autumn of her life. But the arrival of the three strangers at the shepherd's that night, along with the details surrounding it, is a story that's still well-known in the area around Higher Crowstairs.

March 1883.

THE WITHERED ARM

CHAPTER I-A LORN MILKMAID

It was an eighty-cow dairy, and the troop of milkers, regular and supernumerary, were all at work; for, though the time of year was as yet but early April, the feed lay entirely in water-meadows, and the cows were 'in full pail.' The hour was about six in the evening, and three- fourths of the large, red, rectangular animals having been finished off, there was opportunity for a little conversation.

It was an eighty-cow dairy, and the group of milkers, both regular and extra, were all busy; even though it was still early April, the feed was completely in the water meadows, and the cows were 'in full pail.' The time was around six in the evening, and since three-quarters of the large, red, rectangular cows had been finished, there was a chance for some conversation.

'He do bring home his bride to-morrow, I hear. They've come as far as Anglebury to-day.'

'He’s bringing home his bride tomorrow, I hear. They’ve come as far as Anglebury today.'

The voice seemed to proceed from the belly of the cow called Cherry, but the speaker was a milking-woman, whose face was buried in the flank of that motionless beast.

The voice seemed to come from the belly of the cow named Cherry, but the speaker was a woman milking her, with her face buried in the side of that still animal.

'Hav' anybody seen her?' said another.

'Hav' anyone seen her?' said another.

There was a negative response from the first. 'Though they say she's a rosy-cheeked, tisty-tosty little body enough,' she added; and as the milkmaid spoke she turned her face so that she could glance past her cow's tail to the other side of the barton, where a thin, fading woman of thirty milked somewhat apart from the rest.

There was a negative response from the first. 'Although they say she's a rosy-cheeked, cute little thing,' she added; and as the milkmaid spoke, she turned her face so she could look past her cow's tail to the other side of the barn, where a thin, worn-out woman, about thirty, was milking somewhat apart from the others.

'Years younger than he, they say,' continued the second, with also a glance of reflectiveness in the same direction.

'They say he's years younger than he is,' the second continued, also glancing thoughtfully in the same direction.

'How old do you call him, then?'

'So, how old do you think he is?'

'Thirty or so.'

'About thirty.'

'More like forty,' broke in an old milkman near, in a long white pinafore or 'wropper,' and with the brim of his hat tied down, so that he looked like a woman. ''A was born before our Great Weir was builded, and I hadn't man's wages when I laved water there.'

'More like forty,' interrupted an old milkman nearby, wearing a long white apron and with the brim of his hat tied down, making him look like a woman. 'I was born before our Great Weir was built, and I didn’t earn a man's wages when I washed water there.'

The discussion waxed so warm that the purr of the milk-streams became jerky, till a voice from another cow's belly cried with authority, 'Now then, what the Turk do it matter to us about Farmer Lodge's age, or Farmer Lodge's new mis'ess? I shall have to pay him nine pound a year for the rent of every one of these milchers, whatever his age or hers. Get on with your work, or 'twill be dark afore we have done. The evening is pinking in a'ready.' This speaker was the dairyman himself; by whom the milkmaids and men were employed.

The conversation got so heated that the sound of the milk flowing became uneven, until a voice from another cow's belly exclaimed with authority, 'Now, what does it matter to us about Farmer Lodge's age, or his new wife? I still have to pay him nine pounds a year for the rent of each of these milking cows, no matter how old he is or she is. Let's get back to work, or it’ll be dark before we’re done. The evening is already starting to turn pink.' This speaker was the dairyman himself, who employed the milkmaids and workers.

Nothing more was said publicly about Farmer Lodge's wedding, but the first woman murmured under her cow to her next neighbour, ''Tis hard for she,' signifying the thin worn milkmaid aforesaid.

Nothing more was said publicly about Farmer Lodge's wedding, but the first woman murmured under her cow to her neighbor, "It's tough for her," meaning the thin, worn-out milkmaid mentioned earlier.

'O no,' said the second. 'He ha'n't spoke to Rhoda Brook for years.'

'O no,' said the second. 'He hasn't talked to Rhoda Brook for years.'

When the milking was done they washed their pails and hung them on a many-forked stand made of the peeled limb of an oak-tree, set upright in the earth, and resembling a colossal antlered horn. The majority then dispersed in various directions homeward. The thin woman who had not spoken was joined by a boy of twelve or thereabout, and the twain went away up the field also.

When the milking was over, they cleaned their pails and hung them on a forked stand made from the stripped branch of an oak tree, stuck upright in the ground, looking like a huge antler. Most of them then scattered off in different directions toward home. The quiet woman who hadn’t said anything was joined by a boy of about twelve, and the two of them walked away up the field as well.

Their course lay apart from that of the others, to a lonely spot high above the water-meads, and not far from the border of Egdon Heath, whose dark countenance was visible in the distance as they drew nigh to their home.

Their path was separate from the others, leading to a secluded area high above the wet meadows, not far from the edge of Egdon Heath, whose dark outline was visible in the distance as they approached their home.

'They've just been saying down in barton that your father brings his young wife home from Anglebury to-morrow,' the woman observed. 'I shall want to send you for a few things to market, and you'll be pretty sure to meet 'em.'

'They've been saying down in Barton that your dad is bringing his young wife home from Anglebury tomorrow,' the woman said. 'I’ll need you to pick up a few things from the market, and you’ll probably run into them.'

'Yes, mother,' said the boy. 'Is father married then?'

'Yeah, mom,' said the boy. 'Is dad married then?'

'Yes . . . You can give her a look, and tell me what's she's like, if you do see her.'

'Yeah . . . You can give her a glance and let me know what she's like, if you happen to see her.'

'Yes, mother.'

'Yeah, mom.'

'If she's dark or fair, and if she's tall-as tall as I. And if she seems like a woman who has ever worked for a living, or one that has been always well off, and has never done anything, and shows marks of the lady on her, as I expect she do.'

'If she’s dark or light, and if she’s tall—tall like me. And if she seems like a woman who has ever had to work for a living, or one who has always been well off, has never done anything, and shows signs of being a lady, as I expect she would.'

'Yes.'

Yes.

They crept up the hill in the twilight, and entered the cottage. It was built of mud-walls, the surface of which had been washed by many rains into channels and depressions that left none of the original flat face visible; while here and there in the thatch above a rafter showed like a bone protruding through the skin.

They quietly made their way up the hill at dusk and entered the cottage. It was made of mud walls, which had been worn by numerous rains into grooves and dips that made the original flat surface no longer visible; and now and then, a rafter peeked through the thatch above like a bone sticking out from the skin.

She was kneeling down in the chimney-corner, before two pieces of turf laid together with the heather inwards, blowing at the red-hot ashes with her breath till the turves flamed. The radiance lit her pale cheek, and made her dark eyes, that had once been handsome, seem handsome anew. 'Yes,' she resumed, 'see if she is dark or fair, and if you can, notice if her hands be white; if not, see if they look as though she had ever done housework, or are milker's hands like mine.'

She was kneeling in the corner by the fireplace, in front of two pieces of turf placed together with the heather side facing in, blowing at the glowing ashes with her breath until the turf caught fire. The light softened her pale cheek and made her dark eyes, which had once been beautiful, seem beautiful again. "Yes," she continued, "check if she's dark or light-skinned, and if you can, see if her hands are white; if not, notice if they look like they've done housework, or if they're like mine from milking."

The boy again promised, inattentively this time, his mother not observing that he was cutting a notch with his pocket-knife in the beech-backed chair.

The boy once again promised, this time without paying much attention, while his mother didn't notice that he was carving a mark with his pocket knife into the beech-backed chair.

CHAPTER II-THE YOUNG WIFE

The road from Anglebury to Holmstoke is in general level; but there is one place where a sharp ascent breaks its monotony. Farmers homeward- bound from the former market-town, who trot all the rest of the way, walk their horses up this short incline.

The road from Anglebury to Holmstoke is mostly flat, but there’s one spot where a steep hill interrupts the even stretch. Farmers heading home from the previous market town, who usually trot along the rest of the way, walk their horses up this brief slope.

The next evening, while the sun was yet bright, a handsome new gig, with a lemon-coloured body and red wheels, was spinning westward along the level highway at the heels of a powerful mare. The driver was a yeoman in the prime of life, cleanly shaven like an actor, his face being toned to that bluish-vermilion hue which so often graces a thriving farmer's features when returning home after successful dealings in the town. Beside him sat a woman, many years his junior-almost, indeed, a girl. Her face too was fresh in colour, but it was of a totally different quality-soft and evanescent, like the light under a heap of rose-petals.

The next evening, while the sun was still bright, a stylish new cart with a lemon-yellow body and red wheels was speeding west along the flat highway, pulled by a strong mare. The driver was a farmer in his prime, clean-shaven like an actor, his face showing that bluish-red tint common to successful farmers coming home after a good day in town. Next to him sat a woman many years younger than him—almost a girl, really. Her face was fresh in color too, but in a completely different way—soft and fleeting, like the light under a pile of rose petals.

Few people travelled this way, for it was not a main road; and the long white riband of gravel that stretched before them was empty, save of one small scarce-moving speck, which presently resolved itself into the figure of boy, who was creeping on at a snail's pace, and continually looking behind him-the heavy bundle he carried being some excuse for, if not the reason of, his dilatoriness. When the bouncing gig-party slowed at the bottom of the incline above mentioned, the pedestrian was only a few yards in front. Supporting the large bundle by putting one hand on his hip, he turned and looked straight at the farmer's wife as though he would read her through and through, pacing along abreast of the horse.

Few people traveled this way because it wasn't a main road; the long, white strip of gravel stretching out before them was empty, except for one small, slow-moving dot that soon became the figure of a boy. He was inching along at a snail's pace, constantly looking over his shoulder—the heavy bundle he carried being a partial excuse, if not the reason, for his slowness. When the lively gig party slowed at the bottom of the incline mentioned earlier, the boy was only a few yards ahead. Supporting the large bundle by resting one hand on his hip, he turned and looked directly at the farmer's wife, as if trying to see right into her, while walking alongside the horse.

The low sun was full in her face, rendering every feature, shade, and contour distinct, from the curve of her little nostril to the colour of her eyes. The farmer, though he seemed annoyed at the boy's persistent presence, did not order him to get out of the way; and thus the lad preceded them, his hard gaze never leaving her, till they reached the top of the ascent, when the farmer trotted on with relief in his lineaments-having taken no outward notice of the boy whatever.

The low sun shone brightly on her face, highlighting every feature, shadow, and contour, from the curve of her small nostril to the color of her eyes. The farmer, although he appeared irritated by the boy's nonstop presence, didn’t tell him to move aside; so the kid led the way, his intense gaze fixed on her, until they reached the top of the hill, at which point the farmer moved on with a sense of relief on his face, having shown no visible reaction to the boy at all.

'How that poor lad stared at me!' said the young wife.

'How that poor guy stared at me!' said the young wife.

'Yes, dear; I saw that he did.'

'Yes, honey; I saw that he did.'

'He is one of the village, I suppose?'

'He's one of the villagers, I guess?'

'One of the neighbourhood. I think he lives with his mother a mile or two off.'

'One of the neighbors. I think he lives with his mom a mile or two away.'

'He knows who we are, no doubt?'

'He knows who we are, right?'

'O yes. You must expect to be stared at just at first, my pretty Gertrude.'

'O yes. You should expect to be stared at at first, my pretty Gertrude.'

'I do,-though I think the poor boy may have looked at us in the hope we might relieve him of his heavy load, rather than from curiosity.'

'I do, although I think the poor boy might have looked at us hoping we could help lighten his heavy load, rather than out of curiosity.'

'O no,' said her husband off-handedly. 'These country lads will carry a hundredweight once they get it on their backs; besides his pack had more size than weight in it. Now, then, another mile and I shall be able to show you our house in the distance-if it is not too dark before we get there.' The wheels spun round, and particles flew from their periphery as before, till a white house of ample dimensions revealed itself, with farm-buildings and ricks at the back.

'O no,' her husband said casually. 'These country guys can carry a hundredweight once they’ve got it on their backs; plus, his pack was bigger than it was heavy. Now, just another mile and I’ll be able to show you our house in the distance—if it’s not too dark by the time we get there.' The wheels spun around, and bits of dust flew off as before, until a large white house appeared, along with some farm buildings and stacks at the back.

Meanwhile the boy had quickened his pace, and turning up a by-lane some mile and half short of the white farmstead, ascended towards the leaner pastures, and so on to the cottage of his mother.

Meanwhile, the boy had picked up his speed, and as he turned onto a side street about a mile and a half short of the white farmhouse, he climbed up toward the thinner pastures, and then headed to his mother's cottage.

She had reached home after her day's milking at the outlying dairy, and was washing cabbage at the doorway in the declining light. 'Hold up the net a moment,' she said, without preface, as the boy came up.

She had gotten home after milking at the remote dairy for the day and was washing cabbage at the doorstep in the fading light. "Hold up the net for a second," she said, without any introduction, as the boy approached.

He flung down his bundle, held the edge of the cabbage-net, and as she filled its meshes with the dripping leaves she went on, 'Well, did you see her?'

He tossed down his bag, grabbed the edge of the cabbage net, and as she filled it with the wet leaves, she continued, "So, did you see her?"

'Yes; quite plain.'

'Yes, very plain.'

'Is she ladylike?'

"Is she classy?"

'Yes; and more. A lady complete.'

'Yes; and more. A complete lady.'

'Is she young?'

'Is she a millennial?'

'Well, she's growed up, and her ways be quite a woman's.'

'Well, she's grown up, and her ways are quite womanly.'

'Of course. What colour is her hair and face?'

'Of course. What color is her hair and skin?'

'Her hair is lightish, and her face as comely as a live doll's.'

'Her hair is a light color, and her face is as pretty as a living doll's.'

'Her eyes, then, are not dark like mine?'

'So her eyes aren't dark like mine?'

'No-of a bluish turn, and her mouth is very nice and red; and when she smiles, her teeth show white.'

'She has a bluish tint to her skin, and her lips are a bright red; and when she smiles, her teeth are very white.'

'Is she tall?' said the woman sharply.

"Is she tall?" the woman asked sharply.

'I couldn't see. She was sitting down.'

'I couldn't see. She was sitting.'

'Then do you go to Holmstoke church to-morrow morning: she's sure to be there. Go early and notice her walking in, and come home and tell me if she's taller than I.'

'Are you going to Holmstoke church tomorrow morning? She will definitely be there. Go early, watch her walk in, and come back and tell me if she's taller than I am.'

'Very well, mother. But why don't you go and see for yourself?'

'Sure, mom. But why don't you go check it out yourself?'

'I go to see her! I wouldn't look up at her if she were to pass my window this instant. She was with Mr. Lodge, of course. What did he say or do?'

'I go to see her! I wouldn’t even glance at her if she walked past my window right now. She was with Mr. Lodge, obviously. What did he say or do?'

'Just the same as usual.'

'Just like always.'

'Took no notice of you?'

'Didn't notice you?'

'None.'

Next day the mother put a clean shirt on the boy, and started him off for Holmstoke church. He reached the ancient little pile when the door was just being opened, and he was the first to enter. Taking his seat by the font, he watched all the parishioners file in. The well-to-do Farmer Lodge came nearly last; and his young wife, who accompanied him, walked up the aisle with the shyness natural to a modest woman who had appeared thus for the first time. As all other eyes were fixed upon her, the youth's stare was not noticed now.

The next day, the mother dressed the boy in a clean shirt and sent him off to Holmstoke church. He arrived at the old building just as the door was being opened, and he was the first one inside. Taking a seat by the font, he watched all the parishioners come in. The well-off Farmer Lodge came nearly last, and his young wife, who was with him, walked down the aisle with the shyness typical of a modest woman making her debut. Since everyone else was focused on her, the young man’s gaze went unnoticed.

When he reached home his mother said, 'Well?' before he had entered the room.

When he got home, his mom said, 'Well?' before he had even stepped inside the room.

'She is not tall. She is rather short,' he replied.

'She's not tall. She's pretty short,' he replied.

'Ah!' said his mother, with satisfaction.

'Ah!' said his mother, feeling pleased.

'But she's very pretty-very. In fact, she's lovely.'

'But she's really pretty—really. In fact, she's beautiful.'

The youthful freshness of the yeoman's wife had evidently made an impression even on the somewhat hard nature of the boy.

The youthful vibrancy of the farmer's wife had clearly made an impression, even on the boy's somewhat tough demeanor.

'That's all I want to hear,' said his mother quickly. 'Now, spread the table-cloth. The hare you caught is very tender; but mind that nobody catches you.-You've never told me what sort of hands she had.'

'That's all I want to hear,' his mother said quickly. 'Now, set the table. The hare you caught is really tender; but make sure no one catches you. You've never told me what kind of hands she has.'

'I have never seen 'em. She never took off her gloves.'

'I’ve never seen them. She never took off her gloves.'

'What did she wear this morning?'

'A white bonnet and a silver-coloured gownd. It whewed and whistled so loud when it rubbed against the pews that the lady coloured up more than ever for very shame at the noise, and pulled it in to keep it from touching; but when she pushed into her seat, it whewed more than ever. Mr. Lodge, he seemed pleased, and his waistcoat stuck out, and his great golden seals hung like a lord's; but she seemed to wish her noisy gownd anywhere but on her.'

'A white bonnet and a silver gown. It made such a loud wheezing and whistling sound when it brushed against the pews that the lady blushed even more out of embarrassment from the noise and pulled it in to keep it from touching; but when she sat down, it wheezed even louder. Mr. Lodge appeared pleased, his waistcoat puffed out, and his big golden seals hung like a lord’s; but she looked like she wished her noisy gown was anywhere but on her.'

'Not she! However, that will do now.'

'Not her! But that will do for now.'

These descriptions of the newly-married couple were continued from time to time by the boy at his mother's request, after any chance encounter he had had with them. But Rhoda Brook, though she might easily have seen young Mrs. Lodge for herself by walking a couple of miles, would never attempt an excursion towards the quarter where the farmhouse lay. Neither did she, at the daily milking in the dairyman's yard on Lodge's outlying second farm, ever speak on the subject of the recent marriage. The dairyman, who rented the cows of Lodge, and knew perfectly the tall milkmaid's history, with manly kindliness always kept the gossip in the cow-barton from annoying Rhoda. But the atmosphere thereabout was full of the subject during the first days of Mrs. Lodge's arrival; and from her boy's description and the casual words of the other milkers, Rhoda Brook could raise a mental image of the unconscious Mrs Lodge that was realistic as a photograph.

These descriptions of the newly married couple were shared from time to time by the boy at his mother's request, after any chance encounter he had with them. But Rhoda Brook, even though she could easily see young Mrs. Lodge for herself by walking a couple of miles, would never make the trip to the area where the farmhouse was located. Nor did she ever bring up the recent marriage during the daily milking in the dairyman's yard at Lodge's second farm. The dairyman, who rented the cows from Lodge and knew the tall milkmaid's background well, always made sure to keep the gossip in the cow barn from bothering Rhoda. However, the atmosphere there was filled with talk about the topic in the early days following Mrs. Lodge's arrival, and from her boy's descriptions and the casual comments of the other milkers, Rhoda Brook could form a mental image of the unaware Mrs. Lodge that was as clear as a photograph.

CHAPTER III-A VISION

One night, two or three weeks after the bridal return, when the boy was gone to bed, Rhoda sat a long time over the turf ashes that she had raked out in front of her to extinguish them. She contemplated so intently the new wife, as presented to her in her mind's eye over the embers, that she forgot the lapse of time. At last, wearied with her day's work, she too retired.

One night, two or three weeks after the wedding, when the boy had gone to bed, Rhoda sat for a long time over the ashes she had raked out in front of her to put them out. She focused so intensely on the new wife, as she imagined her over the glowing embers, that she lost track of time. Finally, exhausted from her day’s work, she went to bed too.

But the figure which had occupied her so much during this and the previous days was not to be banished at night. For the first time Gertrude Lodge visited the supplanted woman in her dreams. Rhoda Brook dreamed-since her assertion that she really saw, before falling asleep, was not to be believed-that the young wife, in the pale silk dress and white bonnet, but with features shockingly distorted, and wrinkled as by age, was sitting upon her chest as she lay. The pressure of Mrs. Lodge's person grew heavier; the blue eyes peered cruelly into her face; and then the figure thrust forward its left hand mockingly, so as to make the wedding-ring it wore glitter in Rhoda's eyes. Maddened mentally, and nearly suffocated by pressure, the sleeper struggled; the incubus, still regarding her, withdrew to the foot of the bed, only, however, to come forward by degrees, resume her seat, and flash her left hand as before.

But the figure that had obsessed her for the past few days wasn't going to leave her alone at night. For the first time, Gertrude Lodge appeared in Rhoda Brook's dreams. Rhoda, despite her claim that she truly saw this before drifting off, dreamed that the young wife, dressed in a pale silk gown and a white bonnet, but with features grotesquely distorted and aged, was sitting on her chest as she lay. The weight of Mrs. Lodge felt heavier; her blue eyes bore down cruelly on Rhoda's face. Then, the figure mockingly extended her left hand, making the wedding ring glitter in Rhoda's eyes. Driven to madness and nearly suffocated by the pressure, the sleeper struggled; the oppressive figure, still watching her, moved to the foot of the bed, only to gradually return to her original position and flash her left hand again.

Gasping for breath, Rhoda, in a last desperate effort, swung out her right hand, seized the confronting spectre by its obtrusive left arm, and whirled it backward to the floor, starting up herself as she did so with a low cry.

Gasping for breath, Rhoda, in a final desperate attempt, reached out with her right hand, grabbed the looming figure by its prominent left arm, and yanked it back to the floor, springing up herself with a soft cry as she did so.

'O, merciful heaven!' she cried, sitting on the edge of the bed in a cold sweat; 'that was not a dream-she was here!'

'O, merciful heavens!' she exclaimed, sitting on the edge of the bed in a cold sweat; 'that wasn't a dream—she was really here!'

She could feel her antagonist's arm within her grasp even now-the very flesh and bone of it, as it seemed. She looked on the floor whither she had whirled the spectre, but there was nothing to be seen.

She could still feel her opponent's arm in her grip, as if it were real flesh and bone. She glanced at the floor where she had flung the ghost, but there was nothing to see.

Rhoda Brook slept no more that night, and when she went milking at the next dawn they noticed how pale and haggard she looked. The milk that she drew quivered into the pail; her hand had not calmed even yet, and still retained the feel of the arm. She came home to breakfast as wearily as if it had been suppertime.

Rhoda Brook didn't sleep at all that night, and when she went out to milk the cows at dawn, everyone noticed how pale and exhausted she looked. The milk she poured into the pail shook; her hand still hadn’t steadied, and it felt like she was still holding onto her arm. She returned home for breakfast feeling as tired as if it were suppertime.

'What was that noise in your chimmer, mother, last night?' said her son. 'You fell off the bed, surely?'

'What was that noise in your room, Mom, last night?' her son asked. 'You probably fell off the bed, right?'

'Did you hear anything fall? At what time?'

'Did you hear anything drop? What time was it?'

'Just when the clock struck two.'

She could not explain, and when the meal was done went silently about her household work, the boy assisting her, for he hated going afield on the farms, and she indulged his reluctance. Between eleven and twelve the garden-gate clicked, and she lifted her eyes to the window. At the bottom of the garden, within the gate, stood the woman of her vision. Rhoda seemed transfixed.

She couldn't explain, and when the meal was finished, she quietly went about her household chores, with the boy helping her because he didn’t like working in the fields, and she indulged his unwillingness. Between eleven and twelve, the garden gate clicked, and she looked up at the window. At the bottom of the garden, just inside the gate, stood the woman from her vision. Rhoda seemed frozen in place.

'Ah, she said she would come!' exclaimed the boy, also observing her.

'Oh, she said she would come!' the boy said, noticing her too.

'Said so-when? How does she know us?'

'Said so—when? How does she know us?'

'I have seen and spoken to her. I talked to her yesterday.'

'I have seen and talked to her. I spoke to her yesterday.'

'I told you,' said the mother, flushing indignantly, 'never to speak to anybody in that house, or go near the place.'

"I told you," the mother said, flushing with indignation, "never to talk to anyone in that house or go near it."

'I did not speak to her till she spoke to me. And I did not go near the place. I met her in the road.'

'I didn't talk to her until she talked to me. And I didn’t go near the place. I ran into her on the road.'

'What did you tell her?'

"What did you say to her?"

'Nothing. She said, "Are you the poor boy who had to bring the heavy load from market?" And she looked at my boots, and said they would not keep my feet dry if it came on wet, because they were so cracked. I told her I lived with my mother, and we had enough to do to keep ourselves, and that's how it was; and she said then, "I'll come and bring you some better boots, and see your mother." She gives away things to other folks in the meads besides us.'

'Nothing. She asked, "Are you the poor boy who had to carry the heavy load from the market?" Then she looked at my boots and said they wouldn’t keep my feet dry if it rained because they were so cracked. I told her I lived with my mom, and we had enough to do to take care of ourselves, and that’s just how it was. She then said, "I’ll come and bring you some better boots and meet your mom." She gives things away to other people in the meads besides us.'

Mrs. Lodge was by this time close to the door-not in her silk, as Rhoda had seen her in the bed-chamber, but in a morning hat, and gown of common light material, which became her better than silk. On her arm she carried a basket.

Mrs. Lodge was now near the door—not in her silk, like Rhoda had seen her in the bedroom, but wearing a morning hat and a simple light dress that suited her better than silk. She carried a basket on her arm.

The impression remaining from the night's experience was still strong. Brook had almost expected to see the wrinkles, the scorn, and the cruelty on her visitor's face.

The impression left from that night was still vivid. Brook had nearly anticipated seeing the wrinkles, the disdain, and the harshness on her visitor's face.

She would have escaped an interview, had escape been possible. There was, however, no backdoor to the cottage, and in an instant the boy had lifted the latch to Mrs. Lodge's gentle knock.

She would have escaped the interview if that had been possible. There was, however, no back door to the cottage, and in a flash, the boy had lifted the latch in response to Mrs. Lodge's gentle knock.

'I see I have come to the right house,' said she, glancing at the lad, and smiling. 'But I was not sure till you opened the door.'

'I see I came to the right house,' she said, looking at the boy and smiling. 'But I wasn't sure until you opened the door.'

The figure and action were those of the phantom; but her voice was so indescribably sweet, her glance so winning, her smile so tender, so unlike that of Rhoda's midnight visitant, that the latter could hardly believe the evidence of her senses. She was truly glad that she had not hidden away in sheer aversion, as she had been inclined to do. In her basket Mrs. Lodge brought the pair of boots that she had promised to the boy, and other useful articles.

The figure and action were those of the ghost; but her voice was so indescribably sweet, her gaze so captivating, her smile so warm and tender—so different from Rhoda's midnight visitor—that Rhoda could hardly trust her senses. She was really glad she hadn't just hidden away out of pure dislike, as she had been tempted to do. In her basket, Mrs. Lodge brought the pair of boots she had promised the boy, along with some other useful items.

At these proofs of a kindly feeling towards her and hers Rhoda's heart reproached her bitterly. This innocent young thing should have her blessing and not her curse. When she left them a light seemed gone from the dwelling. Two days later she came again to know if the boots fitted; and less than a fortnight after that paid Rhoda another call. On this occasion the boy was absent.

At the signs of kindness towards her and her family, Rhoda's heart felt a deep sense of guilt. This innocent young girl deserved her support, not her resentment. When she left them, it felt like a light had gone out of the home. Two days later, she returned to see if the boots fit; and less than two weeks after that, she visited Rhoda again. This time, the boy was not there.

'I walk a good deal,' said Mrs. Lodge, 'and your house is the nearest outside our own parish. I hope you are well. You don't look quite well.'

'I walk a lot,' said Mrs. Lodge, 'and your house is the closest one outside our parish. I hope you’re doing well. You don’t look completely well.'

Rhoda said she was well enough; and, indeed, though the paler of the two, there was more of the strength that endures in her well-defined features and large frame, than in the soft-cheeked young woman before her. The conversation became quite confidential as regarded their powers and weaknesses; and when Mrs. Lodge was leaving, Rhoda said, 'I hope you will find this air agree with you, ma'am, and not suffer from the damp of the water-meads.'

Rhoda said she was feeling fine; and, in fact, even though she looked paler than the other woman, there was more of a lasting strength in her strong features and large physique than in the soft-cheeked young woman in front of her. The conversation became pretty open regarding their strengths and weaknesses; and when Mrs. Lodge was about to leave, Rhoda said, “I hope this air agrees with you, ma'am, and that you don’t have any issues with the damp from the water meadows.”

The younger one replied that there was not much doubt of it, her general health being usually good. 'Though, now you remind me,' she added, 'I have one little ailment which puzzles me. It is nothing serious, but I cannot make it out.'

The younger one answered that there wasn’t much doubt about it, since her overall health was usually good. 'But, now that you mention it,' she added, 'I do have one small issue that confuses me. It’s nothing serious, but I can’t figure it out.'

She uncovered her left hand and arm; and their outline confronted Rhoda's gaze as the exact original of the limb she had beheld and seized in her dream. Upon the pink round surface of the arm were faint marks of an unhealthy colour, as if produced by a rough grasp. Rhoda's eyes became riveted on the discolorations; she fancied that she discerned in them the shape of her own four fingers.

She uncovered her left hand and arm, and their shape caught Rhoda's eye as the exact match of the limb she had seen and grabbed in her dream. On the pink, smooth surface of the arm were faint marks of an unhealthy color, as if made by a harsh grip. Rhoda's eyes were fixed on the discolorations; she thought she could see the outline of her own four fingers in them.

'How did it happen?' she said mechanically.

'How did it happen?' she said robotically.

'I cannot tell,' replied Mrs. Lodge, shaking her head. 'One night when I was sound asleep, dreaming I was away in some strange place, a pain suddenly shot into my arm there, and was so keen as to awaken me. I must have struck it in the daytime, I suppose, though I don't remember doing so.' She added, laughing, 'I tell my dear husband that it looks just as if he had flown into a rage and struck me there. O, I daresay it will soon disappear.'

'I don't know,' Mrs. Lodge replied, shaking her head. 'One night when I was fast asleep, dreaming I was in some strange place, a sharp pain suddenly shot through my arm and woke me up. I must have bumped it during the day, I guess, but I don't remember doing it.' She added with a laugh, 'I tell my dear husband that it looks like he got mad and hit me there. Oh, I'm sure it will go away soon.'

'Ha, ha! Yes . . . On what night did it come?'

'Ha, ha! Yes... What night did it arrive?'

Mrs. Lodge considered, and said it would be a fortnight ago on the morrow. 'When I awoke I could not remember where I was,' she added, 'till the clock striking two reminded me.'

Mrs. Lodge thought for a moment and said it would be two weeks ago tomorrow. 'When I woke up, I couldn't remember where I was,' she added, 'until the clock struck two and jogged my memory.'

She had named the night and the hour of Rhoda's spectral encounter, and Brook felt like a guilty thing. The artless disclosure startled her; she did not reason on the freaks of coincidence; and all the scenery of that ghastly night returned with double vividness to her mind.

She had named the night and the hour of Rhoda's ghostly encounter, and Brook felt like she had done something wrong. The innocent reveal surprised her; she didn’t think about the strange twists of fate; and all the details of that eerie night came rushing back to her mind even more vividly.

'O, can it be,' she said to herself, when her visitor had departed, 'that I exercise a malignant power over people against my own will?' She knew that she had been slily called a witch since her fall; but never having understood why that particular stigma had been attached to her, it had passed disregarded. Could this be the explanation, and had such things as this ever happened before?

"O, could it be," she said to herself after her visitor had left, "that I have a harmful influence over people even though I don’t want to?" She was aware that people had secretly referred to her as a witch since her downfall; however, since she never understood why that label had been placed on her, she ignored it. Could this be the reason, and had things like this happened before?

CHAPTER IV-A SUGGESTION

The summer drew on, and Rhoda Brook almost dreaded to meet Mrs. Lodge again, notwithstanding that her feeling for the young wife amounted well-nigh to affection. Something in her own individuality seemed to convict Rhoda of crime. Yet a fatality sometimes would direct the steps of the latter to the outskirts of Holmstoke whenever she left her house for any other purpose than her daily work; and hence it happened that their next encounter was out of doors. Rhoda could not avoid the subject which had so mystified her, and after the first few words she stammered, 'I hope your-arm is well again, ma'am?' She had perceived with consternation that Gertrude Lodge carried her left arm stiffly.

The summer went on, and Rhoda Brook almost dreaded seeing Mrs. Lodge again, even though she felt a strong affection for the young wife. There was something about her own identity that made Rhoda feel guilty. Still, fate often led her to the outskirts of Holmstoke whenever she left her house for anything other than her daily work; so, it happened that their next meeting was outside. Rhoda couldn't avoid the topic that had puzzled her, and after a few awkward words, she stammered, "I hope your arm is better now, ma'am?" She had noticed, with alarm, that Gertrude Lodge held her left arm stiffly.

'No; it is not quite well. Indeed it is no better at all; it is rather worse. It pains me dreadfully sometimes.'

'No; it’s not really okay. In fact, it’s not better at all; it’s actually worse. It hurts me a lot sometimes.'

'Perhaps you had better go to a doctor, ma'am.'

'Maybe you should see a doctor, ma'am.'

She replied that she had already seen a doctor. Her husband had insisted upon her going to one. But the surgeon had not seemed to understand the afflicted limb at all; he had told her to bathe it in hot water, and she had bathed it, but the treatment had done no good.

She said that she had already seen a doctor. Her husband had insisted that she go. But the surgeon didn't seem to understand her injured limb at all; he told her to soak it in hot water, and she did, but the treatment didn't help at all.

'Will you let me see it?' said the milkwoman.

'Can I see it?' the milkwoman asked.

Mrs. Lodge pushed up her sleeve and disclosed the place, which was a few inches above the wrist. As soon as Rhoda Brook saw it, she could hardly preserve her composure. There was nothing of the nature of a wound, but the arm at that point had a shrivelled look, and the outline of the four fingers appeared more distinct than at the former time. Moreover, she fancied that they were imprinted in precisely the relative position of her clutch upon the arm in the trance; the first finger towards Gertrude's wrist, and the fourth towards her elbow.

Mrs. Lodge rolled up her sleeve and showed the spot, which was a few inches above her wrist. As soon as Rhoda Brook saw it, she could barely keep her cool. There wasn't any kind of wound, but the arm in that area looked shriveled, and the outline of the four fingers was more pronounced than before. Furthermore, she thought they were marked in exactly the same position where she had gripped the arm during the trance; the index finger pointing toward Gertrude's wrist and the little finger toward her elbow.

What the impress resembled seemed to have struck Gertrude herself since their last meeting. 'It looks almost like finger-marks,' she said; adding with a faint laugh, 'my husband says it is as if some witch, or the devil himself, had taken hold of me there, and blasted the flesh.'

What the impression looked like seemed to have affected Gertrude herself since their last meeting. 'It looks almost like fingerprints,' she said, adding with a faint laugh, 'my husband says it's as if some witch or the devil himself had grabbed hold of me there and scorched my skin.'

Rhoda shivered. 'That's fancy,' she said hurriedly. 'I wouldn't mind it, if I were you.'

Rhoda shivered. 'That's nice,' she said quickly. 'I wouldn't mind it if I were in your shoes.'

'I shouldn't so much mind it,' said the younger, with hesitation, 'if-if I hadn't a notion that it makes my husband-dislike me-no, love me less. Men think so much of personal appearance.'

"I wouldn't mind it so much," said the younger one, hesitantly, "if I didn't have a feeling that it makes my husband dislike me—no, love me less. Men care a lot about looks."

'Some do-he for one.'

'Some do it for one.'

'Yes; and he was very proud of mine, at first.'

'Yeah; and at first, he was really proud of mine.'

'Keep your arm covered from his sight.'

'Keep your arm out of his sight.'

'Ah-he knows the disfigurement is there!' She tried to hide the tears that filled her eyes.

'Oh, he knows the scar is there!' She tried to hide the tears that filled her eyes.

'Well, ma'am, I earnestly hope it will go away soon.'

'Well, ma'am, I really hope it goes away soon.'

And so the milkwoman's mind was chained anew to the subject by a horrid sort of spell as she returned home. The sense of having been guilty of an act of malignity increased, affect as she might to ridicule her superstition. In her secret heart Rhoda did not altogether object to a slight diminution of her successor's beauty, by whatever means it had come about; but she did not wish to inflict upon her physical pain. For though this pretty young woman had rendered impossible any reparation which Lodge might have made Rhoda for his past conduct, everything like resentment at the unconscious usurpation had quite passed away from the elder's mind.

And so the milkwoman's thoughts were pulled back to the topic by a terrible kind of spell as she made her way home. The feeling of having committed a harmful act grew stronger, even though she tried to mock her own superstition. Deep down, Rhoda didn't completely mind a slight lessening of her rival's beauty, no matter how it happened; but she didn't want to cause her any physical pain. For although this attractive young woman had made it impossible for Lodge to make up for his past behavior toward Rhoda, any feelings of resentment about the unintentional takeover had completely faded from the older woman's mind.

If the sweet and kindly Gertrude Lodge only knew of the scene in the bed-chamber, what would she think? Not to inform her of it seemed treachery in the presence of her friendliness; but tell she could not of her own accord-neither could she devise a remedy.

If the sweet and kind Gertrude Lodge only knew about what was happening in the bedroom, what would she think? Not telling her seemed like a betrayal given her kindness; but she couldn't bring herself to say anything on her own—nor could she think of a solution.

She mused upon the matter the greater part of the night; and the next day, after the morning milking, set out to obtain another glimpse of Gertrude Lodge if she could, being held to her by a gruesome fascination. By watching the house from a distance the milkmaid was presently able to discern the farmer's wife in a ride she was taking alone-probably to join her husband in some distant field. Mrs. Lodge perceived her, and cantered in her direction.

She thought about it for most of the night, and the next day, after milking in the morning, she decided to try to catch another glimpse of Gertrude Lodge, drawn in by a morbid curiosity. By watching the house from a distance, the milkmaid soon spotted the farmer's wife out for a ride on her own—likely heading to meet her husband in a far-off field. Mrs. Lodge noticed her and rode over.

'Good morning, Rhoda!' Gertrude said, when she had come up. 'I was going to call.'

'Good morning, Rhoda!' Gertrude said when she arrived. 'I was about to call you.'

Rhoda noticed that Mrs. Lodge held the reins with some difficulty.

Rhoda saw that Mrs. Lodge was having a hard time holding the reins.

'I hope-the bad arm,' said Rhoda.

'I hope it’s the bad arm,' said Rhoda.

'They tell me there is possibly one way by which I might be able to find out the cause, and so perhaps the cure, of it,' replied the other anxiously. 'It is by going to some clever man over in Egdon Heath. They did not know if he was still alive-and I cannot remember his name at this moment; but they said that you knew more of his movements than anybody else hereabout, and could tell me if he were still to be consulted. Dear me-what was his name? But you know.'

"They say there’s maybe one way I could find out the cause, and maybe the cure, for it," the other replied anxiously. "It involves going to some smart guy over in Egdon Heath. They weren't sure if he was still alive—and I can't recall his name right now—but they mentioned you knew more about what he's been up to than anyone else around here and could let me know if he’s still someone I can consult. Oh, what was his name? But you know."

'Not Conjuror Trendle?' said her thin companion, turning pale.

'Not Conjuror Trendle?' said her slim friend, turning pale.

'Trendle-yes. Is he alive?'

'Trendle, yeah. Is he alive?'

'I believe so,' said Rhoda, with reluctance.

"I think so," said Rhoda, hesitantly.

'Why do you call him conjuror?'

'Why do you call him a magician?'

'Well-they say-they used to say he was a-he had powers other folks have not.'

'Well—they say—they used to say he had powers that other people don’t have.'

'O, how could my people be so superstitious as to recommend a man of that sort! I thought they meant some medical man. I shall think no more of him.'

'O, how could my people be so superstitious as to suggest a guy like that! I thought they were talking about some kind of doctor. I won't give him any more thought.'

Rhoda looked relieved, and Mrs. Lodge rode on. The milkwoman had inwardly seen, from the moment she heard of her having been mentioned as a reference for this man, that there must exist a sarcastic feeling among the work-folk that a sorceress would know the whereabouts of the exorcist. They suspected her, then. A short time ago this would have given no concern to a woman of her common-sense. But she had a haunting reason to be superstitious now; and she had been seized with sudden dread that this Conjuror Trendle might name her as the malignant influence which was blasting the fair person of Gertrude, and so lead her friend to hate her for ever, and to treat her as some fiend in human shape.

Rhoda looked relieved, and Mrs. Lodge continued on her way. The milkwoman had privately realized, from the moment she heard she was mentioned as a reference for this man, that there must be a sarcastic sentiment among the workers that a sorceress would know where to find the exorcist. They suspected her, then. Not long ago, this wouldn't have bothered a practical woman like her. But now she had a lingering reason to be superstitious; she was suddenly filled with fear that this Conjuror Trendle might name her as the harmful force ruining Gertrude's beauty, leading her friend to hate her forever and treat her like some kind of demon in human form.

But all was not over. Two days after, a shadow intruded into the window-pattern thrown on Rhoda Brook's floor by the afternoon sun. The woman opened the door at once, almost breathlessly.

But it wasn't over yet. Two days later, a shadow appeared in the window pattern cast on Rhoda Brook's floor by the afternoon sun. The woman opened the door immediately, almost out of breath.

'Are you alone?' said Gertrude. She seemed to be no less harassed and anxious than Brook herself.

'Are you alone?' Gertrude asked. She looked just as stressed and worried as Brook did.

'Yes,' said Rhoda.

"Yeah," said Rhoda.

'The place on my arm seems worse, and troubles me!' the young farmer's wife went on. 'It is so mysterious! I do hope it will not be an incurable wound. I have again been thinking of what they said about Conjuror Trendle. I don't really believe in such men, but I should not mind just visiting him, from curiosity-though on no account must my husband know. Is it far to where he lives?'

'The spot on my arm feels worse, and it’s bothering me!' the young farmer's wife continued. 'It’s so strange! I really hope it’s not a permanent wound. I've been thinking again about what they said about Conjuror Trendle. I don’t truly believe in those kinds of people, but I wouldn’t mind checking him out for curiosity's sake—though my husband must not find out. Is it far to where he lives?'

'Yes-five miles,' said Rhoda backwardly. 'In the heart of Egdon.'

'Yeah, five miles,' Rhoda said. 'Right in the middle of Egdon.'

'Well, I should have to walk. Could not you go with me to show me the way-say to-morrow afternoon?'

'Well, I guess I’ll have to walk. Could you come with me to show me the way—maybe tomorrow afternoon?'

'O, not I-that is,' the milkwoman murmured, with a start of dismay. Again the dread seized her that something to do with her fierce act in the dream might be revealed, and her character in the eyes of the most useful friend she had ever had be ruined irretrievably.

'O, not me—that is,' the milkwoman whispered, jolted by a sudden panic. Once more, fear gripped her that something about her aggressive behavior in the dream might come to light, and her reputation in the eyes of the most valuable friend she had ever had could be irreparably damaged.

Mrs. Lodge urged, and Rhoda finally assented, though with much misgiving. Sad as the journey would be to her, she could not conscientiously stand in the way of a possible remedy for her patron's strange affliction. It was agreed that, to escape suspicion of their mystic intent, they should meet at the edge of the heath at the corner of a plantation which was visible from the spot where they now stood.

Mrs. Lodge insisted, and Rhoda eventually agreed, though she felt very uneasy about it. As sad as the journey would be for her, she couldn't honestly block a potential solution for her patron's unusual condition. They decided that, to avoid raising any suspicions about their secret purpose, they would meet at the edge of the heath near the corner of a plantation that was visible from where they stood.

CHAPTER V-CONJUROR TRENDLE

By the next afternoon Rhoda would have done anything to escape this inquiry. But she had promised to go. Moreover, there was a horrid fascination at times in becoming instrumental in throwing such possible light on her own character as would reveal her to be something greater in the occult world than she had ever herself suspected.

By the next afternoon, Rhoda would have done anything to avoid this inquiry. But she had promised to attend. Besides, there was a weird fascination at times in being part of shedding some light on her own character that could show her to be something greater in the supernatural world than she had ever suspected.

She started just before the time of day mentioned between them, and half-an-hour's brisk walking brought her to the south-eastern extension of the Egdon tract of country, where the fir plantation was. A slight figure, cloaked and veiled, was already there. Rhoda recognized, almost with a shudder, that Mrs. Lodge bore her left arm in a sling.

She set out just before the time they had discussed, and half an hour of brisk walking took her to the southeastern edge of the Egdon area, where the fir plantation was located. A slight figure, cloaked and veiled, was already there. Rhoda recognized, almost with a shudder, that Mrs. Lodge had her left arm in a sling.

They hardly spoke to each other, and immediately set out on their climb into the interior of this solemn country, which stood high above the rich alluvial soil they had left half-an-hour before. It was a long walk; thick clouds made the atmosphere dark, though it was as yet only early afternoon; and the wind howled dismally over the hills of the heath-not improbably the same heath which had witnessed the agony of the Wessex King Ina, presented to after-ages as Lear. Gertrude Lodge talked most, Rhoda replying with monosyllabic preoccupation. She had a strange dislike to walking on the side of her companion where hung the afflicted arm, moving round to the other when inadvertently near it. Much heather had been brushed by their feet when they descended upon a cart-track, beside which stood the house of the man they sought.

They barely spoke to each other and quickly started their climb into the heart of this serious landscape, which rose high above the rich, fertile soil they had left just half an hour earlier. It was a long walk; thick clouds darkened the atmosphere even though it was still early afternoon, and the wind howled mournfully over the heath, likely the same heath that had witnessed the suffering of King Ina of Wessex, later known as Lear. Gertrude Lodge did most of the talking, while Rhoda responded with short, distracted replies. She felt an unusual aversion to walking on the side of her companion where his injured arm hung, instinctively moving around to the other side whenever she got too close. They had brushed through a lot of heather by the time they reached a cart-track, next to which stood the house of the man they were looking for.

He did not profess his remedial practices openly, or care anything about their continuance, his direct interests being those of a dealer in furze, turf, 'sharp sand,' and other local products. Indeed, he affected not to believe largely in his own powers, and when warts that had been shown him for cure miraculously disappeared-which it must be owned they infallibly did-he would say lightly, 'O, I only drink a glass of grog upon 'em-perhaps it's all chance,' and immediately turn the subject.

He didn't openly discuss his healing practices or care much about whether they continued, as his main interests were selling furze, turf, “sharp sand,” and other local products. In fact, he pretended not to have much faith in his own abilities, and when warts that he had been asked to treat suddenly vanished—which, it's true, they always did—he would casually say, “Oh, I just have a glass of grog on them—maybe it’s just luck,” and quickly change the topic.

He was at home when they arrived, having in fact seen them descending into his valley. He was a gray-bearded man, with a reddish face, and he looked singularly at Rhoda the first moment he beheld her. Mrs. Lodge told him her errand; and then with words of self-disparagement he examined her arm.

He was at home when they arrived and had actually seen them coming down into his valley. He was an older man with a gray beard and a reddish face, and he stared at Rhoda in a unique way the moment he saw her. Mrs. Lodge explained her purpose for coming, and then, speaking modestly, he looked at her arm.

'Medicine can't cure it,' he said promptly. ''Tis the work of an enemy.'

"Medicine can't fix it," he said quickly. "It's the work of an enemy."

Rhoda shrank into herself, and drew back.

Rhoda pulled back and withdrew into herself.

'An enemy? What enemy?' asked Mrs. Lodge.

He shook his head. 'That's best known to yourself,' he said. 'If you like, I can show the person to you, though I shall not myself know who it is. I can do no more; and don't wish to do that.'

He shook his head. "That's something only you know," he said. "If you want, I can show you the person, but I won't know who they are myself. I can't do anything more than that, and I don't really want to."

She pressed him; on which he told Rhoda to wait outside where she stood, and took Mrs. Lodge into the room. It opened immediately from the door; and, as the latter remained ajar, Rhoda Brook could see the proceedings without taking part in them. He brought a tumbler from the dresser, nearly filled it with water, and fetching an egg, prepared it in some private way; after which he broke it on the edge of the glass, so that the white went in and the yolk remained. As it was getting gloomy, he took the glass and its contents to the window, and told Gertrude to watch them closely. They leant over the table together, and the milkwoman could see the opaline hue of the egg-fluid changing form as it sank in the water, but she was not near enough to define the shape that it assumed.

She urged him; so he asked Rhoda to wait outside where she stood, and took Mrs. Lodge into the room. It opened directly from the door; and since it stayed slightly open, Rhoda Brook could see what was happening without getting involved. He grabbed a glass from the dresser, filled it nearly to the top with water, and got an egg, preparing it in some private way; then he broke it on the edge of the glass, letting the white spill in while the yolk stayed behind. As it started to get dark, he carried the glass and its contents to the window and instructed Gertrude to keep a close eye on them. They leaned over the table together, and the milkwoman could see the opalescent color of the egg fluid changing shape as it sank in the water, but she wasn’t close enough to identify the form it took.

'Do you catch the likeness of any face or figure as you look?' demanded the conjuror of the young woman.

"Do you see the resemblance of any face or figure as you look?" asked the magician of the young woman.

She murmured a reply, in tones so low as to be inaudible to Rhoda, and continued to gaze intently into the glass. Rhoda turned, and walked a few steps away.

She whispered a response, so softly that Rhoda couldn't hear her, and kept staring intently into the mirror. Rhoda turned and walked a few steps away.

When Mrs. Lodge came out, and her face was met by the light, it appeared exceedingly pale-as pale as Rhoda's-against the sad dun shades of the upland's garniture. Trendle shut the door behind her, and they at once started homeward together. But Rhoda perceived that her companion had quite changed.

When Mrs. Lodge stepped outside and was faced with the light, her face looked extremely pale—just as pale as Rhoda's—against the dull gray tones of the landscape. Trendle closed the door behind her, and they immediately headed home together. But Rhoda noticed that her companion had completely changed.

'Did he charge much?' she asked tentatively.

"Did he charge a lot?" she asked cautiously.

'O no-nothing. He would not take a farthing,' said Gertrude.

'O no way. He wouldn’t take a cent,' said Gertrude.

'And what did you see?' inquired Rhoda.

"And what did you see?" asked Rhoda.

'Nothing I-care to speak of.' The constraint in her manner was remarkable; her face was so rigid as to wear an oldened aspect, faintly suggestive of the face in Rhoda's bed-chamber.

'Nothing I care to talk about.' The tension in her demeanor was striking; her face was so stiff that it looked aged, faintly reminiscent of the face in Rhoda's bedroom.

'Was it you who first proposed coming here?' Mrs. Lodge suddenly inquired, after a long pause. 'How very odd, if you did!'

'Was it you who first suggested coming here?' Mrs. Lodge suddenly asked after a long pause. 'How strange, if you did!'

'No. But I am not sorry we have come, all things considered,' she replied. For the first time a sense of triumph possessed her, and she did not altogether deplore that the young thing at her side should learn that their lives had been antagonized by other influences than their own.

'No. But I’m not sorry we came, all things considered,' she replied. For the first time, a feeling of triumph washed over her, and she didn’t completely regret that the young person beside her should discover that their lives had been affected by forces beyond their control.

The subject was no more alluded to during the long and dreary walk home. But in some way or other a story was whispered about the many-dairied lowland that winter that Mrs. Lodge's gradual loss of the use of her left arm was owing to her being 'overlooked' by Rhoda Brook. The latter kept her own counsel about the incubus, but her face grew sadder and thinner; and in the spring she and her boy disappeared from the neighbourhood of Holmstoke.

The topic wasn't mentioned again during the long, boring walk home. However, somehow a rumor spread through the countryside that winter, suggesting that Mrs. Lodge's gradual loss of use in her left arm was due to being "overlooked" by Rhoda Brook. Rhoda kept her thoughts to herself about this burden, but her face became sadder and thinner; by spring, she and her son vanished from the Holmstoke area.

CHAPTER VI-A SECOND ATTEMPT

Half-a-dozen years passed away, and Mr. and Mrs. Lodge's married experience sank into prosiness, and worse. The farmer was usually gloomy and silent: the woman whom he had wooed for her grace and beauty was contorted and disfigured in the left limb; moreover, she had brought him no child, which rendered it likely that he would be the last of a family who had occupied that valley for some two hundred years. He thought of Rhoda Brook and her son; and feared this might be a judgment from heaven upon him.

Six years went by, and Mr. and Mrs. Lodge's marriage turned dull and even worse. The farmer was mostly gloomy and quiet; the woman he had pursued for her beauty and grace was now twisted and scarred in her left leg. Plus, she hadn’t given him any children, making it likely that he would be the last of a family that had lived in that valley for about two hundred years. He thought about Rhoda Brook and her son, and worried that this might be some kind of punishment from above.

The once blithe-hearted and enlightened Gertrude was changing into an irritable, superstitious woman, whose whole time was given to experimenting upon her ailment with every quack remedy she came across. She was honestly attached to her husband, and was ever secretly hoping against hope to win back his heart again by regaining some at least of her personal beauty. Hence it arose that her closet was lined with bottles, packets, and ointment-pots of every description-nay, bunches of mystic herbs, charms, and books of necromancy, which in her schoolgirl time she would have ridiculed as folly.

The once carefree and insightful Gertrude was turning into an irritable, superstitious woman, spending all her time trying out every quack remedy she could find for her illness. She genuinely loved her husband and was always secretly hoping against all odds to win back his heart by regaining at least some of her beauty. As a result, her closet was filled with bottles, packets, and jars of all kinds—along with bunches of mysterious herbs, charms, and books on witchcraft, which she would have mocked as ridiculous back in her schoolgirl days.

'Damned if you won't poison yourself with these apothecary messes and witch mixtures some time or other,' said her husband, when his eye chanced to fall upon the multitudinous array.

'Damned if you won't poison yourself with these pharmacy mixes and witch potions sooner or later,' said her husband, when his eye happened to land on the countless assortment.

She did not reply, but turned her sad, soft glance upon him in such heart-swollen reproach that he looked sorry for his words, and added, 'I only meant it for your good, you know, Gertrude.'

She didn’t respond, but gave him a sad, gentle look that was so full of hurt that he felt sorry for what he said, and added, “I only meant it for your good, you know, Gertrude.”

'I'll clear out the whole lot, and destroy them,' said she huskily, 'and try such remedies no more!'

"I'll get rid of everything and destroy it all," she said hoarsely, "and I won't try those remedies again!"

'You want somebody to cheer you,' he observed. 'I once thought of adopting a boy; but he is too old now. And he is gone away I don't know where.'

'You want someone to support you,' he noted. 'I once considered adopting a boy; but he’s too old now. And he has gone away somewhere I don’t know.'

She guessed to whom he alluded; for Rhoda Brook's story had in the course of years become known to her; though not a word had ever passed between her husband and herself on the subject. Neither had she ever spoken to him of her visit to Conjuror Trendle, and of what was revealed to her, or she thought was revealed to her, by that solitary heath-man.

She guessed who he was referring to; Rhoda Brook's story had become known to her over the years, even though she and her husband had never discussed it. She also never mentioned her visit to Conjuror Trendle or what she thought was revealed to her by that solitary man on the heath.

She was now five-and-twenty; but she seemed older.

She was now twenty-five, but she seemed older.

'Six years of marriage, and only a few months of love,' she sometimes whispered to herself. And then she thought of the apparent cause, and said, with a tragic glance at her withering limb, 'If I could only again be as I was when he first saw me!'

'Six years of marriage, and only a few months of love,' she sometimes whispered to herself. Then she thought about what seemed to be the cause and said, with a sorrowful look at her fading body, 'If I could just go back to being the way I was when he first saw me!'

She obediently destroyed her nostrums and charms; but there remained a hankering wish to try something else-some other sort of cure altogether. She had never revisited Trendle since she had been conducted to the house of the solitary by Rhoda against her will; but it now suddenly occurred to Gertrude that she would, in a last desperate effort at deliverance from this seeming curse, again seek out the man, if he yet lived. He was entitled to a certain credence, for the indistinct form he had raised in the glass had undoubtedly resembled the only woman in the world who-as she now knew, though not then-could have a reason for bearing her ill-will. The visit should be paid.

She reluctantly destroyed her remedies and talismans; but there was still a lingering wish to try something else—some completely different cure. She hadn’t gone back to Trendle since Rhoda had taken her to the hermit’s house against her wishes; but it suddenly occurred to Gertrude that, in one final desperate attempt to break free from this apparent curse, she would seek out the man again, if he was still alive. He deserved some level of belief, since the vague figure he had conjured in the glass had definitely looked like the only woman in the world who—as she now understood, though she didn’t then—might have a reason to resent her. The visit needed to happen.

This time she went alone, though she nearly got lost on the heath, and roamed a considerable distance out of her way. Trendle's house was reached at last, however: he was not indoors, and instead of waiting at the cottage, she went to where his bent figure was pointed out to her at work a long way off. Trendle remembered her, and laying down the handful of furze-roots which he was gathering and throwing into a heap, he offered to accompany her in her homeward direction, as the distance was considerable and the days were short. So they walked together, his head bowed nearly to the earth, and his form of a colour with it.

This time she went alone, but she almost got lost on the heath and wandered quite far off track. Eventually, she reached Trendle's house, but he wasn't indoors. Instead of waiting at the cottage, she headed to where she saw his bent figure working a long way off. Trendle recognized her, and putting down the handful of furze roots he had gathered, he offered to walk with her since the distance was significant and the days were shorter. So they walked together, his head nearly touching the ground, his clothes blending in with the earth.

'You can send away warts and other excrescences I know,' she said; 'why can't you send away this?' And the arm was uncovered.

'You can get rid of warts and other growths, I know,' she said; 'so why can't you get rid of this?' And the arm was uncovered.

'You think too much of my powers!' said Trendle; 'and I am old and weak now, too. No, no; it is too much for me to attempt in my own person. What have ye tried?'

'You think too highly of my abilities!' Trendle said. 'And I'm old and weak now, too. No, no; it's too much for me to try myself. What have you attempted?'

She named to him some of the hundred medicaments and counterspells which she had adopted from time to time. He shook his head.

She listed some of the hundred medications and counterspells that she had used over time. He shook his head.

'Some were good enough,' he said approvingly; 'but not many of them for such as this. This is of the nature of a blight, not of the nature of a wound; and if you ever do throw it off; it will be all at once.'

'Some were good enough,' he said with approval; 'but not many for something like this. This feels more like a curse than a wound; and if you ever manage to overcome it, it'll be all at once.'

'If I only could!'

'If only I could!'

'There is only one chance of doing it known to me. It has never failed in kindred afflictions,-that I can declare. But it is hard to carry out, and especially for a woman.'

'There is only one way to do it that I know of. It has never failed in similar situations, I can say that for sure. But it's difficult to execute, especially for a woman.'

'Tell me!' said she.

"Tell me!" she said.

'You must touch with the limb the neck of a man who's been hanged.'

'You must touch the neck of a man who's been hanged with your hand.'

She started a little at the image he had raised.

She flinched slightly at the image he had brought up.

'Before he's cold-just after he's cut down,' continued the conjuror impassively.

'Before he's cold—just after he's cut down,' the conjuror continued, showing no emotion.

'How can that do good?'

'How can that help?'

'It will turn the blood and change the constitution. But, as I say, to do it is hard. You must get into jail, and wait for him when he's brought off the gallows. Lots have done it, though perhaps not such pretty women as you. I used to send dozens for skin complaints. But that was in former times. The last I sent was in '13-near twenty years ago.'

'It will change your blood and alter your constitution. But, as I said, it's not easy. You have to get into jail and wait for him when he's taken down from the gallows. Many have done it, though maybe not as attractive women as you. I used to send dozens of people for skin issues. But that was a long time ago. The last one I sent was in '13—almost twenty years ago.'

He had no more to tell her; and, when he had put her into a straight track homeward, turned and left her, refusing all money as at first.

He had nothing else to say to her; and, after he guided her back on the right path home, he turned and walked away, refusing any money as he had at the beginning.

CHAPTER VII-A RIDE

The communication sank deep into Gertrude's mind. Her nature was rather a timid one; and probably of all remedies that the white wizard could have suggested there was not one which would have filled her with so much aversion as this, not to speak of the immense obstacles in the way of its adoption.

The message hit Gertrude hard. She was pretty timid, and probably out of all the solutions the white wizard could have suggested, there wasn't one that would have made her feel as much disgust as this one, not to mention the huge challenges in actually trying it out.

Casterbridge, the county-town, was a dozen or fifteen miles off; and though in those days, when men were executed for horse-stealing, arson, and burglary, an assize seldom passed without a hanging, it was not likely that she could get access to the body of the criminal unaided. And the fear of her husband's anger made her reluctant to breathe a word of Trendle's suggestion to him or to anybody about him.

Casterbridge, the county town, was about twelve or fifteen miles away; and although back then, people were executed for crimes like horse theft, arson, and burglary, a court session rarely ended without an execution. It wasn't likely she could get to the criminal's body on her own. Plus, the fear of her husband’s anger made her hesitant to mention Trendle's suggestion to him or to anyone connected to him.

She did nothing for months, and patiently bore her disfigurement as before. But her woman's nature, craving for renewed love, through the medium of renewed beauty (she was but twenty-five), was ever stimulating her to try what, at any rate, could hardly do her any harm. 'What came by a spell will go by a spell surely,' she would say. Whenever her imagination pictured the act she shrank in terror from the possibility of it: then the words of the conjuror, 'It will turn your blood,' were seen to be capable of a scientific no less than a ghastly interpretation; the mastering desire returned, and urged her on again.

She did nothing for months and patiently endured her disfigurement like before. However, her womanly nature, longing for renewed love through restored beauty (she was only twenty-five), constantly pushed her to try something that, at the very least, couldn't hurt her. "What came from a spell will surely go away with a spell," she would say. Whenever she imagined taking action, she recoiled in fear from the possibility of it: then the conjurer's words, "It will turn your blood," took on both a scientific and a chilling meaning; her intense desire returned and urged her on once more.

There was at this time but one county paper, and that her husband only occasionally borrowed. But old-fashioned days had old-fashioned means, and news was extensively conveyed by word of mouth from market to market, or from fair to fair, so that, whenever such an event as an execution was about to take place, few within a radius of twenty miles were ignorant of the coming sight; and, so far as Holmstoke was concerned, some enthusiasts had been known to walk all the way to Casterbridge and back in one day, solely to witness the spectacle. The next assizes were in March; and when Gertrude Lodge heard that they had been held, she inquired stealthily at the inn as to the result, as soon as she could find opportunity.

At this time, there was only one county newspaper, and her husband only borrowed it occasionally. But back in those old days, people relied on traditional methods for news, which spread mostly by word of mouth from market to market or from fair to fair. So whenever something like an execution was about to happen, almost everyone within twenty miles knew about it. In fact, some eager individuals from Holmstoke had even been known to walk all the way to Casterbridge and back in a single day just to see the event. The next court sessions were in March, and when Gertrude Lodge heard they had taken place, she quietly asked at the inn about the outcome as soon as she had the chance.

She was, however, too late. The time at which the sentences were to be carried out had arrived, and to make the journey and obtain admission at such short notice required at least her husband's assistance. She dared not tell him, for she had found by delicate experiment that these smouldering village beliefs made him furious if mentioned, partly because he half entertained them himself. It was therefore necessary to wait for another opportunity.

She was, however, too late. The time for the sentences to be carried out had arrived, and making the journey and getting in on such short notice required at least her husband's help. She couldn't tell him, as she had found through careful testing that these lingering village beliefs made him angry if brought up, partly because he somewhat believed in them himself. It was therefore necessary to wait for another opportunity.

Her determination received a fillip from learning that two epileptic children had attended from this very village of Holmstoke many years before with beneficial results, though the experiment had been strongly condemned by the neighbouring clergy. April, May, June, passed; and it is no overstatement to say that by the end of the last-named month Gertrude well-nigh longed for the death of a fellow-creature. Instead of her formal prayers each night, her unconscious prayer was, 'O Lord, hang some guilty or innocent person soon!'

Her determination was boosted when she found out that two epileptic children from this very village of Holmstoke had attended many years ago and had seen positive results, even though the local clergy had strongly condemned the effort. April, May, and June went by, and it's not an exaggeration to say that by the end of June, Gertrude nearly wished for the death of someone. Instead of her usual formal prayers each night, her unspoken prayer was, 'O Lord, hang someone—guilty or innocent—soon!'

This time she made earlier inquiries, and was altogether more systematic in her proceedings. Moreover, the season was summer, between the haymaking and the harvest, and in the leisure thus afforded him her husband had been holiday-taking away from home.

This time she asked questions earlier and was much more organized in her approach. Plus, it was summer, between haymaking and harvest, and during this free time, her husband had been on vacation away from home.

The assizes were in July, and she went to the inn as before. There was to be one execution-only one-for arson.

The court sessions were in July, and she went to the inn like before. There was going to be just one execution—for arson.

Her greatest problem was not how to get to Casterbridge, but what means she should adopt for obtaining admission to the jail. Though access for such purposes had formerly never been denied, the custom had fallen into desuetude; and in contemplating her possible difficulties, she was again almost driven to fall back upon her husband. But, on sounding him about the assizes, he was so uncommunicative, so more than usually cold, that she did not proceed, and decided that whatever she did she would do alone.

Her biggest issue wasn’t figuring out how to get to Casterbridge, but rather what approach she should take to gain entry to the jail. Although access for such reasons had never been denied in the past, that custom had fallen out of practice. As she considered her potential challenges, she almost felt compelled to rely on her husband again. However, when she asked him about the assizes, he was so tight-lipped and unusually distant that she didn’t follow up, deciding whatever she did, she would do it on her own.

Fortune, obdurate hitherto, showed her unexpected favour. On the Thursday before the Saturday fixed for the execution, Lodge remarked to her that he was going away from home for another day or two on business at a fair, and that he was sorry he could not take her with him.

Fortune, previously unyielding, suddenly showed her unexpected favor. On the Thursday before the Saturday set for the execution, Lodge told her that he was leaving home for a day or two on business at a fair, and that he was sorry he couldn’t take her with him.

She exhibited on this occasion so much readiness to stay at home that he looked at her in surprise. Time had been when she would have shown deep disappointment at the loss of such a jaunt. However, he lapsed into his usual taciturnity, and on the day named left Holmstoke.

She showed so much willingness to stay home this time that he looked at her in surprise. There was a time when she would have been really disappointed about missing out on a trip like this. However, he fell back into his usual silence, and on the designated day, he left Holmstoke.

It was now her turn. She at first had thought of driving, but on reflection held that driving would not do, since it would necessitate her keeping to the turnpike-road, and so increase by tenfold the risk of her ghastly errand being found out. She decided to ride, and avoid the beaten track, notwithstanding that in her husband's stables there was no animal just at present which by any stretch of imagination could be considered a lady's mount, in spite of his promise before marriage to always keep a mare for her. He had, however, many cart-horses, fine ones of their kind; and among the rest was a serviceable creature, an equine Amazon, with a back as broad as a sofa, on which Gertrude had occasionally taken an airing when unwell. This horse she chose.

It was her turn now. She initially thought about driving, but after some reflection, she realized that would not work, as it meant sticking to the highway, which would significantly increase the chances of her disturbing mission being discovered. Instead, she decided to ride and steer clear of the usual routes, even though there wasn’t any horse in her husband's stables that could be considered a lady's mount, despite his promise before they got married to always have a mare for her. However, he did have several good cart-horses, and among them was a reliable one, a strong horse with a back as broad as a couch, which Gertrude had sometimes ridden when she wasn't feeling well. This was the horse she chose.

On Friday afternoon one of the men brought it round. She was dressed, and before going down looked at her shrivelled arm. 'Ah!' she said to it, 'if it had not been for you this terrible ordeal would have been saved me!'

On Friday afternoon, one of the guys brought it over. She was dressed, and before heading downstairs, she looked at her shriveled arm. "Ah!" she said to it, "if it hadn't been for you, I could have avoided this awful ordeal!"

When strapping up the bundle in which she carried a few articles of clothing, she took occasion to say to the servant, 'I take these in case I should not get back to-night from the person I am going to visit. Don't be alarmed if I am not in by ten, and close up the house as usual. I shall be at home to-morrow for certain.' She meant then to privately tell her husband: the deed accomplished was not like the deed projected. He would almost certainly forgive her.

When she was tying up the bundle with a few pieces of clothing, she told the servant, "I'm taking these in case I don’t return tonight from the person I’m visiting. Don’t worry if I’m not back by ten, just lock up the house like usual. I’ll definitely be home tomorrow." She planned to tell her husband privately: what she had done was different from what she had intended. He would likely forgive her.

And then the pretty palpitating Gertrude Lodge went from her husband's homestead; but though her goal was Casterbridge she did not take the direct route thither through Stickleford. Her cunning course at first was in precisely the opposite direction. As soon as she was out of sight, however, she turned to the left, by a road which led into Egdon, and on entering the heath wheeled round, and set out in the true course, due westerly. A more private way down the county could not be imagined; and as to direction, she had merely to keep her horse's head to a point a little to the right of the sun. She knew that she would light upon a furze-cutter or cottager of some sort from time to time, from whom she might correct her bearing.

And then the attractive, anxious Gertrude Lodge left her husband’s home; but although her destination was Casterbridge, she didn’t take the direct route through Stickleford. Instead, she initially headed in the completely opposite direction. Once she was out of sight, though, she turned left onto a road that led into Egdon, and as she entered the heath, she turned around and set out in the right direction, due west. There couldn’t be a more private path through the county, and regarding direction, she just had to keep her horse a bit to the right of the sun. She knew she would encounter a furze-cutter or a cottage dweller from time to time, from whom she could correct her course.

Though the date was comparatively recent, Egdon was much less fragmentary in character than now. The attempts-successful and otherwise-at cultivation on the lower slopes, which intrude and break up the original heath into small detached heaths, had not been carried far; Enclosure Acts had not taken effect, and the banks and fences which now exclude the cattle of those villagers who formerly enjoyed rights of commonage thereon, and the carts of those who had turbary privileges which kept them in firing all the year round, were not erected. Gertrude, therefore, rode along with no other obstacles than the prickly furze bushes, the mats of heather, the white water-courses, and the natural steeps and declivities of the ground.

Though the date was relatively recent, Egdon was much less fragmented than it is now. The attempts—both successful and unsuccessful—at farming on the lower slopes, which break up the original heath into small separate patches, had not progressed far; Enclosure Acts had not yet been implemented, and the banks and fences that now keep out the cattle of the villagers who used to have common rights there, as well as the carts of those with turf-cutting privileges that allowed them to gather fuel all year round, were not built. Therefore, Gertrude rode along with no other obstacles than the prickly gorse bushes, the mats of heather, the white streams, and the natural slopes and declines of the land.

Her horse was sure, if heavy-footed and slow, and though a draught animal, was easy-paced; had it been otherwise, she was not a woman who could have ventured to ride over such a bit of country with a half-dead arm. It was therefore nearly eight o'clock when she drew rein to breathe the mare on the last outlying high point of heath-land towards Casterbridge, previous to leaving Egdon for the cultivated valleys.

Her horse was reliable, though heavy-footed and slow, and although it was a draft animal, it had a smooth pace; if it had been different, she wouldn’t have been the type of woman to ride over such rough terrain with an almost useless arm. So, it was nearly eight o'clock when she pulled back the reins to let the mare catch its breath on the last outer high point of heathland toward Casterbridge, before leaving Egdon for the cultivated valleys.

She halted before a pool called Rushy-pond, flanked by the ends of two hedges; a railing ran through the centre of the pond, dividing it in half. Over the railing she saw the low green country; over the green trees the roofs of the town; over the roofs a white flat facade, denoting the entrance to the county jail. On the roof of this front specks were moving about; they seemed to be workmen erecting something. Her flesh crept. She descended slowly, and was soon amid corn-fields and pastures. In another half-hour, when it was almost dusk, Gertrude reached the White Hart, the first inn of the town on that side.

She stopped in front of a pond called Rushy-pond, surrounded by the ends of two hedges; a railing ran through the middle of the pond, splitting it in two. Over the railing, she saw the low green countryside; over the green trees, the roofs of the town; and above the roofs, a white flat front that marked the entrance to the county jail. On the roof of this building, small figures were moving around; they looked like workers building something. She felt uneasy. She walked down slowly and soon found herself among cornfields and pastures. In about half an hour, as dusk began to settle in, Gertrude arrived at the White Hart, the first inn in town on that side.

Little surprise was excited by her arrival; farmers' wives rode on horseback then more than they do now; though, for that matter, Mrs. Lodge was not imagined to be a wife at all; the innkeeper supposed her some harum-skarum young woman who had come to attend 'hang-fair' next day. Neither her husband nor herself ever dealt in Casterbridge market, so that she was unknown. While dismounting she beheld a crowd of boys standing at the door of a harness-maker's shop just above the inn, looking inside it with deep interest.

Little surprise was shown at her arrival; farmers' wives rode on horseback back then more than they do now; however, for that matter, Mrs. Lodge wasn't thought to be a wife at all; the innkeeper assumed she was some carefree young woman who had come to attend the 'hang-fair' the next day. Neither she nor her husband ever did business in Casterbridge market, so she was a stranger. While getting off her horse, she noticed a group of boys gathered at the door of a harness-maker's shop just above the inn, gazing inside with great interest.

'What is going on there?' she asked of the ostler.

'What’s happening over there?' she asked the stable worker.

'Making the rope for to-morrow.'

'Making the rope for tomorrow.'

She throbbed responsively, and contracted her arm.

She pulsed in response and tightened her arm.

''Tis sold by the inch afterwards,' the man continued. 'I could get you a bit, miss, for nothing, if you'd like?'

''It's sold by the inch afterwards,' the man continued. 'I could get you a bit, miss, for free, if you'd like?''

She hastily repudiated any such wish, all the more from a curious creeping feeling that the condemned wretch's destiny was becoming interwoven with her own; and having engaged a room for the night, sat down to think.

She quickly rejected any such desire, especially because of a strange, unsettling feeling that the doomed person's fate was becoming tied to her own; and after booking a room for the night, she sat down to think.

Up to this time she had formed but the vaguest notions about her means of obtaining access to the prison. The words of the cunning-man returned to her mind. He had implied that she should use her beauty, impaired though it was, as a pass-key. In her inexperience she knew little about jail functionaries; she had heard of a high-sheriff and an under-sheriff; but dimly only. She knew, however, that there must be a hangman, and to the hangman she determined to apply.

Up until now, she had only the faintest idea of how to get into the prison. The words of the sly man echoed in her mind. He had hinted that she should use her beauty, even though it was somewhat faded, as a way in. Being inexperienced, she didn’t know much about the people who worked in jails; she had heard of a high sheriff and an under-sheriff, but only vaguely. Still, she understood that there had to be a hangman, and she decided to approach the hangman for help.

VIII-A WATER-SIDE HERMIT

At this date, and for several years after, there was a hangman to almost every jail. Gertrude found, on inquiry, that the Casterbridge official dwelt in a lonely cottage by a deep slow river flowing under the cliff on which the prison buildings were situate-the stream being the self- same one, though she did not know it, which watered the Stickleford and Holmstoke meads lower down in its course.

At this time, and for several years afterward, there was a hangman at nearly every jail. Gertrude discovered, upon asking around, that the Casterbridge official lived in a secluded cottage by a slow, deep river running beneath the cliff where the prison buildings were located—the same stream, though she was unaware, that fed the Stickleford and Holmstoke meadows further downstream.

Having changed her dress, and before she had eaten or drunk-for she could not take her ease till she had ascertained some particulars-Gertrude pursued her way by a path along the water-side to the cottage indicated. Passing thus the outskirts of the jail, she discerned on the level roof over the gateway three rectangular lines against the sky, where the specks had been moving in her distant view; she recognized what the erection was, and passed quickly on. Another hundred yards brought her to the executioner's house, which a boy pointed out It stood close to the same stream, and was hard by a weir, the waters of which emitted a steady roar.

After changing her dress, and before she had eaten or drunk—she couldn't relax until she found out some details—Gertrude continued along a path by the water to the indicated cottage. As she passed the edge of the jail, she noticed three rectangular shapes on the flat roof over the entrance, where she had seen the little figures moving in the distance; she recognized what it was and quickly moved on. Another hundred yards brought her to the executioner's house, which a boy pointed out. It was situated right by the same stream, close to a weir, where the water produced a constant roar.

While she stood hesitating the door opened, and an old man came forth shading a candle with one hand. Locking the door on the outside, he turned to a flight of wooden steps fixed against the end of the cottage, and began to ascend them, this being evidently the staircase to his bedroom. Gertrude hastened forward, but by the time she reached the foot of the ladder he was at the top. She called to him loudly enough to be heard above the roar of the weir; he looked down and said, 'What d'ye want here?'

While she stood hesitating, the door opened, and an old man stepped out, holding a candle to shield the flame with one hand. After locking the door behind him, he turned to a set of wooden stairs against the end of the cottage and started to climb them, clearly heading to his bedroom. Gertrude rushed forward, but by the time she reached the bottom of the ladder, he was already at the top. She called out loud enough to be heard over the sound of the weir; he looked down and said, "What do you want here?"

'To speak to you a minute.'

'To talk to you for a minute.'

The candle-light, such as it was, fell upon her imploring, pale, upturned face, and Davies (as the hangman was called) backed down the ladder. 'I was just going to bed,' he said; '"Early to bed and early to rise," but I don't mind stopping a minute for such a one as you. Come into house.' He reopened the door, and preceded her to the room within.

The candlelight, as dim as it was, illuminated her pleading, pale, upturned face, and Davies (as the hangman was known) stepped down from the ladder. "I was just about to go to bed," he said; "Early to bed and early to rise, but I don't mind staying a minute for someone like you. Come inside." He opened the door again and led her into the room.

The implements of his daily work, which was that of a jobbing gardener, stood in a corner, and seeing probably that she looked rural, he said, 'If you want me to undertake country work I can't come, for I never leave Casterbridge for gentle nor simple-not I. My real calling is officer of justice,' he added formally.

The tools for his daily job as a gardener were gathered in a corner, and noticing that she seemed down-to-earth, he said, "If you need me to take on country work, I can’t help you because I never leave Casterbridge for anyone, whether high or low—not me. My true profession is being a justice officer," he added in a serious tone.

'Yes, yes! That's it. To-morrow!'

"Yes, yes! That's it. Tomorrow!"

'Ah! I thought so. Well, what's the matter about that? 'Tis no use to come here about the knot-folks do come continually, but I tell 'em one knot is as merciful as another if ye keep it under the ear. Is the unfortunate man a relation; or, I should say, perhaps' (looking at her dress) 'a person who's been in your employ?'

'Ah! I figured as much. So, what's the issue with that? There's no point in coming here about the knots that people keep coming with; I tell them one knot is just as forgiving as another if you keep it close to the ear. Is the unfortunate man a relative, or should I say, maybe' (looking at her dress) 'someone who worked for you?'

'No. What time is the execution?'

'The same as usual-twelve o'clock, or as soon after as the London mail- coach gets in. We always wait for that, in case of a reprieve.'

'Just like always—twelve o'clock, or as soon after as the London mail coach arrives. We always wait for that, just in case there's a reprieve.'

'O-a reprieve-I hope not!' she said involuntarily,

'O-a break-I hope not!' she said without thinking,

'Well,-hee, hee!-as a matter of business, so do I! But still, if ever a young fellow deserved to be let off, this one does; only just turned eighteen, and only present by chance when the rick was fired. Howsomever, there's not much risk of it, as they are obliged to make an example of him, there having been so much destruction of property that way lately.'

'Well, haha! In terms of business, so do I! But still, if there’s ever a young guy who deserves to get a break, it’s this one; he just turned eighteen and was only there by chance when the barn was set on fire. However, there’s not much chance of that happening, as they have to make an example of him, especially with all the property damage that’s been going on lately.'

'I mean,' she explained, 'that I want to touch him for a charm, a cure of an affliction, by the advice of a man who has proved the virtue of the remedy.'

'I mean,' she explained, 'that I want to touch him for a charm, to cure an affliction, based on the advice of a man who has proven the effectiveness of the remedy.'

'O yes, miss! Now I understand. I've had such people come in past years. But it didn't strike me that you looked of a sort to require blood-turning. What's the complaint? The wrong kind for this, I'll be bound.'

'O yes, miss! Now I get it. I've had people like this show up in the past. But it didn't occur to me that you seemed like someone who needed a blood transfusion. What's the issue? I'm sure it's the wrong type for this, no doubt.'

'My arm.' She reluctantly showed the withered skin.

'My arm.' She hesitantly revealed the shriveled skin.

'Ah-'tis all a-scram!' said the hangman, examining it.

'Ah, it's all a mess!' said the hangman, examining it.

'Yes,' said she.

'Yes,' she said.

'Well,' he continued, with interest, 'that is the class o' subject, I'm bound to admit! I like the look of the place; it is truly as suitable for the cure as any I ever saw. 'Twas a knowing-man that sent 'ee, whoever he was.'

'Well,' he continued, with interest, 'that’s the kind of subject, I have to say! I like the look of the place; it’s really as good for the cure as any I’ve ever seen. It was a smart person who sent you, whoever they were.'

'You can contrive for me all that's necessary?' she said breathlessly.

'Can you arrange everything I need?' she said breathlessly.

'You should really have gone to the governor of the jail, and your doctor with 'ee, and given your name and address-that's how it used to be done, if I recollect. Still, perhaps, I can manage it for a trifling fee.'

'You should have gone to the jail governor, and your doctor too, and provided your name and address—that’s how it used to be done, if I remember correctly. But maybe I can take care of it for a small fee.'

'O, thank you! I would rather do it this way, as I should like it kept private.'

'O, thank you! I’d prefer to handle it this way, as I would like to keep it private.'

'Lover not to know, eh?'

'Secret admirer, huh?'

'No-husband.'

'Single.'

'Aha! Very well. I'll get ee' a touch of the corpse.'

'Aha! Alright. I'll get you a bit of the corpse.'

'Where is it now?' she said, shuddering.

'Where is it now?' she asked, shivering.

'It?-he, you mean; he's living yet. Just inside that little small winder up there in the glum.' He signified the jail on the cliff above.

'It?—you mean he’s still alive. Just inside that tiny window up there in the gloom.' He pointed to the jail on the cliff above.

She thought of her husband and her friends. 'Yes, of course,' she said; 'and how am I to proceed?'

She thought about her husband and her friends. 'Yes, of course,' she said; 'so what should I do next?'

He took her to the door. 'Now, do you be waiting at the little wicket in the wall, that you'll find up there in the lane, not later than one o'clock. I will open it from the inside, as I shan't come home to dinner till he's cut down. Good-night. Be punctual; and if you don't want anybody to know 'ee, wear a veil. Ah-once I had such a daughter as you!'

He walked her to the door. "Now, make sure you wait by the small gate in the wall that you'll find up the lane, no later than one o'clock. I’ll unlock it from the inside, since I won’t be home for dinner until he’s taken care of. Goodnight. Be on time; and if you don’t want anyone to know, wear a veil. Ah, I once had a daughter like you!"

She went away, and climbed the path above, to assure herself that she would be able to find the wicket next day. Its outline was soon visible to her-a narrow opening in the outer wall of the prison precincts. The steep was so great that, having reached the wicket, she stopped a moment to breathe; and, looking back upon the water-side cot, saw the hangman again ascending his outdoor staircase. He entered the loft or chamber to which it led, and in a few minutes extinguished his light.

She left and climbed the path above, wanting to make sure she'd be able to find the gate the next day. Its shape soon came into view—a narrow opening in the outer wall of the prison grounds. The climb was so steep that once she reached the gate, she paused for a moment to catch her breath. Looking back at the riverside cottage, she saw the hangman once more making his way up the outdoor staircase. He entered the loft or room at the top and, after a few minutes, turned off his light.

The town clock struck ten, and she returned to the White Hart as she had come.

The town clock chimed ten, and she went back to the White Hart just like she had arrived.

IX-A RENCOUNTER

It was one o'clock on Saturday. Gertrude Lodge, having been admitted to the jail as above described, was sitting in a waiting-room within the second gate, which stood under a classic archway of ashlar, then comparatively modern, and bearing the inscription, 'COVNTY JAIL: 1793.' This had been the facade she saw from the heath the day before. Near at hand was a passage to the roof on which the gallows stood.

It was one o'clock on Saturday. Gertrude Lodge, having been let into the jail as mentioned above, was sitting in a waiting room behind the second gate, which was under a classic stone archway, then relatively modern, and had the inscription, 'COUNTY JAIL: 1793.' This was the facade she had seen from the heath the day before. Close by was a passage to the roof where the gallows were located.

The town was thronged, and the market suspended; but Gertrude had seen scarcely a soul. Having kept her room till the hour of the appointment, she had proceeded to the spot by a way which avoided the open space below the cliff where the spectators had gathered; but she could, even now, hear the multitudinous babble of their voices, out of which rose at intervals the hoarse croak of a single voice uttering the words, 'Last dying speech and confession!' There had been no reprieve, and the execution was over; but the crowd still waited to see the body taken down.

The town was crowded, and the market was on hold; but Gertrude had hardly seen anyone. She had stayed in her room until it was time for her appointment, then she took a route that avoided the large open area below the cliff where the spectators had gathered. Even now, she could still hear the loud chatter of their voices, and occasionally she caught the gruff sound of one voice saying, 'Last dying speech and confession!' There had been no reprieve, and the execution was finished; yet the crowd still waited to see the body taken down.

Soon the persistent girl heard a trampling overhead, then a hand beckoned to her, and, following directions, she went out and crossed the inner paved court beyond the gatehouse, her knees trembling so that she could scarcely walk. One of her arms was out of its sleeve, and only covered by her shawl.

Soon the determined girl heard footsteps overhead, then a hand waved to her, and, following the directions, she went out and crossed the inner paved courtyard beyond the gatehouse, her knees shaking so much that she could barely walk. One of her arms was out of its sleeve and only covered by her shawl.

On the spot at which she had now arrived were two trestles, and before she could think of their purpose she heard heavy feet descending stairs somewhere at her back. Turn her head she would not, or could not, and, rigid in this position, she was conscious of a rough coffin passing her shoulder, borne by four men. It was open, and in it lay the body of a young man, wearing the smockfrock of a rustic, and fustian breeches. The corpse had been thrown into the coffin so hastily that the skirt of the smockfrock was hanging over. The burden was temporarily deposited on the trestles.

At the spot where she had just arrived, there were two trestles, and before she could think about what they were for, she heard heavy footsteps coming down the stairs behind her. She wouldn't, or couldn't, turn her head, and as she stayed stiff in that position, she noticed a rough coffin being carried past her shoulder by four men. It was open, and inside lay the body of a young man, dressed in a farmer's smock and worn-out trousers. The body had been tossed into the coffin so carelessly that the skirt of the smock was hanging over the edge. The coffin was briefly placed on the trestles.

By this time the young woman's state was such that a gray mist seemed to float before her eyes, on account of which, and the veil she wore, she could scarcely discern anything: it was as though she had nearly died, but was held up by a sort of galvanism.

By this point, the young woman was in such a state that a gray haze hung in front of her eyes, which, along with the veil she wore, made it hard for her to see anything clearly: it felt like she was on the brink of death but was being kept alive by some kind of jolt.

'Now!' said a voice close at hand, and she was just conscious that the word had been addressed to her.

'Now!' said a voice nearby, and she realized that the word had been said to her.

By a last strenuous effort she advanced, at the same time hearing persons approaching behind her. She bared her poor curst arm; and Davies, uncovering the face of the corpse, took Gertrude's hand, and held it so that her arm lay across the dead man's neck, upon a line the colour of an unripe blackberry, which surrounded it.

By one final strenuous push, she moved forward, while hearing people coming up behind her. She exposed her poor cursed arm; and Davies, revealing the face of the corpse, took Gertrude's hand and positioned it so her arm rested across the dead man's neck, along a line the color of an unripe blackberry that encircled it.

Gertrude shrieked: 'the turn o' the blood,' predicted by the conjuror, had taken place. But at that moment a second shriek rent the air of the enclosure: it was not Gertrude's, and its effect upon her was to make her start round.

Gertrude yelled, "The change in the blood," as the fortune-teller had predicted, had happened. But just then, another scream cut through the air of the enclosure: it wasn't Gertrude's, and it made her turn around.

Immediately behind her stood Rhoda Brook, her face drawn, and her eyes red with weeping. Behind Rhoda stood Gertrude's own husband; his countenance lined, his eyes dim, but without a tear.

Immediately behind her stood Rhoda Brook, her face tense, and her eyes red from crying. Behind Rhoda was Gertrude's own husband; his face worn, his eyes dull, but with no tears.

'D-n you! what are you doing here?' he said hoarsely.

'Damn you! What are you doing here?' he said hoarsely.

'Hussy-to come between us and our child now!' cried Rhoda. 'This is the meaning of what Satan showed me in the vision! You are like her at last!' And clutching the bare arm of the younger woman, she pulled her unresistingly back against the wall. Immediately Brook had loosened her hold the fragile young Gertrude slid down against the feet of her husband. When he lifted her up she was unconscious.

"Hussy—don't come between us and our child now!" Rhoda shouted. "This is what Satan revealed to me in the vision! You've become just like her!" Grabbing the bare arm of the younger woman, she pulled her effortlessly back against the wall. As soon as Brook released her grip, the fragile young Gertrude slid down, collapsing at her husband's feet. When he picked her up, she was unconscious.

The mere sight of the twain had been enough to suggest to her that the dead young man was Rhoda's son. At that time the relatives of an executed convict had the privilege of claiming the body for burial, if they chose to do so; and it was for this purpose that Lodge was awaiting the inquest with Rhoda. He had been summoned by her as soon as the young man was taken in the crime, and at different times since; and he had attended in court during the trial. This was the 'holiday' he had been indulging in of late. The two wretched parents had wished to avoid exposure; and hence had come themselves for the body, a waggon and sheet for its conveyance and covering being in waiting outside.

The sight of the two of them was enough to make her realize that the dead young man was Rhoda's son. Back then, the family of an executed convict had the right to claim the body for burial, if they wanted to; and that was why Lodge was waiting for the inquest with Rhoda. She had called for him as soon as the young man was arrested for the crime, and at various times since; he had also been present in court during the trial. This was the "time off" he had been taking lately. The two devastated parents wanted to avoid any public attention; that’s why they had come to get the body themselves, with a wagon and a sheet waiting outside for transport and covering.

Gertrude's case was so serious that it was deemed advisable to call to her the surgeon who was at hand. She was taken out of the jail into the town; but she never reached home alive. Her delicate vitality, sapped perhaps by the paralyzed arm, collapsed under the double shock that followed the severe strain, physical and mental, to which she had subjected herself during the previous twenty-four hours. Her blood had been 'turned' indeed-too far. Her death took place in the town three days after.

Gertrude's situation was so dire that it was considered necessary to summon the nearby surgeon. She was removed from the jail and brought into town, but she never made it home alive. Her fragile health, possibly weakened by her paralyzed arm, gave out under the combined stress—both physical and mental—that she had endured over the previous twenty-four hours. Her blood had indeed been 'turned'—too much. She passed away in town three days later.

Her husband was never seen in Casterbridge again; once only in the old market-place at Anglebury, which he had so much frequented, and very seldom in public anywhere. Burdened at first with moodiness and remorse, he eventually changed for the better, and appeared as a chastened and thoughtful man. Soon after attending the funeral of his poor young wife he took steps towards giving up the farms in Holmstoke and the adjoining parish, and, having sold every head of his stock, he went away to Port-Bredy, at the other end of the county, living there in solitary lodgings till his death two years later of a painless decline. It was then found that he had bequeathed the whole of his not inconsiderable property to a reformatory for boys, subject to the payment of a small annuity to Rhoda Brook, if she could be found to claim it.

Her husband was never seen in Casterbridge again; only once in the old marketplace at Anglebury, which he used to visit a lot, and very rarely in public anywhere else. Initially weighed down by sadness and guilt, he eventually changed for the better, becoming a more reflective and considerate man. Shortly after attending the funeral of his young wife, he started making arrangements to give up the farms in Holmstoke and the nearby parish. After selling all his livestock, he moved to Port-Bredy, at the other end of the county, where he lived alone in a small place until his death two years later from a painless illness. It was then discovered that he had left his considerable estate to a boys' reformatory, with the condition that a small annuity be paid to Rhoda Brook, if she could be located to claim it.

For some time she could not be found; but eventually she reappeared in her old parish,-absolutely refusing, however, to have anything to do with the provision made for her. Her monotonous milking at the dairy was resumed, and followed for many long years, till her form became bent, and her once abundant dark hair white and worn away at the forehead-perhaps by long pressure against the cows. Here, sometimes, those who knew her experiences would stand and observe her, and wonder what sombre thoughts were beating inside that impassive, wrinkled brow, to the rhythm of the alternating milk-streams.

For a while, she couldn’t be found; but eventually she returned to her old parish, absolutely refusing to accept any support offered to her. She resumed her routine of milking at the dairy and continued this for many long years, until her body became hunched and her once thick dark hair turned white and thinned at the forehead—perhaps from years of pressure against the cows. Sometimes, people who were familiar with her story would stand and watch her, wondering what heavy thoughts were going through that expressionless, wrinkled face, keeping time with the rhythmic flow of the milk.

('Blackwood's Magazine,' January 1888.)

FELLOW-TOWNSMEN

I

The shepherd on the east hill could shout out lambing intelligence to the shepherd on the west hill, over the intervening town chimneys, without great inconvenience to his voice, so nearly did the steep pastures encroach upon the burghers' backyards. And at night it was possible to stand in the very midst of the town and hear from their native paddocks on the lower levels of greensward the mild lowing of the farmer's heifers, and the profound, warm blowings of breath in which those creatures indulge. But the community which had jammed itself in the valley thus flanked formed a veritable town, with a real mayor and corporation, and a staple manufacture.

The shepherd on the east hill could easily call out lambing updates to the shepherd on the west hill, over the town's chimneys, without straining his voice, since the steep pastures almost reached the townspeople's backyards. At night, it was possible to stand right in the middle of the town and hear the gentle lowing of the farmer's heifers from their fields on the lower green areas, along with the deep, warm breaths of those animals. But the community that had packed itself into the valley, surrounded by these hills, had formed a real town, complete with an actual mayor and council, and a main industry.

During a certain damp evening five-and-thirty years ago, before the twilight was far advanced, a pedestrian of professional appearance, carrying a small bag in his hand and an elevated umbrella, was descending one of these hills by the turnpike road when he was overtaken by a phaeton.

During a damp evening thirty-five years ago, before twilight set in, a well-dressed man, holding a small bag and an open umbrella, was walking down one of those hills along the turnpike when a carriage drove up behind him.

'Hullo, Downe-is that you?' said the driver of the vehicle, a young man of pale and refined appearance. 'Jump up here with me, and ride down to your door.'

'Helloo, Downe—is that you?' said the driver of the vehicle, a young man with a pale and refined look. 'Hop in here with me, and I'll give you a ride down to your door.'

The other turned a plump, cheery, rather self-indulgent face over his shoulder towards the hailer.

The other turned a chubby, cheerful, somewhat indulgent face over his shoulder towards the caller.

'O, good evening, Mr. Barnet-thanks,' he said, and mounted beside his acquaintance.

'O, good evening, Mr. Barnet—thanks,' he said, and got into the car next to his friend.

They were fellow-burgesses of the town which lay beneath them, but though old and very good friends, they were differently circumstanced. Barnet was a richer man than the struggling young lawyer Downe, a fact which was to some extent perceptible in Downe's manner towards his companion, though nothing of it ever showed in Barnet's manner towards the solicitor. Barnet's position in the town was none of his own making; his father had been a very successful flax-merchant in the same place, where the trade was still carried on as briskly as the small capacities of its quarters would allow. Having acquired a fair fortune, old Mr. Barnet had retired from business, bringing up his son as a gentleman-burgher, and, it must be added, as a well-educated, liberal- minded young man.

They were fellow townspeople of the town below them, but even though they were old and good friends, their situations were different. Barnet was wealthier than the struggling young lawyer Downe, which was somewhat noticeable in Downe's attitude towards his friend, although nothing of that ever showed in Barnet's demeanor towards the solicitor. Barnet's standing in the town wasn’t something he had earned himself; his father had been a very successful flax merchant in the same area, where the trade still thrived as much as the small size of the town allowed. Having built a decent fortune, old Mr. Barnet retired from business, raising his son as a well-off citizen and, it should be noted, as a well-educated, open-minded young man.

'How is Mrs. Barnet?' asked Downe.

'Mrs. Barnet was very well when I left home,' the other answered constrainedly, exchanging his meditative regard of the horse for one of self-consciousness.

'Mrs. Barnet was doing really well when I left home,' the other replied awkwardly, shifting his thoughtful gaze from the horse to one of self-consciousness.

Mr. Downe seemed to regret his inquiry, and immediately took up another thread of conversation. He congratulated his friend on his election as a council-man; he thought he had not seen him since that event took place; Mrs. Downe had meant to call and congratulate Mrs. Barnet, but he feared that she had failed to do so as yet.

Mr. Downe seemed to regret asking that question and quickly moved on to another topic. He congratulated his friend on being elected as a councilman; he realized he hadn't seen him since that happened. Mrs. Downe had intended to call and congratulate Mrs. Barnet, but he was worried she hadn't done that yet.

Barnet seemed hampered in his replies. 'We should have been glad to see you. I-my wife would welcome Mrs. Downe at any time, as you know . . . Yes, I am a member of the corporation-rather an inexperienced member, some of them say. It is quite true; and I should have declined the honour as premature-having other things on my hands just now, too-if it had not been pressed upon me so very heartily.'

Barnet appeared hesitant in his responses. "We would have been happy to see you. My wife would be glad to have Mrs. Downe over anytime, as you know... Yes, I am part of the corporation—an inexperienced member, some say. That’s true, and I would have turned down the honor as too soon—especially since I have other things going on right now—if it hadn't been pushed on me so enthusiastically."

'There is one thing you have on your hands which I can never quite see the necessity for,' said Downe, with good-humoured freedom. 'What the deuce do you want to build that new mansion for, when you have already got such an excellent house as the one you live in?'

'There's one thing you're dealing with that I just can’t understand,' Downe said, playfully. 'Why on earth do you want to build that new mansion when you already have such a great house where you live?'

Barnet's face acquired a warmer shade of colour; but as the question had been idly asked by the solicitor while regarding the surrounding flocks and fields, he answered after a moment with no apparent embarrassment -

Barnet's face took on a warmer hue; but since the solicitor had casually asked the question while looking at the nearby flocks and fields, he replied after a moment without any visible embarrassment -

'Well, we wanted to get out of the town, you know: the house I am living in is rather old and inconvenient.' Mr. Downe declared that he had chosen a pretty site for the new building. They would be able to see for miles and miles from the windows. Was he going to give it a name? He supposed so.

'Well, we wanted to move out of town, you know: the house I'm living in is pretty old and not very convenient.' Mr. Downe said he had picked a nice spot for the new building. They would be able to see for miles from the windows. Was he planning to give it a name? He thought so.

Barnet thought not. There was no other house near that was likely to be mistaken for it. And he did not care for a name.

Barnet didn’t think so. There wasn’t another house nearby that could be confused with it. And he didn't care about a name.

'But I think it has a name!' Downe observed: 'I went past-when was it?-this morning; and I saw something,-"Chateau Ringdale," I think it was, stuck up on a board!'

'But I think it has a name!' Downe said: 'I walked by—when was it?—this morning; and I saw something, "Chateau Ringdale," I think it was, posted on a sign!'

'It was an idea she-we had for a short time,' said Barnet hastily. 'But we have decided finally to do without a name-at any rate such a name as that. It must have been a week ago that you saw it. It was taken down last Saturday . . . Upon that matter I am firm!' he added grimly.

"It was an idea we had for a little while," Barnet said quickly. "But we've decided to go without a name—at least not one like that. You must have seen it about a week ago. It was taken down last Saturday... On that topic, I'm quite sure!" he added sternly.

Downe murmured in an unconvinced tone that he thought he had seen it yesterday.

Downe muttered in a doubtful tone that he thought he had seen it yesterday.

Talking thus they drove into the town. The street was unusually still for the hour of seven in the evening; an increasing drizzle had prevailed since the afternoon, and now formed a gauze across the yellow lamps, and trickled with a gentle rattle down the heavy roofs of stone tile, that bent the house-ridges hollow-backed with its weight, and in some instances caused the walls to bulge outwards in the upper story. Their route took them past the little town-hall, the Black-Bull Hotel, and onward to the junction of a small street on the right, consisting of a row of those two-and-two windowed brick residences of no particular age, which are exactly alike wherever found, except in the people they contain.

Talking as they drove into town, the street was unusually quiet for 7 PM. A light drizzle had been falling since the afternoon, creating a misty layer over the yellow streetlights and gently trickling down the heavy tiled roofs, which sagged under the weight. In some places, the walls bulged outward on the upper floors. They passed the small town hall and the Black-Bull Hotel, heading towards a junction with a small street on the right, lined with identical brick houses that had two windows each, typical of no specific era, except for the people inside.

'Wait-I'll drive you up to your door,' said Barnet, when Downe prepared to alight at the corner. He thereupon turned into the narrow street, when the faces of three little girls could be discerned close to the panes of a lighted window a few yards ahead, surmounted by that of a young matron, the gaze of all four being directed eagerly up the empty street. 'You are a fortunate fellow, Downe,' Barnet continued, as mother and children disappeared from the window to run to the door. 'You must be happy if any man is. I would give a hundred such houses as my new one to have a home like yours.'

"Wait—I’ll take you to your door," said Barnet as Downe was about to get out at the corner. He then turned into the narrow street, where the faces of three little girls could be seen close to the panes of a lit window a few yards ahead, along with that of a young woman, all four eagerly looking up the empty street. "You’re a lucky guy, Downe," Barnet continued, as the mother and kids disappeared from the window to rush to the door. "You must be happy if anyone is. I’d trade a hundred houses like my new one for a home like yours."

'Well-yes, we get along pretty comfortably,' replied Downe complacently.

'Well, yes, we get along quite comfortably,' replied Downe with a sense of satisfaction.

'That house, Downe, is none of my ordering,' Barnet broke out, revealing a bitterness hitherto suppressed, and checking the horse a moment to finish his speech before delivering up his passenger. 'The house I have already is good enough for me, as you supposed. It is my own freehold; it was built by my grandfather, and is stout enough for a castle. My father was born there, lived there, and died there. I was born there, and have always lived there; yet I must needs build a new one.'

'That house, Downe, isn't my choice,' Barnet burst out, showing a bitterness he'd been holding back, and slowing the horse for a moment to finish his thought before letting off his passenger. 'The house I already have is good enough for me, as you thought. It's my own property; my grandfather built it, and it's strong enough to be a castle. My father was born there, lived there, and died there. I was born there and have always lived there; yet I have to build a new one.'

'Why do you?' said Downe.

"Why do you?" said Downe.

'Why do I? To preserve peace in the household. I do anything for that; but I don't succeed. I was firm in resisting "Chateau Ringdale," however; not that I would not have put up with the absurdity of the name, but it was too much to have your house christened after Lord Ringdale, because your wife once had a fancy for him. If you only knew everything, you would think all attempt at reconciliation hopeless. In your happy home you have had no such experiences; and God forbid that you ever should. See, here they are all ready to receive you!'

'Why do I? To keep the peace in the house. I’d do anything for that; but I can’t seem to make it work. I was determined not to accept "Chateau Ringdale," though; not because I couldn’t handle the ridiculous name, but because it’s way too much to name your house after Lord Ringdale just because your wife had a crush on him once. If you knew everything, you’d see that any attempt at reconciliation is pointless. In your happy home, you haven’t gone through any of this; and I hope you never do. Look, they’re all ready to welcome you!'

'Of course! And so will your wife be waiting to receive you,' said Downe. 'Take my word for it she will! And with a dinner prepared for you far better than mine.'

"Of course! And your wife will be waiting for you," said Downe. "Believe me, she will! And with a dinner ready for you that’s way better than mine."

'I hope so,' Barnet replied dubiously.

"I hope so," Barnet said uncertainly.

He moved on to Downe's door, which the solicitor's family had already opened. Downe descended, but being encumbered with his bag and umbrella, his foot slipped, and he fell upon his knees in the gutter.

He went to Downe's door, which the lawyer's family had already opened. Downe came down, but since he was carrying his bag and umbrella, he slipped and fell to his knees in the gutter.

'O, my dear Charles!' said his wife, running down the steps; and, quite ignoring the presence of Barnet, she seized hold of her husband, pulled him to his feet, and kissed him, exclaiming, 'I hope you are not hurt, darling!' The children crowded round, chiming in piteously, 'Poor papa!'

'O, my dear Charles!' said his wife, rushing down the steps; and, completely disregarding Barnet's presence, she grabbed her husband, helped him to his feet, and kissed him, exclaiming, 'I hope you’re not hurt, darling!' The children gathered around, sadly saying, 'Poor papa!'

'He's all right,' said Barnet, perceiving that Downe was only a little muddy, and looking more at the wife than at the husband. Almost at any other time-certainly during his fastidious bachelor years-he would have thought her a too demonstrative woman; but those recent circumstances of his own life to which he had just alluded made Mrs. Downe's solicitude so affecting that his eye grew damp as he witnessed it. Bidding the lawyer and his family good-night he left them, and drove slowly into the main street towards his own house.

'He's fine,' said Barnet, noticing that Downe was just a bit muddy and focusing more on the wife than the husband. Almost any other time—definitely during his picky bachelor years—he would have thought she was too affectionate. But the recent events in his own life that he had just mentioned made Mrs. Downe's concern so touching that his eyes grew misty as he watched her. After saying goodnight to the lawyer and his family, he left them and drove slowly down the main street toward his own house.

The heart of Barnet was sufficiently impressionable to be influenced by Downe's parting prophecy that he might not be so unwelcome home as he imagined: the dreary night might, at least on this one occasion, make Downe's forecast true. Hence it was in a suspense that he could hardly have believed possible that he halted at his door. On entering his wife was nowhere to be seen, and he inquired for her. The servant informed him that her mistress had the dressmaker with her, and would be engaged for some time.

The heart of Barnet was easily swayed by Downe's parting prediction that he might not be as unwelcome at home as he thought: possibly, this gloomy night could make Downe's forecast come true just this once. As a result, he stood at his door in a state of suspense he could hardly believe. When he entered, his wife was nowhere in sight, so he asked about her. The servant told him that his wife was with the dressmaker and would be busy for a while.

'Dressmaker at this time of day!'

'She dined early, sir, and hopes you will excuse her joining you this evening.'

'She had dinner early, sir, and hopes you’ll forgive her for not joining you this evening.'

'But she knew I was coming to-night?'

'But she knew I was coming tonight?'

'O yes, sir.'

'Oh yes, sir.'

'Go up and tell her I am come.'

'Go up and tell her I've arrived.'

The servant did so; but the mistress of the house merely transmitted her former words.

The servant did that; but the lady of the house just repeated what she had said before.

Barnet said nothing more, and presently sat down to his lonely meal, which was eaten abstractedly, the domestic scene he had lately witnessed still impressing him by its contrast with the situation here. His mind fell back into past years upon a certain pleasing and gentle being whose face would loom out of their shades at such times as these. Barnet turned in his chair, and looked with unfocused eyes in a direction southward from where he sat, as if he saw not the room but a long way beyond. 'I wonder if she lives there still!' he said.

Barnet didn’t say anything else and soon sat down to his solitary meal, which he ate absentmindedly, still affected by the domestic scene he had recently observed, so different from his current situation. His thoughts drifted back to earlier years, to a certain kind and gentle person whose face would emerge from his memories at times like this. Barnet turned in his chair and stared blankly in a southerly direction, as if he were looking not at the room but far beyond it. "I wonder if she still lives there!" he said.

II

He rose with a sudden rebelliousness, put on his hat and coat, and went out of the house, pursuing his way along the glistening pavement while eight o'clock was striking from St. Mary's tower, and the apprentices and shopmen were slamming up the shutters from end to end of the town. In two minutes only those shops which could boast of no attendant save the master or the mistress remained with open eyes. These were ever somewhat less prompt to exclude customers than the others: for their owners' ears the closing hour had scarcely the cheerfulness that it possessed for the hired servants of the rest. Yet the night being dreary the delay was not for long, and their windows, too, bWESSEXlinked together one by one.

He suddenly felt rebellious, put on his hat and coat, and left the house, walking along the shiny pavement while the clock struck eight from St. Mary’s tower, and the apprentices and shopkeepers were closing up their shops all around town. In just two minutes, only the shops with the owners still inside remained open. These owners were usually slower to close up than the others since for them, the closing time wasn’t as cheerful as it was for the hired help elsewhere. However, since the night was dreary, the delay didn’t last long, and their windows also went dark one by one.

During this time Barnet had proceeded with decided step in a direction at right angles to the broad main thoroughfare of the town, by a long street leading due southward. Here, though his family had no more to do with the flax manufacture, his own name occasionally greeted him on gates and warehouses, being used allusively by small rising tradesmen as a recommendation, in such words as 'Smith, from Barnet & Co.'-'Robinson, late manager at Barnet's.' The sight led him to reflect upon his father's busy life, and he questioned if it had not been far happier than his own.

During this time, Barnet moved decisively away from the main street of the town, down a long road heading directly south. Here, even though his family no longer had any connection to the flax business, he still saw his name on gates and warehouses, used by small up-and-coming tradespeople as a selling point, with phrases like "Smith, from Barnet & Co." and "Robinson, former manager at Barnet's." This made him think about his father's active life, and he wondered if it had been much happier than his own.

The houses along the road became fewer, and presently open ground appeared between them on either side, the track on the right hand rising to a higher level till it merged in a knoll. On the summit a row of builders' scaffold-poles probed the indistinct sky like spears, and at their bases could be discerned the lower courses of a building lately begun. Barnet slackened his pace and stood for a few moments without leaving the centre of the road, apparently not much interested in the sight, till suddenly his eye was caught by a post in the fore part of the ground bearing a white board at the top. He went to the rails, vaulted over, and walked in far enough to discern painted upon the board 'Chateau Ringdale.'

The houses along the road became less frequent, and soon open land appeared on both sides, with the path on the right rising to a higher level until it reached a small hill. At the top, a line of construction scaffolding poked into the gray sky like spears, and at their bases, you could see the lower levels of a building that had just started. Barnet slowed his pace and stood for a moment in the middle of the road, seemingly uninterested in the view, until suddenly a post at the front of the area caught his eye. It had a white board on top. He walked over to the fence, jumped over it, and walked in far enough to read the sign that said 'Chateau Ringdale.'

A dismal irony seemed to lie in the words, and its effect was to irritate him. Downe, then, had spoken truly. He stuck his umbrella into the sod, and seized the post with both hands, as if intending to loosen and throw it down. Then, like one bewildered by an opposition which would exist none the less though its manifestations were removed, he allowed his arms to sink to his side.

A grim irony seemed to be in the words, and it only served to annoy him. Downe had indeed spoken the truth. He jammed his umbrella into the ground and grabbed the post with both hands, as if he planned to pull it free and toss it aside. Then, feeling confused by a conflict that would still be there even if its expressions were gone, he let his arms drop to his sides.

'Let it be,' he said to himself. 'I have declared there shall be peace-if possible.'

'Let it be,' he said to himself. 'I’ve said there should be peace—if that’s possible.'

Taking up his umbrella he quietly left the enclosure, and went on his way, still keeping his back to the town. He had advanced with more decision since passing the new building, and soon a hoarse murmur rose upon the gloom; it was the sound of the sea. The road led to the harbour, at a distance of a mile from the town, from which the trade of the district was fed. After seeing the obnoxious name-board Barnet had forgotten to open his umbrella, and the rain tapped smartly on his hat, and occasionally stroked his face as he went on.

Taking his umbrella, he quietly left the enclosure and continued on his way, still keeping his back to the town. He moved with more purpose after passing the new building, and soon a low rumble filled the air; it was the sound of the sea. The road led to the harbor, about a mile away from the town, which supported the area's trade. After seeing the annoying name sign, Barnet had forgotten to open his umbrella, and the rain tapped sharply on his hat, occasionally brushing against his face as he walked on.

Though the lamps were still continued at the roadside, they stood at wider intervals than before, and the pavement had given place to common road. Every time he came to a lamp an increasing shine made itself visible upon his shoulders, till at last they quite glistened with wet. The murmur from the shore grew stronger, but it was still some distance off when he paused before one of the smallest of the detached houses by the wayside, standing in its own garden, the latter being divided from the road by a row of wooden palings. Scrutinizing the spot to ensure that he was not mistaken, he opened the gate and gently knocked at the cottage door.

Though the street lamps were still on by the roadside, they were spaced further apart than before, and the pavement had given way to a regular road. Each time he passed a lamp, a growing shine became visible on his shoulders, until they were finally shining with moisture. The murmur from the shore grew louder, but it was still some distance away when he stopped in front of one of the smallest houses by the road, which had its own garden, separated from the street by a row of wooden fences. Making sure he wasn't mistaken, he opened the gate and softly knocked on the cottage door.

When he had patiently waited minutes enough to lead any man in ordinary cases to knock again, the door was heard to open, though it was impossible to see by whose hand, there being no light in the passage. Barnet said at random, 'Does Miss Savile live here?'

When he had patiently waited long enough for any normal person to knock again, the door opened, though it was impossible to see who had done it since there was no light in the hallway. Barnet said casually, "Does Miss Savile live here?"

A youthful voice assured him that she did live there, and by a sudden afterthought asked him to come in. It would soon get a light, it said: but the night being wet, mother had not thought it worth while to trim the passage lamp.

A young voice told him confidently that she lived there, and then suddenly suggested he come in. It would get light soon, she said, but since the night was wet, her mother hadn't thought it was worth it to trim the hallway lamp.

'Don't trouble yourself to get a light for me,' said Barnet hastily; 'it is not necessary at all. Which is Miss Savile's sitting-room?'

"Don't worry about getting a light for me," Barnet said quickly; "it's not needed at all. Which room is Miss Savile's sitting room?"

The young person, whose white pinafore could just be discerned, signified a door in the side of the passage, and Barnet went forward at the same moment, so that no light should fall upon his face. On entering the room he closed the door behind him, pausing till he heard the retreating footsteps of the child.

The young person, whose white apron could barely be seen, pointed to a door along the hallway, and Barnet moved forward at the same time, making sure no light hit his face. Once he entered the room, he shut the door behind him and waited until he heard the child's footsteps fading away.

He found himself in an apartment which was simply and neatly, though not poorly furnished; everything, from the miniature chiffonnier to the shining little daguerreotype which formed the central ornament of the mantelpiece, being in scrupulous order. The picture was enclosed by a frame of embroidered card-board-evidently the work of feminine hands-and it was the portrait of a thin faced, elderly lieutenant in the navy. From behind the lamp on the table a female form now rose into view, that of a young girl, and a resemblance between her and the portrait was early discoverable. She had been so absorbed in some occupation on the other side of the lamp as to have barely found time to realize her visitor's presence.

He found himself in an apartment that was simple and tidy, though not poorly furnished; everything, from the small chest of drawers to the shiny little daguerreotype that was the centerpiece of the mantelpiece, was in meticulous order. The picture was framed with embroidered cardboard—clearly crafted by someone with feminine touch—and it depicted a thin-faced, older lieutenant in the navy. From behind the lamp on the table, a female figure rose into view, a young girl, and the resemblance between her and the portrait was immediately noticeable. She had been so caught up in whatever she was doing on the other side of the lamp that she barely had time to notice her visitor.

They both remained standing for a few seconds without speaking. The face that confronted Barnet had a beautiful outline; the Raffaelesque oval of its contour was remarkable for an English countenance, and that countenance housed in a remote country-road to an unheard-of harbour. But her features did not do justice to this splendid beginning: Nature had recollected that she was not in Italy; and the young lady's lineaments, though not so inconsistent as to make her plain, would have been accepted rather as pleasing than as correct. The preoccupied expression which, like images on the retina, remained with her for a moment after the state that caused it had ceased, now changed into a reserved, half-proud, and slightly indignant look, in which the blood diffused itself quickly across her cheek, and additional brightness broke the shade of her rather heavy eyes.

They both stood in silence for a few seconds. The face that faced Barnet had a beautiful shape; the Raffaelesque oval of its outline was striking for an English person, and that face was found in a remote country road leading to an unheard-of harbor. But her features didn’t quite match this stunning start: Nature had remembered she wasn’t in Italy; and while the young woman's features weren't so jarring as to make her unattractive, they would have been seen more as nice than perfectly proportioned. The thoughtful expression that lingered on her as if still etched in her memory shifted into a reserved, somewhat proud, and slightly offended look, as color quickly spread across her cheeks, adding a glow to her otherwise rather heavy eyes.

'I know I have no business here,' he said, answering the look. 'But I had a great wish to see you, and inquire how you were. You can give your hand to me, seeing how often I have held it in past days?'

'I know I shouldn't be here,' he said, responding to the look. 'But I really wanted to see you and ask how you’ve been. Can you give me your hand, considering how often I’ve held it in the past?'

'I would rather forget than remember all that, Mr. Barnet,' she answered, as she coldly complied with the request. 'When I think of the circumstances of our last meeting, I can hardly consider it kind of you to allude to such a thing as our past-or, indeed, to come here at all.'

'I’d rather forget all that, Mr. Barnet,' she replied, as she coolly went along with his request. 'When I think about how we left things last time, I can hardly see it as kind of you to bring up our past—or, really, to show up here at all.'

'There was no harm in it surely? I don't trouble you often, Lucy.'

'There’s no harm in it, right? I don’t bother you that often, Lucy.'

'I have not had the honour of a visit from you for a very long time, certainly, and I did not expect it now,' she said, with the same stiffness in her air. 'I hope Mrs. Barnet is very well?'

'I haven't had the pleasure of a visit from you in a long time, for sure, and I didn't expect one now,' she said, with the same formality in her demeanor. 'I hope Mrs. Barnet is doing well?'

'Yes, yes!' he impatiently returned. 'At least I suppose so-though I only speak from inference!'

'Yeah, yeah!' he replied impatiently. 'I guess so—though I'm just inferring!'

'But she is your wife, sir,' said the young girl tremulously.

'But she is your wife, sir,' said the young girl nervously.

The unwonted tones of a man's voice in that feminine chamber had startled a canary that was roosting in its cage by the window; the bird awoke hastily, and fluttered against the bars. She went and stilled it by laying her face against the cage and murmuring a coaxing sound. It might partly have been done to still herself.

The unusual sound of a man's voice in that feminine room startled a canary resting in its cage by the window; the bird quickly woke up and flapped against the bars. She went over and calmed it by pressing her face against the cage and softly murmuring. It might have also been to soothe herself.

'I didn't come to talk of Mrs. Barnet,' he pursued; 'I came to talk of you, of yourself alone; to inquire how you are getting on since your great loss.' And he turned towards the portrait of her father.

'I didn't come to talk about Mrs. Barnet,' he continued; 'I came to talk about you, just you; to ask how you’ve been doing since your big loss.' And he turned to look at the portrait of her father.

'I am getting on fairly well, thank you.'

"I’m doing well, thanks."

The force of her utterance was scarcely borne out by her look; but Barnet courteously reproached himself for not having guessed a thing so natural; and to dissipate all embarrassment, added, as he bent over the table, 'What were you doing when I came?-painting flowers, and by candlelight?'

The impact of her words didn’t really match her expression; however, Barnet kindly criticized himself for not recognizing something so obvious. To clear the awkwardness, he added, leaning over the table, "What were you doing when I arrived? Painting flowers by candlelight?"

'O no,' she said, 'not painting them-only sketching the outlines. I do that at night to save time-I have to get three dozen done by the end of the month.'

'O no,' she said, 'not painting them—just sketching the outlines. I do that at night to save time—I need to finish three dozen by the end of the month.'

Barnet looked as if he regretted it deeply. 'You will wear your poor eyes out,' he said, with more sentiment than he had hitherto shown. 'You ought not to do it. There was a time when I should have said you must not. Well-I almost wish I had never seen light with my own eyes when I think of that!'

Barnet looked like he really regretted it. "You’re going to strain your poor eyes," he said, showing more feeling than he had before. "You really shouldn’t do this. There was a time when I would have insisted you must not. Well—I almost wish I had never seen the light with my own eyes when I think about that!"

'Is this a time or place for recalling such matters?' she asked, with dignity. 'You used to have a gentlemanly respect for me, and for yourself. Don't speak any more as you have spoken, and don't come again. I cannot think that this visit is serious, or was closely considered by you.'

'Is this really the right time or place to bring this up?' she asked, with dignity. 'You used to have a respectful attitude toward me and yourself. Please don’t speak to me like that again, and don’t come back. I can’t believe this visit is genuine or that you thought it through.'

'Considered: well, I came to see you as an old and good friend-not to mince matters, to visit a woman I loved. Don't be angry! I could not help doing it, so many things brought you into my mind . . . This evening I fell in with an acquaintance, and when I saw how happy he was with his wife and family welcoming him home, though with only one-tenth of my income and chances, and thought what might have been in my case, it fairly broke down my discretion, and off I came here. Now I am here I feel that I am wrong to some extent. But the feeling that I should like to see you, and talk of those we used to know in common, was very strong.'

'Honestly, I came to see you as an old and dear friend—not to sugarcoat things, I came to visit a woman I loved. Please don’t be upset! I couldn’t help it; so many memories of you flooded my mind… This evening, I ran into someone I know, and seeing how happy he was with his wife and kids welcoming him home, even though he has only a fraction of my income and opportunities, made me think about what could have been for me. It really broke down my reservations, and I ended up here. Now that I’m here, I feel a bit guilty. But the urge to see you and reminisce about the people we knew together was too strong to resist.'

'Before that can be the case a little more time must pass,' said Miss Savile quietly; 'a time long enough for me to regard with some calmness what at present I remember far too impatiently-though it may be you almost forget it. Indeed you must have forgotten it long before you acted as you did.' Her voice grew stronger and more vivacious as she added: 'But I am doing my best to forget it too, and I know I shall succeed from the progress I have made already!'

'Before that can happen, a bit more time has to pass,' Miss Savile said quietly. 'Time enough for me to look back with some calmness on what I currently remember way too impatiently—though you might have already forgotten it. In fact, you must have forgotten it long before you acted the way you did.' Her voice became stronger and more lively as she added, 'But I'm doing my best to forget it too, and I know I'll succeed based on the progress I've made already!'

She had remained standing till now, when she turned and sat down, facing half away from him.

She had been standing until now when she turned and sat down, facing partly away from him.

Barnet watched her moodily. 'Yes, it is only what I deserve,' he said. 'Ambition pricked me on-no, it was not ambition, it was wrongheadedness! Had I but reflected . . . ' He broke out vehemently: 'But always remember this, Lucy: if you had written to me only one little line after that misunderstanding, I declare I should have come back to you. That ruined me!' he slowly walked as far as the little room would allow him to go, and remained with his eyes on the skirting.

Barnet watched her with a moody expression. "Yeah, it’s exactly what I deserve," he said. "Ambition pushed me forward—no, it wasn’t ambition, it was just stubbornness! If only I had thought it through..." He suddenly spoke passionately: "But always remember this, Lucy: if you had just sent me a single line after that misunderstanding, I swear I would have come back to you. That completely destroyed me!" He slowly walked as far as the small room would let him and stood there, staring at the baseboard.

'But, Mr. Barnet, how could I write to you? There was no opening for my doing so.'

'But, Mr. Barnet, how could I have written to you? There was no opportunity for me to do that.'

'Then there ought to have been,' said Barnet, turning. 'That was my fault!'

'Then there should have been,' said Barnet, turning. 'That was my mistake!'

'Well, I don't know anything about that; but as there had been nothing said by me which required any explanation by letter, I did not send one. Everything was so indefinite, and feeling your position to be so much wealthier than mine, I fancied I might have mistaken your meaning. And when I heard of the other lady-a woman of whose family even you might be proud-I thought how foolish I had been, and said nothing.'

'Well, I don’t know anything about that; but since I hadn’t said anything that needed explanation in a letter, I didn’t send one. Everything felt so unclear, and knowing your situation is so much better than mine, I thought I might have misunderstood your meaning. And when I heard about the other woman—a woman whose family even you might be proud of—I realized how foolish I had been and said nothing.'

'Then I suppose it was destiny-accident-I don't know what, that separated us, dear Lucy. Anyhow you were the woman I ought to have made my wife-and I let you slip, like the foolish man that I was!'

'Then I guess it was fate or maybe just a coincidence—I’m not sure—which pulled us apart, dear Lucy. Either way, you were the woman I should have married—and I let you get away, like the foolish man I was!'

'O, Mr. Barnet,' she said, almost in tears, 'don't revive the subject to me; I am the wrong one to console you-think, sir,-you should not be here-it would be so bad for me if it were known!'

'O, Mr. Barnet,' she said, almost in tears, 'please don't bring this up again; I'm not the right person to comfort you—think about it, sir—you really shouldn't be here—it would be terrible for me if anyone found out!'

'It would-it would, indeed,' he said hastily. 'I am not right in doing this, and I won't do it again.'

'It really would,' he said quickly. 'I shouldn't be doing this, and I won't do it again.'

'It is a very common folly of human nature, you know, to think the course you did not adopt must have been the best,' she continued, with gentle solicitude, as she followed him to the door of the room. 'And you don't know that I should have accepted you, even if you had asked me to be your wife.' At this his eye met hers, and she dropped her gaze. She knew that her voice belied her. There was a silence till she looked up to add, in a voice of soothing playfulness, 'My family was so much poorer than yours, even before I lost my dear father, that-perhaps your companions would have made it unpleasant for us on account of my deficiencies.'

'It's a common mistake in human nature to think that the path you didn’t take must have been the better one,' she continued gently, following him to the door of the room. 'And you don’t know that I would have said yes if you had asked me to be your wife.' At that, his gaze met hers, and she looked away. She realized her voice didn’t match her words. There was a pause until she looked up to add, in a lighthearted tone, 'My family was so much poorer than yours, even before I lost my dear father, that maybe your friends would have made things awkward for us because of my shortcomings.'

'Your disposition would soon have won them round,' said Barnet.

"Your personality would have won them over in no time," said Barnet.

She archly expostulated: 'Now, never mind my disposition; try to make it up with your wife! Those are my commands to you. And now you are to leave me at once.'

She said sharply, 'Forget about my mood; focus on making things right with your wife! That's what I’m telling you. Now, you need to leave me immediately.'

'I will. I must make the best of it all, I suppose,' he replied, more cheerfully than he had as yet spoken. 'But I shall never again meet with such a dear girl as you!' And he suddenly opened the door, and left her alone. When his glance again fell on the lamps that were sparsely ranged along the dreary level road, his eyes were in a state which showed straw-like motes of light radiating from each flame into the surrounding air.

"I will. I guess I have to make the best of it all," he replied, more cheerfully than he had spoken before. "But I’ll never meet a wonderful girl like you again!" Then he suddenly opened the door and left her alone. When he looked back at the lamps scattered along the dull road, his eyes revealed tiny particles of light radiating from each flame into the surrounding air.

On the other side of the way Barnet observed a man under an umbrella, walking parallel with himself. Presently this man left the footway, and gradually converged on Barnet's course. The latter then saw that it was Charlson, a surgeon of the town, who owed him money. Charlson was a man not without ability; yet he did not prosper. Sundry circumstances stood in his way as a medical practitioner: he was needy; he was not a coddle; he gossiped with men instead of with women; he had married a stranger instead of one of the town young ladies; and he was given to conversational buffoonery. Moreover, his look was quite erroneous. Those only proper features in the family doctor, the quiet eye, and the thin straight passionless lips which never curl in public either for laughter or for scorn, were not his; he had a full-curved mouth, and a bold black eye that made timid people nervous. His companions were what in old times would have been called boon companions-an expression which, though of irreproachable root, suggests fraternization carried to the point of unscrupulousness. All this was against him in the little town of his adoption.

On the other side of the street, Barnet noticed a man with an umbrella walking alongside him. Eventually, this man left the sidewalk and gradually approached Barnet. He then realized it was Charlson, a local surgeon who owed him money. Charlson was reasonably talented, but he struggled to succeed. Several factors held him back as a doctor: he was in financial trouble, he wasn't particularly nurturing, he socialized with men rather than women, he married someone outside the town instead of one of the local girls, and he had a tendency for silly conversation. Plus, his appearance was quite off. He lacked the typical features of a family doctor—like a calm gaze and thin, straight lips that never smiled or sneered in public. Instead, he had a full, curved mouth and a bold black eye that made shy people uncomfortable. His friends were what used to be called "boon companions"—a term that, while harmless in origin, implies a level of camaraderie that can bend the rules. All of this worked against him in the small town he had settled in.

Charlson had been in difficulties, and to oblige him Barnet had put his name to a bill; and, as he had expected, was called upon to meet it when it fell due. It had been only a matter of fifty pounds, which Barnet could well afford to lose, and he bore no ill-will to the thriftless surgeon on account of it. But Charlson had a little too much brazen indifferentism in his composition to be altogether a desirable acquaintance.

Charlson had been in trouble, and to help him out, Barnet had put his name on a bill; as he expected, he was asked to pay it when it was due. It was only fifty pounds, which Barnet could easily afford to lose, and he held no grudge against the careless surgeon because of it. But Charlson had a bit too much shameless indifference in his character to be a completely pleasant friend.

'I hope to be able to make that little bill-business right with you in the course of three weeks, Mr. Barnet,' said Charlson with hail-fellow friendliness.

"I hope to sort out that small bill issue with you in about three weeks, Mr. Barnet," said Charlson with a friendly tone.

Barnet replied good-naturedly that there was no hurry.

Barnet responded cheerfully that there was no rush.

This particular three weeks had moved on in advance of Charlson's present with the precision of a shadow for some considerable time.

This three-week period had passed ahead of Charlson's presence with the exactness of a shadow for quite a while.

'I've had a dream,' Charlson continued. Barnet knew from his tone that the surgeon was going to begin his characteristic nonsense, and did not encourage him. 'I've had a dream,' repeated Charlson, who required no encouragement. 'I dreamed that a gentleman, who has been very kind to me, married a haughty lady in haste, before he had quite forgotten a nice little girl he knew before, and that one wet evening, like the present, as I was walking up the harbour-road, I saw him come out of that dear little girl's present abode.'

"I had a dream," Charlson continued. Barnet could tell from his tone that the surgeon was about to start his usual nonsense, so he didn’t encourage him. "I had a dream," Charlson repeated, needing no encouragement. "I dreamed that a gentleman, who has been very kind to me, rushed into marriage with a proud lady before he had completely moved on from a lovely girl he knew before. And one rainy evening, like tonight, as I was walking up the harbor road, I saw him come out of that sweet girl’s current place."

Barnet glanced towards the speaker. The rays from a neighbouring lamp struck through the drizzle under Charlson's umbrella, so as just to illumine his face against the shade behind, and show that his eye was turned up under the outer corner of its lid, whence it leered with impish jocoseness as he thrust his tongue into his cheek.

Barnet looked over at the person speaking. The light from a nearby lamp cut through the drizzle under Charlson's umbrella, just enough to light up his face against the shadow behind him, revealing that his eye was rolled up under the outer corner of its lid, where it looked back with a mischievous playfulness as he poked his tongue into his cheek.

'Come,' said Barnet gravely, 'we'll have no more of that.'

'Come on,' said Barnet seriously, 'we're not doing that anymore.'

'No, no-of course not,' Charlson hastily answered, seeing that his humour had carried him too far, as it had done many times before. He was profuse in his apologies, but Barnet did not reply. Of one thing he was certain-that scandal was a plant of quick root, and that he was bound to obey Lucy's injunction for Lucy's own sake.

'No, no—of course not,' Charlson quickly replied, realizing he had pushed his joke too far, just like he had many times before. He apologized profusely, but Barnet stayed silent. One thing he knew for sure—gossip spreads quickly, and he had to follow Lucy's request for her own good.

III

He did so, to the letter; and though, as the crocus followed the snowdrop and the daffodil the crocus in Lucy's garden, the harbour-road was a not unpleasant place to walk in, Barnet's feet never trod its stones, much less approached her door. He avoided a saunter that way as he would have avoided a dangerous dram, and took his airings a long distance northward, among severely square and brown ploughed fields, where no other townsman came. Sometimes he went round by the lower lanes of the borough, where the rope-walks stretched in which his family formerly had share, and looked at the rope-makers walking backwards, overhung by apple-trees and bushes, and intruded on by cows and calves, as if trade had established itself there at considerable inconvenience to Nature.

He did exactly that; and even though, like how the crocus blooms after the snowdrop and the daffodil follows the crocus in Lucy's garden, the harbor road was a pretty nice place to walk, Barnet never stepped onto its stones, let alone approached her door. He avoided strolling that way as if it were a dangerous drink and instead took his walks far north, among the stark and brown plowed fields, where no other townspeople went. Sometimes he took a route through the lower streets of the borough, where the rope-walks stretched, areas his family used to be involved in, and watched the rope-makers working backward, surrounded by apple trees and bushes, with cows and calves intruding as if business had settled there at great inconvenience to Nature.

One morning, when the sun was so warm as to raise a steam from the south-eastern slopes of those flanking hills that looked so lovely above the old roofs, but made every low-chimneyed house in the town as smoky as Tophet, Barnet glanced from the windows of the town-council room for lack of interest in what was proceeding within. Several members of the corporation were present, but there was not much business doing, and in a few minutes Downe came leisurely across to him, saying that he seldom saw Barnet now.

One morning, when the sun was warm enough to create steam rising from the southeast slopes of the hills that looked so beautiful above the old roofs, making every low-chimneyed house in the town as smoky as a furnace, Barnet glanced out the windows of the town council room, uninterested in what was happening inside. Several members of the council were present, but not much was going on, and after a few minutes, Downe casually walked over to him, mentioning that he rarely saw Barnet these days.

Barnet owned that he was not often present.

Barnet admitted that he wasn't around very often.

Downe looked at the crimson curtain which hung down beside the panes, reflecting its hot hues into their faces, and then out of the window. At that moment there passed along the street a tall commanding lady, in whom the solicitor recognized Barnet's wife. Barnet had done the same thing, and turned away.

Downe looked at the red curtain hanging beside the windows, casting its warm colors onto their faces, and then glanced out the window. At that moment, a tall, impressive woman walked by on the street, and the solicitor recognized Barnet's wife. Barnet noticed her too and turned away.

'It will be all right some day,' said Downe, with cheering sympathy.

'It will be okay one day,' said Downe, with encouraging warmth.

'You have heard, then, of her last outbreak?'

"You've heard about her latest outburst, then?"

Downe depressed his cheerfulness to its very reverse in a moment. 'No, I have not heard of anything serious,' he said, with as long a face as one naturally round could be turned into at short notice. 'I only hear vague reports of such things.'

Downe quickly turned his cheerful attitude into its complete opposite. 'No, I haven't heard of anything serious,' he said, with a face as long as one that’s naturally round can become on short notice. 'I only hear vague rumors about stuff like that.'

'You may think it will be all right,' said Barnet drily. 'But I have a different opinion . . . No, Downe, we must look the thing in the face. Not poppy nor mandragora-however, how are your wife and children?'

'You might think it will be fine,' Barnet said dryly. 'But I see it differently... No, Downe, we need to confront this directly. Not poppy or mandrake—by the way, how are your wife and kids?'

Downe said that they were all well, thanks; they were out that morning somewhere; he was just looking to see if they were walking that way. Ah, there they were, just coming down the street; and Downe pointed to the figures of two children with a nursemaid, and a lady walking behind them.

Downe said they were all doing well, thanks; they were out that morning somewhere; he was just checking to see if they were walking this way. Ah, there they were, just coming down the street; and Downe pointed to the figures of two kids with a nanny, and a woman walking behind them.

'You will come out and speak to her?' he asked.

'Are you going to come out and talk to her?' he asked.

'Not this morning. The fact is I don't care to speak to anybody just now.'

'Not this morning. Honestly, I don’t feel like talking to anyone right now.'

'You are too sensitive, Mr. Barnet. At school I remember you used to get as red as a rose if anybody uttered a word that hurt your feelings.'

'You're too sensitive, Mr. Barnet. I remember back in school, you would turn as red as a rose if anyone said something that upset you.'

Barnet mused. 'Yes,' he admitted, 'there is a grain of truth in that. It is because of that I often try to make peace at home. Life would be tolerable then at any rate, even if not particularly bright.'

Barnet thought to himself. 'Yes,' he admitted, 'there's some truth to that. Because of that, I often try to keep the peace at home. Life would at least be bearable, even if not exactly cheerful.'

'I have thought more than once of proposing a little plan to you,' said Downe with some hesitation. 'I don't know whether it will meet your views, but take it or leave it, as you choose. In fact, it was my wife who suggested it: that she would be very glad to call on Mrs. Barnet and get into her confidence. She seems to think that Mrs. Barnet is rather alone in the town, and without advisers. Her impression is that your wife will listen to reason. Emily has a wonderful way of winning the hearts of people of her own sex.'

"I've thought a lot about suggesting a little plan to you," Downe said, hesitating a bit. "I'm not sure if it aligns with your thoughts, but you can take it or leave it. Actually, it was my wife who brought it up: she would be really happy to visit Mrs. Barnet and gain her trust. She feels that Mrs. Barnet is somewhat isolated in the town and doesn't have any advisors. Her impression is that your wife will be open to reason. Emily has a fantastic way of charming women."

'And of the other sex too, I think. She is a charming woman, and you were a lucky fellow to find her.'

'And of the opposite sex too, I believe. She's a lovely woman, and you were fortunate to meet her.'

'Well, perhaps I was,' simpered Downe, trying to wear an aspect of being the last man in the world to feel pride. 'However, she will be likely to find out what ruffles Mrs. Barnet. Perhaps it is some misunderstanding, you know-something that she is too proud to ask you to explain, or some little thing in your conduct that irritates her because she does not fully comprehend you. The truth is, Emily would have been more ready to make advances if she had been quite sure of her fitness for Mrs. Barnet's society, who has of course been accustomed to London people of good position, which made Emily fearful of intruding.'

"Well, maybe I was," Downe said, trying to act like he was the last person to feel pride. "But she’s probably going to find out what bothers Mrs. Barnet. It might just be some misunderstanding, you know—something she’s too proud to ask you to clarify, or maybe a small thing in your behavior that annoys her because she doesn’t fully get you. The truth is, Emily would have been more willing to make a move if she had been sure she fit in with Mrs. Barnet’s crowd, especially since she’s used to people from London with good reputations, which makes Emily afraid of overstepping."

Barnet expressed his warmest thanks for the well-intentioned proposition. There was reason in Mrs. Downe's fear-that he owned. 'But do let her call,' he said. 'There is no woman in England I would so soon trust on such an errand. I am afraid there will not be any brilliant result; still I shall take it as the kindest and nicest thing if she will try it, and not be frightened at a repulse.'

Barnet expressed his heartfelt thanks for the thoughtful suggestion. He acknowledged Mrs. Downe's concern, saying, "But please let her come." He added, "There's no woman in England I would trust more for this task. I’m worried there won’t be any amazing outcome; however, I would truly appreciate it if she would give it a shot and not be discouraged by a setback."

When Barnet and Downe had parted, the former went to the Town Savings- Bank, of which he was a trustee, and endeavoured to forget his troubles in the contemplation of low sums of money, and figures in a network of red and blue lines. He sat and watched the working-people making their deposits, to which at intervals he signed his name. Before he left in the afternoon Downe put his head inside the door.

When Barnet and Downe separated, Barnet went to the Town Savings Bank, where he was a trustee, and tried to distract himself from his problems by focusing on small amounts of money and numbers in a tangle of red and blue lines. He sat there watching the workers making their deposits, and occasionally he signed his name. Before he left in the afternoon, Downe peeked his head inside the door.

'Emily has seen Mrs. Barnet,' he said, in a low voice. 'She has got Mrs. Barnet's promise to take her for a drive down to the shore to- morrow, if it is fine. Good afternoon!'

'Emily has seen Mrs. Barnet,' he said quietly. 'She has Mrs. Barnet's promise to take her for a drive down to the shore tomorrow, if the weather is nice. Good afternoon!'

Barnet shook Downe by the hand without speaking, and Downe went away.

Barnet shook Downe's hand silently, and Downe left.

IV

The next day was as fine as the arrangement could possibly require. As the sun passed the meridian and declined westward, the tall shadows from the scaffold-poles of Barnet's rising residence streaked the ground as far as to the middle of the highway. Barnet himself was there inspecting the progress of the works for the first time during several weeks. A building in an old-fashioned town five-and-thirty years ago did not, as in the modern fashion, rise from the sod like a booth at a fair. The foundations and lower courses were put in and allowed to settle for many weeks before the superstructure was built up, and a whole summer of drying was hardly sufficient to do justice to the important issues involved. Barnet stood within a window-niche which had as yet received no frame, and thence looked down a slope into the road. The wheels of a chaise were heard, and then his handsome Xantippe, in the company of Mrs. Downe, drove past on their way to the shore. They were driving slowly; there was a pleasing light in Mrs. Downe's face, which seemed faintly to reflect itself upon the countenance of her companion-that politesse du coeur which was so natural to her having possibly begun already to work results. But whatever the situation, Barnet resolved not to interfere, or do anything to hazard the promise of the day. He might well afford to trust the issue to another when he could never direct it but to ill himself. His wife's clenched rein-hand in its lemon-coloured glove, her stiff erect figure, clad in velvet and lace, and her boldly-outlined face, passed on, exhibiting their owner as one fixed for ever above the level of her companion-socially by her early breeding, and materially by her higher cushion.

The next day was as perfect as could be expected. As the sun passed its peak and started to set in the west, the long shadows from the scaffold poles of Barnet's under-construction home stretched across the ground, reaching into the middle of the road. Barnet was there, checking on the progress of the work for the first time in several weeks. A building in an old-fashioned town thirty-five years ago didn't, like today, pop up from the ground like a booth at a fair. The foundations and initial layers were laid and left to settle for many weeks before the main structure went up, and even a whole summer of drying barely did justice to the important work involved. Barnet stood in a window nook that still lacked a frame, looking down a slope into the road. He heard the wheels of a carriage, then saw his beautiful Xantippe, along with Mrs. Downe, passing by on their way to the beach. They were driving slowly; there was a lovely light on Mrs. Downe's face that seemed to subtly reflect on her companion's face—that warmth and courtesy that were so natural to her might have already started to create an effect. But no matter the situation, Barnet decided not to interfere or do anything to jeopardize the promise of the day. He could easily trust the outcome to someone else since he could never propel it without harming himself. His wife's tightly gripped rein-hand in its lemon-colored glove, her stiff upright figure in velvet and lace, and her boldly defined face moved on, showing her as someone forever elevated above the level of her companion—socially due to her upbringing and materially because of her higher seat.

Barnet decided to allow them a proper time to themselves, and then stroll down to the shore and drive them home. After lingering on at the house for another hour he started with this intention. A few hundred yards below 'Chateau Ringdale' stood the cottage in which the late lieutenant's daughter had her lodging. Barnet had not been so far that way for a long time, and as he approached the forbidden ground a curious warmth passed into him, which led him to perceive that, unless he were careful, he might have to fight the battle with himself about Lucy over again. A tenth of his present excuse would, however, have justified him in travelling by that road to-day.

Barnet decided to give them some time alone before heading down to the shore and taking them home. After hanging around the house for another hour, he set out with this plan. A few hundred yards below 'Chateau Ringdale,' there was the cottage where the late lieutenant's daughter lived. Barnet hadn't been that way in a long time, and as he got closer to the forbidden area, a strange warmth came over him, making him realize that, if he wasn't careful, he might have to face his feelings about Lucy all over again. Still, even a small part of his current reasoning would have justified taking that route today.

He came opposite the dwelling, and turned his eyes for a momentary glance into the little garden that stretched from the palings to the door. Lucy was in the enclosure; she was walking and stooping to gather some flowers, possibly for the purpose of painting them, for she moved about quickly, as if anxious to save time. She did not see him; he might have passed unnoticed; but a sensation which was not in strict unison with his previous sentiments that day led him to pause in his walk and watch her. She went nimbly round and round the beds of anemones, tulips, jonquils, polyanthuses, and other old-fashioned flowers, looking a very charming figure in her half-mourning bonnet, and with an incomplete nosegay in her left hand. Raising herself to pull down a lilac blossom she observed him.

He came up to the house and glanced briefly into the small garden that stretched from the fence to the door. Lucy was inside; she was walking around and bending down to pick some flowers, probably to paint them, since she moved quickly, like she was trying to save time. She didn’t notice him; he could have passed by without her knowing. But a feeling that didn’t quite match his earlier mood that day made him stop and watch her. She moved swiftly around the beds of anemones, tulips, jonquils, polyanthuses, and other old-fashioned flowers, looking quite lovely in her half-mourning bonnet, holding an incomplete bouquet in her left hand. As she reached up to pull down a lilac blossom, she noticed him.

'Mr. Barnet!' she said, innocently smiling. 'Why, I have been thinking of you many times since Mrs. Barnet went by in the pony-carriage, and now here you are!'

'Mr. Barnet!' she said with an innocent smile. 'I’ve thought about you several times since Mrs. Barnet passed by in the pony carriage, and now look, here you are!'

'Yes, Lucy,' he said.

'Yeah, Lucy,' he said.

Then she seemed to recall particulars of their last meeting, and he believed that she flushed, though it might have been only the fancy of his own supersensitivenesss.

Then she appeared to remember details of their last meeting, and he thought she blushed, though it could have just been his own heightened sensitivity.

'I am going to the harbour,' he added.

'I’m going to the harbor,' he added.

'Are you?' Lucy remarked simply. 'A great many people begin to go there now the summer is drawing on.'

'Are you?' Lucy said casually. 'A lot of people are starting to go there now that summer is approaching.'

Her face had come more into his view as she spoke, and he noticed how much thinner and paler it was than when he had seen it last. 'Lucy, how weary you look! tell me, can I help you?' he was going to cry out.-'If I do,' he thought, 'it will be the ruin of us both!' He merely said that the afternoon was fine, and went on his way.

Her face had come more into his view as she spoke, and he noticed how much thinner and paler it was than when he had seen it last. 'Lucy, you look so tired! Can I help you?' he almost exclaimed. 'But if I do,' he thought, 'it will ruin us both!' He just said that the afternoon was nice and continued on his way.

As he went a sudden blast of air came over the hill as if in contradiction to his words, and spoilt the previous quiet of the scene. The wind had already shifted violently, and now smelt of the sea.

As he walked, a sudden gust of wind swept over the hill, almost in contradiction to his words, ruining the earlier calm of the scene. The wind had already changed course wildly and now carried the scent of the sea.

The harbour-road soon began to justify its name. A gap appeared in the rampart of hills which shut out the sea, and on the left of the opening rose a vertical cliff, coloured a burning orange by the sunlight, the companion cliff on the right being livid in shade. Between these cliffs, like the Libyan bay which sheltered the shipwrecked Trojans, was a little haven, seemingly a beginning made by Nature herself of a perfect harbour, which appealed to the passer-by as only requiring a little human industry to finish it and make it famous, the ground on each side as far back as the daisied slopes that bounded the interior valley being a mere layer of blown sand. But the Port-Bredy burgesses a mile inland had, in the course of ten centuries, responded many times to that mute appeal, with the result that the tides had invariably choked up their works with sand and shingle as soon as completed. There were but few houses here: a rough pier, a few boats, some stores, an inn, a residence or two, a ketch unloading in the harbour, were the chief features of the settlement. On the open ground by the shore stood his wife's pony-carriage, empty, the boy in attendance holding the horse.

The harbor road quickly started to live up to its name. A gap opened up in the line of hills that blocked the sea, and on the left side of the opening rose a steep cliff, glowing bright orange in the sunlight, while the cliff on the right was dark and shadowy. Between these cliffs, like the Libyan bay that sheltered the shipwrecked Trojans, was a small cove, seemingly a natural beginning of a perfect harbor, which seemed to call out to anyone passing by, suggesting that it just needed a bit of human effort to complete it and make it well-known. The land on either side, all the way back to the flower-filled slopes that framed the valley, was just a thin layer of blown sand. But the residents of Port-Bredy, a mile inland, had tried many times over the past thousand years to answer that silent call, only for the tides to fill their efforts with sand and gravel as soon as they were done. There were only a few buildings here: a rough pier, a handful of boats, some stores, an inn, a couple of homes, and a ketch unloading in the harbor were the main aspects of the settlement. On the open ground by the shore sat his wife's empty pony carriage, with the boy holding the horse.

When Barnet drew nearer, he saw an indigo-coloured spot moving swiftly along beneath the radiant base of the eastern cliff, which proved to be a man in a jersey, running with all his might. He held up his hand to Barnet, as it seemed, and they approached each other. The man was local, but a stranger to him.

When Barnet got closer, he noticed an indigo spot moving quickly along the bright base of the eastern cliff, which turned out to be a man in a jersey running with all his strength. He raised his hand to Barnet, it seemed, and they drew closer to each other. The man was from the area, but Barnet didn't know him.

'What is it, my man?' said Barnet.

"What's up, dude?" said Barnet.

'A terrible calamity!' the boatman hastily explained. Two ladies had been capsized in a boat-they were Mrs. Downe and Mrs. Barnet of the old town; they had driven down there that afternoon-they had alighted, and it was so fine, that, after walking about a little while, they had been tempted to go out for a short sail round the cliff. Just as they were putting in to the shore, the wind shifted with a sudden gust, the boat listed over, and it was thought they were both drowned. How it could have happened was beyond his mind to fathom, for John Green knew how to sail a boat as well as any man there.

"A terrible disaster!" the boatman quickly explained. Two women had capsized in a boat—they were Mrs. Downe and Mrs. Barnet from the old town. They had driven down there that afternoon, gotten out, and the weather was so nice that after walking around for a bit, they decided to go for a short sail around the cliff. Just as they were coming back to shore, the wind suddenly gusted, the boat tipped over, and it was feared they had both drowned. He couldn't understand how it happened, since John Green knew how to sail a boat as well as anyone there.

'Which is the way to the place?' said Barnet.

'Which way do I go to get there?' Barnet asked.

It was just round the cliff.

It was just around the cliff.

'Run to the carriage and tell the boy to bring it to the place as soon as you can. Then go to the Harbour Inn and tell them to ride to town for a doctor. Have they been got out of the water?'

'Run to the carriage and tell the guy to bring it to the spot as soon as possible. Then head to the Harbour Inn and ask them to ride to town for a doctor. Have they been pulled out of the water?'

'One lady has.'

'One woman has.'

'Which?'

'Which one?'

'Mrs. Barnet. Mrs. Downe, it is feared, has fleeted out to sea.'

'Mrs. Barnet. People are worried that Mrs. Downe has drifted out to sea.'

Barnet ran on to that part of the shore which the cliff had hitherto obscured from his view, and there discerned, a long way ahead, a group of fishermen standing. As soon as he came up one or two recognized him, and, not liking to meet his eye, turned aside with misgiving. He went amidst them and saw a small sailing-boat lying draggled at the water's edge; and, on the sloping shingle beside it, a soaked and sandy woman's form in the velvet dress and yellow gloves of his wife.

Barnet ran to that part of the shore that the cliff had previously hidden from his view, and there he spotted, far ahead, a group of fishermen standing. As soon as he got closer, a couple of them recognized him, and, not wanting to meet his gaze, turned away uneasily. He walked among them and saw a small sailing boat lying in disarray at the water's edge; and, on the sloping pebbles beside it, a damp and sandy woman's figure in the velvet dress and yellow gloves of his wife.

V

All had been done that could be done. Mrs. Barnet was in her own house under medical hands, but the result was still uncertain. Barnet had acted as if devotion to his wife were the dominant passion of his existence. There had been much to decide-whether to attempt restoration of the apparently lifeless body as it lay on the shore-whether to carry her to the Harbour Inn-whether to drive with her at once to his own house. The first course, with no skilled help or appliances near at hand, had seemed hopeless. The second course would have occupied nearly as much time as a drive to the town, owing to the intervening ridges of shingle, and the necessity of crossing the harbour by boat to get to the house, added to which much time must have elapsed before a doctor could have arrived down there. By bringing her home in the carriage some precious moments had slipped by; but she had been laid in her own bed in seven minutes, a doctor called to her side, and every possible restorative brought to bear upon her.

Everything that could be done had been done. Mrs. Barnet was in her own home under medical care, but the outcome was still uncertain. Barnet had acted as if his devotion to his wife was the most important thing in his life. There were many decisions to make—whether to try to revive the seemingly lifeless body on the shore, whether to take her to the Harbour Inn, or whether to drive her straight to his house. The first option, without any skilled help or equipment nearby, seemed hopeless. The second option would take almost as long as driving to town because of the sandy ridges and the need to cross the harbor by boat to get to the house, plus a lot of time would have passed before a doctor could arrive. By bringing her home in the carriage, some valuable moments were lost; however, she was laid in her own bed within seven minutes, a doctor was called to her side, and every possible restorative was applied to her.

At what a tearing pace he had driven up that road, through the yellow evening sunlight, the shadows flapping irksomely into his eyes as each wayside object rushed past between him and the west! Tired workmen with their baskets at their backs had turned on their homeward journey to wonder at his speed. Halfway between the shore and Port-Bredy town he had met Charlson, who had been the first surgeon to hear of the accident. He was accompanied by his assistant in a gig. Barnet had sent on the latter to the coast in case that Downe's poor wife should by that time have been reclaimed from the waves, and had brought Charlson back with him to the house.

At what a fast pace he had driven up that road, through the yellow evening sunlight, the shadows annoyingly flickering in his eyes as each roadside object zoomed by between him and the west! Tired workers with their baskets on their backs had turned on their way home to marvel at his speed. Halfway between the shore and Port-Bredy town, he had run into Charlson, the first surgeon to learn about the accident. He was with his assistant in a gig. Barnet had sent the assistant to the coast in case Downe's poor wife had been pulled from the waves by then, and had brought Charlson back with him to the house.

Barnet's presence was not needed here, and he felt it to be his next duty to set off at once and find Downe, that no other than himself might break the news to him.

Barnet's presence wasn't necessary here, and he felt it was his responsibility to leave immediately and find Downe, so that no one else but him could deliver the news to him.

He was quite sure that no chance had been lost for Mrs. Downe by his leaving the shore. By the time that Mrs. Barnet had been laid in the carriage, a much larger group had assembled to lend assistance in finding her friend, rendering his own help superfluous. But the duty of breaking the news was made doubly painful by the circumstance that the catastrophe which had befallen Mrs. Downe was solely the result of her own and her husband's loving-kindness towards himself.

He was confident that Mrs. Downe had not missed any opportunity because he had left the shore. By the time they had placed Mrs. Barnet in the carriage, a much larger group had gathered to help find her friend, making his assistance unnecessary. However, delivering the news was even more painful because the tragedy that had happened to Mrs. Downe was entirely the result of the love and kindness that she and her husband had shown him.

He found Downe in his office. When the solicitor comprehended the intelligence he turned pale, stood up, and remained for a moment perfectly still, as if bereft of his faculties; then his shoulders heaved, he pulled out his handkerchief and began to cry like a child. His sobs might have been heard in the next room. He seemed to have no idea of going to the shore, or of doing anything; but when Barnet took him gently by the hand and proposed to start at once, he quietly acquiesced, neither uttering any further word nor making any effort to repress his tears.

He found Downe in his office. When the lawyer understood the news, he turned pale, stood up, and froze for a moment, as if he couldn’t think. Then his shoulders shook, he pulled out his handkerchief, and began to cry like a child. His sobs could be heard in the next room. He seemed completely unaware of going to the shore or doing anything; but when Barnet gently took his hand and suggested they leave right away, he quietly agreed, not saying another word or trying to hold back his tears.

Barnet accompanied him to the shore, where, finding that no trace had as yet been seen of Mrs. Downe, and that his stay would be of no avail, he left Downe with his friends and the young doctor, and once more hastened back to his own house.

Barnet went with him to the shore, where he realized that no sign of Mrs. Downe had been found so far, and that staying there wouldn't help, so he left Downe with his friends and the young doctor, and quickly returned to his own house.

At the door he met Charlson. 'Well!' Barnet said.

At the door, he ran into Charlson. "Well!" Barnet said.

'I have just come down,' said the doctor; 'we have done everything, but without result. I sympathize with you in your bereavement.'

"I just got back," said the doctor; "we’ve tried everything, but it didn’t help. I’m sorry for your loss."

Barnet did not much appreciate Charlson's sympathy, which sounded to his ears as something of a mockery from the lips of a man who knew what Charlson knew about their domestic relations. Indeed there seemed an odd spark in Charlson's full black eye as he said the words; but that might have been imaginary.

Barnet didn't really appreciate Charlson's sympathy, which came off to him as mockery from someone who knew what Charlson knew about their home situation. In fact, there seemed to be an unusual glint in Charlson's deep black eye as he said those words; but that might have just been his imagination.

'And, Mr. Barnet,' Charlson resumed, 'that little matter between us-I hope to settle it finally in three weeks at least.'

'And, Mr. Barnet,' Charlson continued, 'that small issue between us—I hope to wrap it up for good in at least three weeks.'

'Never mind that now,' said Barnet abruptly. He directed the surgeon to go to the harbour in case his services might even now be necessary there: and himself entered the house.

'Forget about that for now,' Barnet said suddenly. He told the surgeon to head to the harbor in case his help was needed there and then walked into the house.

The servants were coming from his wife's chamber, looking helplessly at each other and at him. He passed them by and entered the room, where he stood mutely regarding the bed for a few minutes, after which he walked into his own dressing-room adjoining, and there paced up and down. In a minute or two he noticed what a strange and total silence had come over the upper part of the house; his own movements, muffled as they were by the carpet, seemed noisy, and his thoughts to disturb the air like articulate utterances. His eye glanced through the window. Far down the road to the harbour a roof detained his gaze: out of it rose a red chimney, and out of the red chimney a curl of smoke, as from a fire newly kindled. He had often seen such a sight before. In that house lived Lucy Savile; and the smoke was from the fire which was regularly lighted at this time to make her tea.

The servants were coming out of his wife's room, looking helplessly at each other and at him. He walked past them and entered the room, where he stood silently staring at the bed for a few minutes, then he walked into his own adjoining dressing room and started pacing back and forth. After a minute or two, he noticed how strange and completely silent the upper part of the house had become; even his movements, muffled by the carpet, felt loud, and his thoughts seemed to disrupt the quiet like spoken words. He glanced out the window. Down the road toward the harbor, a roof caught his eye: a red chimney rose from it, and a curl of smoke came from the chimney, as if from a fire just started. He had seen this scene many times before. In that house lived Lucy Savile, and the smoke was from the fire that was usually lit at this time to make her tea.

After that he went back to the bedroom, and stood there some time regarding his wife's silent form. She was a woman some years older than himself, but had not by any means overpassed the maturity of good looks and vigour. Her passionate features, well-defined, firm, and statuesque in life, were doubly so now: her mouth and brow, beneath her purplish black hair, showed only too clearly that the turbulency of character which had made a bear-garden of his house had been no temporary phase of her existence. While he reflected, he suddenly said to himself, I wonder if all has been done?

After that, he went back to the bedroom and stood there for a while, looking at his wife's silent figure. She was a few years older than him, but she had definitely not lost her good looks and energy. Her strong, well-defined features seemed even more striking now: her mouth and forehead, under her dark purplish-black hair, clearly revealed the fierce personality that had turned their home into chaos was not just a temporary situation. As he thought about it, he suddenly asked himself, I wonder if everything has been taken care of?

The thought was led up to by his having fancied that his wife's features lacked in its complete form the expression which he had been accustomed to associate with the faces of those whose spirits have fled for ever. The effacement of life was not so marked but that, entering uninformed, he might have supposed her sleeping. Her complexion was that seen in the numerous faded portraits by Sir Joshua Reynolds; it was pallid in comparison with life, but there was visible on a close inspection the remnant of what had once been a flush; the keeping between the cheeks and the hollows of the face being thus preserved, although positive colour was gone. Long orange rays of evening sun stole in through chinks in the blind, striking on the large mirror, and being thence reflected upon the crimson hangings and woodwork of the heavy bedstead, so that the general tone of light was remarkably warm; and it was probable that something might be due to this circumstance. Still the fact impressed him as strange. Charlson had been gone more than a quarter of an hour: could it be possible that he had left too soon, and that his attempts to restore her had operated so sluggishly as only now to have made themselves felt? Barnet laid his hand upon her chest, and fancied that ever and anon a faint flutter of palpitation, gentle as that of a butterfly's wing, disturbed the stillness there-ceasing for a time, then struggling to go on, then breaking down in weakness and ceasing again.

The thought came to him because he felt that his wife's features were missing the expression he typically associated with those who have passed away. The absence of life wasn't so pronounced that, without prior knowledge, he might have believed she was just asleep. Her complexion resembled that of many faded portraits by Sir Joshua Reynolds; it was pale compared to life, but a closer look revealed remnants of what had once been a blush; the contrast between her cheeks and the hollows of her face was still noticeable, even though there was no color left. Long orange beams of evening sunlight filtered through gaps in the blinds, hitting the large mirror and reflecting onto the crimson fabrics and woodwork of the heavy bed frame, creating a warm overall light; this might have influenced his perception. Still, he found it odd. Charlson had been gone for over fifteen minutes: could it be that he had left too early, and his attempts to revive her had been so slow that they were only now becoming apparent? Barnet placed his hand on her chest and thought he felt a faint fluttering heartbeat, delicate like a butterfly's wing, breaking the silence—pausing for a moment, then struggling to continue, only to weaken and stop again.

Barnet's mother had been an active practitioner of the healing art among her poorer neighbours, and her inspirations had all been derived from an octavo volume of Domestic Medicine, which at this moment was lying, as it had lain for many years, on a shelf in Barnet's dressing-room. He hastily fetched it, and there read under the head 'Drowning:'-

Barnet's mother had been a hands-on healer for her less fortunate neighbors, and her knowledge came from a book on home remedies, which had been sitting, as it had for many years, on a shelf in Barnet's dressing room. He quickly grabbed it and read under the section titled 'Drowning:'-

'Exertions for the recovery of any person who has not been immersed for a longer period than half-an-hour should be continued for at least four hours, as there have been many cases in which returning life has made itself visible even after a longer interval.

'Efforts to revive anyone who has not been underwater for more than half an hour should continue for at least four hours, as there have been many instances where life has returned even after a longer time.'

'Should, however, a weak action of any of the organs show itself when the case seems almost hopeless, our efforts must be redoubled; the feeble spark in this case requires to be solicited; it will certainly disappear under a relaxation of labour.'

'If any of the organs show weak action when the situation seems almost hopeless, we must increase our efforts; that feeble spark needs to be encouraged; it will definitely fade away if we ease off on the work.'

Barnet looked at his watch; it was now barely two hours and a half from the time when he had first heard of the accident. He threw aside the book and turned quickly to reach a stimulant which had previously been used. Pulling up the blind for more light, his eye glanced out of the window. There he saw that red chimney still smoking cheerily, and that roof, and through the roof that somebody. His mechanical movements stopped, his hand remained on the blind-cord, and he seemed to become breathless, as if he had suddenly found himself treading a high rope.

Barnet checked his watch; it had been just two and a half hours since he first found out about the accident. He tossed aside the book and quickly turned to grab a stimulant he had used before. Pulling up the blind for more light, his gaze drifted out the window. There he saw that red chimney still puffing smoke cheerfully, and that roof, and through the roof that someone. His automatic actions halted, his hand stayed on the blind cord, and he appeared to lose his breath, as if he had unexpectedly found himself walking a tightrope.

While he stood a sparrow lighted on the windowsill, saw him, and flew away. Next a man and a dog walked over one of the green hills which bulged above the roofs of the town. But Barnet took no notice.

While he stood there, a sparrow landed on the windowsill, noticed him, and flew away. Next, a man and a dog walked over one of the green hills that rose above the rooftops of the town. But Barnet didn’t pay any attention.

We may wonder what were the exact images that passed through his mind during those minutes of gazing upon Lucy Savile's house, the sparrow, the man and the dog, and Lucy Savile's house again. There are honest men who will not admit to their thoughts, even as idle hypotheses, views of the future that assume as done a deed which they would recoil from doing; and there are other honest men for whom morality ends at the surface of their own heads, who will deliberate what the first will not so much as suppose. Barnet had a wife whose pretence distracted his home; she now lay as in death; by merely doing nothing-by letting the intelligence which had gone forth to the world lie undisturbed-he would effect such a deliverance for himself as he had never hoped for, and open up an opportunity of which till now he had never dreamed. Whether the conjuncture had arisen through any unscrupulous, ill-considered impulse of Charlson to help out of a strait the friend who was so kind as never to press him for what was due could not be told; there was nothing to prove it; and it was a question which could never be asked. The triangular situation-himself-his wife-Lucy Savile-was the one clear thing.

We might wonder about the exact thoughts that went through his mind as he stared at Lucy Savile's house, the sparrow, the man and the dog, and then back to Lucy Savile's house again. There are honest people who won’t acknowledge their thoughts, even as mere possibilities, envisioning a future that includes actions they would never take; and then there are other honest people for whom morality only extends as far as their own perspective, who will consider what the first group wouldn’t even entertain. Barnet had a wife whose pretense disrupted his home; she now lay as if in a deep sleep. By simply doing nothing—by allowing the knowledge he had shared with the world to remain undisturbed—he would achieve a release for himself that he had never expected, and open up an opportunity he hadn’t even dreamed of until now. Whether this situation arose from any reckless, thoughtless impulse from Charlson to assist a friend who had been kind enough not to pressure him for what was owed could not be determined; there was no evidence to support it, and it was a question that could never be posed. The triangular situation—himself, his wife, and Lucy Savile—was the only clear aspect.

From Barnet's actions we may infer that he supposed such and such a result, for a moment, but did not deliberate. He withdrew his hazel eyes from the scene without, calmly turned, rang the bell for assistance, and vigorously exerted himself to learn if life still lingered in that motionless frame. In a short time another surgeon was in attendance; and then Barnet's surmise proved to be true. The slow life timidly heaved again; but much care and patience were needed to catch and retain it, and a considerable period elapsed before it could be said with certainty that Mrs. Barnet lived. When this was the case, and there was no further room for doubt, Barnet left the chamber. The blue evening smoke from Lucy's chimney had died down to an imperceptible stream, and as he walked about downstairs he murmured to himself, 'My wife was dead, and she is alive again.'

From Barnet's actions, we can assume that he thought about a certain outcome for a moment, but didn’t really think it through. He pulled his hazel eyes away from the scene outside, turned calmly, rang the bell for help, and worked hard to find out if there was still life in that still body. Soon after, another surgeon arrived; then Barnet's suspicion turned out to be correct. The weak life stirred cautiously once more, but it took a lot of care and patience to keep it going, and quite a while passed before it could be confidently said that Mrs. Barnet was alive. When that was confirmed and there was no more doubt, Barnet left the room. The blue evening smoke from Lucy's chimney had faded to an almost invisible wisp, and as he walked around downstairs, he quietly repeated to himself, 'My wife was dead, and she is alive again.'

It was not so with Downe. After three hours' immersion his wife's body had been recovered, life, of course, being quite extinct. Barnet on descending, went straight to his friend's house, and there learned the result. Downe was helpless in his wild grief, occasionally even hysterical. Barnet said little, but finding that some guiding hand was necessary in the sorrow-stricken household, took upon him to supervise and manage till Downe should be in a state of mind to do so for himself.

It was different for Downe. After three hours underwater, his wife's body was found, but she was, of course, completely gone. When Barnet came down, he went directly to his friend's house and found out what had happened. Downe was lost in his overwhelming grief, sometimes even hysterical. Barnet didn't say much, but realizing that someone needed to step in and help manage the devastated household, he took it upon himself to oversee things until Downe was in a better mindset to handle it himself.

VI

One September evening, four months later, when Mrs. Barnet was in perfect health, and Mrs. Downe but a weakening memory, an errand-boy paused to rest himself in front of Mr. Barnet's old house, depositing his basket on one of the window-sills. The street was not yet lighted, but there were lights in the house, and at intervals a flitting shadow fell upon the blind at his elbow. Words also were audible from the same apartment, and they seemed to be those of persons in violent altercation. But the boy could not gather their purport, and he went on his way.

One September evening, four months later, when Mrs. Barnet was in great health and Mrs. Downe had only a fading memory, a delivery boy took a break in front of Mr. Barnet's old house, setting his basket down on one of the window sills. The street wasn't lit yet, but there were lights on in the house, and occasionally a moving shadow appeared on the blinds next to him. He could also hear voices coming from the same room, and they seemed to be from people in a heated argument. But the boy couldn't make out what they were saying, so he continued on his way.

Ten minutes afterwards the door of Barnet's house opened, and a tall closely-veiled lady in a travelling-dress came out and descended the freestone steps. The servant stood in the doorway watching her as she went with a measured tread down the street. When she had been out of sight for some minutes Barnet appeared at the door from within.

Ten minutes later, the door of Barnet's house opened, and a tall lady in a travel dress, with her face covered, stepped out and walked down the stone steps. The servant stood in the doorway watching her walk steadily down the street. After she had been out of sight for a few minutes, Barnet appeared at the door from inside.

'Did your mistress leave word where she was going?' he asked.

"Did your boss say where she was headed?" he asked.

'No, sir.'

'No, thanks.'

'Is the carriage ordered to meet her anywhere?'

'Is the carriage booked to pick her up somewhere?'

'No, sir.'

'Nope, sir.'

'Did she take a latch-key?'

'Did she take a key?'

'No, sir.'

'No, thanks.'

Barnet went in again, sat down in his chair, and leaned back. Then in solitude and silence he brooded over the bitter emotions that filled his heart. It was for this that he had gratuitously restored her to life, and made his union with another impossible! The evening drew on, and nobody came to disturb him. At bedtime he told the servants to retire, that he would sit up for Mrs. Barnet himself; and when they were gone he leaned his head upon his hand and mused for hours.

Barnet went in again, sat down in his chair, and leaned back. Then, in solitude and silence, he reflected on the bitter feelings that filled his heart. It was for this that he had selflessly brought her back to life and made his marriage to someone else impossible! The evening went on, and no one came to interrupt him. At bedtime, he told the servants to leave, saying he would wait up for Mrs. Barnet himself; and when they were gone, he rested his head on his hand and thought for hours.

The clock struck one, two; still his wife came not, and, with impatience added to depression, he went from room to room till another weary hour had passed. This was not altogether a new experience for Barnet; but she had never before so prolonged her absence. At last he sat down again and fell asleep.

The clock struck one, then two; still his wife hadn't arrived, and, with impatience adding to his depression, he moved from room to room until another exhausting hour went by. This wasn’t entirely a new experience for Barnet, but she had never taken this long to come back before. Finally, he sat down again and fell asleep.

He awoke at six o'clock to find that she had not returned. In searching about the rooms he discovered that she had taken a case of jewels which had been hers before her marriage. At eight a note was brought him; it was from his wife, in which she stated that she had gone by the coach to the house of a distant relative near London, and expressed a wish that certain boxes, articles of clothing, and so on, might be sent to her forthwith. The note was brought to him by a waiter at the Black-Bull Hotel, and had been written by Mrs. Barnet immediately before she took her place in the stage.

He woke up at six o'clock to realize that she hadn't come back. While searching the rooms, he found out that she had taken a case of jewels that had belonged to her before they got married. At eight, he received a note; it was from his wife, saying that she had left by coach to visit a distant relative near London and asked that certain boxes, clothes, and other items be sent to her right away. The note was delivered by a waiter at the Black-Bull Hotel and had been written by Mrs. Barnet just before she boarded the stagecoach.

By the evening this order was carried out, and Barnet, with a sense of relief, walked out into the town. A fair had been held during the day, and the large clear moon which rose over the most prominent hill flung its light upon the booths and standings that still remained in the street, mixing its rays curiously with those from the flaring naphtha lamps. The town was full of country-people who had come in to enjoy themselves, and on this account Barnet strolled through the streets unobserved. With a certain recklessness he made for the harbour-road, and presently found himself by the shore, where he walked on till he came to the spot near which his friend the kindly Mrs. Downe had lost her life, and his own wife's life had been preserved. A tremulous pathway of bright moonshine now stretched over the water which had engulfed them, and not a living soul was near.

By evening, the order had been completed, and Barnet, feeling relieved, stepped out into the town. A fair had taken place during the day, and the large, bright moon rising over the highest hill cast its light on the booths and stalls still left in the street, blending with the glow from the bright naphtha lamps. The town was bustling with country folks who had come in to have a good time, allowing Barnet to stroll through the streets unnoticed. With a bit of recklessness, he headed for the harbor road and soon found himself by the shore, where he walked until he reached the spot where his friend, the kind Mrs. Downe, had lost her life, and where his own wife's life had been saved. A shimmering path of moonlight now stretched across the water that had swallowed them, and not a soul was around.

Here he ruminated on their characters, and next on the young girl in whom he now took a more sensitive interest than at the time when he had been free to marry her. Nothing, so far as he was aware, had ever appeared in his own conduct to show that such an interest existed. He had made it a point of the utmost strictness to hinder that feeling from influencing in the faintest degree his attitude towards his wife; and this was made all the more easy for him by the small demand Mrs. Barnet made upon his attentions, for which she ever evinced the greatest contempt; thus unwittingly giving him the satisfaction of knowing that their severance owed nothing to jealousy, or, indeed, to any personal behaviour of his at all. Her concern was not with him or his feelings, as she frequently told him; but that she had, in a moment of weakness, thrown herself away upon a common burgher when she might have aimed at, and possibly brought down, a peer of the realm. Her frequent depreciation of Barnet in these terms had at times been so intense that he was sorely tempted to retaliate on her egotism by owning that he loved at the same low level on which he lived; but prudence had prevailed, for which he was now thankful.

Here he reflected on their personalities, and then on the young girl for whom he now felt a deeper interest than when he had the chance to marry her. As far as he knew, nothing in his behavior ever suggested such interest existed. He had made it a point to ensure that feeling didn’t influence his attitude towards his wife at all; this was made easier by how little Mrs. Barnet demanded from him, showing the greatest disdain for his attention. In doing so, she unknowingly gave him the comfort of knowing that their separation was not due to jealousy or any of his personal actions. She often told him that her concern was not about him or his feelings, but that she had, in a moment of weakness, settled for an ordinary man when she could have aimed higher and possibly won over a lord. Her frequent belittling of Barnet in this way had at times been so intense that he was seriously tempted to counter her egotism by admitting that he loved at the same low level as his reality; but he chose to be prudent, a choice he was now grateful for.

Something seemed to sound upon the shingle behind him over and above the raking of the wave. He looked round, and a slight girlish shape appeared quite close to him, He could not see her face because it was in the direction of the moon.

Something seemed to make a noise on the pebbles behind him, over the sound of the waves. He turned around, and a small, girl-like figure appeared nearby. He couldn’t see her face because it was turned toward the moon.

'Mr. Barnet?' the rambler said, in timid surprise. The voice was the voice of Lucy Savile.

'Mr. Barnet?' the wanderer said, in hesitant surprise. The voice belonged to Lucy Savile.

'Yes,' said Barnet. 'How can I repay you for this pleasure?'

'Yes,' Barnet said. 'How can I repay you for this favor?'

'I only came because the night was so clear. I am now on my way home.'

'I only came because the night was so clear. I’m heading home now.'

'I am glad we have met. I want to know if you will let me do something for you, to give me an occupation, as an idle man? I am sure I ought to help you, for I know you are almost without friends.'

'I’m really glad we met. I’d like to know if you’d let me do something for you to keep me busy, since I don’t have much to do. I feel like I should help you because I know you hardly have any friends.'

She hesitated. 'Why should you tell me that?' she said.

She paused. "Why would you tell me that?" she asked.

'In the hope that you will be frank with me.'

'In the hope that you'll be honest with me.'

'I am not altogether without friends here. But I am going to make a little change in my life-to go out as a teacher of freehand drawing and practical perspective, of course I mean on a comparatively humble scale, because I have not been specially educated for that profession. But I am sure I shall like it much.'

'I do have some friends here. But I'm planning to make a little change in my life—I'm going to work as a teacher of freehand drawing and practical perspective. Of course, I mean on a relatively modest level since I haven't been formally trained for that profession. But I'm sure I'll enjoy it a lot.'

'You have an opening?'

"Do you have a vacancy?"

'I have not exactly got it, but I have advertised for one.'

'I don't have it yet, but I've put out an ad for one.'

'Lucy, you must let me help you!'

'Lucy, you have to let me help you!'

'Not at all.'

'You need not think it would compromise you, or that I am indifferent to delicacy. I bear in mind how we stand. It is very unlikely that you will succeed as teacher of the class you mention, so let me do something of a different kind for you. Say what you would like, and it shall be done.'

'You don't have to worry that it would compromise you, or that I don't care about being sensitive. I remember our situation. It's very unlikely that you'll succeed as the teacher of the class you mentioned, so let me do something different for you. Just tell me what you want, and I'll make it happen.'

'No; if I can't be a drawing-mistress or governess, or something of that sort, I shall go to India and join my brother.'

'No; if I can't be an art teacher or a governess, or something like that, I will go to India and join my brother.'

'I wish I could go abroad, anywhere, everywhere with you, Lucy, and leave this place and its associations for ever!'

'I wish I could travel anywhere and everywhere with you, Lucy, and leave this place and all its memories behind for good!'

She played with the end of her bonnet-string, and hastily turned aside. 'Don't ever touch upon that kind of topic again,' she said, with a quick severity not free from anger. 'It simply makes it impossible for me to see you, much less receive any guidance from you. No, thank you, Mr. Barnet; you can do nothing for me at present; and as I suppose my uncertainty will end in my leaving for India, I fear you never will. If ever I think you can do anything, I will take the trouble to ask you. Till then, good-bye.'

She fidgeted with the end of her bonnet string and quickly looked away. 'Don't ever bring up that topic again,' she said with a sharpness that hinted at anger. 'It makes it impossible for me to see you, let alone get any advice from you. No, thanks, Mr. Barnet; you can't help me right now, and since I think my uncertainty will lead to me leaving for India, I doubt you ever will. If I ever think you can do something, I'll make the effort to ask you. Until then, goodbye.'

The tone of her latter words was equivocal, and while he remained in doubt whether a gentle irony was or was not inwrought with their sound, she swept lightly round and left him alone. He saw her form get smaller and smaller along the damp belt of sea-sand between ebb and flood; and when she had vanished round the cliff into the harbour-road, he himself followed in the same direction.

The tone of her final words was unclear, and he couldn't tell if there was a hint of gentle irony in her voice or not. She turned and walked away, leaving him by himself. He watched her figure grow smaller and smaller along the wet strip of beach between low and high tide; once she disappeared around the cliff into the harbor road, he headed that way too.

That her hopes from an advertisement should be the single thread which held Lucy Savile in England was too much for Barnet. On reaching the town he went straight to the residence of Downe, now a widower with four children. The young motherless brood had been sent to bed about a quarter of an hour earlier, and when Barnet entered he found Downe sitting alone. It was the same room as that from which the family had been looking out for Downe at the beginning of the year, when Downe had slipped into the gutter and his wife had been so enviably tender towards him. The old neatness had gone from the house; articles lay in places which could show no reason for their presence, as if momentarily deposited there some months ago, and forgotten ever since; there were no flowers; things were jumbled together on the furniture which should have been in cupboards; and the place in general had that stagnant, unrenovated air which usually pervades the maimed home of the widower.

That Lucy Savile's hopes from an advertisement had become the only thing keeping her in England was too much for Barnet. When he arrived in town, he went directly to Downe's place, who was now a widower with four kids. The young motherless children had been sent to bed about fifteen minutes earlier, and when Barnet stepped inside, he found Downe sitting alone. It was the same room where the family had been waiting for Downe at the beginning of the year, when he had fallen into the gutter and his wife had taken such caring concern for him. The once neatness of the home was gone; items were scattered around with no clear reason for being there, as if they had been dropped off months ago and forgotten; there were no flowers; things were piled together on the furniture that should have been stored in cupboards; and overall, the place had a stagnant, worn-out feel that often fills the home of a widower.

Downe soon renewed his customary full-worded lament over his wife, and even when he had worked himself up to tears, went on volubly, as if a listener were a luxury to be enjoyed whenever he could be caught.

Downe quickly started his usual long-winded complaint about his wife, and even when he had worked himself up to tears, he kept talking, as if having someone to listen was a treat he wanted to enjoy whenever he could find an audience.

'She was a treasure beyond compare, Mr. Barnet! I shall never see such another. Nobody now to nurse me-nobody to console me in those daily troubles, you know, Barnet, which make consolation so necessary to a nature like mine. It would be unbecoming to repine, for her spirit's home was elsewhere-the tender light in her eyes always showed it; but it is a long dreary time that I have before me, and nobody else can ever fill the void left in my heart by her loss-nobody-nobody!' And Downe wiped his eyes again.

'She was a treasure like no other, Mr. Barnet! I'll never see anyone like her again. There’s no one left to take care of me—no one to comfort me through those everyday troubles, you know, Barnet, that make consolation so necessary for someone like me. It wouldn’t be right to complain, since her spirit has moved on—the gentle light in her eyes always reflected that; but I have a long, lonely time ahead of me, and no one else can ever fill the emptiness she left in my heart—no one—no one!' And Downe wiped his eyes again.

'She was a good woman in the highest sense,' gravely answered Barnet, who, though Downe's words drew genuine compassion from his heart, could not help feeling that a tender reticence would have been a finer tribute to Mrs. Downe's really sterling virtues than such a second-class lament as this.

'She was a good woman in the truest sense,' Barnet replied seriously. Even though Downe's words stirred real compassion in his heart, he couldn't shake the feeling that a gentle silence would have been a more meaningful tribute to Mrs. Downe's genuine virtues than this somewhat casual lament.

'I have something to show you,' Downe resumed, producing from a drawer a sheet of paper on which was an elaborate design for a canopied tomb. 'This has been sent me by the architect, but it is not exactly what I want.'

'I have something to show you,' Downe continued, pulling a sheet of paper from a drawer that had an intricate design for a canopied tomb. 'This was sent to me by the architect, but it's not exactly what I’m looking for.'

'You have got Jones to do it, I see, the man who is carrying out my house,' said Barnet, as he glanced at the signature to the drawing.

'You got Jones to do it, I see, the guy who's working on my house,' said Barnet, looking at the signature on the drawing.

'Yes, but it is not quite what I want. I want something more striking-more like a tomb I have seen in St. Paul's Cathedral. Nothing less will do justice to my feelings, and how far short of them that will fall!'

'Yes, but it’s not exactly what I’m looking for. I want something more impressive—more like a tomb I saw in St. Paul’s Cathedral. Anything less won’t do justice to my feelings, and it will fall way short of them!'

Barnet privately thought the design a sufficiently imposing one as it stood, even extravagantly ornate; but, feeling that he had no right to criticize, he said gently, 'Downe, should you not live more in your children's lives at the present time, and soften the sharpness of regret for your own past by thinking of their future?'

Barnet privately thought the design was already pretty impressive and even a bit extravagant. However, feeling he had no right to criticize, he gently said, "Downe, shouldn't you spend more time in your children's lives right now and ease the sharpness of your regret about the past by focusing on their future?"

'Yes, yes; but what can I do more?' asked Downe, wrinkling his forehead hopelessly.

'Yes, yes; but what more can I do?' asked Downe, furrowing his brow hopelessly.

It was with anxious slowness that Barnet produced his reply-the secret object of his visit to-night. 'Did you not say one day that you ought by rights to get a governess for the children?'

It was with nervous hesitation that Barnet finally gave his answer—the true reason for his visit tonight. 'Didn't you mention once that you should really get a governess for the kids?'

Downe admitted that he had said so, but that he could not see his way to it. 'The kind of woman I should like to have,' he said, 'would be rather beyond my means. No; I think I shall send them to school in the town when they are old enough to go out alone.'

Downe admitted that he had said it, but he couldn't see how to do it. "The type of woman I would like to have," he said, "would be a bit out of my league. No; I think I’ll just send them to school in town when they're old enough to go out on their own."

'Now, I know of something better than that. The late Lieutenant Savile's daughter, Lucy, wants to do something for herself in the way of teaching. She would be inexpensive, and would answer your purpose as well as anybody for six or twelve months. She would probably come daily if you were to ask her, and so your housekeeping arrangements would not be much affected.'

'Now, I know something even better than that. The late Lieutenant Savile's daughter, Lucy, wants to do something for herself in terms of teaching. She would be affordable and would serve your needs just as well as anyone else for six to twelve months. She would likely come every day if you asked her, so your cooking arrangements wouldn't be significantly impacted.'

'I thought she had gone away,' said the solicitor, musing. 'Where does she live?'

'I thought she had left,' said the lawyer, thinking aloud. 'Where does she stay?'

Barnet told him, and added that, if Downe should think of her as suitable, he would do well to call as soon as possible, or she might be on the wing. 'If you do see her,' he said, 'it would be advisable not to mention my name. She is rather stiff in her ideas of me, and it might prejudice her against a course if she knew that I recommended it.'

Barnet told him, adding that if Downe thought of her as a good match, he should call as soon as possible, or she might be gone. "If you do see her," he said, "it would be better not to mention my name. She has some strong opinions about me, and it could bias her against the idea if she knows I suggested it."

Downe promised to give the subject his consideration, and nothing more was said about it just then. But when Barnet rose to go, which was not till nearly bedtime, he reminded Downe of the suggestion and went up the street to his own solitary home with a sense of satisfaction at his promising diplomacy in a charitable cause.

Downe promised to think about the topic, and that was all that was said at the moment. However, when Barnet got up to leave, which wasn't until almost bedtime, he reminded Downe of the suggestion and walked up the street to his own quiet home, feeling satisfied with his promising diplomatic efforts for a good cause.

VII

The walls of his new house were carried up nearly to their full height. By a curious though not infrequent reaction, Barnet's feelings about that unnecessary structure had undergone a change; he took considerable interest in its progress as a long-neglected thing, his wife before her departure having grown quite weary of it as a hobby. Moreover, it was an excellent distraction for a man in the unhappy position of having to live in a provincial town with nothing to do. He was probably the first of his line who had ever passed a day without toil, and perhaps something like an inherited instinct disqualifies such men for a life of pleasant inaction, such as lies in the power of those whose leisure is not a personal accident, but a vast historical accretion which has become part of their natures.

The walls of his new house were nearly finished. Interestingly, Barnet's feelings about this unnecessary structure had changed; he had become quite invested in its construction, while his wife had long grown tired of it as a hobby before she left. Additionally, it served as a great distraction for a guy stuck living in a dull provincial town with nothing to do. He was probably the first in his family to spend a day without working, and maybe something in his genes made it hard for men like him to enjoy a carefree life, unlike those whose leisure isn’t just a random chance but something deeply rooted in their history and identity.

Thus Barnet got into a way of spending many of his leisure hours on the site of the new building, and he might have been seen on most days at this time trying the temper of the mortar by punching the joints with his stick, looking at the grain of a floor-board, and meditating where it grew, or picturing under what circumstances the last fire would be kindled in the at present sootless chimneys. One day when thus occupied he saw three children pass by in the company of a fair young woman, whose sudden appearance caused him to flush perceptibly.

So, Barnet started spending a lot of his free time at the site of the new building, and on most days, you could see him there, poking the joints with his stick to test the mortar, examining the grain of a floorboard and wondering where it came from, or imagining the last fire that would ever be lit in the currently clean chimneys. One day, while he was focused on this, he noticed three kids walking by with a pretty young woman, and her sudden appearance made him blush noticeably.

'Ah, she is there,' he thought. 'That's a blessed thing.'

'Oh, she's here,' he thought. 'That's a great thing.'

Casting an interested glance over the rising building and the busy workmen, Lucy Savile and the little Downes passed by; and after that time it became a regular though almost unconscious custom of Barnet to stand in the half-completed house and look from the ungarnished windows at the governess as she tripped towards the sea-shore with her young charges, which she was in the habit of doing on most fine afternoons. It was on one of these occasions, when he had been loitering on the first-floor landing, near the hole left for the staircase, not yet erected, that there appeared above the edge of the floor a little hat, followed by a little head.

Casting a curious glance at the rising building and the busy workers, Lucy Savile and the little Downes passed by; after that, it became a regular, though almost automatic, habit for Barnet to stand in the half-finished house and look through the bare windows at the governess as she made her way to the shore with her young charges, which she often did on most nice afternoons. It was on one of these occasions, when he had been hanging around on the first-floor landing, near the opening left for the staircase that wasn't built yet, that a small hat appeared above the edge of the floor, followed by a little head.

Barnet withdrew through a doorway, and the child came to the top of the ladder, stepping on to the floor and crying to her sisters and Miss Savile to follow. Another head rose above the floor, and another, and then Lucy herself came into view. The troop ran hither and thither through the empty, shaving-strewn rooms, and Barnet came forward.

Barnet stepped back through a doorway, and the child reached the top of the ladder, stepping onto the floor and calling to her sisters and Miss Savile to join her. Another head appeared above the floor, then another, and finally Lucy herself came into sight. The group scattered around the empty, shaving-covered rooms, and Barnet moved closer.

Lucy uttered a small exclamation: she was very sorry that she had intruded; she had not the least idea that Mr. Barnet was there: the children had come up, and she had followed.

Lucy exclaimed softly; she was really sorry for interrupting. She had no idea Mr. Barnet was there; the kids had come over, and she followed them.

Barnet replied that he was only too glad to see them there. 'And now, let me show you the rooms,' he said.

Barnet replied that he was really glad to see them there. 'And now, let me show you around the rooms,' he said.

She passively assented, and he took her round. There was not much to show in such a bare skeleton of a house, but he made the most of it, and explained the different ornamental fittings that were soon to be fixed here and there. Lucy made but few remarks in reply, though she seemed pleased with her visit, and stole away down the ladder, followed by her companions.

She quietly agreed, and he took her on a tour. There wasn’t much to see in such an empty house, but he highlighted everything he could and talked about the different decorative features that would soon be installed here and there. Lucy made only a few comments in response, but she seemed happy with her visit and slipped down the ladder, followed by her friends.

After this the new residence became yet more of a hobby for Barnet. Downe's children did not forget their first visit, and when the windows were glazed, and the handsome staircase spread its broad low steps into the hall, they came again, prancing in unwearied succession through every room from ground-floor to attics, while Lucy stood waiting for them at the door. Barnet, who rarely missed a day in coming to inspect progress, stepped out from the drawing-room.

After this, the new house became even more of a hobby for Barnet. Downe's kids didn't forget their first visit, and when the windows were finished, and the beautiful staircase spread its wide, shallow steps into the hall, they came back, joyfully moving through every room from the ground floor to the attic, while Lucy waited for them at the door. Barnet, who hardly ever missed a day coming to check on the progress, stepped out from the drawing room.

'I could not keep them out,' she said, with an apologetic blush. 'I tried to do so very much: but they are rather wilful, and we are directed to walk this way for the sea air.'

'I couldn't keep them away,' she said, with an apologetic blush. 'I really tried hard to do that: but they are pretty stubborn, and we're told to walk this way for the sea air.'

'Do let them make the house their regular playground, and you yours,' said Barnet. 'There is no better place for children to romp and take their exercise in than an empty house, particularly in muddy or damp weather such as we shall get a good deal of now; and this place will not be furnished for a long long time-perhaps never. I am not at all decided about it.'

"Let them turn the house into their regular playground, and you can have yours," Barnet said. "There's no better spot for kids to run around and get some exercise than an empty house, especially in muddy or damp weather like we're going to have a lot of now; and this place won't be furnished for a long time—maybe never. I'm really not sure about it."

'O, but it must!' replied Lucy, looking round at the hall. 'The rooms are excellent, twice as high as ours; and the views from the windows are so lovely.'

'O, but it has to!' replied Lucy, glancing around at the hall. 'The rooms are amazing, twice as tall as ours; and the views from the windows are so beautiful.'

'I daresay, I daresay,' he said absently.

'I must say, I must say,' he said absentmindedly.

'Will all the furniture be new?' she asked.

"Will all the furniture be new?" she asked.

'All the furniture be new-that's a thing I have not thought of. In fact I only come here and look on. My father's house would have been large enough for me, but another person had a voice in the matter, and it was settled that we should build. However, the place grows upon me; its recent associations are cheerful, and I am getting to like it fast.'

'All the furniture is new—something I hadn’t considered. Honestly, I just came here to observe. My dad's house would have been big enough for me, but someone else was involved in the decision, and we agreed to build. Still, this place is growing on me; the memories tied to it are positive, and I’m starting to really like it.'

A certain uneasiness in Lucy's manner showed that the conversation was taking too personal a turn for her. 'Still, as modern tastes develop, people require more room to gratify them in,' she said, withdrawing to call the children; and serenely bidding him good afternoon she went on her way.

A certain discomfort in Lucy's demeanor indicated that the conversation was getting too personal for her. 'Still, as modern tastes evolve, people need more space to satisfy them,' she said, stepping away to call the children; and with a calm goodbye, she continued on her way.

Barnet's life at this period was singularly lonely, and yet he was happier than he could have expected. His wife's estrangement and absence, which promised to be permanent, left him free as a boy in his movements, and the solitary walks that he took gave him ample opportunity for chastened reflection on what might have been his lot if he had only shown wisdom enough to claim Lucy Savile when there was no bar between their lives, and she was to be had for the asking. He would occasionally call at the house of his friend Downe; but there was scarcely enough in common between their two natures to make them more than friends of that excellent sort whose personal knowledge of each other's history and character is always in excess of intimacy, whereby they are not so likely to be severed by a clash of sentiment as in cases where intimacy springs up in excess of knowledge. Lucy was never visible at these times, being either engaged in the school-room, or in taking an airing out of doors; but, knowing that she was now comfortable, and had given up the, to him, depressing idea of going off to the other side of the globe, he was quite content.

Barnet's life during this time was unusually lonely, yet he was happier than he expected. His wife's emotional distance and absence, which seemed likely to last, allowed him the freedom of movement he hadn't experienced since childhood. The solitary walks he took gave him plenty of time to think about what could have been if he had just been wise enough to pursue Lucy Savile when there was nothing standing in their way, and she was available. He would sometimes visit his friend Downe; however, there was barely enough in common between them to make their friendship more than that of good friends whose understanding of each other's lives and characters exceeds typical closeness, making them less likely to be shaken by differing feelings than those whose closeness arises from a lack of understanding. Lucy was never around during these visits, either busy in the schoolroom or out enjoying the fresh air; but knowing that she was now comfortable and had abandoned the, to him, disheartening idea of moving to the other side of the world, he felt completely at ease.

The new house had so far progressed that the gardeners were beginning to grass down the front. During an afternoon which he was passing in marking the curve for the carriage-drive, he beheld her coming in boldly towards him from the road. Hitherto Barnet had only caught her on the premises by stealth; and this advance seemed to show that at last her reserve had broken down.

The new house had progressed to the point where the gardeners were starting to lay grass in the front yard. One afternoon, while he was marking the curve for the driveway, he saw her confidently approaching him from the road. Until now, Barnet had only seen her on the property by sneaking a glance; this approach seemed to indicate that she had finally dropped her guard.

A smile gained strength upon her face as she approached, and it was quite radiant when she came up, and said, without a trace of embarrassment, 'I find I owe you a hundred thanks-and it comes to me quite as a surprise! It was through your kindness that I was engaged by Mr. Downe. Believe me, Mr. Barnet, I did not know it until yesterday, or I should have thanked you long and long ago!'

A smile grew on her face as she got closer, and it was truly bright when she reached me and said, without any embarrassment, "I owe you a hundred thanks—and it took me by surprise! It was your kindness that got me hired by Mr. Downe. Believe me, Mr. Barnet, I only found out yesterday, or I would have thanked you a long time ago!"

'I had offended you-just a trifle-at the time, I think?' said Barnet, smiling, 'and it was best that you should not know.'

"I think I might have upset you a little back then, right?" said Barnet, smiling. "And it was probably better that you didn’t know."

'Yes, yes,' she returned hastily. 'Don't allude to that; it is past and over, and we will let it be. The house is finished almost, is it not? How beautiful it will look when the evergreens are grown! Do you call the style Palladian, Mr. Barnet?'

'Yes, yes,' she replied quickly. 'Don’t bring that up; it's in the past, and we’ll leave it there. The house is almost finished, isn’t it? It’s going to look amazing once the evergreens grow! Do you refer to the style as Palladian, Mr. Barnet?'

'I-really don't quite know what it is. Yes, it must be Palladian, certainly. But I'll ask Jones, the architect; for, to tell the truth, I had not thought much about the style: I had nothing to do with choosing it, I am sorry to say.'

'I really don't know what it is. Yes, it must be Palladian, for sure. But I'll ask Jones, the architect; honestly, I hadn't thought much about the style: I didn't have any part in choosing it, I'm sorry to say.'

She would not let him harp on this gloomy refrain, and talked on bright matters till she said, producing a small roll of paper which he had noticed in her hand all the while, 'Mr. Downe wished me to bring you this revised drawing of the late Mrs. Downe's tomb, which the architect has just sent him. He would like you to look it over.'

She wouldn't let him dwell on this dreary topic and kept discussing happier things until she said, pulling out a small roll of paper that he had noticed she was holding the whole time, 'Mr. Downe asked me to give you this updated drawing of the late Mrs. Downe's tomb, which the architect just sent him. He'd like you to take a look at it.'

The children came up with their hoops, and she went off with them down the harbour-road as usual. Barnet had been glad to get those words of thanks; he had been thinking for many months that he would like her to know of his share in finding her a home such as it was; and what he could not do for himself, Downe had now kindly done for him. He returned to his desolate house with a lighter tread; though in reason he hardly knew why his tread should be light.

The kids grabbed their hoops, and she headed off with them down the harbor road like usual. Barnet had been happy to receive those words of thanks; he had been thinking for many months that he wanted her to know about his role in helping her find a home, even if it wasn’t much. What he couldn’t do for himself, Downe had now kindly done for him. He went back to his empty house with a lighter step, though he didn’t really know why his step felt light.

On examining the drawing, Barnet found that, instead of the vast altar- tomb and canopy Downe had determined on at their last meeting, it was to be a more modest memorial even than had been suggested by the architect; a coped tomb of good solid construction, with no useless elaboration at all. Barnet was truly glad to see that Downe had come to reason of his own accord; and he returned the drawing with a note of approval.

On looking at the drawing, Barnet realized that, instead of the grand altar-tomb and canopy that Downe had decided on during their last meeting, it would be a simpler memorial than what the architect had proposed; a solidly built coped tomb with no unnecessary decorations at all. Barnet was genuinely pleased to see that Downe had come to this decision on his own, and he returned the drawing with a note of approval.

He followed up the house-work as before, and as he walked up and down the rooms, occasionally gazing from the windows over the bulging green hills and the quiet harbour that lay between them, he murmured words and fragments of words, which, if listened to, would have revealed all the secrets of his existence. Whatever his reason in going there, Lucy did not call again: the walk to the shore seemed to be abandoned: he must have thought it as well for both that it should be so, for he did not go anywhere out of his accustomed ways to endeavour to discover her.

He continued with the housework as before, and as he walked back and forth in the rooms, occasionally looking out the windows at the rolling green hills and the peaceful harbor in between, he softly mumbled words and snippets of words that, if someone had listened closely, would have revealed all the secrets of his life. Whatever his reason for going there, Lucy didn’t reach out again: the walk to the shore seemed to be off the table. He must have thought it was best for both of them that it stayed that way since he didn’t stray from his usual paths to try to find her.

VIII

The winter and the spring had passed, and the house was complete. It was a fine morning in the early part of June, and Barnet, though not in the habit of rising early, had taken a long walk before breakfast; returning by way of the new building. A sufficiently exciting cause of his restlessness to-day might have been the intelligence which had reached him the night before, that Lucy Savile was going to India after all, and notwithstanding the representations of her friends that such a journey was unadvisable in many ways for an unpractised girl, unless some more definite advantage lay at the end of it than she could show to be the case. Barnet's walk up the slope to the building betrayed that he was in a dissatisfied mood. He hardly saw that the dewy time of day lent an unusual freshness to the bushes and trees which had so recently put on their summer habit of heavy leafage, and made his newly-laid lawn look as well established as an old manorial meadow. The house had been so adroitly placed between six tall elms which were growing on the site beforehand, that they seemed like real ancestral trees; and the rooks, young and old, cawed melodiously to their visitor.

The winter and spring had passed, and the house was done. It was a beautiful morning in early June, and Barnet, who usually wasn’t an early riser, had taken a long walk before breakfast, returning by the new building. A likely reason for his restlessness today was the news he received the night before that Lucy Savile was indeed going to India, despite her friends warning her that such a trip was unwise for an inexperienced girl unless there was a clear benefit at the end. Barnet’s walk up the slope to the building showed he was in a dissatisfied mood. He hardly noticed that the fresh morning air gave an unusual vibrancy to the bushes and trees that had just donned their full summer foliage and made his newly laid lawn look as well-established as an old estate meadow. The house had been cleverly situated between six tall elms that had been there before, making them appear like genuine ancestral trees, while the rooks, young and old, cawed cheerfully at their visitor.

The door was not locked, and he entered. No workmen appeared to be present, and he walked from sunny window to sunny window of the empty rooms, with a sense of seclusion which might have been very pleasant but for the antecedent knowledge that his almost paternal care of Lucy Savile was to be thrown away by her wilfulness. Footsteps echoed through an adjoining room; and bending his eyes in that direction, he perceived Mr. Jones, the architect. He had come to look over the building before giving the contractor his final certificate. They walked over the house together. Everything was finished except the papering: there were the latest improvements of the period in bell- hanging, ventilating, smoke-jacks, fire-grates, and French windows. The business was soon ended, and Jones, having directed Barnet's attention to a roll of wall-paper patterns which lay on a bench for his choice, was leaving to keep another engagement, when Barnet said, 'Is the tomb finished yet for Mrs. Downe?'

The door was unlocked, and he stepped inside. No workers seemed to be around, so he moved from sunny window to sunny window in the empty rooms, feeling a sense of isolation that could have been quite nice if it weren't for his prior knowledge that his almost fatherly care for Lucy Savile would be wasted due to her stubbornness. Footsteps echoed from a nearby room, and when he looked over, he saw Mr. Jones, the architect. He had come to review the building before giving the contractor his final approval. They toured the house together. Everything was done except for the wallpaper: it featured the latest improvements of the time in lighting, ventilation, smoke vents, fireplaces, and French doors. Their business was quickly wrapped up, and Jones, having pointed out a roll of wallpaper samples that was on a bench for Barnet to choose from, was about to leave for another appointment when Barnet asked, "Is the tomb finished yet for Mrs. Downe?"

'Well-yes: it is at last,' said the architect, coming back and speaking as if he were in a mood to make a confidence. 'I have had no end of trouble in the matter, and, to tell the truth, I am heartily glad it is over.'

'Well, yes, it finally is,' said the architect, returning and speaking as if he wanted to share something personal. 'I've dealt with countless problems in this, and honestly, I'm really relieved it's done.'

Barnet expressed his surprise. 'I thought poor Downe had given up those extravagant notions of his? then he has gone back to the altar and canopy after all? Well, he is to be excused, poor fellow!'

Barnet expressed his surprise. 'I thought poor Downe had given up those extravagant ideas of his? So, he has returned to the altar and canopy after all? Well, he can be forgiven, poor guy!'

'O no-he has not at all gone back to them-quite the reverse,' Jones hastened to say. 'He has so reduced design after design, that the whole thing has been nothing but waste labour for me; till in the end it has become a common headstone, which a mason put up in half a day.'

'O no—he hasn't gone back to them at all—it's actually the opposite,' Jones quickly said. 'He has simplified design after design so much that it has all just been a waste of effort for me; until eventually it turned into a basic headstone, which a mason put up in half a day.'

'A common headstone?' said Barnet.

"A regular headstone?" said Barnet.

'Yes. I held out for some time for the addition of a footstone at least. But he said, "O no-he couldn't afford it."'

'Yes. I waited for a while for at least a footstone to be added. But he said, "Oh no—he couldn't afford it."'

'Ah, well-his family is growing up, poor fellow, and his expenses are getting serious.'

'Ah, well—his family is growing up, poor guy, and his expenses are getting real.'

'Yes, exactly,' said Jones, as if the subject were none of his. And again directing Barnet's attention to the wall-papers, the bustling architect left him to keep some other engagement.

'Yes, exactly,' said Jones, as if it weren’t his business. And again directing Barnet's attention to the wallpaper, the busy architect left him to attend to another commitment.

'A common headstone,' murmured Barnet, left again to himself. He mused a minute or two, and next began looking over and selecting from the patterns; but had not long been engaged in the work when he heard another footstep on the gravel without, and somebody enter the open porch.

'A common headstone,' Barnet muttered, once again alone with his thoughts. He contemplated for a minute or two before starting to browse through and choose from the designs; however, he hadn't been at it long when he heard another footstep on the gravel outside and someone step into the open porch.

Barnet went to the door-it was his manservant in search of him.

Barnet went to the door—it was his butler looking for him.

'I have been trying for some time to find you, sir,' he said. 'This letter has come by the post, and it is marked immediate. And there's this one from Mr. Downe, who called just now wanting to see you.' He searched his pocket for the second.

'I’ve been trying to find you for a while, sir,' he said. 'This letter just arrived in the mail, and it’s marked urgent. And there’s this one from Mr. Downe, who just stopped by wanting to see you.' He rummaged through his pocket for the second letter.

Barnet took the first letter-it had a black border, and bore the London postmark. It was not in his wife's handwriting, or in that of any person he knew; but conjecture soon ceased as he read the page, wherein he was briefly informed that Mrs. Barnet had died suddenly on the previous day, at the furnished villa she had occupied near London.

Barnet picked up the first letter—it had a black border and was postmarked from London. It wasn't written in his wife's handwriting or by anyone he recognized; but his speculation ended quickly as he read the page, which briefly informed him that Mrs. Barnet had died suddenly the day before, at the rental villa she had been staying at near London.

Barnet looked vaguely round the empty hall, at the blank walls, out of the doorway. Drawing a long palpitating breath, and with eyes downcast, he turned and climbed the stairs slowly, like a man who doubted their stability. The fact of his wife having, as it were, died once already, and lived on again, had entirely dislodged the possibility of her actual death from his conjecture. He went to the landing, leant over the balusters, and after a reverie, of whose duration he had but the faintest notion, turned to the window and stretched his gaze to the cottage further down the road, which was visible from his landing, and from which Lucy still walked to the solicitor's house by a cross path. The faint words that came from his moving lips were simply, 'At last!'

Barnet glanced around the empty hall, at the bare walls, and out the doorway. Taking a deep, shaky breath and with his eyes looking down, he slowly climbed the stairs, like a man unsure of their strength. The fact that his wife had, in a sense, already died and come back had completely pushed aside the idea of her actual death from his thoughts. He reached the landing, leaned over the railing, and after a moment of contemplation, the length of which he could barely gauge, he turned to the window and looked out towards the cottage further down the road, which he could see from his landing. Lucy still walked to the solicitor's house via a shortcut path. The faint words escaping his lips were simply, 'At last!'

Then, almost involuntarily, Barnet fell down on his knees and murmured some incoherent words of thanksgiving. Surely his virtue in restoring his wife to life had been rewarded! But, as if the impulse struck uneasily on his conscience, he quickly rose, brushed the dust from his trousers and set himself to think of his next movements. He could not start for London for some hours; and as he had no preparations to make that could not be made in half-an-hour, he mechanically descended and resumed his occupation of turning over the wall-papers. They had all got brighter for him, those papers. It was all changed-who would sit in the rooms that they were to line? He went on to muse upon Lucy's conduct in so frequently coming to the house with the children; her occasional blush in speaking to him; her evident interest in him. What woman can in the long run avoid being interested in a man whom she knows to be devoted to her? If human solicitation could ever effect anything, there should be no going to India for Lucy now. All the papers previously chosen seemed wrong in their shades, and he began from the beginning to choose again.

Then, almost without thinking, Barnet dropped to his knees and mumbled some jumbled words of thanks. Surely, his act of bringing his wife back to life had earned him a reward! But, as if a wave of guilt washed over him, he quickly got back up, brushed the dust off his pants, and started to think about what to do next. He couldn’t leave for London for a few hours; and since he had no preparations that couldn’t be done in half an hour, he automatically went downstairs and picked up where he left off, looking through the wallpaper samples. They seemed brighter to him now, those papers. Everything had changed—who would be sitting in the rooms they were meant to decorate? He continued to reflect on Lucy’s behavior, how she often came to the house with the kids; her occasional blush when she talked to him; her obvious interest in him. What woman can long resist being intrigued by a man who is devoted to her? If human persuasion could ever make a difference, Lucy shouldn’t have to go to India now. All the papers he had chosen before felt wrong now, and he started over to pick new ones.

While entering on the task he heard a forced 'Ahem!' from without the porch, evidently uttered to attract his attention, and footsteps again advancing to the door. His man, whom he had quite forgotten in his mental turmoil, was still waiting there.

While he was starting the task, he heard a forced 'Ahem!' from outside the porch, clearly aimed at getting his attention, and footsteps approaching the door again. His assistant, whom he had completely forgotten in his mental chaos, was still waiting there.

'I beg your pardon, sir,' the man said from round the doorway; 'but here's the note from Mr. Downe that you didn't take. He called just after you went out, and as he couldn't wait, he wrote this on your study-table.'

"I’m sorry to bother you, sir," the man said from the doorway, "but here’s the note from Mr. Downe that you didn’t get. He came by right after you left, and since he couldn't stick around, he wrote this on your study table."

He handed in the letter-no black-bordered one now, but a practical- looking note in the well-known writing of the solicitor.

He handed in the letter—not a black-bordered one anymore, but a practical-looking note in the familiar handwriting of the lawyer.

'DEAR BARNET'-it ran-'Perhaps you will be prepared for the information I am about to give-that Lucy Savile and myself are going to be married this morning. I have hitherto said nothing as to my intention to any of my friends, for reasons which I am sure you will fully appreciate. The crisis has been brought about by her expressing her intention to join her brother in India. I then discovered that I could not do without her.

'DEAR BARNET' - it read - 'Maybe you’re ready for the news I’m about to share: Lucy Savile and I are getting married this morning. I haven’t mentioned this to any of my friends until now, for reasons I’m sure you’ll understand. This change has come about because she expressed her desire to join her brother in India. I realized then that I couldn’t imagine my life without her.'

'It is to be quite a private wedding; but it is my particular wish that you come down here quietly at ten, and go to church with us; it will add greatly to the pleasure I shall experience in the ceremony, and, I believe, to Lucy's also. I have called on you very early to make the request, in the belief that I should find you at home; but you are beforehand with me in your early rising.-Yours sincerely, C. Downe.'

'It’s going to be a very private wedding, but I really want you to come down here quietly at ten and go to church with us. It will make the ceremony much more enjoyable for me, and I think Lucy will feel the same way. I reached out to you early to ask this, hoping you’d be at home, but you’ve beaten me to it with your early rising. - Yours sincerely, C. Downe.'

'Need I wait, sir?' said the servant after a dead silence.

'Do I need to wait, sir?' said the servant after a long silence.

'That will do, William. No answer,' said Barnet calmly.

'That's enough, William. No response,' Barnet said calmly.

When the man had gone Barnet re-read the letter. Turning eventually to the wall-papers, which he had been at such pains to select, he deliberately tore them into halves and quarters, and threw them into the empty fireplace. Then he went out of the house; locked the door, and stood in the front awhile. Instead of returning into the town, he went down the harbour-road and thoughtfully lingered about by the sea, near the spot where the body of Downe's late wife had been found and brought ashore.

When the man left, Barnet read the letter again. Eventually, he turned to the wallpaper he had carefully chosen, ripped it into halves and quarters, and tossed it into the empty fireplace. Then he left the house, locked the door, and stood in front of it for a while. Instead of going back to town, he walked down to the harbor road and thoughtfully lingered by the sea, close to where Downe's late wife had been found and brought ashore.

Barnet was a man with a rich capacity for misery, and there is no doubt that he exercised it to its fullest extent now. The events that had, as it were, dashed themselves together into one half-hour of this day showed that curious refinement of cruelty in their arrangement which often proceeds from the bosom of the whimsical god at other times known as blind Circumstance. That his few minutes of hope, between the reading of the first and second letters, had carried him to extraordinary heights of rapture was proved by the immensity of his suffering now. The sun blazing into his face would have shown a close watcher that a horizontal line, which he had never noticed before, but which was never to be gone thereafter, was somehow gradually forming itself in the smooth of his forehead. His eyes, of a light hazel, had a curious look which can only be described by the word bruised; the sorrow that looked from them being largely mixed with the surprise of a man taken unawares.

Barnet was a man who was exceptionally talented at being miserable, and there’s no doubt he was fully leaning into it now. The events that had, in a way, crashed into each other in that half-hour today showed that strange twist of cruelty in their timing that's often orchestrated by the unpredictable force known as blind Circumstance. The brief moments of hope he felt between reading the first and second letters had lifted him to incredible heights of joy, which made his current suffering feel even more immense. The sun shining on his face would have revealed to a keen observer that a faint line, which he had never noticed before but would never lose afterwards, was slowly forming on his smooth forehead. His light hazel eyes had a look that could only be described as bruised; the sadness in them was largely mixed with the shock of a man caught off guard.

The secondary particulars of his present position, too, were odd enough, though for some time they appeared to engage little of his attention. Not a soul in the town knew, as yet, of his wife's death; and he almost owed Downe the kindness of not publishing it till the day was over: the conjuncture, taken with that which had accompanied the death of Mrs. Downe, being so singular as to be quite sufficient to darken the pleasure of the impressionable solicitor to a cruel extent, if made known to him. But as Barnet could not set out on his journey to London, where his wife lay, for some hours (there being at this date no railway within a distance of many miles), no great reason existed why he should leave the town.

The specifics of his current situation were pretty strange, although at first, he didn't seem to pay much attention to them. No one in town knew yet about his wife's death, and he almost felt it was kind of him not to share the news until the day was over. The circumstances surrounding Mrs. Downe's death were so unusual that revealing them could significantly dampen the sensitive solicitor's spirits. However, since Barnet couldn't start his journey to London, where his wife was, for several hours (as there was no railway within many miles at that time), there wasn't much reason for him to leave the town.

Impulse in all its forms characterized Barnet, and when he heard the distant clock strike the hour of ten his feet began to carry him up the harbour-road with the manner of a man who must do something to bring himself to life. He passed Lucy Savile's old house, his own new one, and came in view of the church. Now he gave a perceptible start, and his mechanical condition went away. Before the church-gate were a couple of carriages, and Barnet then could perceive that the marriage between Downe and Lucy was at that moment being solemnized within. A feeling of sudden, proud self-confidence, an indocile wish to walk unmoved in spite of grim environments, plainly possessed him, and when he reached the wicket-gate he turned in without apparent effort. Pacing up the paved footway he entered the church and stood for a while in the nave passage. A group of people was standing round the vestry door; Barnet advanced through these and stepped into the vestry.

Impulse in all its forms defined Barnet, and when he heard the distant clock strike ten, his feet instinctively carried him up the harbor road like a man who needs to do something to feel alive. He passed Lucy Savile's old house, his own new one, and came into view of the church. At that moment, he visibly started, and his robotic demeanor faded. In front of the church gate were a couple of carriages, and Barnet realized that the marriage between Downe and Lucy was currently taking place inside. A sudden rush of proud self-confidence washed over him, along with a rebellious urge to walk confidently despite the grim situation. When he reached the wicket gate, he entered without any apparent effort. Walking up the paved path, he entered the church and stood for a moment in the nave passage. A group of people was gathered around the vestry door; Barnet pushed through them and stepped into the vestry.

There they were, busily signing their names. Seeing Downe about to look round, Barnet averted his somewhat disturbed face for a second or two; when he turned again front to front he was calm and quite smiling; it was a creditable triumph over himself, and deserved to be remembered in his native town. He greeted Downe heartily, offering his congratulations.

There they were, busy signing their names. When Barnet saw Downe about to look over, he quickly turned his somewhat troubled face away for a moment. When he turned back to face the front, he was composed and smiling; it was a commendable victory over himself and should be remembered in his hometown. He greeted Downe warmly and offered his congratulations.

It seemed as if Barnet expected a half-guilty look upon Lucy's face; but no, save the natural flush and flurry engendered by the service just performed, there was nothing whatever in her bearing which showed a disturbed mind: her gray-brown eyes carried in them now as at other times the well-known expression of common-sensed rectitude which never went so far as to touch on hardness. She shook hands with him, and Downe said warmly, 'I wish you could have come sooner: I called on purpose to ask you. You'll drive back with us now?'

It seemed like Barnet was expecting to see a guilty look on Lucy's face; but no, aside from the natural flush and fluster from the service just completed, there was nothing in her demeanor that indicated a troubled mind. Her gray-brown eyes held the same familiar expression of sensible integrity that never veered into harshness. She shook hands with him, and Downe said warmly, "I wish you could have come earlier: I called just to ask you. You’ll drive back with us now?"

'No, no,' said Barnet; 'I am not at all prepared; but I thought I would look in upon you for a moment, even though I had not time to go home and dress. I'll stand back and see you pass out, and observe the effect of the spectacle upon myself as one of the public.'

'No, no,' said Barnet; 'I’m not ready at all; but I thought I’d drop by for a moment, even though I didn’t have time to go home and change. I’ll step back and watch you leave, and see how the show affects me as part of the audience.'

Then Lucy and her husband laughed, and Barnet laughed and retired; and the quiet little party went gliding down the nave and towards the porch, Lucy's new silk dress sweeping with a smart rustle round the base- mouldings of the ancient font, and Downe's little daughters following in a state of round-eyed interest in their position, and that of Lucy, their teacher and friend.

Then Lucy and her husband laughed, and Barnet laughed and stepped back; and the quiet little group made their way down the nave toward the porch, Lucy's new silk dress making a smooth rustling sound as it brushed against the base of the ancient font, while Downe's little daughters followed, wide-eyed and intrigued by their position and that of Lucy, their teacher and friend.

So Downe was comforted after his Emily's death, which had taken place twelve months, two weeks, and three days before that time.

So Downe found comfort after Emily's death, which had happened twelve months, two weeks, and three days earlier.

When the two flys had driven off and the spectators had vanished, Barnet followed to the door, and went out into the sun. He took no more trouble to preserve a spruce exterior; his step was unequal, hesitating, almost convulsive; and the slight changes of colour which went on in his face seemed refracted from some inward flame. In the churchyard he became pale as a summer cloud, and finding it not easy to proceed he sat down on one of the tombstones and supported his head with his hand.

When the two flies had left and the spectators were gone, Barnet followed to the door and stepped out into the sun. He stopped trying to maintain a neat appearance; his walk was unsteady, unsure, almost spastic; and the slight shifts in color on his face seemed to come from some inner turmoil. In the churchyard, he turned as pale as a summer cloud, and finding it hard to move forward, he sat down on one of the gravestones and rested his head in his hand.

Hard by was a sexton filling up a grave which he had not found time to finish on the previous evening. Observing Barnet, he went up to him, and recognizing him, said, 'Shall I help you home, sir?'

Nearby, a grave digger was finishing a grave he hadn’t had time to complete the night before. Noticing Barnet, he approached him and, recognizing him, said, “Do you need help getting home, sir?”

'O no, thank you,' said Barnet, rousing himself and standing up. The sexton returned to his grave, followed by Barnet, who, after watching him awhile, stepped into the grave, now nearly filled, and helped to tread in the earth.

'O no, thank you,' Barnet replied, waking up and getting to his feet. The cemetery worker went back to his grave, with Barnet following him. After watching him for a moment, Barnet stepped into the almost filled grave and helped pack down the dirt.

The sexton apparently thought his conduct a little singular, but he made no observation, and when the grave was full, Barnet suddenly stopped, looked far away, and with a decided step proceeded to the gate and vanished. The sexton rested on his shovel and looked after him for a few moments, and then began banking up the mound.

The sexton seemed to find Barnet's behavior a bit unusual, but he didn’t say anything. Once the grave was filled, Barnet suddenly paused, gazed into the distance, and then walked purposefully to the gate and disappeared. The sexton leaned on his shovel and watched him for a few moments before starting to pile up the dirt on the mound.

In those short minutes of treading in the dead man Barnet had formed a design, but what it was the inhabitants of that town did not for some long time imagine. He went home, wrote several letters of business, called on his lawyer, an old man of the same place who had been the legal adviser of Barnet's father before him, and during the evening overhauled a large quantity of letters and other documents in his possession. By eleven o'clock the heap of papers in and before Barnet's grate had reached formidable dimensions, and he began to burn them. This, owing to their quantity, it was not so easy to do as he had expected, and he sat long into the night to complete the task.

In those few minutes spent at the dead man’s place, Barnet came up with a plan, but the people in town didn’t figure out what it was for a long time. He went home, wrote several business letters, met with his lawyer, an old man from the same town who had been Barnet's father’s legal advisor before him, and spent the evening sorting through a large stack of letters and other documents he had. By eleven o'clock, the pile of papers in and around Barnet's fireplace had grown quite large, and he started to burn them. Because there were so many, it wasn't as easy as he had expected, so he stayed up late into the night to finish the job.

The next morning Barnet departed for London, leaving a note for Downe to inform him of Mrs. Barnet's sudden death, and that he was gone to bury her; but when a thrice-sufficient time for that purpose had elapsed, he was not seen again in his accustomed walks, or in his new house, or in his old one. He was gone for good, nobody knew whither. It was soon discovered that he had empowered his lawyer to dispose of all his property, real and personal, in the borough, and pay in the proceeds to the account of an unknown person at one of the large London banks. The person was by some supposed to be himself under an assumed name; but few, if any, had certain knowledge of that fact.

The next morning, Barnet left for London, leaving a note for Downe to let him know about Mrs. Barnet's sudden death and that he was going to bury her. However, after a more than sufficient time had passed for that, he was no longer seen in his usual spots, his new house, or his old one. He was gone for good, and no one knew where he had gone. It soon became clear that he had authorized his lawyer to sell all his property, both real and personal, in the borough, and to deposit the proceeds into an account belonging to an unknown person at one of the large London banks. Some suspected that it might be himself using a fake name, but very few, if any, could confirm that for sure.

The elegant new residence was sold with the rest of his possessions; and its purchaser was no other than Downe, now a thriving man in the borough, and one whose growing family and new wife required more roomy accommodation than was afforded by the little house up the narrow side street. Barnet's old habitation was bought by the trustees of the Congregational Baptist body in that town, who pulled down the time- honoured dwelling and built a new chapel on its site. By the time the last hour of that, to Barnet, eventful year had chimed, every vestige of him had disappeared from the precincts of his native place, and the name became extinct in the borough of Port-Bredy, after having been a living force therein for more than two hundred years.

The elegant new home was sold along with the rest of his belongings, and its buyer was none other than Downe, who was now a successful man in the borough. His growing family and new wife needed more space than the small house on the narrow side street could provide. Barnet's old home was purchased by the trustees of the Congregational Baptist church in that town, who demolished the historic house and built a new chapel on its location. By the time the final hour of that eventful year had struck for Barnet, every trace of him had vanished from his hometown, and his name was no longer known in the borough of Port-Bredy after having been a significant presence there for over two hundred years.

IX

Twenty-one years and six months do not pass without setting a mark even upon durable stone and triple brass; upon humanity such a period works nothing less than transformation. In Barnet's old birthplace vivacious young children with bones like india-rubber had grown up to be stable men and women, men and women had dried in the skin, stiffened, withered, and sunk into decrepitude; while selections from every class had been consigned to the outlying cemetery. Of inorganic differences the greatest was that a railway had invaded the town, tying it on to a main line at a junction a dozen miles off. Barnet's house on the harbour- road, once so insistently new, had acquired a respectable mellowness, with ivy, Virginia creepers, lichens, damp patches, and even constitutional infirmities of its own like its elder fellows. Its architecture, once so very improved and modern, had already become stale in style, without having reached the dignity of being old-fashioned. Trees about the harbour-road had increased in circumference or disappeared under the saw; while the church had had such a tremendous practical joke played upon it by some facetious restorer or other as to be scarce recognizable by its dearest old friends.

Twenty-one years and six months leave a mark even on solid stone and strong metal; this time creates nothing less than transformation in people. In Barnet's old hometown, lively young kids with elastic bones had grown up into reliable adults, while those adults had aged, stiffened, and withered into old age; meanwhile, people from all walks of life had been laid to rest in the local cemetery. The biggest change was that a railway had come to town, connecting it to a main line a dozen miles away. Barnet's house on the harbor road, once brand new, had taken on a respectable charm with ivy, Virginia creepers, lichens, damp spots, and even its own quirks like its older neighbors. Its formerly modern architecture had become outdated, but it hadn’t quite reached the status of old-fashioned. The trees along the harbor road had either grown wider or been cut down, while the church had undergone such a ridiculous renovation by some amusing restorer that it was hardly recognizable to its oldest friends.

During this long interval George Barnet had never once been seen or heard of in the town of his fathers.

During this long period, George Barnet had not been seen or heard from in his family's hometown.

It was the evening of a market-day, and some half-dozen middle-aged farmers and dairymen were lounging round the bar of the Black-Bull Hotel, occasionally dropping a remark to each other, and less frequently to the two barmaids who stood within the pewter-topped counter in a perfunctory attitude of attention, these latter sighing and making a private observation to one another at odd intervals, on more interesting experiences than the present.

It was the evening after market day, and about six middle-aged farmers and dairymen were hanging out at the bar of the Black-Bull Hotel, occasionally chatting with each other and less often with the two barmaids who stood at the pewter-topped counter, pretending to pay attention. The barmaids sighed and shared private comments with each other now and then about more interesting experiences than what was happening at the moment.

'Days get shorter,' said one of the dairymen, as he looked towards the street, and noticed that the lamp-lighter was passing by.

'Days are getting shorter,' said one of the dairymen as he looked toward the street and noticed the lamp-lighter passing by.

The farmers merely acknowledged by their countenances the propriety of this remark, and finding that nobody else spoke, one of the barmaids said 'yes,' in a tone of painful duty.

The farmers just nodded in agreement, showing on their faces that they understood the point of this comment. When no one else spoke up, one of the barmaids said, 'yes,' with a tone that suggested it was a difficult obligation.

'Come fair-day we shall have to light up before we start for home- along.'

'On fair day, we’ll have to light up before we head home.'

'That's true,' his neighbour conceded, with a gaze of blankness.

"That's true," his neighbor agreed, looking blank.

'And after that we shan't see much further difference all's winter.'

'And after that, we won't see much difference for the rest of winter.'

The rest were not unwilling to go even so far as this.

The others were not hesitant to go this far either.

The barmaid sighed again, and raised one of her hands from the counter on which they rested to scratch the smallest surface of her face with the smallest of her fingers. She looked towards the door, and presently remarked, 'I think I hear the 'bus coming in from station.'

The barmaid sighed again and lifted one hand from the counter where it rested to scratch a small spot on her face with her fingertip. She glanced toward the door and then said, "I think I hear the bus coming in from the station."

The eyes of the dairymen and farmers turned to the glass door dividing the hall from the porch, and in a minute or two the omnibus drew up outside. Then there was a lumbering down of luggage, and then a man came into the hall, followed by a porter with a portmanteau on his poll, which he deposited on a bench.

The eyes of the dairymen and farmers were fixed on the glass door separating the hall from the porch, and after a minute or two, the bus pulled up outside. Then there was a clumsy unloading of luggage, and a man entered the hall, followed by a porter carrying a suitcase on his head, which he placed on a bench.

The stranger was an elderly person, with curly ashen white hair, a deeply-creviced outer corner to each eyelid, and a countenance baked by innumerable suns to the colour of terra-cotta, its hue and that of his hair contrasting like heat and cold respectively. He walked meditatively and gently, like one who was fearful of disturbing his own mental equilibrium. But whatever lay at the bottom of his breast had evidently made him so accustomed to its situation there that it caused him little practical inconvenience.

The stranger was an old man with curly gray hair, deeply wrinkled eyelids, and skin that was tanned from countless days in the sun, giving it a terracotta color that contrasted sharply with his hair. He walked slowly and calmly, as if he were afraid of upsetting his own peace of mind. But whatever emotions he held inside had clearly settled there so comfortably that they didn’t seem to bother him much at all.

He paused in silence while, with his dubious eyes fixed on the barmaids, he seemed to consider himself. In a moment or two he addressed them, and asked to be accommodated for the night. As he waited he looked curiously round the hall, but said nothing. As soon as invited he disappeared up the staircase, preceded by a chambermaid and candle, and followed by a lad with his trunk. Not a soul had recognized him.

He paused silently, his skeptical gaze focused on the barmaids as he seemed to ponder his situation. After a moment or two, he spoke to them and requested a room for the night. While he waited, he glanced around the hall with interest but didn’t say anything. Once invited, he went up the staircase, followed by a chambermaid carrying a candle and a boy with his trunk. Not a single person had recognized him.

A quarter of an hour later, when the farmers and dairymen had driven off to their homesteads in the country, he came downstairs, took a biscuit and one glass of wine, and walked out into the town, where the radiance from the shop-windows had grown so in volume of late years as to flood with cheerfulness every standing cart, barrow, stall, and idler that occupied the wayside, whether shabby or genteel. His chief interest at present seemed to lie in the names painted over the shop-fronts and on door-ways, as far as they were visible; these now differed to an ominous extent from what they had been one-and-twenty years before.

A quarter of an hour later, after the farmers and dairymen had driven off to their homes in the countryside, he came downstairs, grabbed a biscuit and a glass of wine, and headed out into the town. The brightness from the shop windows had grown so much in recent years that it lit up every cart, barrow, stall, and bystander along the way with a cheerful glow, whether they were shabby or upscale. His main focus at the moment seemed to be on the names painted on the shop fronts and doorways, as far as he could see; these now differed significantly from what they had been twenty-one years ago.

The traveller passed on till he came to the bookseller's, where he looked in through the glass door. A fresh-faced young man was standing behind the counter, otherwise the shop was empty. The gray-haired observer entered, asked for some periodical by way of paying for admission, and with his elbow on the counter began to turn over the pages he had bought, though that he read nothing was obvious.

The traveler moved on until he reached the bookstore, where he looked through the glass door. A young man with a fresh face was standing behind the counter, and the shop was otherwise empty. The gray-haired man entered, requested a particular magazine as a way to pay for entry, and propped his elbow on the counter as he started flipping through the pages he had purchased, even though it was clear he wasn't actually reading anything.

At length he said, 'Is old Mr. Watkins still alive?' in a voice which had a curious youthful cadence in it even now.

At last he asked, 'Is old Mr. Watkins still alive?' in a voice that still had a strangely youthful tone to it.

'My father is dead, sir,' said the young man.

'My dad is dead, sir,' said the young man.

'Ah, I am sorry to hear it,' said the stranger. 'But it is so many years since I last visited this town that I could hardly expect it should be otherwise.' After a short silence he continued-'And is the firm of Barnet, Browse, and Company still in existence?-they used to be large flax-merchants and twine-spinners here?'

'Oh, I'm really sorry to hear that,' said the stranger. 'But it's been so many years since I last visited this town that I couldn't really expect it to be different.' After a brief pause, he added, 'Is the firm of Barnet, Browse, and Company still around? They used to be big flax merchants and twine-spinners here.'

'The firm is still going on, sir, but they have dropped the name of Barnet. I believe that was a sort of fancy name-at least, I never knew of any living Barnet. 'Tis now Browse and Co.'

'The company is still operating, sir, but they've dropped the name Barnet. I think that was more of a fancy name—at least, I never knew of any actual Barnet. It's now Browse and Co.'

'And does Andrew Jones still keep on as architect?'

'Is Andrew Jones still working as an architect?'

'He's dead, sir.'

'He’s gone, sir.'

'And the Vicar of St. Mary's-Mr. Melrose?'

'And the Vicar of St. Mary's—Mr. Melrose?'

'He's been dead a great many years.'

'He's been dead for a long time.'

'Dear me!' He paused yet longer, and cleared his voice. 'Is Mr. Downe, the solicitor, still in practice?'

'Oh dear!' He paused even longer and cleared his throat. 'Is Mr. Downe, the lawyer, still working?'

'No, sir, he's dead. He died about seven years ago.'

'No, sir, he's dead. He passed away around seven years ago.'

Here it was a longer silence still; and an attentive observer would have noticed that the paper in the stranger's hand increased its imperceptible tremor to a visible shake. That gray-haired gentleman noticed it himself, and rested the paper on the counter. 'Is Mrs. Downe still alive?' he asked, closing his lips firmly as soon as the words were out of his mouth, and dropping his eyes.

Here, the silence stretched on even longer; and a keen observer would have noticed that the paper in the stranger's hand shifted from a slight tremble to a noticeable shake. The gray-haired man noticed it too and placed the paper on the counter. “Is Mrs. Downe still alive?” he asked, firmly pressing his lips together as soon as he spoke, and looking down.

'Yes, sir, she's alive and well. She's living at the old place.'

'Yes, sir, she's alive and doing fine. She's still at the old place.'

'In East Street?'

'On East Street?'

'O no; at Chateau Ringdale. I believe it has been in the family for some generations.'

'O no; at Chateau Ringdale. I think it's been in the family for a few generations.'

'She lives with her children, perhaps?'

'Does she live with her kids, maybe?'

'No; she has no children of her own. There were some Miss Downes; I think they were Mr. Downe's daughters by a former wife; but they are married and living in other parts of the town. Mrs. Downe lives alone.'

'No; she has no kids of her own. There were some Miss Downes; I think they were Mr. Downe's daughters from a previous wife; but they are married and living in other parts of town. Mrs. Downe lives alone.'

'Quite alone?'

'All by yourself?'

'Yes, sir; quite alone.'

'Yes, sir; completely alone.'

The newly-arrived gentleman went back to the hotel and dined; after which he made some change in his dress, shaved back his beard to the fashion that had prevailed twenty years earlier, when he was young and interesting, and once more emerging, bent his steps in the direction of the harbour-road. Just before getting to the point where the pavement ceased and the houses isolated themselves, he overtook a shambling, stooping, unshaven man, who at first sight appeared like a professional tramp, his shoulders having a perceptible greasiness as they passed under the gaslight. Each pedestrian momentarily turned and regarded the other, and the tramp-like gentleman started back.

The newly arrived man went back to the hotel and had dinner; afterward, he changed his outfit, shaving his beard to the style that was popular twenty years ago when he was young and attractive. After getting ready, he set off toward the harbor road. Just before reaching the spot where the pavement ended and the houses became more spaced out, he caught up with a shabby, hunched-over, unshaven man who at first glance looked like a professional vagrant, his shoulders showing a noticeable greasiness as he walked under the streetlight. Each man briefly turned to look at the other, and the vagrant-like man flinched back.

'Good-why-is that Mr. Barnet? 'Tis Mr. Barnet, surely!'

'Good—why is that Mr. Barnet? It’s Mr. Barnet, for sure!'

'Yes; and you are Charlson?'

'Yes, are you Charlson?'

'Yes-ah-you notice my appearance. The Fates have rather ill-used me. By-the-bye, that fifty pounds. I never paid it, did I? . . . But I was not ungrateful!' Here the stooping man laid one hand emphatically on the palm of the other. 'I gave you a chance, Mr. George Barnet, which many men would have thought full value received-the chance to marry your Lucy. As far as the world was concerned, your wife was a drowned woman, hey?'

'Yeah, you notice my appearance. The Fates have really done a number on me. By the way, that fifty pounds. I never paid it, did I? ... But I wasn’t ungrateful!' Here, the hunched man placed one hand firmly on the palm of the other. 'I gave you a chance, Mr. George Barnet, that many men would have considered worth a lot—the chance to marry your Lucy. As far as the world was concerned, your wife was a drowned woman, right?'

'Heaven forbid all that, Charlson!'

"God forbid all that, Charlson!"

'Well, well, 'twas a wrong way of showing gratitude, I suppose. And now a drop of something to drink for old acquaintance' sake! And Mr. Barnet, she's again free-there's a chance now if you care for it-ha, ha!' And the speaker pushed his tongue into his hollow cheek and slanted his eye in the old fashion.

'Well, well, that wasn’t the best way to show gratitude, I guess. And now, let’s have a drink to old times! And Mr. Barnet, she’s free again—there’s a chance now if you're interested—ha, ha!' The speaker then poked his tongue into his cheek and squinted his eye in the usual way.

'I know all,' said Barnet quickly; and slipping a small present into the hands of the needy, saddening man, he stepped ahead and was soon in the outskirts of the town.

"I know everything," Barnet said quickly. He handed a small gift to the sad, needy man, stepped ahead, and soon reached the outskirts of town.

He reached the harbour-road, and paused before the entrance to a well- known house. It was so highly bosomed in trees and shrubs planted since the erection of the building that one would scarcely have recognized the spot as that which had been a mere neglected slope till chosen as a site for a dwelling. He opened the swing-gate, closed it noiselessly, and gently moved into the semicircular drive, which remained exactly as it had been marked out by Barnet on the morning when Lucy Savile ran in to thank him for procuring her the post of governess to Downe's children. But the growth of trees and bushes which revealed itself at every step was beyond all expectation; sun-proof and moon-proof bowers vaulted the walks, and the walls of the house were uniformly bearded with creeping plants as high as the first-floor windows.

He reached the harbor road and paused in front of a well-known house. It was so lush with trees and shrubs that had been planted since the building was put up that one would hardly recognize it as the same place that had once been a neglected slope before it became a home. He opened the swing gate, closed it quietly, and gently walked into the semicircular drive, which was just as Barnet had laid it out on the morning when Lucy Savile came by to thank him for getting her the job as governess for Downe's children. But the growth of trees and bushes that appeared at every step exceeded all expectations; sun-proof and moon-proof canopies arched over the paths, and the walls of the house were completely covered with climbing plants that reached up to the first-floor windows.

After lingering for a few minutes in the dusk of the bending boughs, the visitor rang the door-bell, and on the servant appearing, he announced himself as 'an old friend of Mrs. Downe's.'

After hanging around for a few minutes in the twilight among the bending branches, the visitor rang the doorbell, and when the servant came to the door, he introduced himself as 'an old friend of Mrs. Downe's.'

The hall was lighted, but not brightly, the gas being turned low, as if visitors were rare. There was a stagnation in the dwelling; it seemed to be waiting. Could it really be waiting for him? The partitions which had been probed by Barnet's walking-stick when the mortar was green, were now quite brown with the antiquity of their varnish, and the ornamental woodwork of the staircase, which had glistened with a pale yellow newness when first erected, was now of a rich wine-colour. During the servant's absence the following colloquy could be dimly heard through the nearly closed door of the drawing-room.

The hall was lit, but not brightly, with the gas turned down low, as if visitors were uncommon. There was a feeling of stillness in the home; it felt as if it was waiting. Could it really be waiting for him? The walls, which had been poked by Barnet's walking stick when the mortar was fresh, were now darkened with age, and the decorative woodwork of the staircase, which had shone with a light yellow freshness when it was first built, had now taken on a deep wine color. During the servant's absence, the following conversation could be faintly heard through the nearly closed door of the drawing room.

'He didn't give his name?'

'He didn't say his name?'

'He only said "an old friend," ma'am.'

'He just said "an old friend," ma'am.'

'What kind of gentleman is he?'

'What kind of guy is he?'

'A staidish gentleman, with gray hair.'

'A serious-looking gentleman, with gray hair.'

The voice of the second speaker seemed to affect the listener greatly. After a pause, the lady said, 'Very well, I will see him.'

The second speaker's voice seemed to have a strong impact on the listener. After a moment, the woman said, 'Alright, I will see him.'

And the stranger was shown in face to face with the Lucy who had once been Lucy Savile. The round cheek of that formerly young lady had, of course, alarmingly flattened its curve in her modern representative; a pervasive grayness overspread her once dark brown hair, like morning rime on heather. The parting down the middle was wide and jagged; once it had been a thin white line, a narrow crevice between two high banks of shade. But there was still enough left to form a handsome knob behind, and some curls beneath inwrought with a few hairs like silver wires were very becoming. In her eyes the only modification was that their originally mild rectitude of expression had become a little more stringent than heretofore. Yet she was still girlish-a girl who had been gratuitously weighted by destiny with a burden of five-and-forty years instead of her proper twenty.

And the stranger was introduced to Lucy, who had once been Lucy Savile. The once-round cheek of that young woman had noticeably flattened in her modern counterpart; a pervasive grayness had taken over her formerly dark brown hair, like morning frost on heather. The parting down the middle was wide and jagged; it used to be a thin white line, a narrow gap between two tall banks of shade. But there was still enough left to form a nice bun at the back, and some curls intertwined with a few silver strands looked very flattering. The only change in her eyes was that their originally gentle expression had become a bit more serious than before. Still, she remained youthful—a girl who had been unfairly burdened by fate with forty-five years instead of her rightful twenty.

'Lucy, don't you know me?' he said, when the servant had closed the door.

'Lucy, don't you recognize me?' he said, when the servant had shut the door.

'I knew you the instant I saw you!' she returned cheerfully. 'I don't know why, but I always thought you would come back to your old town again.'

"I recognized you the moment I saw you!" she replied happily. "I’m not sure why, but I always thought you would return to your hometown."

She gave him her hand, and then they sat down. 'They said you were dead,' continued Lucy, 'but I never thought so. We should have heard of it for certain if you had been.'

She offered him her hand, and then they took a seat. "They said you were dead," Lucy continued, "but I never believed it. We would have definitely heard about it if you were."

'It is a very long time since we met.'

'It’s been a really long time since we met.'

'Yes; what you must have seen, Mr. Barnet, in all these roving years, in comparison with what I have seen in this quiet place!' Her face grew more serious. 'You know my husband has been dead a long time? I am a lonely old woman now, considering what I have been; though Mr. Downe's daughters-all married-manage to keep me pretty cheerful.'

'Yes, Mr. Barnet, just think about everything you’ve experienced during all these years of wandering, compared to what I've seen in this quiet place!' Her expression turned more serious. 'You know my husband has been gone for a long time, right? I'm just a lonely old woman now, considering who I used to be; although Mr. Downe's daughters—all married—do manage to keep me fairly cheerful.'

'And I am a lonely old man, and have been any time these twenty years.'

'And I am a lonely old man, and have been for the past twenty years.'

'But where have you kept yourself? And why did you go off so mysteriously?'

'But where have you been? And why did you leave so mysteriously?'

'Well, Lucy, I have kept myself a little in America, and a little in Australia, a little in India, a little at the Cape, and so on; I have not stayed in any place for a long time, as it seems to me, and yet more than twenty years have flown. But when people get to my age two years go like one!-Your second question, why did I go away so mysteriously, is surely not necessary. You guessed why, didn't you?'

'Well, Lucy, I’ve spent some time in America, a bit in Australia, some in India, a little at the Cape, and so on; I haven’t really stayed in any one place for long, it feels like, and yet over twenty years have passed. But when you reach my age, two years feel like one! Your second question about why I left so mysteriously is probably unnecessary. You figured it out, didn’t you?'

'No, I never once guessed,' she said simply; 'nor did Charles, nor did anybody as far as I know.'

'No, I never once guessed,' she said simply; 'nor did Charles, nor did anyone else as far as I know.'

'Well, indeed! Now think it over again, and then look at me, and say if you can't guess?'

'Well, really! Now take a moment to think it over again, then look at me and tell me if you can't figure it out?'

She looked him in the face with an inquiring smile. 'Surely not because of me?' she said, pausing at the commencement of surprise.

She looked him in the face with a curious smile. 'Surely not because of me?' she asked, pausing at the start of her surprise.

Barnet nodded, and smiled again; but his smile was sadder than hers.

Barnet nodded and smiled again, but his smile was sadder than hers.

'Because I married Charles?' she asked.

'Is it because I married Charles?' she asked.

'Yes; solely because you married him on the day I was free to ask you to marry me. My wife died four-and-twenty hours before you went to church with Downe. The fixing of my journey at that particular moment was because of her funeral; but once away I knew I should have no inducement to come back, and took my steps accordingly.'

'Yes; only because you married him on the day I was finally able to ask you to marry me. My wife passed away just twenty-four hours before you went to church with Downe. I planned my trip for that specific time because of her funeral; but once I was away, I knew I wouldn’t have any reason to come back, so I acted accordingly.'

Her face assumed an aspect of gentle reflection, and she looked up and down his form with great interest in her eyes. 'I never thought of it!' she said. 'I knew, of course, that you had once implied some warmth of feeling towards me, but I concluded that it passed off. And I have always been under the impression that your wife was alive at the time of my marriage. Was it not stupid of me!-But you will have some tea or something? I have never dined late, you know, since my husband's death. I have got into the way of making a regular meal of tea. You will have some tea with me, will you not?'

Her face took on a look of gentle contemplation, and she examined him with great interest in her eyes. "I never considered that!" she said. "I knew you had once hinted at having some feelings for me, but I thought that had faded away. And I've always been under the impression that your wife was alive when I got married. Wasn't that foolish of me? But would you like some tea or something? I haven't had dinner late since my husband passed away. I've gotten into the habit of having a proper meal with tea. You'll have some tea with me, won't you?"

The travelled man assented quite readily, and tea was brought in. They sat and chatted over the meal, regardless of the flying hour. 'Well, well!' said Barnet presently, as for the first time he leisurely surveyed the room; 'how like it all is, and yet how different! Just where your piano stands was a board on a couple of trestles, bearing the patterns of wall-papers, when I was last here. I was choosing them-standing in this way, as it might be. Then my servant came in at the door, and handed me a note, so. It was from Downe, and announced that you were just going to be married to him. I chose no more wall- papers-tore up all those I had selected, and left the house. I never entered it again till now.'

The traveled man agreed easily, and tea was brought in. They sat and talked over the meal, not paying any attention to how quickly time was passing. "Well, well!" Barnet said after a while, as he finally took a good look around the room. "It's so familiar, yet so different! Right where your piano is now, there used to be a board on some trestles with wallpaper samples when I was last here. I was picking them out — standing just like this. Then my servant walked in and handed me a note. It was from Downe, saying you were about to marry him. I didn’t pick out any more wallpapers, ripped up all the ones I had chosen, and left the house. I never came back until now."

'Ah, at last I understand it all,' she murmured.

'Ah, finally, I get it all,' she murmured.

They had both risen and gone to the fireplace. The mantel came almost on a level with her shoulder, which gently rested against it, and Barnet laid his hand upon the shelf close beside her shoulder. 'Lucy,' he said, 'better late than never. Will you marry me now?'

They both got up and walked over to the fireplace. The mantel was almost at her shoulder height, which gently leaned against it, and Barnet placed his hand on the shelf near her shoulder. 'Lucy,' he said, 'better late than never. Will you marry me now?'

She started back, and the surprise which was so obvious in her wrought even greater surprise in him that it should be so. It was difficult to believe that she had been quite blind to the situation, and yet all reason and common sense went to prove that she was not acting.

She stepped back, and the shock that was so clear on her face only made his surprise even greater that it was the case. It was hard to believe that she had been completely unaware of the situation, yet all logic and common sense suggested that she wasn't pretending.

'You take me quite unawares by such a question!' she said, with a forced laugh of uneasiness. It was the first time she had shown any embarrassment at all. 'Why,' she added, 'I couldn't marry you for the world.'

'You really catch me off guard with that question!' she said, letting out a nervous laugh. It was the first time she had shown any sign of embarrassment. 'Well,' she continued, 'I couldn't marry you for anything.'

'Not after all this! Why not?'

'It is-I would-I really think I may say it-I would upon the whole rather marry you, Mr. Barnet, than any other man I have ever met, if I ever dreamed of marriage again. But I don't dream of it-it is quite out of my thoughts; I have not the least intention of marrying again.'

'Honestly, I think I can say this—I’d prefer to marry you, Mr. Barnet, over any other man I’ve ever met, if I ever even considered marriage again. But I don’t consider it; it’s not on my mind at all; I have no intention of getting married again.'

'But-on my account-couldn't you alter your plans a little? Come!'

'But for my sake, couldn’t you change your plans just a bit? Come on!'

'Dear Mr. Barnet,' she said with a little flutter, 'I would on your account if on anybody's in existence. But you don't know in the least what it is you are asking-such an impracticable thing-I won't say ridiculous, of course, because I see that you are really in earnest, and earnestness is never ridiculous to my mind.'

'Dear Mr. Barnet,' she said with a slight flutter, 'I would for your sake if for anyone else in the world. But you have no idea what you're asking—it's such an unrealistic request. I won't call it ridiculous, of course, because I can tell you're genuinely serious, and I never find seriousness to be ridiculous.'

'Well, yes,' said Barnet more slowly, dropping her hand, which he had taken at the moment of pleading, 'I am in earnest. The resolve, two months ago, at the Cape, to come back once more was, it is true, rather sudden, and as I see now, not well considered. But I am in earnest in asking.'

'Well, yes,' Barnet said more slowly, letting go of her hand, which he had held while pleading, 'I really mean it. The decision, two months ago, at the Cape, to come back again was, I admit, pretty sudden, and looking back, not very well thought out. But I’m serious about my request.'

'And I in declining. With all good feeling and all kindness, let me say that I am quite opposed to the idea of marrying a second time.'

'And I am declining. With all good feelings and kindness, let me say that I am completely opposed to the idea of getting married again.'

'Well, no harm has been done,' he answered, with the same subdued and tender humorousness that he had shown on such occasions in early life. 'If you really won't accept me, I must put up with it, I suppose.' His eye fell on the clock as he spoke. 'Had you any notion that it was so late?' he asked. 'How absorbed I have been!'

'Well, no harm done,' he replied, with the same soft and gentle humor he used to show in earlier days. 'If you truly won't accept me, I guess I just have to deal with it.' His gaze drifted to the clock as he spoke. 'Did you have any idea it was so late?' he asked. 'I can’t believe how absorbed I’ve been!'

She accompanied him to the hall, helped him to put on his overcoat, and let him out of the house herself.

She walked him to the hall, helped him put on his coat, and let him out of the house herself.

'Good-night,' said Barnet, on the doorstep, as the lamp shone in his face. 'You are not offended with me?'

'Goodnight,' said Barnet, on the doorstep, as the lamp lit up his face. 'Are you not mad at me?'

'Certainly not. Nor you with me?'

'Of course not. Are you with me?'

'I'll consider whether I am or not,' he pleasantly replied. 'Good- night.'

"I'll think about it," he replied kindly. "Good night."

She watched him safely through the gate; and when his footsteps had died away upon the road, closed the door softly and returned to the room. Here the modest widow long pondered his speeches, with eyes dropped to an unusually low level. Barnet's urbanity under the blow of her refusal greatly impressed her. After having his long period of probation rendered useless by her decision, he had shown no anger, and had philosophically taken her words as if he deserved no better ones. It was very gentlemanly of him, certainly; it was more than gentlemanly; it was heroic and grand. The more she meditated, the more she questioned the virtue of her conduct in checking him so peremptorily; and went to her bedroom in a mood of dissatisfaction. On looking in the glass she was reminded that there was not so much remaining of her former beauty as to make his frank declaration an impulsive natural homage to her cheeks and eyes; it must undoubtedly have arisen from an old staunch feeling of his, deserving tenderest consideration. She recalled to her mind with much pleasure that he had told her he was staying at the Black-Bull Hotel; so that if, after waiting a day or two, he should not, in his modesty, call again, she might then send him a nice little note. To alter her views for the present was far from her intention; but she would allow herself to be induced to reconsider the case, as any generous woman ought to do.

She watched him safely through the gate, and when his footsteps faded along the road, she gently closed the door and went back to the room. There, the modest widow reflected on his words, her gaze cast down unusually low. She was deeply impressed by Barnet's grace in response to her rejection. After all his waiting was rendered pointless by her decision, he had shown no anger, accepting her words as if he didn’t expect anything better. It was certainly very gentlemanly of him; it was more than that—it was heroic and noble. The more she thought about it, the more she questioned whether it was right to have turned him down so firmly, and she went to her bedroom feeling unsatisfied. When she looked in the mirror, she was reminded that her former beauty had faded so much that his open admiration couldn’t simply be a spontaneous tribute to her cheeks and eyes; it must have come from a lasting affection of his, which deserved the kindest consideration. She happily recalled that he had mentioned he was staying at the Black-Bull Hotel, so if he didn’t call again after a day or two—out of modesty—she could send him a nice little note. Changing her mind for now was far from her intention, but she would allow herself to reconsider, as any generous woman should.

The morrow came and passed, and Mr. Barnet did not drop in. At every knock, light youthful hues flew across her cheek; and she was abstracted in the presence of her other visitors. In the evening she walked about the house, not knowing what to do with herself; the conditions of existence seemed totally different from those which ruled only four-and- twenty short hours ago. What had been at first a tantalizing elusive sentiment was getting acclimatized within her as a definite hope, and her person was so informed by that emotion that she might almost have stood as its emblematical representative by the time the clock struck ten. In short, an interest in Barnet precisely resembling that of her early youth led her present heart to belie her yesterday's words to him, and she longed to see him again.

The next day came and went, and Mr. Barnet still didn't show up. Every time she heard a knock, a youthful blush spread across her cheeks, and she was preoccupied with her other guests. In the evening, she wandered around the house, unsure of what to do with herself; the way she experienced life felt completely different from just twenty-four short hours before. What had started as a teasing, elusive feeling was becoming a clear hope within her, and she felt so filled with that emotion that she could almost have been its symbol by the time the clock struck ten. In short, her interest in Barnet, much like that of her younger days, made her heart contradict her words from the day before, and she found herself longing to see him again.

The next day she walked out early, thinking she might meet him in the street. The growing beauty of her romance absorbed her, and she went from the street to the fields, and from the fields to the shore, without any consciousness of distance, till reminded by her weariness that she could go no further. He had nowhere appeared. In the evening she took a step which under the circumstances seemed justifiable; she wrote a note to him at the hotel, inviting him to tea with her at six precisely, and signing her note 'Lucy.'

The next day, she left early, hoping to run into him in the street. The excitement of her romance captivated her, and she wandered from the street to the fields, and from the fields to the shore, losing track of how far she had traveled until her exhaustion made her realize she couldn’t go on. He never showed up. In the evening, she took a step that felt justifiable given the situation; she wrote him a note at the hotel, inviting him to tea with her at six sharp, and signed it 'Lucy.'

In a quarter of an hour the messenger came back. Mr. Barnet had left the hotel early in the morning of the day before, but he had stated that he would probably return in the course of the week.

In fifteen minutes, the messenger returned. Mr. Barnet had left the hotel early the morning before, but he mentioned that he would likely be back sometime this week.

The note was sent back, to be given to him immediately on his arrival.

The note was sent back to be given to him as soon as he arrived.

There was no sign from the inn that this desired event had occurred, either on the next day or the day following. On both nights she had been restless, and had scarcely slept half-an-hour.

There was no indication from the inn that this hoped-for event had taken place, either the next day or the day after. On both nights, she had been uneasy and barely slept for half an hour.

On the Saturday, putting off all diffidence, Lucy went herself to the Black-Bull, and questioned the staff closely.

On Saturday, setting aside all her hesitation, Lucy went to the Black-Bull herself and asked the staff a lot of questions.

Mr. Barnet had cursorily remarked when leaving that he might return on the Thursday or Friday, but they were directed not to reserve a room for him unless he should write.

Mr. Barnet briefly mentioned when he left that he might come back on Thursday or Friday, but they were instructed not to book a room for him unless he wrote.

He had left no address.

He left no address.

Lucy sorrowfully took back her note went home, and resolved to wait.

Lucy sadly took back her note, went home, and decided to wait.

She did wait-years and years-but Barnet never reappeared.

She waited for years and years, but Barnet never came back.

April 1880.

INTERLOPERS AT THE KNAP

I

The north road from Casterbridge is tedious and lonely, especially in winter-time. Along a part of its course it connects with Long-Ash Lane, a monotonous track without a village or hamlet for many miles, and with very seldom a turning. Unapprized wayfarers who are too old, or too young, or in other respects too weak for the distance to be traversed, but who, nevertheless, have to walk it, say, as they look wistfully ahead, 'Once at the top of that hill, and I must surely see the end of Long-Ash Lane!' But they reach the hilltop, and Long-Ash Lane stretches in front as mercilessly as before.

The north road from Casterbridge is tiresome and desolate, especially in winter. For part of its journey, it merges with Long-Ash Lane, a dull path that goes for miles without a village or even a small community in sight, and hardly any turns. Travelers who are too old, too young, or otherwise too weak to cover the distance, but still need to walk it, often say with a wistful glance ahead, "Once I get to the top of that hill, I'll definitely see the end of Long-Ash Lane!" But when they finally reach the hilltop, Long-Ash Lane stretches out before them just as relentlessly as before.

Some few years ago a certain farmer was riding through this lane in the gloom of a winter evening. The farmer's friend, a dairyman, was riding beside him. A few paces in the rear rode the farmer's man. All three were well horsed on strong, round-barrelled cobs; and to be well horsed was to be in better spirits about Long-Ash Lane than poor pedestrians could attain to during its passage.

A few years ago, a farmer was riding through this lane on a dark winter evening. His friend, a dairyman, was riding next to him. A bit behind, the farmer's worker was also riding. All three had sturdy, round-barreled horses, and being well-mounted made them feel more cheerful about Long-Ash Lane than the poor pedestrians could manage while walking through it.

But the farmer did not talk much to his friend as he rode along. The enterprise which had brought him there filled his mind; for in truth it was important. Not altogether so important was it, perhaps, when estimated by its value to society at large; but if the true measure of a deed be proportionate to the space it occupies in the heart of him who undertakes it, Farmer Charles Darton's business to-night could hold its own with the business of kings.

But the farmer didn’t say much to his friend as he rode along. The task that had brought him there occupied his thoughts because it was, in reality, significant. It might not be as important when judged by its value to society as a whole, but if the true measure of an action is based on how much it means to the person doing it, Farmer Charles Darton's work tonight could stand alongside the work of kings.

He was a large farmer. His turnover, as it is called, was probably thirty thousand pounds a year. He had a great many draught horses, a great many milch cows, and of sheep a multitude. This comfortable position was, however, none of his own making. It had been created by his father, a man of a very different stamp from the present representative of the line.

He was a big farmer. His income, as it's referred to, was probably thirty thousand pounds a year. He had a lot of draft horses, a lot of dairy cows, and countless sheep. This comfortable situation was, however, not of his own doing. It had been established by his father, a man very different from the current representative of the family.

Darton, the father, had been a one-idea'd character, with a buttoned-up pocket and a chink-like eye brimming with commercial subtlety. In Darton the son, this trade subtlety had become transmuted into emotional, and the harshness had disappeared; he would have been called a sad man but for his constant care not to divide himself from lively friends by piping notes out of harmony with theirs. Contemplative, he allowed his mind to be a quiet meeting-place for memories and hopes. So that, naturally enough, since succeeding to the agricultural calling, and up to his present age of thirty-two, he had neither advanced nor receded as a capitalist-a stationary result which did not agitate one of his unambitious, unstrategic nature, since he had all that he desired. The motive of his expedition to-night showed the same absence of anxious regard for Number One.

Darton, the father, was a one-track thinker, with a buttoned pocket and a sharp eye full of business savvy. In Darton the son, this business cleverness transformed into emotional depth, and the harshness faded away; he might have been seen as a sad man if not for his constant effort to stay in tune with his lively friends. Reflective, he let his mind be a calm space for memories and dreams. So, naturally, since taking over the farming business and up to his current age of thirty-two, he hadn’t made any gains or losses as a capitalist—a stable situation that didn't bother someone of his laid-back, unambitious nature, since he had everything he wanted. The reason for his outing tonight showed the same lack of concern for himself.

The party rode on in the slow, safe trot proper to night-time and bad roads, Farmer Darton's head jigging rather unromantically up and down against the sky, and his motions being repeated with bolder emphasis by his friend Japheth Johns; while those of the latter were travestied in jerks still less softened by art in the person of the lad who attended them. A pair of whitish objects hung one on each side of the latter, bumping against him at each step, and still further spoiling the grace of his seat. On close inspection they might have been perceived to be open rush baskets-one containing a turkey, and the other some bottles of wine.

The group continued at a slow, steady pace suitable for nighttime and rough roads, with Farmer Darton's head bouncing rather unromantically up and down against the sky, a movement echoed with more intensity by his friend Japheth Johns. The jerks of Japheth were even less refined as they were mirrored by the lad who accompanied them. On either side of the boy, a pair of whitish objects swung, hitting him with every step and further ruining the elegance of his posture. On closer look, they could be seen as open rush baskets—one holding a turkey and the other containing some bottles of wine.

'D'ye feel ye can meet your fate like a man, neighbour Darton?' asked Johns, breaking a silence which had lasted while five-and-twenty hedgerow trees had glided by.

"Do you think you can face your fate like a man, neighbor Darton?" asked Johns, breaking a silence that had lasted while twenty-five hedgerow trees passed by.

Mr. Darton with a half-laugh murmured, 'Ay-call it my fate! Hanging and wiving go by destiny.' And then they were silent again.

Mr. Darton chuckled slightly and said, 'Yeah—call it my fate! Hanging and marrying are just part of destiny.' Then they fell silent again.

The darkness thickened rapidly, at intervals shutting down on the land in a perceptible flap, like the wave of a wing. The customary close of day was accelerated by a simultaneous blurring of the air. With the fall of night had come a mist just damp enough to incommode, but not sufficient to saturate them. Countrymen as they were-born, as may be said, with only an open door between them and the four seasons-they regarded the mist but as an added obscuration, and ignored its humid quality.

The darkness quickly thickened, at times settling on the land in a noticeable way, like the flap of a wing. The usual end of the day was sped up by a simultaneous haziness in the air. With nightfall came a mist just wet enough to be annoying, but not enough to soak them. Being country folks, as if they were born with just an open door between them and the four seasons, they saw the mist as just another layer of obscurity and ignored its dampness.

They were travelling in a direction that was enlivened by no modern current of traffic, the place of Darton's pilgrimage being an old- fashioned village-one of the Hintocks (several villages of that name, with a distinctive prefix or affix, lying thereabout)-where the people make the best cider and cider-wine in all Wessex, and where the dunghills smell of pomace instead of stable refuse as elsewhere. The lane was sometimes so narrow that the brambles of the hedge, which hung forward like anglers' rods over a stream, scratched their hats and curry-combed their whiskers as they passed. Yet this neglected lane had been a highway to Queen Elizabeth's subjects and the cavalcades of the past. Its day was over now, and its history as a national artery done for ever.

They were traveling in a direction that had no modern traffic, heading to Darton's destination in an old-fashioned village—one of the Hintocks (there are several villages with that name, each with its own unique prefix or suffix) —where the locals make the best cider and cider-wine in all of Wessex, and where the smell of the dunghills is more like pomace than stable waste. The lane was sometimes so narrow that the brambles from the hedge, which hung over like fishing rods above a stream, scratched their hats and ruffled their beards as they went by. Yet this forgotten lane had once been a main road for Queen Elizabeth's subjects and the parades of the past. Its time was over now, and its role as a national route was gone forever.

'Why I have decided to marry her,' resumed Darton (in a measured musical voice of confidence which revealed a good deal of his composition), as he glanced round to see that the lad was not too near, 'is not only that I like her, but that I can do no better, even from a fairly practical point of view. That I might ha' looked higher is possibly true, though it is really all nonsense. I have had experience enough in looking above me. "No more superior women for me," said I-you know when. Sally is a comely, independent, simple character, with no make-up about her, who'll think me as much a superior to her as I used to think-you know who I mean-was to me.'

'Why I’ve decided to marry her,' Darton continued (in a steady, confident tone that revealed a lot about his character), as he looked around to make sure the guy wasn’t too close, 'is not just because I like her, but because I really can’t do any better, even practically speaking. It’s probably true that I could have aimed higher, but that’s really just nonsense. I’ve had enough experience aiming above my station. “No more women superior to me,” I said—you know when. Sally is an attractive, independent, down-to-earth person, with no pretenses, who’ll think of me as much better than her as I used to think—you know who I mean—was to me.'

'Ay,' said Johns. 'However, I shouldn't call Sally Hall simple. Primary, because no Sally is; secondary, because if some could be, this one wouldn't. 'Tis a wrong denomination to apply to a woman, Charles, and affects me, as your best man, like cold water. 'Tis like recommending a stage play by saying there's neither murder, villainy, nor harm of any sort in it, when that's what you've paid your half-crown to see.'

"Ay," said Johns. "But I shouldn't label Sally Hall as simple. First of all, no Sally is; and second, if any could be, she definitely wouldn't be. It's a totally unfair label to put on a woman, Charles, and as your best man, it really bothers me, like cold water. It's like recommending a play by saying there’s no murder, villainy, or any kind of wrongdoing in it when that's exactly what you paid your half-crown to see."

'Well; may your opinion do you good. Mine's a different one.' And turning the conversation from the philosophical to the practical, Darton expressed a hope that the said Sally had received what he'd sent on by the carrier that day.

'Well, I hope your opinion serves you well. I have a different one.' And shifting the conversation from the philosophical to the practical, Darton expressed hope that Sally had received what he sent with the carrier that day.

Johns wanted to know what that was.

'It is a dress,' said Darton. 'Not exactly a wedding-dress; though she may use it as one if she likes. It is rather serviceable than showy-suitable for the winter weather.'

'It's a dress,' said Darton. 'Not exactly a wedding dress, but she can use it as one if she wants. It's more practical than flashy—just right for the winter weather.'

'Good,' said Johns. 'Serviceable is a wise word in a bridegroom. I commend ye, Charles.'

'Good,' said Johns. 'Serviceable is a smart word for a groom. I commend you, Charles.'

'For,' said Darton, 'why should a woman dress up like a rope-dancer because she's going to do the most solemn deed of her life except dying?'

'For,' said Darton, 'why should a woman dress like a tightrope walker just because she's about to do the most serious thing in her life besides dying?'

'Faith, why? But she will, because she will, I suppose,' said Dairyman Johns.

'Faith, why? But she will, because she will, I guess,' said Dairyman Johns.

'H'm,' said Darton.

'Hmm,' said Darton.

The lane they followed had been nearly straight for several miles, but it now took a turn, and winding uncertainly for some distance forked into two. By night country roads are apt to reveal ungainly qualities which pass without observation during day; and though Darton had travelled this way before, he had not done so frequently, Sally having been wooed at the house of a relative near his own. He never remembered seeing at this spot a pair of alternative ways looking so equally probable as these two did now. Johns rode on a few steps.

The road they followed had been almost straight for several miles, but it took a turn and then wound uncertainly for a distance before splitting into two. At night, rural roads often show awkward features that go unnoticed during the day; and although Darton had traveled this route before, it hadn't been often, as Sally had been courted at a relative's house near his own. He didn't remember ever seeing two paths here that looked so equally likely as these did now. Johns rode on a few more steps.

'Don't be out of heart, sonny,' he cried. 'Here's a handpost. Enoch-come and climm this post, and tell us the way.'

'Don't lose hope, kid,' he shouted. 'There's a signpost. Enoch, come over and climb this post, and let us know the way.'

The lad dismounted, and jumped into the hedge where the post stood under a tree.

The boy got off his horse and jumped into the bushes where the post was standing under a tree.

'Unstrap the baskets, or you'll smash up that wine!' cried Darton, as the young man began spasmodically to climb the post, baskets and all.

'Unstrap the baskets, or you'll break that wine!' shouted Darton, as the young man started to clumsily climb the post, baskets and all.

'Was there ever less head in a brainless world?' said Johns. 'Here, simple Nocky, I'll do it.' He leapt off, and with much puffing climbed the post, striking a match when he reached the top, and moving the light along the arm, the lad standing and gazing at the spectacle.

'Was there ever less sense in a clueless world?' said Johns. 'Here, simple Nocky, I'll take care of it.' He jumped down and, breathing heavily, climbed the post. When he got to the top, he struck a match and moved the light along the arm, while the boy stood there, watching the show.

'I have faced tantalization these twenty years with a temper as mild as milk!' said Japheth; 'but such things as this don't come short of devilry!' And flinging the match away, he slipped down to the ground.

'I have been tempted for twenty years with a temper as mild as milk!' said Japheth; 'but things like this are nothing less than wickedness!' And throwing the match aside, he jumped down to the ground.

'What's the matter?' asked Darton.

"What's wrong?" asked Darton.

'Not a letter, sacred or heathen-not so much as would tell us the way to the great fireplace-ever I should sin to say it! Either the moss and mildew have eat away the words, or we have arrived in a land where the natyves have lost the art o' writing, and should ha' brought our compass like Christopher Columbus.'

'Not a single letter, sacred or otherwise—not even one that could guide us to the great fireplace—I would feel wrong to say it! Either the moss and mildew have decayed the words, or we’ve come to a land where the natives have forgotten how to write, and we should have brought our compass like Christopher Columbus.'

'Let us take the straightest road,' said Darton placidly; 'I shan't be sorry to get there-'tis a tiresome ride. I would have driven if I had known.'

'Let's take the fastest route,' Darton said calmly; 'I won't be sad to arrive—it's a tiring ride. I would have driven if I had known.'

'Nor I neither, sir,' said Enoch. 'These straps plough my shoulder like a zull. If 'tis much further to your lady's home, Maister Darton, I shall ask to be let carry half of these good things in my innerds-hee, hee!'

'Neither do I, sir,' said Enoch. 'These straps dig into my shoulder like a zull. If it's any farther to your lady's home, Master Darton, I might just ask to carry half of these goodies in my stomach—hee, hee!'

'Don't you be such a reforming radical, Enoch,' said Johns sternly. 'Here, I'll take the turkey.'

'Don't be such a radical reformer, Enoch,' Johns said firmly. 'Here, I'll handle the turkey.'

This being done, they went forward by the right-hand lane, which ascended a hill, the left winding away under a plantation. The pit-a- pat of their horses' hoofs lessened up the slope; and the ironical directing-post stood in solitude as before, holding out its blank arms to the raw breeze, which brought a snore from the wood as if Skrymir the Giant were sleeping there.

This done, they moved ahead on the right lane, which climbed a hill, while the left veered off under a plantation. The sound of their horses' hooves faded as they ascended; the ironic signpost remained alone as before, extending its blank arms to the chilly breeze, which gave off a snore from the woods as if Skrymir the Giant were sleeping there.

II

Three miles to the left of the travellers, along the road they had not followed, rose an old house with mullioned windows of Ham-hill stone, and chimneys of lavish solidity. It stood at the top of a slope beside King's-Hintock village-street; and immediately in front of it grew a large sycamore-tree, whose bared roots formed a convenient staircase from the road below to the front door of the dwelling. Its situation gave the house what little distinctive name it possessed, namely, 'The Knap.' Some forty yards off a brook dribbled past, which, for its size, made a great deal of noise. At the back was a dairy barton, accessible for vehicles and live-stock by a side 'drong.' Thus much only of the character of the homestead could be divined out of doors at this shady evening-time.

Three miles to the left of the travelers, along the road they hadn't taken, stood an old house with mullioned windows made of Ham-hill stone and sturdy chimneys. It was perched at the top of a slope next to King's-Hintock village street; right in front of it was a large sycamore tree, whose exposed roots created a convenient staircase from the road below to the front door of the house. Its location gave the house its somewhat unique name, 'The Knap.' About forty yards away, a small brook gurgled by, making a surprising amount of noise for its size. At the back was a dairy yard, accessible for vehicles and livestock through a side path. This was about all that could be gathered about the character of the homestead from outside at this shady evening time.

But within there was plenty of light to see by, as plenty was construed at Hintock. Beside a Tudor fireplace, whose moulded four-centred arch was nearly hidden by a figured blue-cloth blower, were seated two women-mother and daughter-Mrs. Hall, and Sarah, or Sally; for this was a part of the world where the latter modification had not as yet been effaced as a vulgarity by the march of intellect. The owner of the name was the young woman by whose means Mr. Darton proposed to put an end to his bachelor condition on the approaching day.

But inside, there was more than enough light to see, as more than enough was understood in Hintock. Next to a Tudor fireplace, whose shaped four-centred arch was almost concealed by a patterned blue-cloth blower, sat two women—a mother and daughter—Mrs. Hall and Sarah, or Sally; because this was a part of the world where the latter name hadn’t yet been considered old-fashioned due to the progress of society. The young woman with that name was the one through whom Mr. Darton planned to end his bachelor life on the upcoming day.

The mother's bereavement had been so long ago as not to leave much mark of its occurrence upon her now, either in face or clothes. She had resumed the mob-cap of her early married life, enlivening its whiteness by a few rose-du-Barry ribbons. Sally required no such aids to pinkness. Roseate good-nature lit up her gaze; her features showed curves of decision and judgment; and she might have been regarded without much mistake as a warm-hearted, quick-spirited, handsome girl.

The mother's loss had happened so long ago that it didn't leave much of an impact on her now, either in her appearance or her clothing. She had gone back to wearing the mob-cap from her early married days, brightened up with a few pink ribbons. Sally didn't need any such embellishments to look rosy. A cheerful, warm demeanor brightened her eyes; her features displayed clear signs of determination and insight, and she could be easily seen as a warm-hearted, spirited, attractive young woman.

She did most of the talking, her mother listening with a half-absent air, as she picked up fragments of red-hot wood ember with the tongs, and piled them upon the brands. But the number of speeches that passed was very small in proportion to the meanings exchanged. Long experience together often enabled them to see the course of thought in each other's minds without a word being spoken. Behind them, in the centre of the room, the table was spread for supper, certain whiffs of air laden with fat vapours, which ever and anon entered from the kitchen, denoting its preparation there.

She did most of the talking, while her mother listened with a distant look, picking up pieces of red-hot wood embers with the tongs and stacking them on the fire. But the number of conversations they had was very small compared to the understanding they shared. Their long experience together often allowed them to grasp each other's thoughts without saying a word. Behind them, in the center of the room, the table was set for dinner, with occasional whiffs of air filled with greasy scents wafting in from the kitchen, indicating that the meal was being prepared.

'The new gown he was going to send you stays about on the way like himself,' Sally's mother was saying.

'The new gown he plans to send you is on its way, just like him,' Sally's mother said.

'Yes, not finished, I daresay,' cried Sally independently. 'Lord, I shouldn't be amazed if it didn't come at all! Young men make such kind promises when they are near you, and forget 'em when they go away. But he doesn't intend it as a wedding-gown-he gives it to me merely as a gown to wear when I like-a travelling-dress is what it would be called by some. Come rathe or come late it don't much matter, as I have a dress of my own to fall back upon. But what time is it?'

'Yes, it's definitely not done yet,' Sally said confidently. 'Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if it never shows up at all! Young guys make all these promises when they're with you, then completely forget about them once they leave. But he doesn’t mean it as a wedding dress—he's just giving it to me as a regular dress to wear whenever I want. Some would call it a traveling dress. Whether it comes early or late doesn't really matter, since I have a dress of my own to fall back on. But what time is it?'

She went to the family clock and opened the glass, for the hour was not otherwise discernible by night, and indeed at all times was rather a thing to be investigated than beheld, so much more wall than window was there in the apartment. 'It is nearly eight,' said she.

She went to the family clock and opened the glass, since the hour couldn't be seen clearly at night, and honestly, it was always something to be figured out rather than just looked at, with way more wall than window in the room. 'It's almost eight,' she said.

'Eight o'clock, and neither dress nor man,' said Mrs. Hall.

'Eight o'clock, and neither the dress nor the guy,' said Mrs. Hall.

'Mother, if you think to tantalize me by talking like that, you are much mistaken! Let him be as late as he will-or stay away altogether-I don't care,' said Sally. But a tender, minute quaver in the negation showed that there was something forced in that statement.

'Mom, if you think you're frustrating me by talking like that, you're totally wrong! He can be as late as he wants—or even not show up at all—I don't care,' Sally said. But a subtle, gentle tremor in her denial revealed that there was something untrue in that statement.

Mrs. Hall perceived it, and drily observed that she was not so sure about Sally not caring. 'But perhaps you don't care so much as I do, after all,' she said. 'For I see what you don't, that it is a good and flourishing match for you; a very honourable offer in Mr. Darton. And I think I see a kind husband in him. So pray God 'twill go smooth, and wind up well.'

Mrs. Hall noticed it and dryly remarked that she wasn't so sure about Sally not caring. "But maybe you don't care as much as I do, after all," she said. "Because I see what you don't: this is a great and thriving match for you; a very respectable proposal from Mr. Darton. And I think he’ll make a kind husband. So I pray God that it goes smoothly and ends well."

Sally would not listen to misgivings. Of course it would go smoothly, she asserted. 'How you are up and down, mother!' she went on. 'At this moment, whatever hinders him, we are not so anxious to see him as he is to be here, and his thought runs on before him, and settles down upon us like the star in the east. Hark!' she exclaimed, with a breath of relief, her eyes sparkling. 'I heard something. Yes-here they are!'

Sally ignored any doubts. "Of course it will go smoothly," she insisted. "You go from being worried to calm, Mom!" she continued. "Right now, no matter what stands in his way, we're not as eager to see him as he is to be here, and his thoughts are racing ahead of him, landing on us like the star in the east. Listen!" she said, taking a breath of relief, her eyes shining. "I heard something. Yes—here they are!"

The next moment her mother's slower ear also distinguished the familiar reverberation occasioned by footsteps clambering up the roots of the sycamore.

The next moment, her mother's keen ear also picked up the familiar sound of footsteps climbing up the roots of the sycamore.

'Yes it sounds like them at last,' she said. 'Well, it is not so very late after all, considering the distance.'

'Yeah, it finally sounds like them,' she said. 'Well, it’s not that late after all, given the distance.'

The footfall ceased, and they arose, expecting a knock. They began to think it might have been, after all, some neighbouring villager under Bacchic influence, giving the centre of the road a wide berth, when their doubts were dispelled by the new-comer's entry into the passage. The door of the room was gently opened, and there appeared, not the pair of travellers with whom we have already made acquaintance, but a pale- faced man in the garb of extreme poverty-almost in rags.

The footsteps stopped, and they stood up, expecting a knock. They began to wonder if it might have been, after all, a nearby villager under the influence of alcohol, carefully avoiding the center of the road, when their doubts were removed by the newcomer entering the passage. The door to the room was quietly opened, and instead of the two travelers we already know, a pale-faced man dressed in tattered clothes showed up.

'O, it's a tramp-gracious me!' said Sally, starting back.

'O, it's a tramp—oh my gosh!' said Sally, stepping back.

His cheeks and eye-orbits were deep concaves-rather, it might be, from natural weakness of constitution than irregular living, though there were indications that he had led no careful life. He gazed at the two women fixedly for a moment: then with an abashed, humiliated demeanour, dropped his glance to the floor, and sank into a chair without uttering a word.

His cheeks and eye sockets were deeply hollowed—perhaps more from natural frailty than from a reckless lifestyle, though there were signs he hadn't lived carefully. He stared at the two women intently for a moment; then, feeling embarrassed and ashamed, he looked down at the floor and sank into a chair without saying anything.

Sally was in advance of her mother, who had remained standing by the fire. She now tried to discern the visitor across the candles.

Sally was ahead of her mother, who had stayed by the fire. She now tried to make out the visitor through the candles.

'Why-mother,' said Sally faintly, turning back to Mrs. Hall. 'It is Phil, from Australia!'

'Why, Mom,' said Sally weakly, turning back to Mrs. Hall. 'It's Phil from Australia!'

Mrs. Hall started, and grew pale, and a fit of coughing seized the man with the ragged clothes. 'To come home like this!' she said. 'O, Philip-are you ill?'

Mrs. Hall jumped, turned pale, and the man in ragged clothes started coughing. "Coming home like this!" she exclaimed. "Oh, Philip—are you sick?"

'No, no, mother,' replied he impatiently, as soon as he could speak.

'No, no, mom,' he said impatiently, as soon as he could speak.

'But for God's sake how do you come here-and just now too?'

'But for God’s sake, how did you get here—and just now, too?'

'Well, I am here,' said the man. 'How it is I hardly know. I've come home, mother, because I was driven to it. Things were against me out there, and went from bad to worse.'

'Well, I’m here,' said the man. 'How I got here, I hardly know. I came home, mom, because I had no choice. Things were tough out there, and they just got worse.'

'Then why didn't you let us know?-you've not writ a line for the last two or three years.'

'Then why didn't you tell us? You haven't written a single line in the last two or three years.'

The son admitted sadly that he had not. He said that he had hoped and thought he might fetch up again, and be able to send good news. Then he had been obliged to abandon that hope, and had finally come home from sheer necessity-previously to making a new start. 'Yes, things are very bad with me,' he repeated, perceiving their commiserating glances at his clothes.

The son sadly admitted that he hadn’t. He mentioned that he had hoped and thought he might turn things around and send back some good news. But then he had to give up that hope and ultimately came home out of sheer necessity—before trying to make a fresh start. “Yeah, things are really bad for me,” he repeated, noticing their sympathetic looks at his clothes.

They brought him nearer the fire, took his hat from his thin hand, which was so small and smooth as to show that his attempts to fetch up again had not been in a manual direction. His mother resumed her inquiries, and dubiously asked if he had chosen to come that particular night for any special reason.

They brought him closer to the fire, took his hat from his thin hand, which was so small and smooth that it showed he hadn’t been working with his hands. His mother continued her questions and hesitantly asked if he had decided to come that night for any particular reason.

For no reason, he told her. His arrival had been quite at random. Then Philip Hall looked round the room, and saw for the first time that the table was laid somewhat luxuriously, and for a larger number than themselves; and that an air of festivity pervaded their dress. He asked quickly what was going on.

For no reason, he told her. His arrival had been totally random. Then Philip Hall looked around the room and noticed for the first time that the table was set somewhat lavishly, and for more people than just the two of them; and that a festive vibe was in their outfits. He quickly asked what was happening.

'Sally is going to be married in a day or two,' replied the mother; and she explained how Mr. Darton, Sally's intended husband, was coming there that night with the groomsman, Mr. Johns, and other details. 'We thought it must be their step when we heard you,' said Mrs. Hall.

'Sally is getting married in a day or two,' replied the mother; and she explained how Mr. Darton, Sally's future husband, was coming over tonight with the groomsman, Mr. Johns, along with other details. 'We figured it must be about that when we heard you,' said Mrs. Hall.

The needy wanderer looked again on the floor. 'I see-I see,' he murmured. 'Why, indeed, should I have come to-night? Such folk as I are not wanted here at these times, naturally. And I have no business here-spoiling other people's happiness.'

The needy wanderer looked at the floor again. 'I see—I see,' he murmured. 'Why did I even come here tonight? People like me aren't wanted here at these times, obviously. And I shouldn't be here—ruining other people's happiness.'

'Phil,' said his mother, with a tear in her eye, but with a thinness of lip and severity of manner which were presumably not more than past events justified; 'since you speak like that to me, I'll speak honestly to you. For these three years you have taken no thought for us. You left home with a good supply of money, and strength and education, and you ought to have made good use of it all. But you come back like a beggar; and that you come in a very awkward time for us cannot be denied. Your return to-night may do us much harm. But mind-you are welcome to this home as long as it is mine. I don't wish to turn you adrift. We will make the best of a bad job; and I hope you are not seriously ill?'

'Phil,' his mother said, her eyes glistening with tears, though her lips were thin and her expression serious, reflecting the weight of past events. 'Since you talk to me like that, I’ll be honest with you. For the past three years, you haven’t thought about us at all. You left home with plenty of money, strength, and an education, and you should have made the most of it. But now you come back looking like a beggar, and it’s undeniable that your timing is really unfortunate for us. Your return tonight could cause us a lot of trouble. But remember, you’re welcome here as long as this place belongs to me. I don’t want to kick you out. We’ll do our best with the situation, and I hope you’re not seriously ill?'

'O no. I have only this infernal cough.'

'O no. I just have this awful cough.'

She looked at him anxiously. 'I think you had better go to bed at once,' she said.

She looked at him nervously. "I think you should go to bed right now," she said.

'Well-I shall be out of the way there,' said the son wearily. 'Having ruined myself, don't let me ruin you by being seen in these togs, for Heaven's sake. Who do you say Sally is going to be married to-a Farmer Darton?'

'Well, I’ll be out of the way there,' said the son tiredly. 'Having messed up my life, please don’t let me mess up yours by being seen in these clothes, for heaven’s sake. Who do you say Sally is going to marry—a Farmer Darton?'

'Yes-a gentleman-farmer-quite a wealthy man. Far better in station than she could have expected. It is a good thing, altogether.'

'Yes, a gentleman farmer—quite a wealthy man. Much better off than she could have expected. It's a good thing, all in all.'

'Well done, little Sal!' said her brother, brightening and looking up at her with a smile. 'I ought to have written; but perhaps I have thought of you all the more. But let me get out of sight. I would rather go and jump into the river than be seen here. But have you anything I can drink? I am confoundedly thirsty with my long tramp.'

'Great job, little Sal!' her brother said, brightening and looking up at her with a smile. 'I should have written; but maybe I’ve thought about you even more. But I need to get out of sight. I’d rather jump into the river than be seen here. Do you have anything I can drink? I’m really thirsty after my long trek.'

'Yes, yes, we will bring something upstairs to you,' said Sally, with grief in her face.

'Yes, yes, we'll bring something up to you,' said Sally, her face full of sorrow.

'Ay, that will do nicely. But, Sally and mother-' He stopped, and they waited. 'Mother, I have not told you all,' he resumed slowly, still looking on the floor between his knees. 'Sad as what you see of me is, there's worse behind.'

'Ay, that will do nicely. But, Sally and mom-' He paused, and they waited. 'Mom, I haven't told you everything,' he continued slowly, still looking at the floor between his knees. 'As sad as you see me, there's worse underneath.'

His mother gazed upon him in grieved suspense, and Sally went and leant upon the bureau, listening for every sound, and sighing. Suddenly she turned round, saying, 'Let them come, I don't care! Philip, tell the worst, and take your time.'

His mother looked at him with a worried expression, while Sally leaned against the dresser, straining to hear every sound and letting out sighs. Suddenly, she turned and said, "Let them come, I don’t care! Philip, just tell us the worst, and take your time."

'Well, then,' said the unhappy Phil, 'I am not the only one in this mess. Would to Heaven I were! But-'

'Well, then,' said the unhappy Phil, 'I'm not the only one in this mess. I wish I were! But-'

'O, Phil!'

'Oh, Phil!'

'I have a wife as destitute as I.'

'I have a wife as broke as I am.'

'A wife?' said his mother.

"A wife?" his mother said.

'Unhappily!'

'Unfortunately!'

'A wife! Yes, that is the way with sons!'

'A wife! Yes, that's how it goes with sons!'

'And besides-' said he.

"And besides," he said.

'Besides! O, Philip, surely-'

"Besides! Oh, Philip, surely-"

'I have two little children.'

'I have two kids.'

'Wife and children!' whispered Mrs. Hall, sinking down confounded.

"Wife and kids!" whispered Mrs. Hall, sinking down in shock.

'Poor little things!' said Sally involuntarily.

'Poor little things!' Sally said without thinking.

His mother turned again to him. 'I suppose these helpless beings are left in Australia?'

His mother turned to him again. 'I guess these helpless beings are left in Australia?'

'No. They are in England.'

'No. They’re in England.'

'Well, I can only hope you've left them in a respectable place.'

'Well, I can only hope you've left them in a decent spot.'

'I have not left them at all. They are here-within a few yards of us. In short, they are in the stable.'

'I haven't left them at all. They're right here—just a few yards away from us. In short, they're in the stable.'

'Where?'

'Where at?'

'In the stable. I did not like to bring them indoors till I had seen you, mother, and broken the bad news a bit to you. They were very tired, and are resting out there on some straw.'

'In the stable. I didn't want to bring them inside until I talked to you, mom, and eased you into the bad news a little. They were really tired and are resting out there on some straw.'

Mrs. Hall's fortitude visibly broke down. She had been brought up not without refinement, and was even more moved by such a collapse of genteel aims as this than a substantial dairyman's widow would in ordinary have been moved. 'Well, it must be borne,' she said, in a low voice, with her hands tightly joined. 'A starving son, a starving wife, starving children! Let it be. But why is this come to us now, to-day, to-night? Could no other misfortune happen to helpless women than this, which will quite upset my poor girl's chance of a happy life? Why have you done us this wrong, Philip? What respectable man will come here, and marry open-eyed into a family of vagabonds?'

Mrs. Hall's strength clearly started to crumble. She had been raised with a certain level of refinement, and she was even more affected by such a collapse of proper expectations than a typical widow of a dairyman would have been. 'Well, we have to deal with it,' she said in a soft voice, her hands tightly clasped together. 'A starving son, a starving wife, starving children! It has to be accepted. But why has this happened to us now, today, tonight? Could no other misfortune occur to helpless women than this, which will completely ruin my poor girl's chance for a happy life? Why have you done this to us, Philip? What respectable man would come here and willingly marry into a family of outcasts?'

'Nonsense, mother!' said Sally vehemently, while her face flushed. 'Charley isn't the man to desert me. But if he should be, and won't marry me because Phil's come, let him go and marry elsewhere. I won't be ashamed of my own flesh and blood for any man in England-not I!' And then Sally turned away and burst into tears.

'Nonsense, Mom!' Sally said passionately, her face turning red. 'Charley isn't the type to abandon me. But if he does, and won’t marry me because of Phil, then he can go marry someone else. I won’t be ashamed of my own family for any man in England—not a chance!' And then Sally turned away and broke down in tears.

'Wait till you are twenty years older and you will tell a different tale,' replied her mother.

"Just wait until you're twenty years older, and you'll have a different story to tell," her mother replied.

The son stood up. 'Mother,' he said bitterly, 'as I have come, so I will go. All I ask of you is that you will allow me and mine to lie in your stable to-night. I give you my word that we'll be gone by break of day, and trouble you no further!'

The son stood up. "Mom," he said bitterly, "I'm here now, but I'll leave just as I came. All I ask is that you let me and my family stay in your stable tonight. I promise we'll be gone by dawn and won't bother you anymore!"

Mrs. Hall, the mother, changed at that. 'O no,' she answered hastily; 'never shall it be said that I sent any of my own family from my door. Bring 'em in, Philip, or take me out to them.'

Mrs. Hall, the mother, changed at that. 'Oh no,' she said quickly; 'it will never be said that I sent any of my own family away from my door. Bring them in, Philip, or take me out to them.'

'We will put 'em all into the large bedroom,' said Sally, brightening, 'and make up a large fire. Let's go and help them in, and call Rebekah.' (Rebekah was the woman who assisted at the dairy and housework; she lived in a cottage hard by with her husband, who attended to the cows.)

"We'll put them all in the big bedroom," said Sally, getting excited, "and make a big fire. Let’s go help them in and call Rebekah." (Rebekah was the woman who helped with the dairy and housework; she lived in a cottage nearby with her husband, who took care of the cows.)

Sally went to fetch a lantern from the back-kitchen, but her brother said, 'You won't want a light. I lit the lantern that was hanging there.'

Sally went to grab a lantern from the back kitchen, but her brother said, 'You don't need a light. I lit the lantern that was hanging there.'

'What must we call your wife?' asked Mrs. Hall.

'What should we call your wife?' asked Mrs. Hall.

'Helena,' said Philip.

"Helena," Philip said.

With shawls over their heads they proceeded towards the back door.

With shawls over their heads, they headed toward the back door.

'One minute before you go,' interrupted Philip. 'I-I haven't confessed all.'

'One minute before you go,' Philip interrupted. 'I-I haven't confessed everything.'

'Then Heaven help us!' said Mrs. Hall, pushing to the door and clasping her hands in calm despair.

'Then Heaven help us!' said Mrs. Hall, pushing the door open and clasping her hands in quiet despair.

'We passed through Evershead as we came,' he continued, 'and I just looked in at the "Sow-and-Acorn" to see if old Mike still kept on there as usual. The carrier had come in from Sherton Abbas at that moment, and guessing that I was bound for this place-for I think he knew me-he asked me to bring on a dressmaker's parcel for Sally that was marked "immediate." My wife had walked on with the children. 'Twas a flimsy parcel, and the paper was torn, and I found on looking at it that it was a thick warm gown. I didn't wish you to see poor Helena in a shabby state. I was ashamed that you should-'twas not what she was born to. I untied the parcel in the road, took it on to her where she was waiting in the Lower Barn, and told her I had managed to get it for her, and that she was to ask no question. She, poor thing, must have supposed I obtained it on trust, through having reached a place where I was known, for she put it on gladly enough. She has it on now. Sally has other gowns, I daresay.'

'We passed through Evershead on our way,' he continued, 'and I just stopped by the "Sow-and-Acorn" to see if old Mike was still around. The carrier had just returned from Sherton Abbas, and guessing I was headed this way—since I think he knew me—he asked me to deliver a dressmaker's parcel for Sally that was marked "urgent." My wife had already walked on with the kids. It was a flimsy package, and the paper was torn, and when I looked at it, I realized it was a thick warm gown. I didn’t want you to see poor Helena looking shabby. I was embarrassed that you should—this wasn’t what she was meant for. I opened the parcel in the road, took it to her where she was waiting in the Lower Barn, and told her I managed to get it for her and that she shouldn’t ask any questions. She, poor thing, must have thought I got it on credit since I was in a place where I was recognized, because she put it on happily enough. She’s wearing it now. Sally has other dresses, I’m sure.'

Sally looked at her mother, speechless.

Sally stared at her mom, unable to speak.

'You have others, I daresay!' repeated Phil, with a sick man's impatience. 'I thought to myself, "Better Sally cry than Helena freeze." Well, is the dress of great consequence? 'Twas nothing very ornamental, as far as I could see.'

'You have others, I’m sure!' Phil repeated, with the impatience of someone who's unwell. 'I thought to myself, "Better for Sally to cry than for Helena to feel left out." So, does the dress really matter? It wasn’t anything too flashy, as far as I could tell.'

'No-no; not of consequence,' returned Sally sadly, adding in a gentle voice, 'You will not mind if I lend her another instead of that one, will you?'

'No, no; it doesn't matter,' Sally replied sadly, adding in a soft voice, 'You won't mind if I lend her a different one instead of that one, will you?'

Philip's agitation at the confession had brought on another attack of the cough, which seemed to shake him to pieces. He was so obviously unfit to sit in a chair that they helped him upstairs at once; and having hastily given him a cordial and kindled the bedroom fire, they descended to fetch their unhappy new relations.

Philip's distress at the confession triggered another coughing fit that seemed to rattle him. He clearly wasn't well enough to sit in a chair, so they helped him upstairs right away. After quickly giving him a drink and lighting the fire in the bedroom, they went downstairs to get their troubled new relatives.

III

It was with strange feelings that the girl and her mother, lately so cheerful, passed out of the back door into the open air of the barton, laden with hay scents and the herby breath of cows. A fine sleet had begun to fall, and they trotted across the yard quickly. The stable- door was open; a light shone from it-from the lantern which always hung there, and which Philip had lighted, as he said. Softly nearing the door, Mrs. Hall pronounced the name 'Helena!'

It was with odd feelings that the girl and her mother, who had been so cheerful lately, stepped out of the back door into the fresh air of the yard, filled with the scent of hay and the herbal breath of cows. A fine sleet had started to fall, and they hurried across the yard. The stable door was open; light was shining from it—from the lantern that always hung there and which Philip had lit, as he mentioned. Quietly approaching the door, Mrs. Hall called out, 'Helena!'

There was no answer for the moment. Looking in she was taken by surprise. Two people appeared before her. For one, instead of the drabbish woman she had expected, Mrs. Hall saw a pale, dark-eyed, ladylike creature, whose personality ruled her attire rather than was ruled by it. She was in a new and handsome gown, of course, and an old bonnet. She was standing up, agitated; her hand was held by her companion-none else than Sally's affianced, Farmer Charles Darton, upon whose fine figure the pale stranger's eyes were fixed, as his were fixed upon her. His other hand held the rein of his horse, which was standing saddled as if just led in.

There was no answer at first. When she looked inside, she was surprised. Two people stood before her. Instead of the dull woman she had expected, Mrs. Hall saw a pale, dark-eyed, elegant woman whose presence defined her outfit rather than the other way around. She wore a new, beautiful dress and an old bonnet. She was standing, clearly anxious; her hand was held by her companion—none other than Sally's fiancé, Farmer Charles Darton, whose handsome figure the pale woman gazed at, just as he gazed at her. With his other hand, he held the reins of his horse, which was saddled as if it had just been brought in.

At sight of Mrs. Hall they both turned, looking at her in a way neither quite conscious nor unconscious, and without seeming to recollect that words were necessary as a solution to the scene. In another moment Sally entered also, when Mr. Darton dropped his companion's hand, led the horse aside, and came to greet his betrothed and Mrs. Hall.

At the sight of Mrs. Hall, they both turned to look at her in a way that was neither fully aware nor completely unaware, and without seeming to remember that words were needed to address the situation. In a moment, Sally walked in too, and Mr. Darton let go of his companion's hand, moved the horse aside, and came over to greet his fiancée and Mrs. Hall.

'Ah!' he said, smiling-with something like forced composure-'this is a roundabout way of arriving, you will say, my dear Mrs. Hall. But we lost our way, which made us late. I saw a light here, and led in my horse at once-my friend Johns and my man have gone back to the little inn with theirs, not to crowd you too much. No sooner had I entered than I saw that this lady had taken temporary shelter here-and found I was intruding.'

'Ah!' he said, forcing a smile, 'you might say this is a roundabout way of getting here, my dear Mrs. Hall. But we got lost, which is why we’re late. I saw a light here and brought my horse in right away—my friend Johns and my man went back to the little inn with theirs so we wouldn’t crowd you too much. The moment I walked in, I saw that this lady had taken temporary shelter here—and I realized I was intruding.'

'She is my daughter-in-law,' said Mrs. Hall calmly. 'My son, too, is in the house, but he has gone to bed unwell.'

'She is my daughter-in-law,' Mrs. Hall said calmly. 'My son is also in the house, but he has gone to bed feeling unwell.'

Sally had stood staring wonderingly at the scene until this moment, hardly recognizing Darton's shake of the hand. The spell that bound her was broken by her perceiving the two little children seated on a heap of hay. She suddenly went forward, spoke to them, and took one on her arm and the other in her hand.

Sally had been standing there, staring in amazement at the scene until this moment, barely recognizing Darton's handshake. The enchantment that held her was shattered when she noticed the two little kids sitting on a pile of hay. She quickly approached them, spoke to them, and picked one up into her arms while holding the other by the hand.

'And two children?' said Mr. Darton, showing thus that he had not been there long enough as yet to understand the situation.

'And two kids?' said Mr. Darton, showing that he hadn't been there long enough to grasp the situation.

'My grandchildren,' said Mrs. Hall, with as much affected ease as before.

'My grandchildren,' said Mrs. Hall, trying to sound casual, just like before.

Philip Hall's wife, in spite of this interruption to her first rencounter, seemed scarcely so much affected by it as to feel any one's presence in addition to Mr. Darton's. However, arousing herself by a quick reflection, she threw a sudden critical glance of her sad eyes upon Mrs. Hall; and, apparently finding her satisfactory, advanced to her in a meek initiative. Then Sally and the stranger spoke some friendly words to each other, and Sally went on with the children into the house. Mrs. Hall and Helena followed, and Mr. Darton followed these, looking at Helena's dress and outline, and listening to her voice like a man in a dream.

Philip Hall's wife, despite the interruption to her first encounter, seemed hardly affected enough to notice anyone else's presence besides Mr. Darton's. However, after a quick moment of reflection, she cast a sudden critical glance with her sad eyes at Mrs. Hall; evidently finding her acceptable, she approached her with a gentle initiative. Then Sally and the stranger exchanged some friendly words, and Sally continued on with the children into the house. Mrs. Hall and Helena followed, with Mr. Darton trailing behind, admiring Helena's dress and figure, and listening to her voice as if he were in a dream.

By the time the others reached the house Sally had already gone upstairs with the tired children. She rapped against the wall for Rebekah to come in and help to attend to them, Rebekah's house being a little 'spit-and-dab' cabin leaning against the substantial stone-work of Mrs. Hall's taller erection. When she came a bed was made up for the little ones, and some supper given to them. On descending the stairs after seeing this done Sally went to the sitting-room. Young Mrs. Hall entered it just in advance of her, having in the interim retired with her mother-in-law to take off her bonnet, and otherwise make herself presentable. Hence it was evident that no further communication could have passed between her and Mr. Darton since their brief interview in the stable.

By the time the others got to the house, Sally had already taken the tired children upstairs. She knocked on the wall for Rebekah to come in and help with them, since Rebekah’s place was a small, rundown cabin leaning against Mrs. Hall's larger, sturdier house. When Rebekah arrived, a bed was set up for the little ones, and they were given some supper. After she finished that, Sally went down to the sitting room. Young Mrs. Hall entered just ahead of her, having gone upstairs with her mother-in-law to take off her bonnet and get ready. So, it was clear that there hadn't been any further communication between her and Mr. Darton since their brief chat in the stable.

Mr. Japheth Johns now opportunely arrived, and broke up the restraint of the company, after a few orthodox meteorological commentaries had passed between him and Mrs. Hall by way of introduction. They at once sat down to supper, the present of wine and turkey not being produced for consumption to-night, lest the premature display of those gifts should seem to throw doubt on Mrs. Hall's capacities as a provider.

Mr. Japheth Johns arrived just in time and helped to lighten the mood of the group after he and Mrs. Hall exchanged a few standard comments about the weather as an introduction. They immediately sat down to dinner, with the wine and turkey not being served tonight, so as not to undermine Mrs. Hall’s skills as a host.

'Drink hearty, Mr. Johns-drink hearty,' said that matron magnanimously. 'Such as it is there's plenty of. But perhaps cider-wine is not to your taste?-though there's body in it.'

'Drink up, Mr. Johns—drink up,' said that matron generously. 'Whatever there is, there's plenty. But maybe cider-wine isn't to your liking?—though it's quite strong.'

'Quite the contrairy, ma'am-quite the contrairy,' said the dairyman. 'For though I inherit the malt-liquor principle from my father, I am a cider-drinker on my mother's side. She came from these parts, you know. And there's this to be said for't-'tis a more peaceful liquor, and don't lie about a man like your hotter drinks. With care, one may live on it a twelvemonth without knocking down a neighbour, or getting a black eye from an old acquaintance.'

'Quite the opposite, ma'am—quite the opposite,' said the dairyman. 'While I inherited the beer-drinking habit from my father, I'm a cider drinker on my mother's side. She was from around here, you know. And there's something to be said for it—it's a more gentle drink and doesn't mess with a person like the stronger beverages do. If you’re careful, you could live on it for a year without starting a fight with a neighbor or getting a black eye from an old friend.'

The general conversation thus begun was continued briskly, though it was in the main restricted to Mrs. Hall and Japheth, who in truth required but little help from anybody. There being slight call upon Sally's tongue, she had ample leisure to do what her heart most desired, namely, watch her intended husband and her sister-in-law with a view of elucidating the strange momentary scene in which her mother and herself had surprised them in the stable. If that scene meant anything, it meant, at least, that they had met before. That there had been no time for explanations Sally could see, for their manner was still one of suppressed amazement at each other's presence there. Darton's eyes, too, fell continually on the gown worn by Helena as if this were an added riddle to his perplexity; though to Sally it was the one feature in the case which was no mystery. He seemed to feel that fate had impishly changed his vis-a-vis in the lover's jig he was about to foot; that while the gown had been expected to enclose a Sally, a Helena's face looked out from the bodice; that some long-lost hand met his own from the sleeves.

The conversation that started quickly continued, mainly involving Mrs. Hall and Japheth, who didn’t really need much help from anyone else. Since there wasn’t much for Sally to say, she had plenty of time to do what she really wanted: watch her fiancé and her sister-in-law to figure out the strange moment she and her mother had stumbled upon them in the stable. If that moment meant anything, it meant at least that they had met before. Sally could see there hadn’t been time for explanations, as they both looked amazed to see each other there. Darton kept glancing at the dress Helena was wearing, as if it were an additional puzzle to his confusion; but for Sally, it was the one thing that wasn’t a mystery at all. He seemed to feel that fate had playfully swapped his partner in the dance he was about to join; that while the dress was meant to wrap around Sally, a familiar face from the bodice was looking back at him; that some long-lost hand was reaching for his own from the sleeves.

Sally could see that whatever Helena might know of Darton, she knew nothing of how the dress entered into his embarrassment. And at moments the young girl would have persuaded herself that Darton's looks at her sister-in-law were entirely the fruit of the clothes query. But surely at other times a more extensive range of speculation and sentiment was expressed by her lover's eye than that which the changed dress would account for.

Sally could see that, no matter what Helena might know about Darton, she didn’t understand how the dress contributed to his embarrassment. At times, the young girl almost convinced herself that Darton’s glances at her sister-in-law were solely due to the clothing issue. But surely there were other times when her lover's gaze showed a broader range of thoughts and feelings than just what the changed dress would explain.

Sally's independence made her one of the least jealous of women. But there was something in the relations of these two visitors which ought to be explained.

Sally's independence made her one of the least jealous women. But there was something about the relationship between these two visitors that needed to be explained.

Japheth Johns continued to converse in his well-known style, interspersing his talk with some private reflections on the position of Darton and Sally, which, though the sparkle in his eye showed them to be highly entertaining to himself, were apparently not quite communicable to the company. At last he withdrew for the night, going off to the roadside inn half-a-mile back, whither Darton promised to follow him in a few minutes.

Japheth Johns kept talking in his usual way, mixing in some private thoughts about Darton and Sally, which clearly amused him, as shown by the sparkle in his eye, but didn’t seem to resonate with the rest of the group. Finally, he left for the night, heading to the roadside inn half a mile away, where Darton promised to catch up with him in a few minutes.

Half-an-hour passed, and then Mr. Darton also rose to leave, Sally and her sister-in-law simultaneously wishing him good-night as they retired upstairs to their rooms. But on his arriving at the front door with Mrs. Hall a sharp shower of rain began to come down, when the widow suggested that he should return to the fire-side till the storm ceased.

Half an hour went by, and then Mr. Darton stood up to leave, with Sally and her sister-in-law both wishing him goodnight as they went upstairs to their rooms. However, when he got to the front door with Mrs. Hall, a sudden downpour started, and the widow suggested that he should go back to the fireplace until the storm passed.

Darton accepted her proposal, but insisted that, as it was getting late, and she was obviously tired, she should not sit up on his account, since he could let himself out of the house, and would quite enjoy smoking a pipe by the hearth alone. Mrs. Hall assented; and Darton was left by himself. He spread his knees to the brands, lit up his tobacco as he had said, and sat gazing into the fire, and at the notches of the chimney-crook which hung above.

Darton agreed to her suggestion but insisted that since it was getting late and she clearly needed rest, she shouldn't stay up for him. He added that he could let himself out and would actually enjoy smoking a pipe by the fire alone. Mrs. Hall agreed, and Darton was left by himself. He spread his legs to the fire, lit his tobacco as he had mentioned, and sat staring into the flames and the notches on the chimney-crook above.

An occasional drop of rain rolled down the chimney with a hiss, and still he smoked on; but not like a man whose mind was at rest. In the long run, however, despite his meditations, early hours afield and a long ride in the open air produced their natural result. He began to doze.

An occasional drop of rain trickled down the chimney with a hiss, and he kept smoking; but not like someone whose mind was at ease. In the end, though, despite his deep thoughts, early mornings spent outdoors and a long ride in the fresh air had their usual effect. He started to doze off.

How long he remained in this half-unconscious state he did not know. He suddenly opened his eyes. The back-brand had burnt itself in two, and ceased to flame; the light which he had placed on the mantelpiece had nearly gone out. But in spite of these deficiencies there was a light in the apartment, and it came from elsewhere. Turning his head he saw Philip Hall's wife standing at the entrance of the room with a bed- candle in one hand, a small brass tea-kettle in the other, and his gown, as it certainly seemed, still upon her.

How long he was in this half-conscious state, he didn’t know. He suddenly opened his eyes. The back-brand had burned down to two pieces and had stopped flaming; the light he had put on the mantel had almost gone out. But despite these shortcomings, there was still light in the room, coming from somewhere else. Turning his head, he saw Philip Hall's wife standing at the entrance with a bed candle in one hand, a small brass tea kettle in the other, and what definitely seemed to be his gown still on her.

'Helena!' said Darton, starting up.

"Helena!" Darton exclaimed, standing up.

Her countenance expressed dismay, and her first words were an apology. 'I-did not know you were here, Mr. Darton,' she said, while a blush flashed to her cheek. 'I thought every one had retired-I was coming to make a little water boil; my husband seems to be worse. But perhaps the kitchen fire can be lighted up again.'

Her face showed distress, and her first words were an apology. 'I didn't realize you were here, Mr. Darton,' she said, as a blush crept to her cheek. 'I thought everyone had gone to bed—I was just coming to boil some water; my husband seems to be feeling worse. But maybe the kitchen fire can be lit again.'

'Don't go on my account. By all means put it on here as you intended,' said Darton. 'Allow me to help you.' He went forward to take the kettle from her hand, but she did not allow him, and placed it on the fire herself.

'Don't change your plans because of me. Please put it on here like you were going to,' said Darton. 'Let me help you.' He stepped forward to take the kettle from her hand, but she didn't let him and set it on the fire herself.

They stood some way apart, one on each side of the fireplace, waiting till the water should boil, the candle on the mantel between them, and Helena with her eyes on the kettle. Darton was the first to break the silence. 'Shall I call Sally?' he said.

They stood a little distance apart, one on each side of the fireplace, waiting for the water to boil, with the candle on the mantel between them and Helena focused on the kettle. Darton was the first to speak up. 'Should I call Sally?' he asked.

'O no,' she quickly returned. 'We have given trouble enough already. We have no right here. But we are the sport of fate, and were obliged to come.'

'O no,' she quickly replied. 'We’ve caused enough trouble already. We don't belong here. But we're at the mercy of fate, and had no choice but to come.'

'No right here!' said he in surprise.

'Not right here!' he exclaimed in surprise.

'None. I can't explain it now,' answered Helena. 'This kettle is very slow.'

'None. I can’t explain it right now,' Helena replied. 'This kettle is really slow.'

There was another pause; the proverbial dilatoriness of watched pots was never more clearly exemplified.

There was another pause; the saying about how watched pots never boil was never more clearly illustrated.

Helena's face was of that sort which seems to ask for assistance without the owner's knowledge-the very antipodes of Sally's, which was self- reliance expressed. Darton's eyes travelled from the kettle to Helena's face, then back to the kettle, then to the face for rather a longer time. 'So I am not to know anything of the mystery that has distracted me all the evening?' he said. 'How is it that a woman, who refused me because (as I supposed) my position was not good enough for her taste, is found to be the wife of a man who certainly seems to be worse off than I?'

Helena's face had a way of seeming to ask for help without her even realizing it—completely contrasting with Sally's face, which showed confidence. Darton's gaze moved from the kettle to Helena's face, then back to the kettle, and lingered on her face for a bit longer. "So I’m not going to find out anything about the mystery that’s been on my mind all evening?" he asked. "How is it that a woman who turned me down because (as I thought) my situation wasn’t good enough for her, is now married to a guy who definitely seems to be worse off than I am?"

'He had the prior claim,' said she.

'He had the first claim,' she said.

'What! you knew him at that time?'

'What! You knew him back then?'

'Yes, yes! Please say no more,' she implored.

'Yes, yes! Please don't say anything else,' she pleaded.

'Whatever my errors, I have paid for them during the last five years!'

'No matter what mistakes I’ve made, I’ve paid for them over the past five years!'

The heart of Darton was subject to sudden overflowings. He was kind to a fault. 'I am sorry from my soul,' he said, involuntarily approaching her. Helena withdrew a step or two, at which he became conscious of his movement, and quickly took his former place. Here he stood without speaking, and the little kettle began to sing.

The heart of Darton was prone to sudden outbursts of emotion. He was too kind for his own good. "I’m truly sorry," he said, involuntarily stepping closer to her. Helena took a step or two back, and he immediately realized what he had done and quickly returned to his original spot. Here he stood in silence as the small kettle started to whistle.

'Well, you might have been my wife if you had chosen,' he said at last. 'But that's all past and gone. However, if you are in any trouble or poverty I shall be glad to be of service, and as your relation by marriage I shall have a right to be. Does your uncle know of your distress?'

'Well, you could have been my wife if you had chosen,' he finally said. 'But that's all in the past now. Still, if you're facing any trouble or hard times, I'd be happy to help. And since we're related by marriage, I have a right to do so. Does your uncle know about your situation?'

'My uncle is dead. He left me without a farthing. And now we have two children to maintain.'

'My uncle has passed away. He didn't leave me anything. And now we have two kids to take care of.'

'What, left you nothing? How could he be so cruel as that?'

'What, didn't he leave you anything? How could he be so cruel?'

'I disgraced myself in his eyes.'

'I embarrassed myself in his eyes.'

'Now,' said Darton earnestly, 'let me take care of the children, at least while you are so unsettled. You belong to another, so I cannot take care of you.'

'Now,' Darton said earnestly, 'let me take care of the kids, at least while you're feeling so unsettled. You belong to someone else, so I can't take care of you.'

'Yes you can,' said a voice; and suddenly a third figure stood beside them. It was Sally. 'You can, since you seem to wish to?' she repeated. 'She no longer belongs to another . . . My poor brother is dead!'

'Yes, you can,' said a voice; and suddenly a third figure appeared beside them. It was Sally. 'You can, since it seems you want to?' she repeated. 'She no longer belongs to someone else... My poor brother is dead!'

Her face was red, her eyes sparkled, and all the woman came to the front. 'I have heard it!' she went on to him passionately. 'You can protect her now as well as the children!' She turned then to her agitated sister-in-law. 'I heard something,' said Sally (in a gentle murmur, differing much from her previous passionate words), 'and I went into his room. It must have been the moment you left. He went off so quickly, and weakly, and it was so unexpected, that I couldn't leave even to call you.'

Her face was flushed, her eyes lit up, and all the women gathered around her. 'I've heard it!' she said to him passionately. 'You can protect her now, just like you do the kids!' She then turned to her anxious sister-in-law. 'I heard something,' Sally said softly (her tone a stark contrast to her earlier passionate words), 'and I went into his room. It must have been right after you left. He collapsed so suddenly and weakly, it was so unexpected that I couldn't even step out to call you.'

Darton was just able to gather from the confused discourse which followed that, during his sleep by the fire, this brother whom he had never seen had become worse; and that during Helena's absence for water the end had unexpectedly come. The two young women hastened upstairs, and he was again left alone.

Darton was only able to piece together from the confusing conversation that, while he slept by the fire, this brother he had never met had gotten worse; and that while Helena was away getting water, the end had unexpectedly arrived. The two young women rushed upstairs, leaving him alone once more.

After standing there a short time he went to the front door and looked out; till, softly closing it behind him, he advanced and stood under the large sycamore-tree. The stars were flickering coldly, and the dampness which had just descended upon the earth in rain now sent up a chill from it. Darton was in a strange position, and he felt it. The unexpected appearance, in deep poverty, of Helena-a young lady, daughter of a deceased naval officer, who had been brought up by her uncle, a solicitor, and had refused Darton in marriage years ago-the passionate, almost angry demeanour of Sally at discovering them, the abrupt announcement that Helena was a widow; all this coming together was a conjuncture difficult to cope with in a moment, and made him question whether he ought to leave the house or offer assistance. But for Sally's manner he would unhesitatingly have done the latter.

After standing there for a little while, he went to the front door and looked outside; then, softly closing it behind him, he walked over and stood under the large sycamore tree. The stars were flickering coldly, and the dampness that had just fallen to the ground in rain now sent a chill up from it. Darton found himself in a strange situation, and he felt it. The unexpected appearance of Helena, in deep poverty—a young woman, daughter of a deceased naval officer, who had been raised by her uncle, a solicitor, and had turned down Darton's marriage proposal years ago—the passionate, almost furious demeanor of Sally when she discovered them, and the sudden announcement that Helena was a widow; all of this coming together was a tough situation to handle in a moment and made him wonder whether he should leave the house or offer help. If it weren't for Sally's attitude, he would have confidently chosen the latter.

He was still standing under the tree when the door in front of him opened, and Mrs. Hall came out. She went round to the garden-gate at the side without seeing him. Darton followed her, intending to speak.

He was still standing under the tree when the door in front of him opened, and Mrs. Hall came out. She went around to the garden gate on the side without noticing him. Darton followed her, planning to speak.

Pausing outside, as if in thought, she proceeded to a spot where the sun came earliest in spring-time, and where the north wind never blew; it was where the row of beehives stood under the wall. Discerning her object, he waited till she had accomplished it.

Pausing outside, as if lost in thought, she made her way to a place where the sun shone first in spring and where the north wind never reached; it was where the row of beehives was positioned against the wall. Recognizing her intention, he waited until she had completed it.

It was the universal custom thereabout to wake the bees by tapping at their hives whenever a death occurred in the household, under the belief that if this were not done the bees themselves would pine away and perish during the ensuing year. As soon as an interior buzzing responded to her tap at the first hive Mrs. Hall went on to the second, and thus passed down the row. As soon as she came back he met her.

It was a common custom in that area to wake the bees by tapping on their hives whenever a death happened in the family, based on the belief that if this wasn't done, the bees would get sad and die in the following year. As soon as she heard a buzzing inside the first hive in response to her tap, Mrs. Hall moved on to the second one and continued down the line. When she returned, he was there to meet her.

'What can I do in this trouble, Mrs. Hall?' he said.

'What can I do about this problem, Mrs. Hall?' he said.

'O-nothing, thank you, nothing,' she said in a tearful voice, now just perceiving him. 'We have called Rebekah and her husband, and they will do everything necessary.' She told him in a few words the particulars of her son's arrival, broken in health-indeed, at death's very door, though they did not suspect it-and suggested, as the result of a conversation between her and her daughter, that the wedding should be postponed.

'O-nothing, thank you, nothing,' she said with a tearful voice, finally noticing him. 'We've contacted Rebekah and her husband, and they'll handle everything necessary.' She briefly explained the details of her son's arrival, in poor health—nearly at death's door, although they didn't realize it—and suggested, based on a conversation she had with her daughter, that they should postpone the wedding.

'Yes, of course,' said Darton. 'I think now to go straight to the inn and tell Johns what has happened.' It was not till after he had shaken hands with her that he turned hesitatingly and added, 'Will you tell the mother of his children that, as they are now left fatherless, I shall be glad to take the eldest of them, if it would be any convenience to her and to you?'

'Of course,' said Darton. 'I think I'll head straight to the inn and tell Johns what happened.' It wasn't until he had shaken hands with her that he turned uncertainly and added, 'Could you let the mother of his children know that, since they are now fatherless, I'd be happy to take the oldest of them if that would be convenient for her and for you?'

Mrs. Hall promised that her son's widow should he told of the offer, and they parted. He retired down the rooty slope and disappeared in the direction of the inn, where he informed Johns of the circumstances. Meanwhile Mrs. Hall had entered the house, Sally was downstairs in the sitting-room alone, and her mother explained to her that Darton had readily assented to the postponement.

Mrs. Hall promised that her son's widow would be informed of the offer, and they went their separate ways. He made his way down the bumpy slope and headed towards the inn, where he shared the details with Johns. Meanwhile, Mrs. Hall had entered the house; Sally was downstairs in the sitting room by herself, and her mother explained to her that Darton had easily agreed to the delay.

'No doubt he has,' said Sally, with sad emphasis. 'It is not put off for a week, or a month, or a year. I shall never marry him, and she will!'

'No doubt he has,' Sally said with a heavy heart. 'It’s not just postponed for a week, a month, or a year. I will never marry him, and she will!'

IV

Time passed, and the household on the Knap became again serene under the composing influences of daily routine. A desultory, very desultory correspondence, dragged on between Sally Hall and Darton, who, not quite knowing how to take her petulant words on the night of her brother's death, had continued passive thus long. Helena and her children remained at the dairy-house, almost of necessity, and Darton therefore deemed it advisable to stay away.

Time went by, and life in the Knap household became calm again under the comforting effects of daily routines. A random, very random exchange of letters continued between Sally Hall and Darton, who, unsure about how to interpret her irritated remarks on the night her brother died, had remained passive for this long. Helena and her kids stayed at the dairy house, almost out of necessity, so Darton thought it best to keep his distance.

One day, seven months later on, when Mr. Darton was as usual at his farm, twenty miles from Hintock, a note reached him from Helena. She thanked him for his kind offer about her children, which her mother-in- law had duly communicated, and stated that she would be glad to accept it as regarded the eldest, the boy. Helena had, in truth, good need to do so, for her uncle had left her penniless, and all application to some relatives in the north had failed. There was, besides, as she said, no good school near Hintock to which she could send the child.

One day, seven months later, Mr. Darton was at his farm, twenty miles from Hintock, when he received a note from Helena. She thanked him for his kind offer regarding her children, which her mother-in-law had communicated, and said she would be happy to accept it for the eldest, the boy. Helena truly needed to do this, as her uncle had left her without any money, and all attempts to reach out to relatives in the north had failed. Additionally, as she mentioned, there was no good school near Hintock where she could send the child.

On a fine summer day the boy came. He was accompanied half-way by Sally and his mother-to the 'White Horse,' at Chalk Newton-where he was handed over to Darton's bailiff in a shining spring-cart, who met them there.

On a beautiful summer day, the boy arrived. He was accompanied part of the way by Sally and his mother to the 'White Horse' at Chalk Newton, where he was handed over to Darton's bailiff in a shiny spring-cart, who was waiting for them there.

He was entered as a day-scholar at a popular school at Casterbridge, three or four miles from Darton's, having first been taught by Darton to ride a forest-pony, on which he cantered to and from the aforesaid fount of knowledge, and (as Darton hoped) brought away a promising headful of the same at each diurnal expedition. The thoughtful taciturnity into which Darton had latterly fallen was quite dissipated by the presence of this boy.

He was enrolled as a day student at a well-known school in Casterbridge, three or four miles from Darton's place, having first learned to ride a forest pony from Darton. He rode it back and forth to the school, hoping to take home a promising amount of knowledge with him from each daily trip. The thoughtful silence that Darton had recently fallen into completely disappeared with the presence of this boy.

When the Christmas holidays came it was arranged that he should spend them with his mother. The journey was, for some reason or other, performed in two stages, as at his coming, except that Darton in person took the place of the bailiff, and that the boy and himself rode on horseback.

When the Christmas holidays came, it was planned for him to spend them with his mother. The journey, for some reason, was done in two parts, just like when he arrived, except that Darton himself replaced the bailiff, and the boy and he rode on horseback.

Reaching the renowned 'White Horse,' Darton inquired if Miss and young Mrs. Hall were there to meet little Philip (as they had agreed to be). He was answered by the appearance of Helena alone at the door.

Reaching the famous 'White Horse,' Darton asked if Miss and Mrs. Hall were there to meet little Philip (as they had agreed to). He was met only by Helena appearing at the door.

'At the last moment Sally would not come,' she faltered.

'At the last moment, Sally decided not to come,' she hesitated.

That meeting practically settled the point towards which these long- severed persons were converging. But nothing was broached about it for some time yet. Sally Hall had, in fact, imparted the first decisive motion to events by refusing to accompany Helena. She soon gave them a second move by writing the following note

That meeting almost finalized the direction in which these long-separated individuals were heading. However, it wasn't discussed for a while afterward. Sally Hall had, in fact, initiated a significant turn in events by refusing to go with Helena. She soon made another move by writing the following note

'[Private.]

[Private.]

'DEAR CHARLES,-Living here so long and intimately with Helena, I have naturally learnt her history, especially that of it which refers to you. I am sure she would accept you as a husband at the proper time, and I think you ought to give her the opportunity. You inquire in an old note if I am sorry that I showed temper (which it wasn't) that night when I heard you talking to her. No, Charles, I am not sorry at all for what I said then.-Yours sincerely, SALLY HALL.'

'DEAR CHARLES, - Having lived here for so long and closely with Helena, I've naturally learned her story, especially the parts that relate to you. I'm sure she would accept you as a husband when the time is right, and I believe you should give her that chance. You asked in an old note if I regret showing temper (which I didn't) that night when I heard you talking to her. No, Charles, I don’t regret at all what I said then. - Yours sincerely, SALLY HALL.'

Thus set in train, the transfer of Darton's heart back to its original quarters proceeded by mere lapse of time. In the following July, Darton went to his friend Japheth to ask him at last to fulfil the bridal office which had been in abeyance since the previous January twelvemonths.

Thus set in motion, the transfer of Darton's heart back to its original place happened over time. The following July, Darton went to his friend Japheth to finally ask him to perform the wedding ceremony that had been on hold since the previous January.

'With all my heart, man o' constancy!' said Dairyman Johns warmly. 'I've lost most of my genteel fair complexion haymaking this hot weather, 'tis true, but I'll do your business as well as them that look better. There be scents and good hair-oil in the world yet, thank God, and they'll take off the roughest o' my edge. I'll compliment her. "Better late than never, Sally Hall," I'll say.'

'With all my heart, man of integrity!' said Dairyman Johns warmly. 'I've lost most of my fancy, fair complexion haymaking in this hot weather, it’s true, but I'll handle your business just as well as those who look better. There are still scents and good hair oil in the world, thank God, and they'll smooth out the roughest parts of me. I'll compliment her. "Better late than never, Sally Hall," I'll say.'

'It is not Sally,' said Darton hurriedly. 'It is young Mrs. Hall.'

'It's not Sally,' Darton said quickly. 'It's young Mrs. Hall.'

Japheth's face, as soon as he really comprehended, became a picture of reproachful dismay. 'Not Sally?' he said. 'Why not Sally? I can't believe it! Young Mrs. Hall! Well, well-where's your wisdom?'

Japheth's face, as soon as he truly understood, turned into a picture of reproachful shock. 'Not Sally?' he said. 'Why not Sally? I can't believe this! Young Mrs. Hall! Well, well—where's your wisdom?'

Darton shortly explained particulars; but Johns would not be reconciled. 'She was a woman worth having if ever woman was,' he cried. 'And now to let her go!'

Darton briefly explained the details, but Johns couldn't accept it. 'She was a woman worth having if there ever was one,' he exclaimed. 'And now to just let her go!'

'But I suppose I can marry where I like,' said Darton.

'But I guess I can marry whoever I want,' said Darton.

'H'm,' replied the dairyman, lifting his eyebrows expressively. 'This don't become you, Charles-it really do not. If I had done such a thing you would have sworn I was a curst no'thern fool to be drawn off the scent by such a red-herring doll-oll-oll.'

'H'm,' replied the dairyman, raising his eyebrows dramatically. 'This doesn't suit you, Charles—it really doesn't. If I had done something like this, you would have said I was a stupid northern fool to be distracted by such a red-herring nonsense.'

Farmer Darton responded in such sharp terms to this laconic opinion that the two friends finally parted in a way they had never parted before. Johns was to be no groomsman to Darton after all. He had flatly declined. Darton went off sorry, and even unhappy, particularly as Japheth was about to leave that side of the county, so that the words which had divided them were not likely to be explained away or softened down.

Farmer Darton reacted so harshly to this brief opinion that the two friends ended their conversation in a way they never had before. Johns was not going to be a groomsman for Darton after all. He had outright refused. Darton left feeling disappointed and even sad, especially since Japheth was about to move away from that part of the county. The words that had separated them were unlikely to be clarified or smoothed over.

A short time after the interview Darton was united to Helena at a simple matter-of fact wedding; and she and her little girl joined the boy who had already grown to look on Darton's house as home.

A little while after the interview, Darton married Helena in a straightforward, no-frills ceremony; she and her young daughter joined the boy who had already come to think of Darton's house as home.

For some months the farmer experienced an unprecedented happiness and satisfaction. There had been a flaw in his life, and it was as neatly mended as was humanly possible. But after a season the stream of events followed less clearly, and there were shades in his reveries. Helena was a fragile woman, of little staying power, physically or morally, and since the time that he had originally known her-eight or ten years before-she had been severely tried. She had loved herself out, in short, and was now occasionally given to moping. Sometimes she spoke regretfully of the gentilities of her early life, and instead of comparing her present state with her condition as the wife of the unlucky Hall, she mused rather on what it had been before she took the first fatal step of clandestinely marrying him. She did not care to please such people as those with whom she was thrown as a thriving farmer's wife. She allowed the pretty trifles of agricultural domesticity to glide by her as sorry details, and had it not been for the children Darton's house would have seemed but little brighter than it had been before.

For several months, the farmer felt an incredible happiness and satisfaction. There had been a flaw in his life, but it was fixed as best as it could be. However, after a while, things started to get a bit confusing, and his thoughts had darker shades. Helena was a delicate woman, lacking endurance both physically and morally, and since he had first known her—around eight or ten years earlier—she had faced significant hardships. Essentially, she had loved herself out and now sometimes fell into a funk. She often talked wistfully about the finer things in her early life, and instead of comparing her current situation to her time as the unfortunate Hall's wife, she reflected more on what life was like before she took the first irreversible step of secretly marrying him. She didn’t care to impress the kind of people she associated with as a prosperous farmer's wife. She let the charming aspects of rural domestic life pass her by as trivialities, and if it hadn’t been for the children, Darton’s home would have seemed hardly any brighter than it had before.

This led to occasional unpleasantness, until Darton sometimes declared to himself that such endeavours as his to rectify early deviations of the heart by harking back to the old point mostly failed of success. 'Perhaps Johns was right,' he would say. 'I should have gone on with Sally. Better go with the tide and make the best of its course than stem it at the risk of a capsize.' But he kept these unmelodious thoughts to himself, and was outwardly considerate and kind.

This led to some awkward moments, until Darton sometimes admitted to himself that his attempts to fix early mistakes of the heart by going back to the past mostly didn’t work out. "Maybe Johns was right," he would think. "I should have stayed with Sally. It's better to go with the flow and make the most of it than to fight against it and risk flipping over." But he kept these unpleasing thoughts to himself and was outwardly thoughtful and kind.

This somewhat barren tract of his life had extended to less than a year and a half when his ponderings were cut short by the loss of the woman they concerned. When she was in her grave he thought better of her than when she had been alive; the farm was a worse place without her than with her, after all. No woman short of divine could have gone through such an experience as hers with her first husband without becoming a little soured. Her stagnant sympathies, her sometimes unreasonable manner, had covered a heart frank and well meaning, and originally hopeful and warm. She left him a tiny red infant in white wrappings. To make life as easy as possible to this touching object became at once his care.

This somewhat barren period of his life had lasted less than a year and a half when his reflections were abruptly ended by the loss of the woman they were about. After she was buried, he thought better of her than when she was alive; the farm felt worse without her than with her, after all. No woman, not even one touched by divinity, could go through such an ordeal as hers with her first husband without becoming a bit bitter. Her stagnant sympathies and sometimes unreasonable behavior had hidden a heart that was genuine and kind, once hopeful and warm. She left him a tiny red baby wrapped in white. Making life as easy as possible for this little one became his immediate priority.

As this child learnt to walk and talk Darton learnt to see feasibility in a scheme which pleased him. Revolving the experiment which he had hitherto made upon life, he fancied he had gained wisdom from his mistakes and caution from his miscarriages.

As this child learned to walk and talk, Darton began to see the possibility in a plan that made him happy. Reflecting on the experiments he had previously conducted in life, he thought he had gained insight from his mistakes and caution from his failures.

What the scheme was needs no penetration to discover. Once more he had opportunity to recast and rectify his ill-wrought situations by returning to Sally Hall, who still lived quietly on under her mother's roof at Hintock. Helena had been a woman to lend pathos and refinement to a home; Sally was the woman to brighten it. She would not, as Helena did, despise the rural simplicities of a farmer's fireside. Moreover, she had a pre-eminent qualification for Darton's household; no other woman could make so desirable a mother to her brother's two children and Darton's one as Sally-while Darton, now that Helena had gone, was a more promising husband for Sally than he had ever been when liable to reminders from an uncured sentimental wound.

What the plan was doesn't take much thought to figure out. Once again, he had the chance to reshape and improve his messy situations by going back to Sally Hall, who still lived quietly under her mother's roof in Hintock. Helena had brought depth and elegance to a home; Sally would bring joy. Unlike Helena, she wouldn’t look down on the simple pleasures of a farmer's life. Plus, she was the perfect fit for Darton’s household; no one else could be such a wonderful mother to his brother's two kids and Darton's one as Sally—especially now that Helena was gone, Darton was a better match for Sally than he had ever been when he was still dealing with his heartbreak.

Darton was not a man to act rapidly, and the working out of his reparative designs might have been delayed for some time. But there came a winter evening precisely like the one which had darkened over that former ride to Hintock, and he asked himself why he should postpone longer, when the very landscape called for a repetition of that attempt.

Darton wasn't the type of person to act quickly, and figuring out his plans for repair might have taken a while. But one winter evening, just like the one that had cast a shadow over his last ride to Hintock, he wondered why he should wait any longer when the very scenery seemed to urge him to try again.

He told his man to saddle the mare, booted and spurred himself with a younger horseman's nicety, kissed the two youngest children, and rode off. To make the journey a complete parallel to the first, he would fain have had his old acquaintance Japheth Johns with him. But Johns, alas! was missing. His removal to the other side of the county had left unrepaired the breach which had arisen between him and Darton; and though Darton had forgiven him a hundred times, as Johns had probably forgiven Darton, the effort of reunion in present circumstances was one not likely to be made.

He told his guy to saddle the mare, put on his boots and spurs with the finesse of a younger rider, kissed the two youngest kids, and rode off. To make the trip a complete repeat of the first, he would have liked to have his old friend Japheth Johns with him. But Johns, unfortunately, was missing. His move to the other side of the county had left the gap between him and Darton unhealed; and even though Darton had forgiven him a hundred times, just as Johns had probably forgiven Darton, the effort to reconnect in the current situation wasn’t something likely to happen.

He screwed himself up to as cheerful a pitch as he could without his former crony, and became content with his own thoughts as he rode, instead of the words of a companion. The sun went down; the boughs appeared scratched in like an etching against the sky; old crooked men with faggots at their backs said 'Good-night, sir,' and Darton replied 'Good-night' right heartily.

He pulled himself together to be as cheerful as he could without his old buddy, and found himself content with his own thoughts as he rode, instead of having a conversation with someone. The sun set; the branches looked etched against the sky; old crooked men with bundles on their backs said, "Good night, sir," and Darton replied, "Good night," with real warmth.

By the time he reached the forking roads it was getting as dark as it had been on the occasion when Johns climbed the directing-post. Darton made no mistake this time. 'Nor shall I be able to mistake, thank Heaven, when I arrive,' he murmured. It gave him peculiar satisfaction to think that the proposed marriage, like his first, was of the nature of setting in order things long awry, and not a momentary freak of fancy.

By the time he got to the fork in the road, it was getting as dark as it had been when Johns climbed the directing post. Darton wasn’t going to get this wrong again. "Thank God I won’t make a mistake when I finally arrive," he muttered. It felt oddly satisfying to think that the planned marriage, like his first, was about putting things right after a long time, not just a passing whim.

Nothing hindered the smoothness of his journey, which seemed not half its former length. Though dark, it was only between five and six o'clock when the bulky chimneys of Mrs. Hall's residence appeared in view behind the sycamore-tree. On second thoughts he retreated and put up at the ale-house as in former time; and when he had plumed himself before the inn mirror, called for something to drink, and smoothed out the incipient wrinkles of care, he walked on to the Knap with a quick step.

Nothing interrupted the ease of his journey, which felt much shorter than before. Although it was dark, it was only between five and six o'clock when the large chimneys of Mrs. Hall's house came into sight behind the sycamore tree. After reconsidering, he turned back and decided to stay at the pub like he used to; and once he had straightened himself up in the inn's mirror, ordered a drink, and smoothed out the early signs of worry, he walked quickly to the Knap.

V

That evening Sally was making 'pinners' for the milkers, who were now increased by two, for her mother and herself no longer joined in milking the cows themselves. But upon the whole there was little change in the household economy, and not much in its appearance, beyond such minor particulars as that the crack over the window, which had been a hundred years coming, was a trifle wider; that the beams were a shade blacker; that the influence of modernism had supplanted the open chimney corner by a grate; that Rebekah, who had worn a cap when she had plenty of hair, had left it off now she had scarce any, because it was reported that caps were not fashionable; and that Sally's face had naturally assumed a more womanly and experienced cast.

That evening, Sally was making 'pinners' for the milkers, who had now increased by two, as her mother and she no longer milked the cows themselves. Overall, there wasn’t much change in the household routine or its appearance, aside from a few small details: the crack above the window, which had been developing for a hundred years, was a bit wider; the beams were a shade darker; the influence of modernity had replaced the open chimney corner with a grate; Rebekah, who had worn a cap when she had plenty of hair, had stopped wearing it now that she had hardly any, since it was rumored that caps were out of style; and Sally's face had naturally taken on a more mature and experienced look.

Mrs. Hall was actually lifting coals with the tongs, as she had used to do.

Mrs. Hall was actually lifting coals with the tongs, just like she used to do.

'Five years ago this very night, if I am not mistaken-' she said, laying on an ember.

'Five years ago this very night, if I'm not mistaken—' she said, resting on an ember.

'Not this very night-though 'twas one night this week,' said the correct Sally.

'Not tonight—though it was one night this week,' said the precise Sally.

'Well, 'tis near enough. Five years ago Mr. Darton came to marry you, and my poor boy Phil came home to die.' She sighed. 'Ah, Sally,' she presently said, 'if you had managed well Mr. Darton would have had you, Helena or none.'

'Well, it's close enough. Five years ago, Mr. Darton came to marry you, and my poor boy Phil came home to die.' She sighed. 'Ah, Sally,' she then said, 'if you had played your cards right, Mr. Darton would have chosen you, Helena or no one.'

'Don't be sentimental about that, mother,' begged Sally. 'I didn't care to manage well in such a case. Though I liked him, I wasn't so anxious. I would never have married the man in the midst of such a hitch as that was,' she added with decision; 'and I don't think I would if he were to ask me now.'

"Don't get all sentimental about it, Mom," Sally pleaded. "I didn't want to handle it well in that situation. Even though I liked him, I wasn't that eager. I would never have married him with a problem like that going on," she added firmly; "and honestly, I don't think I would if he asked me now."

'I am not sure about that, unless you have another in your eye.'

'I’m not so sure about that, unless you have another one in mind.'

'I wouldn't; and I'll tell you why. I could hardly marry him for love at this time o' day. And as we've quite enough to live on if we give up the dairy to-morrow, I should have no need to marry for any meaner reason . . . I am quite happy enough as I am, and there's an end of it.'

'I wouldn't; and I'll tell you why. I could hardly marry him for love right now. And since we have more than enough to live on if we quit the dairy tomorrow, I wouldn't need to marry for any lesser reason... I'm perfectly happy as I am, and that's that.'

Now it was not long after this dialogue that there came a mild rap at the door, and in a moment there entered Rebekah, looking as though a ghost had arrived. The fact was that that accomplished skimmer and churner (now a resident in the house) had overheard the desultory observations between mother and daughter, and on opening the door to Mr. Darton thought the coincidence must have a grisly meaning in it. Mrs. Hall welcomed the farmer with warm surprise, as did Sally, and for a moment they rather wanted words.

Now it wasn't long after this conversation that there was a gentle knock at the door, and in a moment, Rebekah walked in, looking as if a ghost had appeared. The truth was that the skilled skimmer and churner (who now lived in the house) had overheard the casual remarks between the mother and daughter, and upon opening the door to Mr. Darton, thought the coincidence must have a scary significance. Mrs. Hall greeted the farmer with warm surprise, as did Sally, and for a moment, they were at a loss for words.

'Can you push up the chimney-crook for me, Mr Darton? the notches hitch,' said the matron. He did it, and the homely little act bridged over the awkward consciousness that he had been a stranger for four years.

'Can you adjust the chimney-crook for me, Mr. Darton? The notches are stuck,' said the matron. He did it, and the simple act helped to ease the awkwardness of the fact that he had been a stranger for four years.

Mrs. Hall soon saw what he had come for, and left the principals together while she went to prepare him a late tea, smiling at Sally's recent hasty assertions of indifference, when she saw how civil Sally was. When tea was ready she joined them. She fancied that Darton did not look so confident as when he had arrived; but Sally was quite light- hearted, and the meal passed pleasantly.

Mrs. Hall quickly realized why he had come and left the two of them together while she went to make him some late tea, smiling at Sally's earlier hasty claims of indifference, especially when she noticed how polite Sally was being. When the tea was ready, she joined them. She thought Darton didn't seem as confident as when he had arrived; meanwhile, Sally was feeling quite cheerful, and the meal went nicely.

About seven he took his leave of them. Mrs. Hall went as far as the door to light him down the slope. On the doorstep he said frankly-'I came to ask your daughter to marry me; chose the night and everything, with an eye to a favourable answer. But she won't.'

About seven, he said goodbye to them. Mrs. Hall walked to the door to see him off down the slope. On the doorstep, he said honestly, "I came to ask your daughter to marry me; I picked the night and everything, hoping for a positive answer. But she won't."

'Then she's a very ungrateful girl!' emphatically said Mrs. Hall.

'Then she's a really ungrateful girl!' Mrs. Hall said emphatically.

Darton paused to shape his sentence, and asked, 'I-I suppose there's nobody else more favoured?'

Darton took a moment to think about what to say and asked, 'I-I guess there’s no one else more favored?'

'I can't say that there is, or that there isn't,' answered Mrs. Hall. 'She's private in some things. I'm on your side, however, Mr. Darton, and I'll talk to her.'

'I can't say if there is or isn’t,' answered Mrs. Hall. 'She's private about some things. I’m on your side, though, Mr. Darton, and I’ll talk to her.'

'Thank 'ee, thank 'ee!' said the farmer in a gayer accent; and with this assurance the not very satisfactory visit came to an end. Darton descended the roots of the sycamore, the light was withdrawn, and the door closed. At the bottom of the slope he nearly ran against a man about to ascend.

'Thank you, thank you!' said the farmer with a brighter tone, and with that reassurance, the not-so-satisfactory visit came to a close. Darton walked down the roots of the sycamore, the light faded, and the door shut. At the bottom of the slope, he almost bumped into a man who was about to come up.

'Can a jack-o'-lent believe his few senses on such a dark night, or can't he?' exclaimed one whose utterance Darton recognized in a moment, despite its unexpectedness. 'I dare not swear he can, though I fain would!' The speaker was Johns.

'Can a jack-o'-lantern trust his senses on such a dark night, or can't he?' exclaimed someone whose voice Darton recognized immediately, despite its surprise. 'I can't say for sure he can, though I wish I could!' The speaker was Johns.

Darton said he was glad of this opportunity, bad as it was, of putting an end to the silence of years, and asked the dairyman what he was travelling that way for.

Darton said he was glad for this chance, as bad as it was, to break the silence of years, and asked the dairyman why he was traveling that way.

Japheth showed the old jovial confidence in a moment. 'I'm going to see your-relations-as they always seem to me,' he said-'Mrs. Hall and Sally. Well, Charles, the fact is I find the natural barbarousness of man is much increased by a bachelor life, and, as your leavings were always good enough for me, I'm trying civilization here.' He nodded towards the house.

Japheth briefly displayed his usual cheerful confidence. "I'm going to visit your relatives, as they always appear to me," he said, "Mrs. Hall and Sally. Well, Charles, to be honest, I think living alone only makes a person's natural wildness worse, and since I’ve always found your leftovers to be quite good, I’m trying to be more civilized here." He nodded toward the house.

'Not with Sally-to marry her?' said Darton, feeling something like a rill of ice water between his shoulders.

'Not with Sally—to marry her?' said Darton, feeling something like a stream of ice water between his shoulders.

'Yes, by the help of Providence and my personal charms. And I think I shall get her. I am this road every week-my present dairy is only four miles off, you know, and I see her through the window. 'Tis rather odd that I was going to speak practical to-night to her for the first time. You've just called?'

'Yes, with the help of fate and my own charm. I think I'm going to win her over. I travel this road every week—my current place is only four miles away, you know, and I can see her through the window. It's kind of funny that I was planning to talk to her about practical matters tonight for the first time. Did you just call?'

'Yes, for a short while. But she didn't say a word about you.'

'Yeah, for a little bit. But she didn't mention you at all.'

'A good sign, a good sign. Now that decides me. I'll swing the mallet and get her answer this very night as I planned.'

'A good sign, a good sign. Now that makes my decision. I'll swing the mallet and get her answer tonight as I planned.'

A few more remarks, and Darton, wishing his friend joy of Sally in a slightly hollow tone of jocularity, bade him good-bye. Johns promised to write particulars, and ascended, and was lost in the shade of the house and tree. A rectangle of light appeared when Johns was admitted, and all was dark again.

A few more comments, and Darton, jokingly wishing his friend happiness with Sally in a somewhat forced tone, said goodbye. Johns promised to share details, then went inside, disappearing into the shadows of the house and tree. A rectangle of light showed up when Johns was let in, and then everything went dark again.

'Happy Japheth!' said Darton. 'This then is the explanation!'

'Happy Japheth!' said Darton. 'So this is the explanation!'

He determined to return home that night. In a quarter of an hour he passed out of the village, and the next day went about his swede-lifting and storing as if nothing had occurred.

He decided to go back home that night. In fifteen minutes, he left the village, and the next day he went about his routine of lifting and storing turnips as if nothing had happened.

He waited and waited to hear from Johns whether the wedding-day was fixed: but no letter came. He learnt not a single particular till, meeting Johns one day at a horse-auction, Darton exclaimed genially-rather more genially than he felt-'When is the joyful day to be?'

He waited and waited to hear from Johns about when the wedding day was set: but no letter arrived. He didn't get any details until he ran into Johns one day at a horse auction, and Darton said cheerfully—more cheerfully than he actually felt—'When is the big day?'

To his great surprise a reciprocity of gladness was not conspicuous in Johns. 'Not at all,' he said, in a very subdued tone. ''Tis a bad job; she won't have me.'

To his great surprise, there wasn't a noticeable mutual happiness from Johns. "Not at all," he said in a very quiet tone. "It's a bad situation; she doesn't want me."

Darton held his breath till he said with treacherous solicitude, 'Try again-'tis coyness.'

Darton held his breath until he said with misleading concern, 'Try again—it's just being shy.'

'O no,' said Johns decisively. 'There's been none of that. We talked it over dozens of times in the most fair and square way. She tells me plainly, I don't suit her. 'Twould be simply annoying her to ask her again. Ah, Charles, you threw a prize away when you let her slip five years ago.'

'O no,' said Johns firmly. 'That hasn't happened at all. We've discussed it dozens of times in the most honest way. She’s told me straight up that I’m not right for her. It would just irritate her to bring it up again. Ah, Charles, you really lost out when you let her go five years ago.'

'I did-I did,' said Darton.

"I did—I did," said Darton.

He returned from that auction with a new set of feelings in play. He had certainly made a surprising mistake in thinking Johns his successful rival. It really seemed as if he might hope for Sally after all.

He came back from that auction with a new mix of emotions. He had definitely made an unexpected mistake by thinking Johns was his successful rival. It actually looked like he might have a chance with Sally after all.

This time, being rather pressed by business, Darton had recourse to pen- and-ink, and wrote her as manly and straightforward a proposal as any woman could wish to receive. The reply came promptly:-

This time, since he was quite busy, Darton turned to pen and paper and wrote her a bold and straightforward proposal—just what any woman could hope for. The reply came back quickly:

'DEAR MR. DARTON,-I am as sensible as any woman can be of the goodness that leads you to make me this offer a second time. Better women than I would be proud of the honour, for when I read your nice long speeches on mangold-wurzel, and such like topics, at the Casterbridge Farmers' Club, I do feel it an honour, I assure you. But my answer is just the same as before. I will not try to explain what, in truth, I cannot explain-my reasons; I will simply say that I must decline to be married to you. With good wishes as in former times, I am, your faithful friend,

'DEAR MR. DARTON, - I fully appreciate the kindness behind your offer for a second time. Better women than I would be proud of the honor, because when I listen to your thoughtful speeches about mangold-wurzel and other topics at the Casterbridge Farmers' Club, I do feel honored, I assure you. However, my response remains the same as before. I can't really explain my reasons, as they're beyond explanation; I can only say that I must decline to marry you. With my best wishes, as always, I remain your faithful friend,

'SALLY HALL.'

Darton dropped the letter hopelessly. Beyond the negative, there was just a possibility of sarcasm in it-'nice long speeches on mangold- wurzel' had a suspicious sound. However, sarcasm or none, there was the answer, and he had to be content.

Darton dropped the letter in despair. Aside from the negativity, there was a hint of sarcasm in it—'nice long speeches on mangold-wurzel' sounded suspicious. But whether it was sarcasm or not, there was the answer, and he had to accept it.

He proceeded to seek relief in a business which at this time engrossed much of his attention-that of clearing up a curious mistake just current in the county, that he had been nearly ruined by the recent failure of a local bank. A farmer named Darton had lost heavily, and the similarity of name had probably led to the error. Belief in it was so persistent that it demanded several days of letter-writing to set matters straight, and persuade the world that he was as solvent as ever he had been in his life. He had hardly concluded this worrying task when, to his delight, another letter arrived in the handwriting of Sally.

He went to find relief in a project that was currently taking up a lot of his time—clearing up a strange misunderstanding going around the county that he had nearly gone bankrupt due to the recent failure of a local bank. A farmer named Darton had taken a significant loss, and the similarity in their names likely contributed to the mix-up. The belief in this rumor was so strong that it took several days of writing letters to clear things up and convince everyone that he was as financially stable as he had ever been. He had just finished this stressful task when, to his happiness, he received another letter in Sally's handwriting.

Darton tore it open; it was very short.

Darton ripped it open; it was really brief.

'DEAR MR. DARTON,-We have been so alarmed these last few days by the report that you were ruined by the stoppage of —'s Bank, that, now it is contradicted I hasten, by my mother's wish, to say how truly glad we are to find there is no foundation for the report. After your kindness to my poor brother's children, I can do no less than write at such a moment. We had a letter from each of them a few days ago.-Your faithful friend,

'DEAR MR. DARTON, - We were really worried these past few days after hearing the news that you were ruined by the closure of —'s Bank. Now that it’s been disproven, I want to quickly reach out, as my mother wishes, to express how relieved we are to learn that the report isn’t true. Given your kindness to my late brother's children, I felt I had to write to you at this time. We received a letter from each of them a few days ago. - Your faithful friend,'

'SALLY HALL.'

'Mercenary little woman!' said Darton to himself with a smile. 'Then that was the secret of her refusal this time-she thought I was ruined.'

'Selfish little woman!' Darton thought to himself with a smile. 'So that's why she turned me down this time—she thought I was broke.'

Now, such was Darton, that as hours went on he could not help feeling too generously towards Sally to condemn her in this. What did he want in a wife? he asked himself. Love and integrity. What next? Worldly wisdom. And was there really more than worldly wisdom in her refusal to go aboard a sinking ship? She now knew it was otherwise. 'Begad,' he said, 'I'll try her again.'

Now, Darton felt increasingly generous towards Sally as time passed, preventing him from condemning her for this. What did he want in a wife? he asked himself. Love and honesty. What else? Common sense. And was there truly more than common sense in her refusal to board a sinking ship? She now realized it was different. 'You know what,' he said, 'I'll give it another shot.'

The fact was he had so set his heart upon Sally, and Sally alone, that nothing was to be allowed to baulk him; and his reasoning was purely formal.

The truth was he had become so focused on Sally, and only Sally, that nothing was going to stand in his way; his reasoning was just a formality.

Anniversaries having been unpropitious, he waited on till a bright day late in May-a day when all animate nature was fancying, in its trusting, foolish way, that it was going to bask out of doors for evermore. As he rode through Long-Ash Lane it was scarce recognizable as the track of his two winter journeys. No mistake could be made now, even with his eyes shut. The cuckoo's note was at its best, between April tentativeness and midsummer decrepitude, and the reptiles in the sun behaved as winningly as kittens on a hearth. Though afternoon, and about the same time as on the last occasion, it was broad day and sunshine when he entered Hintock, and the details of the Knap dairy- house were visible far up the road. He saw Sally in the garden, and was set vibrating. He had first intended to go on to the inn; but 'No,' he said; 'I'll tie my horse to the garden-gate. If all goes well it can soon be taken round: if not, I mount and ride away'

Anniversaries having been unlucky, he waited until a bright day in late May—a day when all living things were naively thinking they would get to enjoy the outdoors forever. As he rode down Long-Ash Lane, it was barely recognizable from his two winter journeys. There was no mistaking it now, even with his eyes closed. The cuckoo’s call was at its peak, caught between the uncertainty of April and the weariness of midsummer, and the reptiles basking in the sun were as charming as kittens on a hearth. Although it was afternoon, much like the last time, it was bright and sunny when he entered Hintock, and the details of the Knap dairy-house were visible far down the road. He saw Sally in the garden, and it stirred something inside him. He had initially planned to head to the inn, but he said, “No, I’ll tie my horse to the garden gate. If all goes well, it can quickly be taken around; if not, I’ll just mount up and ride away.”

The tall shade of the horseman darkened the room in which Mrs. Hall sat, and made her start, for he had ridden by a side path to the top of the slope, where riders seldom came. In a few seconds he was in the garden with Sally.

The tall figure of the horseman cast a shadow over the room where Mrs. Hall was sitting, making her jump because he had taken a rarely used side path to reach the top of the slope. Moments later, he was in the garden with Sally.

Five-ay, three minutes-did the business at the back of that row of bees. Though spring had come, and heavenly blue consecrated the scene, Darton succeeded not. 'No,' said Sally firmly. 'I will never, never marry you, Mr. Darton. I would have done it once; but now I never can.'

Five minutes and three seconds was the time spent at the back of that row of bees. Even though spring had arrived, bright blue skies blessed the scene, Darton still didn't succeed. 'No,' Sally said firmly. 'I will never, ever marry you, Mr. Darton. I might have considered it once, but now I absolutely can't.'

'But!'-implored Mr. Darton. And with a burst of real eloquence he went on to declare all sorts of things that he would do for her. He would drive her to see her mother every week-take her to London-settle so much money upon her-Heaven knows what he did not promise, suggest, and tempt her with. But it availed nothing. She interposed with a stout negative, which closed the course of his argument like an iron gate across a highway. Darton paused.

'But!' Mr. Darton pleaded. And with a surge of genuine passion, he continued to promise her all kinds of things. He would take her to see her mother every week, bring her to London, and set aside a certain amount of money for her. He offered Heaven knows how many other proposals to entice her. But it was no use. She firmly replied with a strong no, shutting down his arguments like a heavy gate blocking a road. Darton stopped.

'Then,' said he simply, 'you hadn't heard of my supposed failure when you declined last time?'

'So,' he said plainly, 'you didn't know about my alleged failure when you turned me down last time?'

'I had not,' she said. 'But if I had 'twould have been all the same.'

'I hadn’t,' she said. 'But if I had, it would have been the same.'

'And 'tis not because of any soreness from my slighting you years ago?'

'And is it not because of any resentment from my ignoring you years ago?'

'No. That soreness is long past.'

'No. That soreness is long gone.'

'Ah-then you despise me, Sally?'

"Ah, so you hate me, Sally?"

'No,' she slowly answered. 'I don't altogether despise you. I don't think you quite such a hero as I once did-that's all. The truth is, I am happy enough as I am; and I don't mean to marry at all. Now, may I ask a favour, sir?' She spoke with an ineffable charm, which, whenever he thought of it, made him curse his loss of her as long as he lived.

'No,' she replied slowly. 'I don't completely despise you. I don't think you're quite the hero I once thought you were—that's all. The truth is, I'm happy enough as I am, and I don't plan to get married at all. Now, can I ask you for a favor, sir?' She spoke with an indescribable charm, and every time he thought of it, he cursed his loss of her for the rest of his life.

'To any extent.'

'To any degree.'

'Please do not put this question to me any more. Friends as long as you like, but lovers and married never.'

'Please don’t ask me this question anymore. Friends as long as you want, but lovers and married, never.'

'I never will,' said Darton. 'Not if I live a hundred years.'

'I never will,' Darton said. 'Not even if I live to be a hundred.'

And he never did. That he had worn out his welcome in her heart was only too plain.

And he never did. It was all too clear that he had worn out his welcome in her heart.

When his step-children had grown up, and were placed out in life, all communication between Darton and the Hall family ceased. It was only by chance that, years after, he learnt that Sally, notwithstanding the solicitations her attractions drew down upon her, had refused several offers of marriage, and steadily adhered to her purpose of leading a single life

When his step-children grew up and moved on with their lives, all contact between Darton and the Hall family ended. It was only by chance that, years later, he found out that Sally, despite the attention her looks attracted, had turned down several marriage proposals and remained committed to her decision to stay single.

May 1884.

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

I-HOW HIS COLD WAS CURED

Something delayed the arrival of the Wesleyan minister, and a young man came temporarily in his stead. It was on the thirteenth of January 183- that Mr. Stockdale, the young man in question, made his humble entry into the village, unknown, and almost unseen. But when those of the inhabitants who styled themselves of his connection became acquainted with him, they were rather pleased with the substitute than otherwise, though he had scarcely as yet acquired ballast of character sufficient to steady the consciences of the hundred-and-forty Methodists of pure blood who, at this time, lived in Nether-Moynton, and to give in addition supplementary support to the mixed race which went to church in the morning and chapel in the evening, or when there was a tea-as many as a hundred-and-ten people more, all told, and including the parish- clerk in the winter-time, when it was too dark for the vicar to observe who passed up the street at seven o'clock-which, to be just to him, he was never anxious to do.

Something delayed the arrival of the Wesleyan minister, so a young man temporarily stepped in for him. It was on January 13, 183- that Mr. Stockdale, the young man in question, quietly entered the village, mostly unnoticed. However, when the residents who identified as part of his community learned about him, they were actually quite pleased with the replacement, even though he hadn’t yet built enough of a reputation to guide the consciences of the one hundred and forty Methodists of pure descent living in Nether-Moynton at that time. Additionally, he was supposed to provide extra support for the mixed group that attended church in the morning and chapel in the evening, which could add up to another one hundred and ten people, all together, including the parish clerk in the winter when it was too dark for the vicar to see who was walking up the street at seven o'clock—something he, to be fair, was never too keen to do.

It was owing to this overlapping of creeds that the celebrated population-puzzle arose among the denser gentry of the district around Nether-Moynton: how could it be that a parish containing fifteen score of strong full-grown Episcopalians, and nearly thirteen score of well- matured Dissenters, numbered barely two-and-twenty score adults in all?

It was because of this clash of beliefs that the famous population puzzle emerged among the wealthier residents of the area around Nether-Moynton: how could a parish with fifteen hundred strong, fully grown Episcopalians, and almost thirteen hundred well-established Dissenters, only have a total of just over two hundred adult residents?

The young man being personally interesting, those with whom he came in contact were content to waive for a while the graver question of his sufficiency. It is said that at this time of his life his eyes were affectionate, though without a ray of levity; that his hair was curly, and his figure tall; that he was, in short, a very lovable youth, who won upon his female hearers as soon as they saw and heard him, and caused them to say, 'Why didn't we know of this before he came, that we might have gied him a warmer welcome!'

The young man was genuinely interesting, so those he interacted with were willing to set aside the more serious question of his competence for a while. It is said that during this time in his life, his eyes were warm, though never frivolous; that his hair was curly, and he was tall; in short, he was a very charming young man who captivated the women around him as soon as they saw and heard him, leading them to say, 'Why didn't we know about him before he arrived, so we could have given him a warmer welcome!'

The fact was that, knowing him to be only provisionally selected, and expecting nothing remarkable in his person or doctrine, they and the rest of his flock in Nether-Moynton had felt almost as indifferent about his advent as if they had been the soundest church-going parishioners in the country, and he their true and appointed parson. Thus when Stockdale set foot in the place nobody had secured a lodging for him, and though his journey had given him a bad cold in the head, he was forced to attend to that business himself. On inquiry he learnt that the only possible accommodation in the village would be found at the house of one Mrs. Lizzy Newberry, at the upper end of the street.

The truth was that, knowing he was only temporarily chosen and not expecting anything remarkable about him or his teachings, the people and the rest of his congregation in Nether-Moynton had felt nearly as indifferent about his arrival as if they were the most devoted churchgoers in the country, with him as their rightful and established pastor. So when Stockdale arrived, no one had arranged a place for him to stay, and even though his journey had given him a bad cold, he had to handle that situation himself. When he asked around, he found out that the only available lodging in the village was at the home of a woman named Mrs. Lizzy Newberry, located at the end of the street.

It was a youth who gave this information, and Stockdale asked him who Mrs. Newberry might be.

It was a young person who provided this information, and Stockdale asked him who Mrs. Newberry was.

The boy said that she was a widow-woman, who had got no husband, because he was dead. Mr. Newberry, he added, had been a well-to-do man enough, as the saying was, and a farmer; but he had gone off in a decline. As regarded Mrs. Newberry's serious side, Stockdale gathered that she was one of the trimmers who went to church and chapel both.

The boy said that she was a widow, without a husband because he was dead. Mr. Newberry, he added, had been a fairly well-off farmer, as people say, but he had passed away from an illness. Regarding Mrs. Newberry's serious side, Stockdale figured out that she was one of those people who attended both church and chapel.

'I'll go there,' said Stockdale, feeling that, in the absence of purely sectarian lodgings, he could do no better.

"I'll go there," said Stockdale, feeling that, since there were no purely sectarian accommodations available, he couldn't find anything better.

'She's a little particular, and won't hae gover'ment folks, or curates, or the pa'son's friends, or such like,' said the lad dubiously.

"She's a bit picky and won't have government people, or curates, or the parson's friends, or anything like that," the boy said uncertainly.

'Ah, that may be a promising sign: I'll call. Or no; just you go up and ask first if she can find room for me. I have to see one or two persons on another matter. You will find me down at the carrier's.'

'Oh, that could be a good sign: I’ll call. Or actually, why don’t you go up and ask first if she has room for me? I need to meet with a couple of people about something else. You’ll find me at the delivery service.'

In a quarter of an hour the lad came back, and said that Mrs. Newberry would have no objection to accommodate him, whereupon Stockdale called at the house.

In fifteen minutes, the boy returned and said that Mrs. Newberry didn’t mind accommodating him, so Stockdale went to the house.

It stood within a garden-hedge, and seemed to be roomy and comfortable. He saw an elderly woman, with whom he made arrangements to come the same night, since there was no inn in the place, and he wished to house himself as soon as possible; the village being a local centre from which he was to radiate at once to the different small chapels in the neighbourhood. He forthwith sent his luggage to Mrs. Newberry's from the carrier's, where he had taken shelter, and in the evening walked up to his temporary home.

It was located within a garden hedge and looked spacious and cozy. He noticed an older woman, with whom he made plans to come that same night since there was no inn in the area, and he wanted to settle in as soon as possible; the village was a local hub from which he was going to spread out to the various small chapels nearby. He immediately sent his luggage to Mrs. Newberry's from the carrier’s, where he had been staying, and in the evening, he walked up to his temporary home.

As he now lived there, Stockdale felt it unnecessary to knock at the door; and entering quietly he had the pleasure of hearing footsteps scudding away like mice into the back quarters. He advanced to the parlour, as the front room was called, though its stone floor was scarcely disguised by the carpet, which only over-laid the trodden areas, leaving sandy deserts under the bulging mouldings of the table- legs, playing with brass furniture. But the room looked snug and cheerful. The firelight shone out brightly, trembling on the knobs and handles, and lurking in great strength on the under surface of the chimney-piece. A deep arm-chair, covered with horsehair, and studded with a countless throng of brass nails, was pulled up on one side of the fireplace. The tea-things were on the table, the teapot cover was open, and a little hand-bell had been laid at that precise point towards which a person seated in the great chair might be expected instinctively to stretch his hand.

As he now lived there, Stockdale felt it unnecessary to knock at the door; and entering quietly, he enjoyed hearing footsteps scurry away like mice into the back rooms. He went to the parlor, as the front room was called, though its stone floor was barely hidden by the carpet, which only covered the worn areas, leaving sandy patches under the bulging table legs, which played with brass furniture. But the room looked cozy and cheerful. The firelight shone brightly, flickering on the knobs and handles, and casting a strong glow on the underside of the mantelpiece. A deep armchair, covered in horsehair and studded with countless brass nails, was pulled up on one side of the fireplace. The tea things were on the table, the teapot lid was open, and a small hand-bell had been placed right where someone sitting in the big chair would instinctively reach for it.

Stockdale sat down, not objecting to his experience of the room thus far, and began his residence by tinkling the bell. A little girl crept in at the summons, and made tea for him. Her name, she said, was Marther Sarer, and she lived out there, nodding towards the road and village generally. Before Stockdale had got far with his meal, a tap sounded on the door behind him, and on his telling the inquirer to come in, a rustle of garments caused him to turn his head. He saw before him a fine and extremely well-made young woman, with dark hair, a wide, sensible, beautiful forehead, eyes that warmed him before he knew it, and a mouth that was in itself a picture to all appreciative souls.

Stockdale sat down, accepting his experience in the room so far, and started his stay by ringing the bell. A little girl came in at his call and made tea for him. She introduced herself as Marther Sarer and mentioned that she lived out there, nodding toward the road and the village. Before Stockdale could get far with his meal, there was a knock on the door behind him. When he told the person to come in, the sound of rustling clothes made him turn his head. He saw a strikingly beautiful young woman with dark hair, a wide, sensible, lovely forehead, warm eyes that immediately drew him in, and a mouth that was a work of art for anyone who appreciated beauty.

'Can I get you anything else for tea?' she said, coming forward a step or two, an expression of liveliness on her features, and her hand waving the door by its edge.

"Can I get you anything else for tea?" she asked, stepping closer with a lively expression on her face and her hand gesturing toward the edge of the door.

'Nothing, thank you,' said Stockdale, thinking less of what he replied than of what might be her relation to the household.

'No, thanks,' said Stockdale, thinking less about his response and more about how she might relate to the household.

'You are quite sure?' said the young woman, apparently aware that he had not considered his answer.

'Are you really sure?' asked the young woman, clearly noticing that he hadn't thought through his answer.

He conscientiously examined the tea-things, and found them all there. 'Quite sure, Miss Newberry,' he said.

He carefully checked the tea set and found everything was there. 'Absolutely sure, Miss Newberry,' he said.

'It is Mrs. Newberry,' she said. 'Lizzy Newberry, I used to be Lizzy Simpkins.'

'It's Mrs. Newberry,' she said. 'Lizzy Newberry, I used to be Lizzy Simpkins.'

'O, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Newberry.' And before he had occasion to say more she left the room.

'O, I'm sorry, Mrs. Newberry.' And before he had a chance to say anything else, she left the room.

Stockdale remained in some doubt till Martha Sarah came to clear the table. 'Whose house is this, my little woman,' said he.

Stockdale was still a bit unsure until Martha Sarah came to clear the table. "Whose house is this, my little lady?" he asked.

'Mrs. Lizzy Newberry's, sir.'

'Mrs. Lizzy Newberry, sir.'

'Then Mrs. Newberry is not the old lady I saw this afternoon?'

'So Mrs. Newberry isn’t the elderly woman I saw this afternoon?'

'No. That's Mrs. Newberry's mother. It was Mrs. Newberry who comed in to you just by now, because she wanted to see if you was good-looking.'

'No. That’s Mrs. Newberry’s mother. It was Mrs. Newberry who just came in to see you because she wanted to check if you were good-looking.'

Later in the evening, when Stockdale was about to begin supper, she came again. 'I have come myself, Mr. Stockdale,' she said. The minister stood up in acknowledgment of the honour. 'I am afraid little Marther might not make you understand. What will you have for supper?-there's cold rabbit, and there's a ham uncut.'

Later in the evening, just as Stockdale was about to start dinner, she came back. 'I came personally, Mr. Stockdale,' she said. The minister stood up to acknowledge the honor. 'I’m afraid little Marther might not make it clear to you. What would you like for dinner? There’s cold rabbit, and there’s an uncut ham.'

Stockdale said he could get on nicely with those viands, and supper was laid. He had no more than cut a slice when tap-tap came to the door again. The minister had already learnt that this particular rhythm in taps denoted the fingers of his enkindling landlady, and the doomed young fellow buried his first mouthful under a look of receptive blandness.

Stockdale said he could easily enjoy those dishes, and dinner was served. He had barely cut a slice when there was a knock at the door again. The minister had already figured out that this specific tapping pattern meant it was his enthusiastic landlady, and the unfortunate young man buried his first bite under a look of polite indifference.

'We have a chicken in the house, Mr. Stockdale-I quite forgot to mention it just now. Perhaps you would like Marther Sarer to bring it up?'

'We have a chicken in the house, Mr. Stockdale—I completely forgot to mention it just now. Maybe you’d like Marther Sarer to bring it up?'

Stockdale had advanced far enough in the art of being a young man to say that he did not want the chicken, unless she brought it up herself; but when it was uttered he blushed at the daring gallantry of the speech, perhaps a shade too strong for a serious man and a minister. In three minutes the chicken appeared, but, to his great surprise, only in the hands of Martha Sarah. Stockdale was disappointed, which perhaps it was intended that he should be.

Stockdale had come a long way in mastering the ways of being a young man to the point where he could say that he didn’t want the chicken unless she offered it herself; but when he said it, he felt a flush of embarrassment at the boldness of his words, maybe a bit too much for a serious guy and a minister. In three minutes, the chicken showed up, but to his surprise, it was only in Martha Sarah's hands. Stockdale felt let down, which maybe was the intention all along.

He had finished supper, and was not in the least anticipating Mrs. Newberry again that night, when she tapped and entered as before. Stockdale's gratified look told that she had lost nothing by not appearing when expected. It happened that the cold in the head from which the young man suffered had increased with the approach of night, and before she had spoken he was seized with a violent fit of sneezing which he could not anyhow repress.

He had finished dinner and wasn’t expecting Mrs. Newberry again that night when she knocked and walked in like before. Stockdale’s pleased expression indicated that she hadn’t lost anything by not showing up when expected. It turned out that the cold the young man had was getting worse as night came on, and before she could say anything, he was hit with a hard sneezing fit that he just couldn’t control.

Mrs. Newberry looked full of pity. 'Your cold is very bad to-night, Mr. Stockdale.'

Mrs. Newberry looked really sympathetic. 'Your cold is really bad tonight, Mr. Stockdale.'

Stockdale replied that it was rather troublesome.

Stockdale replied that it was quite bothersome.

'And I've a good mind'-she added archly, looking at the cheerless glass of water on the table, which the abstemious minister was going to drink.

'And I've a good mind,' she added playfully, glancing at the dull glass of water on the table that the abstinent minister was about to drink.

'Yes, Mrs. Newberry?'

'I've a good mind that you should have something more likely to cure it than that cold stuff.'

"I think you should have something better to cure it than that cold stuff."

'Well,' said Stockdale, looking down at the glass, 'as there is no inn here, and nothing better to be got in the village, of course it will do.'

'Well,' Stockdale said, looking down at the glass, 'since there’s no inn here and nothing better available in the village, it’ll have to do.'

To this she replied, 'There is something better, not far off, though not in the house. I really think you must try it, or you may be ill. Yes, Mr. Stockdale, you shall.' She held up her finger, seeing that he was about to speak. 'Don't ask what it is; wait, and you shall see.'

To this, she replied, "There's something better, not too far away, but not in the house. I really think you should try it, or you might get sick. Yes, Mr. Stockdale, you will." She raised her finger, noticing he was about to speak. "Don't ask what it is; just wait, and you'll see."

Lizzy went away, and Stockdale waited in a pleasant mood. Presently she returned with her bonnet and cloak on, saying, 'I am so sorry, but you must help me to get it. Mother has gone to bed. Will you wrap yourself up, and come this way, and please bring that cup with you?'

Lizzy left, and Stockdale waited in a good mood. Soon, she came back wearing her bonnet and cloak, saying, 'I'm really sorry, but you need to help me get it. Mom has gone to bed. Will you wrap yourself up, come this way, and please bring that cup with you?'

Stockdale, a lonely young fellow, who had for weeks felt a great craving for somebody on whom to throw away superfluous interest, and even tenderness, was not sorry to join her; and followed his guide through the back door, across the garden, to the bottom, where the boundary was a wall. This wall was low, and beyond it Stockdale discerned in the night shades several grey headstones, and the outlines of the church roof and tower.

Stockdale, a lonely young guy who had been longing for someone to invest his extra interest and even affection in, was happy to join her. He followed his guide through the back door, across the garden, to the end where there was a wall. This wall was low, and beyond it, Stockdale could see several gray headstones in the shadows of the night, along with the silhouette of the church roof and tower.

'It is easy to get up this way,' she said, stepping upon a bank which abutted on the wall; then putting her foot on the top of the stonework, and descending a spring inside, where the ground was much higher, as is the manner of graveyards to be. Stockdale did the same, and followed her in the dusk across the irregular ground till they came to the tower door, which, when they had entered, she softly closed behind them.

'It's easy to get up this way,' she said, stepping onto a ledge against the wall; then putting her foot on top of the stonework and descending into a spring inside, where the ground was much higher, as is typical of graveyards. Stockdale did the same and followed her in the dim light across the uneven ground until they reached the tower door, which she quietly closed behind them after they entered.

'You can keep a secret?' she said, in a musical voice.

'Can you keep a secret?' she asked, her voice light and melodic.

'Like an iron chest!' said he fervently.

'Like a steel box!' he said passionately.

Then from under her cloak she produced a small lighted lantern, which the minister had not noticed that she carried at all. The light showed them to be close to the singing-gallery stairs, under which lay a heap of lumber of all sorts, but consisting mostly of decayed framework, pews, panels, and pieces of flooring, that from time to time had been removed from their original fixings in the body of the edifice and replaced by new.

Then, from under her cloak, she pulled out a small lit lantern that the minister hadn’t noticed she was carrying. The light revealed that they were near the singing-gallery stairs, underneath which was a pile of all kinds of lumber, mostly made up of rotting frames, pews, panels, and bits of flooring that had occasionally been taken from their original spots in the building and replaced with new ones.

'Perhaps you will drag some of those boards aside?' she said, holding the lantern over her head to light him better. 'Or will you take the lantern while I move them?'

"Maybe you could move some of those boards aside?" she said, raising the lantern over her head to better illuminate him. "Or will you hold the lantern while I move them?"

'I can manage it,' said the young man, and acting as she ordered, he uncovered, to his surprise, a row of little barrels bound with wood hoops, each barrel being about as large as the nave of a heavy waggon- wheel.

"I can handle it," said the young man, and following her instructions, he uncovered, to his surprise, a line of small barrels held together with wooden hoops, each barrel being about the size of the hub of a heavy wagon wheel.

When they were laid open Lizzy fixed her eyes on him, as if she wondered what he would say.

When they were opened up, Lizzy stared at him, as if she was curious about what he would say.

'You know what they are?' she asked, finding that he did not speak.

'Do you know what they are?' she asked, noticing that he didn't respond.

'Yes, barrels,' said Stockdale simply. He was an inland man, the son of highly respectable parents, and brought up with a single eye to the ministry; and the sight suggested nothing beyond the fact that such articles were there.

'Yeah, barrels,' Stockdale said plainly. He was a guy from the countryside, the son of very respectable parents, raised with the sole focus on becoming a minister; and all he saw was just the fact that those items were there.

'You are quite right, they are barrels,' she said, in an emphatic tone of candour that was not without a touch of irony.

'You're absolutely right, they are barrels,' she said, in a sincere tone that carried a hint of irony.

Stockdale looked at her with an eye of sudden misgiving. 'Not smugglers' liquor?' he said.

Stockdale looked at her with a sudden sense of doubt. 'Not smuggled liquor?' he asked.

'Yes,' said she. 'They are tubs of spirit that have accidentally come over in the dark from France.'

'Yes,' she said. 'They are barrels of liquor that have somehow made it over in the dark from France.'

In Nether-Moynton and its vicinity at this date people always smiled at the sort of sin called in the outside world illicit trading; and these little kegs of gin and brandy were as well known to the inhabitants as turnips. So that Stockdale's innocent ignorance, and his look of alarm when he guessed the sinister mystery, seemed to strike Lizzy first as ludicrous, and then as very awkward for the good impression that she wished to produce upon him.

In Nether-Moynton and its surroundings at this time, people always found it amusing that the kind of wrongdoing referred to in the outside world as illegal trading was so commonplace; these small barrels of gin and brandy were as familiar to the locals as turnips. So when Stockdale's cluelessness and his expression of shock made him realize the shady situation, Lizzy first thought it was funny, and then she felt it was really awkward for the positive impression she wanted to make on him.

'Smuggling is carried on here by some of the people,' she said in a gentle, apologetic voice. 'It has been their practice for generations, and they think it no harm. Now, will you roll out one of the tubs?'

'Some of the people here are involved in smuggling,' she said in a soft, apologetic tone. 'They've been doing it for generations and don’t see it as a problem. Now, could you roll out one of the tubs?'

'What to do with it?' said the minister.

'What should we do with it?' said the minister.

'To draw a little from it to cure your cold,' she answered. 'It is so 'nation strong that it drives away that sort of thing in a jiffy. O, it is all right about our taking it. I may have what I like; the owner of the tubs says so. I ought to have had some in the house, and then I shouldn't ha' been put to this trouble; but I drink none myself, and so I often forget to keep it indoors.'

'To take a little from it to cure your cold,' she replied. 'It's so powerful that it gets rid of that kind of thing in no time. Oh, it's completely fine for us to have it. I can have whatever I want; the owner of the barrels says so. I should've had some at home, and then I wouldn't have had to deal with this hassle; but I don't drink any myself, so I often forget to stock it.'

'You are allowed to help yourself, I suppose, that you may not inform where their hiding-place is?'

'You can help yourself, I guess, but you're not allowed to say where their hiding place is?'

'Well, no; not that particularly; but I may take any if I want it. So help yourself.'

'Well, no; not specifically that; but I can take any if I want. So go ahead and help yourself.'

'I will, to oblige you, since you have a right to it,' murmured the minister; and though he was not quite satisfied with his part in the performance, he rolled one of the 'tubs' out from the corner into the middle of the tower floor. 'How do you wish me to get it out-with a gimlet, I suppose?'

'I’ll do it for you since you have the right to ask,' the minister murmured, and even though he wasn't entirely happy with his role in the situation, he rolled one of the 'tubs' from the corner into the center of the tower floor. 'How do you want me to get it out— with a gimlet, I guess?'

'No, I'll show you,' said his interesting companion; and she held up with her other hand a shoemaker's awl and a hammer. 'You must never do these things with a gimlet, because the wood-dust gets in; and when the buyers pour out the brandy that would tell them that the tub had been broached. An awl makes no dust, and the hole nearly closes up again. Now tap one of the hoops forward.'

'No, let me show you,' said his intriguing companion, holding up a shoemaker's awl and a hammer with her other hand. 'You should never use a gimlet for these things because it creates wood dust, and when the buyers pour out the brandy, it would indicate that the tub had been opened. An awl doesn’t create dust, and the hole almost closes back up. Now, tap one of the hoops forward.'

Stockdale took the hammer and did so.

Stockdale grabbed the hammer and did just that.

'Now make the hole in the part that was covered by the hoop.'

'Now make the hole in the area that was covered by the hoop.'

He made the hole as directed. 'It won't run out,' he said.

He made the hole as instructed. 'It won't leak,' he said.

'O yes it will,' said she. 'Take the tub between your knees, and squeeze the heads; and I'll hold the cup.'

'O yes it will,' she said. 'Hold the tub between your knees, and squeeze the heads; I'll hold the cup.'

Stockdale obeyed; and the pressure taking effect upon the tub, which seemed, to be thin, the spirit spirted out in a stream. When the cup was full he ceased pressing, and the flow immediately stopped. 'Now we must fill up the keg with water,' said Lizzy, 'or it will cluck like forty hens when it is handled, and show that 'tis not full.'

Stockdale complied, and as the pressure worked on the tub, which seemed thin, the liquid flowed out in a stream. When the cup was full, he stopped pressing, and the flow immediately ceased. "Now we need to fill the keg with water," said Lizzy, "or it will make a noise like forty hens when it's moved, and it will be clear that it's not full."

'But they tell you you may take it?'

'But they say you can take it?'

'Yes, the smugglers: but the buyers must not know that the smugglers have been kind to me at their expense.'

'Yes, the smugglers: but the buyers must not know that the smugglers have been nice to me at their cost.'

'I see,' said Stockdale doubtfully. 'I much question the honesty of this proceeding.'

"I see," Stockdale said hesitantly. "I really doubt the honesty of this situation."

By her direction he held the tub with the hole upwards, and while he went through the process of alternately pressing and ceasing to press, she produced a bottle of water, from which she took mouthfuls, conveying each to the keg by putting her pretty lips to the hole, where it was sucked in at each recovery of the cask from pressure. When it was again full he plugged the hole, knocked the hoop down to its place, and buried the tub in the lumber as before.

By her instructions, he held the tub with the hole facing up, and as he alternated between pressing and stopping, she pulled out a bottle of water, taking sips and passing each one to the keg by placing her lovely lips over the hole, where it was sucked in each time the pressure was released from the cask. Once it was full again, he plugged the hole, pushed the hoop back into position, and buried the tub in the junk just like before.

'Aren't the smugglers afraid that you will tell?' he asked, as they recrossed the churchyard.

'Aren't the smugglers worried that you'll spill the beans?' he asked, as they went back through the churchyard.

'O no; they are not afraid of that. I couldn't do such a thing.'

'O no; they're not worried about that. I couldn't do something like that.'

'They have put you into a very awkward corner,' said Stockdale emphatically. 'You must, of course, as an honest person, sometimes feel that it is your duty to inform-really you must.'

'They've put you in a really tough spot,' Stockdale said firmly. 'You must, of course, as an honest person, sometimes feel that it's your responsibility to inform—really, you have to.'

'Well, I have never particularly felt it as a duty; and, besides, my first husband-' She stopped, and there was some confusion in her voice. Stockdale was so honest and unsophisticated that he did not at once discern why she paused: but at last he did perceive that the words were a slip, and that no woman would have uttered 'first husband' by accident unless she had thought pretty frequently of a second. He felt for her confusion, and allowed her time to recover and proceed. 'My husband,' she said, in a self-corrected tone, 'used to know of their doings, and so did my father, and kept the secret. I cannot inform, in fact, against anybody.'

'Well, I’ve never really seen it as my responsibility; and, besides, my first husband—' She paused, and there was a hint of confusion in her voice. Stockdale was so straightforward and naive that he didn’t immediately realize why she hesitated: but eventually, he understood that her words were a slip, and no woman would mention 'first husband' by mistake unless she had often thought about a second. He empathized with her confusion and gave her time to gather herself and continue. 'My husband,' she said, correcting herself, 'used to know about their activities, and so did my father, and they kept it a secret. I can’t actually report anyone.'

'I see the hardness of it,' he continued, like a man who looked far into the moral of things. 'And it is very cruel that you should be tossed and tantalized between your memories and your conscience. I do hope, Mrs. Newberry, that you will soon see your way out of this unpleasant position.'

'I understand how tough it is,' he went on, like someone who deeply contemplates the meaning of things. 'It's really cruel that you have to be caught up between your memories and your conscience. I truly hope, Mrs. Newberry, that you'll find a way out of this difficult situation soon.'

'Well, I don't just now,' she murmured.

'Well, I don't know right now,' she said softly.

By this time they had passed over the wall and entered the house, where she brought him a glass and hot water, and left him to his own reflections. He looked after her vanishing form, asking himself whether he, as a respectable man, and a minister, and a shining light, even though as yet only of the halfpenny-candle sort, were quite justified in doing this thing. A sneeze settled the question; and he found that when the fiery liquor was lowered by the addition of twice or thrice the quantity of water, it was one of the prettiest cures for a cold in the head that he had ever known, particularly at this chilly time of the year.

By this time, they had crossed the wall and entered the house, where she brought him a glass and hot water, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He watched her disappear, wondering if he, as a respectable man, a minister, and a shining light—even if only a dim one—was really justified in doing this. A sneeze settled the issue for him; he discovered that when he diluted the fiery drink with twice or thrice the amount of water, it became one of the best remedies for a cold he had ever experienced, especially during this chilly time of year.

Stockdale sat in the deep chair about twenty minutes sipping and meditating, till he at length took warmer views of things, and longed for the morrow, when he would see Mrs. Newberry again. He then felt that, though chronologically at a short distance, it would in an emotional sense be very long before to-morrow came, and walked restlessly round the room. His eye was attracted by a framed and glazed sampler in which a running ornament of fir-trees and peacocks surrounded the following pretty bit of sentiment:-

Stockdale sat in the deep chair for about twenty minutes, sipping and thinking, until he finally started to see things in a more positive light and felt eager for tomorrow when he would see Mrs. Newberry again. He realized that, although tomorrow was just a short time away, it felt like it would take forever emotionally, and he walked restlessly around the room. His gaze was drawn to a framed and glazed sampler where a design of fir trees and peacocks surrounded this lovely piece of sentiment: -

'Rose-leaves smell when roses thrive, Here's my work while I'm alive; Rose-leaves smell when shrunk and shed, Here's my work when I am dead.

'Rose leaves smell when roses bloom, Here's my work while I'm here; Rose leaves smell when dried and gone, Here's my work when I disappear.'

'Lizzy Simpkins. Fear God. Honour the King.

'Lizzy Simpkins. Fear God. Honor the King.

'Aged 11 years.

11 years old.

''Tis hers,' he said to himself. 'Heavens, how I like that name!'

'It's hers,' he said to himself. 'Wow, I really like that name!'

Before he had done thinking that no other name from Abigail to Zenobia would have suited his young landlady so well, tap-tap came again upon the door; and the minister started as her face appeared yet another time, looking so disinterested that the most ingenious would have refrained from asserting that she had come to affect his feelings by her seductive eyes.

Before he finished thinking that no other name from Abigail to Zenobia would suit his young landlady as well, there was yet another tap on the door; and the minister jumped as her face appeared once more, looking so uninterested that even the most clever person would have hesitated to claim she was trying to influence his feelings with her alluring eyes.

'Would you like a fire in your room, Mr. Stockdale, on account of your cold?'

'Would you like a fire in your room, Mr. Stockdale, because you're cold?'

The minister, being still a little pricked in the conscience for countenancing her in watering the spirits, saw here a way to self- chastisement. 'No, I thank you,' he said firmly; 'it is not necessary. I have never been used to one in my life, and it would be giving way to luxury too far.'

The minister, still feeling a bit guilty for encouraging her to indulge, saw this as an opportunity for self-punishment. "No, thank you," he said firmly. "It's not necessary. I've never had one in my life, and it would be giving in to luxury too much."

'Then I won't insist,' she said, and disconcerted him by vanishing instantly.

'Then I won't push it,' she said, and threw him off guard by disappearing right away.

Wondering if she was vexed by his refusal, he wished that he had chosen to have a fire, even though it should have scorched him out of bed and endangered his self-discipline for a dozen days. However, he consoled himself with what was in truth a rare consolation for a budding lover, that he was under the same roof with Lizzy; her guest, in fact, to take a poetical view of the term lodger; and that he would certainly see her on the morrow.

Wondering if she was upset by his rejection, he wished he had decided to light a fire, even though it would have forced him out of bed and tested his self-control for several days. However, he comforted himself with what was truly a rare consolation for a budding lover: that he was under the same roof as Lizzy; her guest, in fact, if you wanted to look at it poetically; and that he would definitely see her the next day.

The morrow came, and Stockdale rose early, his cold quite gone. He had never in his life so longed for the breakfast hour as he did that day, and punctually at eight o'clock, after a short walk, to reconnoitre the premises, he re-entered the door of his dwelling. Breakfast passed, and Martha Sarah attended, but nobody came voluntarily as on the night before to inquire if there were other wants which he had not mentioned, and which she would attempt to gratify. He was disappointed, and went out, hoping to see her at dinner. Dinner time came; he sat down to the meal, finished it, lingered on for a whole hour, although two new teachers were at that moment waiting at the chapel-door to speak to him by appointment. It was useless to wait longer, and he slowly went his way down the lane, cheered by the thought that, after all, he would see her in the evening, and perhaps engage again in the delightful tub- broaching in the neighbouring church tower, which proceeding he resolved to render more moral by steadfastly insisting that no water should be introduced to fill up, though the tub should cluck like all the hens in Christendom. But nothing could disguise the fact that it was a queer business; and his countenance fell when he thought how much more his mind was interested in that matter than in his serious duties.

The next day came, and Stockdale got up early, feeling completely over his cold. He had never wanted breakfast as much as he did that day, and right at eight o'clock, after a quick walk to check out the place, he walked back into his home. Breakfast went on, and Martha Sarah was there, but no one came by like the night before to see if he needed anything else that he hadn't brought up, which she would have tried to help with. He felt let down and went out, hoping he'd see her at dinner. When dinner time arrived, he sat down to eat, finished his meal, and stayed for a whole hour, even though two new teachers were waiting at the chapel door to meet with him as planned. It was pointless to wait any longer, so he slowly made his way down the lane, somewhat comforted by the thought that he would see her in the evening, and maybe even join in the enjoyable bucket-pulling in the nearby church tower, which he decided to make more proper by insisting that no water should be added to fill it up, even if the bucket made all kinds of noise. But nothing could hide the fact that it was a strange situation; his mood dropped when he realized how much more his mind was into that than into his actual responsibilities.

However, compunction vanished with the decline of day. Night came, and his tea and supper; but no Lizzy Newberry, and no sweet temptations. At last the minister could bear it no longer, and said to his quaint little attendant, 'Where is Mrs. Newberry to-day?' judiciously handing a penny as he spoke.

However, guilt disappeared with the setting sun. Night arrived, bringing his tea and dinner; but there was no Lizzy Newberry and no delightful treats. At last, the minister couldn't take it anymore and asked his quirky little assistant, 'Where is Mrs. Newberry today?' while wisely slipping her a penny as he spoke.

'She's busy,' said Martha.

"She's tied up," said Martha.

'Anything serious happened?' he asked, handing another penny, and revealing yet additional pennies in the background.

'Did anything serious happen?' he asked, handing over another penny and showing more pennies in the background.

'O no-nothing at all!' said she, with breathless confidence. 'Nothing ever happens to her. She's only biding upstairs in bed because 'tis her way sometimes.'

'O no, nothing at all!' she said, with breathless confidence. 'Nothing ever happens to her. She's just staying upstairs in bed because that's what she sometimes does.'

Being a young man of some honour, he would not question further, and assuming that Lizzy must have a bad headache, or other slight ailment, in spite of what the girl had said, he went to bed dissatisfied, not even setting eyes on old Mrs. Simpkins. 'I said last night that I should see her to-morrow,' he reflected; 'but that was not to be!'

Being a young man of some honor, he wouldn’t question further, and assuming that Lizzy must have a bad headache or some other minor issue, despite what the girl had said, he went to bed feeling unsatisfied, never even seeing old Mrs. Simpkins. 'I said last night that I would see her tomorrow,' he thought, 'but that was not to be!'

Next day he had better fortune, or worse, meeting her at the foot of the stairs in the morning, and being favoured by a visit or two from her during the day-once for the purpose of making kindly inquiries about his comfort, as on the first evening, and at another time to place a bunch of winter-violets on his table, with a promise to renew them when they drooped. On these occasions there was something in her smile which showed how conscious she was of the effect she produced, though it must be said that it was rather a humorous than a designing consciousness, and savoured more of pride than of vanity.

The next day he had better luck, or maybe worse, running into her at the bottom of the stairs in the morning and getting a visit or two from her throughout the day—once to check in on his comfort, just like on the first evening, and another time to put a bunch of winter violets on his table, promising to replace them when they started to wilt. During these moments, there was something in her smile that showed she knew the impact she had, although it should be noted that it felt more playful than manipulative, and it seemed to lean more towards pride than vanity.

As for Stockdale, he clearly perceived that he possessed unlimited capacity for backsliding, and wished that tutelary saints were not denied to Dissenters. He set a watch upon his tongue and eyes for the space of one hour and a half, after which he found it was useless to struggle further, and gave himself up to the situation. 'The other minister will be here in a month,' he said to himself when sitting over the fire. 'Then I shall be off, and she will distract my mind no more! . . . And then, shall I go on living by myself for ever? No; when my two years of probation are finished, I shall have a furnished house to live in, with a varnished door and a brass knocker; and I'll march straight back to her, and ask her flat, as soon as the last plate is on the dresser!

As for Stockdale, he clearly realized that he had an endless capacity to slip up, and he wished that guiding spirits were not denied to Dissenters. He kept a close watch on his words and eyes for an hour and a half, after which he found it pointless to fight any longer and surrendered to the situation. "The other minister will be here in a month," he told himself while sitting by the fire. "Then I’ll be gone, and she won’t occupy my mind anymore! . . . And then, will I really live alone forever? No; once my two years of probation are up, I’ll have a furnished place to live, with a shiny door and a brass knocker; and I’ll march right back to her and ask her outright, as soon as the last plate is on the dresser!"

Thus a titillating fortnight was passed by young Stockdale, during which time things proceeded much as such matters have done ever since the beginning of history. He saw the object of attachment several times one day, did not see her at all the next, met her when he least expected to do so, missed her when hints and signs as to where she should be at a given hour almost amounted to an appointment. This mild coquetry was perhaps fair enough under the circumstances of their being so closely lodged, and Stockdale put up with it as philosophically as he was able. Being in her own house, she could, after vexing him or disappointing him of her presence, easily win him back by suddenly surrounding him with those little attentions which her position as his landlady put it in her power to bestow. When he had waited indoors half the day to see her, and on finding that she would not be seen, had gone off in a huff to the dreariest and dampest walk he could discover, she would restore equilibrium in the evening with 'Mr. Stockdale, I have fancied you must feel draught o' nights from your bedroom window, and so I have been putting up thicker curtains this afternoon while you were out;' or, 'I noticed that you sneezed twice again this morning, Mr. Stockdale. Depend upon it that cold is hanging about you yet; I am sure it is-I have thought of it continually; and you must let me make a posset for you.'

So a fun two weeks went by for young Stockdale, during which things went pretty much the same way they always do throughout history. He saw the girl he was into several times one day, didn’t see her at all the next, bumped into her when he least expected it, and missed her when hints about where she should be at a certain time felt almost like a scheduled meeting. This playful flirtation was probably acceptable given how close they lived, and Stockdale tolerated it as best as he could. Because it was her house, she could easily win him back with those little attentions that her role as his landlady allowed her to give, especially after teasing or disappointing him by not showing up. After waiting indoors half the day to see her, and then leaving in frustration for the dreariest walk he could find when she didn’t appear, she would restore the balance in the evening with comments like, 'Mr. Stockdale, I thought you might feel a draft at night from your bedroom window, so I've been putting up thicker curtains this afternoon while you were out;' or, 'I noticed you sneezed twice again this morning, Mr. Stockdale. I bet that cold is still lingering; I've been thinking about it nonstop, and you have to let me make a remedy for you.'

Sometimes in coming home he found his sitting-room rearranged, chairs placed where the table had stood, and the table ornamented with the few fresh flowers and leaves that could be obtained at this season, so as to add a novelty to the room. At times she would be standing on a chair outside the house, trying to nail up a branch of the monthly rose which the winter wind had blown down; and of course he stepped forward to assist her, when their hands got mixed in passing the shreds and nails. Thus they became friends again after a disagreement. She would utter on these occasions some pretty and deprecatory remark on the necessity of her troubling him anew; and he would straightway say that he would do a hundred times as much for her if she should so require.

Sometimes when he got home, he found his living room rearranged, with the chairs moved where the table used to be and the table decorated with the few fresh flowers and leaves that were available at this time of year, to give the room a fresh look. Occasionally, she would be standing on a chair outside the house, trying to nail up a branch of the monthly rose that the winter wind had knocked down; of course, he would step in to help her, and their hands would get tangled while passing the bits and nails. This way, they would become friends again after an argument. She would say something nice and apologetic about needing to bother him again, and he would immediately respond that he would do a hundred times more for her if she needed it.

II-HOW HE SAW TWO OTHER MEN

Matters being in this advancing state, Stockdale was rather surprised one cloudy evening, while sitting in his room, at hearing her speak in low tones of expostulation to some one at the door. It was nearly dark, but the shutters were not yet closed, nor the candles lighted; and Stockdale was tempted to stretch his head towards the window. He saw outside the door a young man in clothes of a whitish colour, and upon reflection judged their wearer to be the well-built and rather handsome miller who lived below. The miller's voice was alternately low and firm, and sometimes it reached the level of positive entreaty; but what the words were Stockdale could in no way hear.

With things progressing this way, Stockdale was quite surprised one cloudy evening, while sitting in his room, to hear her speaking softly to someone at the door. It was almost dark, but the shutters weren’t closed yet, and the candles weren’t lit; Stockdale felt tempted to lean toward the window. He saw outside the door a young man in light-colored clothing, and after thinking about it, he concluded that the young man was the well-built and rather handsome miller who lived below. The miller's voice was sometimes low and firm, and at other times, it rose to the level of urgent pleading; but Stockdale couldn’t hear what he was saying.

Before the colloquy had ended, the minister's attention was attracted by a second incident. Opposite Lizzy's home grew a clump of laurels, forming a thick and permanent shade. One of the laurel boughs now quivered against the light background of sky, and in a moment the head of a man peered out, and remained still. He seemed to be also much interested in the conversation at the door, and was plainly lingering there to watch and listen. Had Stockdale stood in any other relation to Lizzy than that of a lover, he might have gone out and investigated the meaning of this: but being as yet but an unprivileged ally, he did nothing more than stand up and show himself against the firelight, whereupon the listener disappeared, and Lizzy and the miller spoke in lower tones.

Before the discussion was over, the minister noticed a second incident. Across from Lizzy's house, a cluster of laurels created a thick, constant shade. One of the laurel branches now trembled against the bright sky, and soon a man's head peeked out, remaining still. He appeared to be quite interested in the conversation at the door, clearly hanging around to watch and listen. If Stockdale had held any other position with Lizzy besides that of a lover, he might have gone out to find out what was going on. But being just an uninvited friend, he merely stood up and made himself visible against the firelight, causing the listener to vanish, while Lizzy and the miller began to speak more quietly.

Stockdale was made so uneasy by the circumstance, that as soon as the miller was gone, he said, 'Mrs. Newberry, are you aware that you were watched just now, and your conversation heard?'

Stockdale was so unsettled by the situation that as soon as the miller left, he said, 'Mrs. Newberry, did you know that someone was watching you just now and heard your conversation?'

'When?' she said.

"When?" she asked.

'When you were talking to that miller. A man was looking from the laurel-tree as jealously as if he could have eaten you.'

'When you were talking to that miller, a man was watching from the laurel tree, looking as jealous as if he could have eaten you.'

She showed more concern than the trifling event seemed to demand, and he added, 'Perhaps you were talking of things you did not wish to be overheard?'

She seemed more concerned than the minor event called for, and he said, 'Maybe you were discussing things you didn't want to be overheard?'

'I was talking only on business,' she said.

'I was just discussing business,' she said.

'Lizzy, be frank!' said the young man. 'If it was only on business, why should anybody wish to listen to you?'

'Lizzy, be honest!' said the young man. 'If it was just for business, why would anyone want to hear you out?'

She looked curiously at him. 'What else do you think it could be, then?'

She stared at him with curiosity. 'So, what else do you think it could be?'

'Well-the only talk between a young woman and man that is likely to amuse an eavesdropper.'

'Well—the only conversation between a young woman and a man that is likely to entertain someone listening in.'

'Ah yes,' she said, smiling in spite of her preoccupation. 'Well, my cousin Owlett has spoken to me about matrimony, every now and then, that's true; but he was not speaking of it then. I wish he had been speaking of it, with all my heart. It would have been much less serious for me.'

'Oh yes,' she said, smiling despite her worries. 'Well, my cousin Owlett has mentioned marriage to me from time to time, that’s true; but he wasn’t talking about it then. I wish he had been talking about it, honestly. It would have been much less serious for me.'

'O Mrs. Newberry!'

'It would. Not that I should ha' chimed in with him, of course. I wish it for other reasons. I am glad, Mr. Stockdale, that you have told me of that listener. It is a timely warning, and I must see my cousin again.'

'It would. Not that I should have agreed with him, of course. I wish it for other reasons. I'm glad, Mr. Stockdale, that you told me about that listener. It's a timely warning, and I need to see my cousin again.'

'But don't go away till I have spoken,' said the minister. 'I'll out with it at once, and make no more ado. Let it be Yes or No between us, Lizzy; please do!' And he held out his hand, in which she freely allowed her own to rest, but without speaking.

'But don't leave until I've spoken,' said the minister. 'I'll get straight to the point and not waste any more time. Let’s make it a simple Yes or No between us, Lizzy; please do!' He extended his hand, and she willingly placed hers in it, but said nothing.

'You mean Yes by that?' he asked, after waiting a while.

'Do you mean yes by that?' he asked, after waiting a moment.

'You may be my sweetheart, if you will.'

'You can be my sweetheart, if you want.'

'Why not say at once you will wait for me until I have a house and can come back to marry you.'

'Why not just say that you'll wait for me until I have a house and can come back to marry you?'

'Because I am thinking-thinking of something else,' she said with embarrassment. 'It all comes upon me at once, and I must settle one thing at a time.'

'Because I'm thinking about something else,' she said, feeling embarrassed. 'It all hits me at once, and I need to deal with one thing at a time.'

'At any rate, dear Lizzy, you can assure me that the miller shall not be allowed to speak to you except on business? You have never directly encouraged him?'

'Anyway, dear Lizzy, can you promise me that the miller won’t be allowed to talk to you unless it’s about business? You haven’t directly encouraged him, have you?'

She parried the question by saying, 'You see, he and his party have been in the habit of leaving things on my premises sometimes, and as I have not denied him, it makes him rather forward.'

She dodged the question by saying, 'You see, he and his party sometimes leave things on my property, and since I haven't turned them away, it makes him a bit bold.'

'Things-what things?'

'What things?'

'Tubs-they are called Things here.'

'Tubs - they call them Things here.'

'But why don't you deny him, my dear Lizzy?'

'But why don’t you just say no to him, my dear Lizzy?'

'I cannot well.'

"I'm not doing well."

'You are too timid. It is unfair of him to impose so upon you, and get your good name into danger by his smuggling tricks. Promise me that the next time he wants to leave his tubs here you will let me roll them into the street?'

'You are too timid. It’s unfair for him to put that on you and risk your good reputation with his smuggling schemes. Promise me that the next time he wants to leave his barrels here, you’ll let me roll them out into the street?'

She shook her head. 'I would not venture to offend the neighbours so much as that,' said she, 'or do anything that would be so likely to put poor Owlett into the hands of the excisemen.'

She shook her head. "I wouldn't risk offending the neighbors that much," she said, "or do anything that would likely get poor Owlett in trouble with the tax collectors."

Stockdale sighed, and said that he thought hers a mistaken generosity when it extended to assisting those who cheated the king of his dues. 'At any rate, you will let me make him keep his distance as your lover, and tell him flatly that you are not for him?'

Stockdale sighed and said he believed her kindness was misguided when it came to helping those who cheated the king out of his due. 'Anyway, will you let me keep him away from you as your lover and tell him outright that you’re not interested in him?'

'Please not, at present,' she said. 'I don't wish to offend my old neighbours. It is not only Owlett who is concerned.'

'Please don't, right now,' she said. 'I don’t want to upset my old neighbors. It’s not just Owlett who is worried.'

'This is too bad,' said Stockdale impatiently.

'This is unfortunate,' said Stockdale impatiently.

'On my honour, I won't encourage him as my lover,' Lizzy answered earnestly. 'A reasonable man will be satisfied with that.'

'Honestly, I can’t see him as my lover,' Lizzy replied sincerely. 'A reasonable guy should be okay with that.'

'Well, so I am,' said Stockdale, his countenance clearing.

'Well, I am,' said Stockdale, his expression brightening.

III-THE MYSTERIOUS GREATCOAT

Stockdale now began to notice more particularly a feature in the life of his fair landlady, which he had casually observed but scarcely ever thought of before. It was that she was markedly irregular in her hours of rising. For a week or two she would be tolerably punctual, reaching the ground-floor within a few minutes of half-past seven. Then suddenly she would not be visible till twelve at noon, perhaps for three or four days in succession; and twice he had certain proof that she did not leave her room till half-past three in the afternoon. The second time that this extreme lateness came under his notice was on a day when he had particularly wished to consult with her about his future movements; and he concluded, as he always had done, that she had a cold, headache, or other ailment, unless she had kept herself invisible to avoid meeting and talking to him, which he could hardly believe. The former supposition was disproved, however, by her innocently saying, some days later, when they were speaking on a question of health, that she had never had a moment's heaviness, headache, or illness of any kind since the previous January twelvemonth.

Stockdale now started to notice a particular aspect of his fair landlady's life that he had casually observed but never really thought about before. It was that she was quite irregular in her waking hours. For a week or two, she would be reasonably punctual, arriving on the ground floor within a few minutes of half-past seven. Then, suddenly, she wouldn’t be seen until twelve at noon, possibly for three or four days in a row; and twice he had definite proof that she didn’t leave her room until half-past three in the afternoon. The second time he noticed this extreme lateness was on a day when he especially wanted to discuss his future plans with her; and he concluded, as he always had, that she must have a cold, headache, or some other illness, unless she was purposely avoiding him, which he found hard to believe. However, this assumption was disproved when she innocently mentioned a few days later, while they were talking about health, that she hadn't experienced a moment of heaviness, headache, or any kind of illness since the previous January.

'I am glad to hear it,' said he. 'I thought quite otherwise.'

"I'm glad to hear that," he said. "I thought differently."

'What, do I look sickly?' she asked, turning up her face to show the impossibility of his gazing on it and holding such a belief for a moment.

'What, do I look sick?' she asked, tilting her face to show how impossible it was for him to look at her and believe that for even a second.

'Not at all; I merely thought so from your being sometimes obliged to keep your room through the best part of the day.'

'Not at all; I just assumed that because you sometimes have to stay in your room for most of the day.'

'O, as for that-it means nothing,' she murmured, with a look which some might have called cold, and which was the worst look that he liked to see upon her. 'It is pure sleepiness, Mr. Stockdale.'

'O, as for that—it means nothing,' she murmured, with a look that some might have called cold, and which was the worst expression he hated to see on her. 'It's just pure sleepiness, Mr. Stockdale.'

'Never!'

'No way!'

'It is, I tell you. When I stay in my room till half-past three in the afternoon, you may always be sure that I slept soundly till three, or I shouldn't have stayed there.'

'It is, I swear. When I’m in my room until 3:30 in the afternoon, you can always be sure that I slept well until 3, or I wouldn’t have stayed in there.'

'It is dreadful,' said Stockdale, thinking of the disastrous effects of such indulgence upon the household of a minister, should it become a habit of everyday occurrence.

"It’s terrible," said Stockdale, considering the disastrous impact that such indulgence would have on a minister's household if it became a daily habit.

'But then,' she said, divining his good and prescient thoughts, 'it only happens when I stay awake all night. I don't go to sleep till five or six in the morning sometimes.'

'But then,' she said, picking up on his positive and insightful thoughts, 'it only happens when I stay up all night. Sometimes, I don't fall asleep until five or six in the morning.'

'Ah, that's another matter,' said Stockdale. 'Sleeplessness to such an alarming extent is real illness. Have you spoken to a doctor?'

'Oh, that's a different issue,' said Stockdale. 'Being unable to sleep like that is a serious condition. Have you talked to a doctor?'

'O no-there is no need for doing that-it is all natural to me.' And she went away without further remark.

'O no—there's no need to do that—it's all natural to me.' And she walked away without saying anything else.

Stockdale might have waited a long time to know the real cause of her sleeplessness, had it not happened that one dark night he was sitting in his bedroom jotting down notes for a sermon, which occupied him perfunctorily for a considerable time after the other members of the household had retired. He did not get to bed till one o'clock. Before he had fallen asleep he heard a knocking at the front door, first rather timidly performed, and then louder. Nobody answered it, and the person knocked again. As the house still remained undisturbed, Stockdale got out of bed, went to his window, which overlooked the door, and opening it, asked who was there.

Stockdale might have waited a long time to find out the real reason for his sleeplessness, but one dark night, while he was in his bedroom scribbling notes for a sermon, which kept him busy for quite a while after the rest of the household had gone to bed. He didn’t get to sleep until one o'clock. Just before he finally dozed off, he heard someone knocking at the front door, first gently and then louder. No one answered, so the person knocked again. With the house still quiet, Stockdale got out of bed, went to his window that looked out over the door, and opened it, asking who was there.

A young woman's voice replied that Susan Wallis was there, and that she had come to ask if Mrs. Newberry could give her some mustard to make a plaster with, as her father was taken very ill on the chest.

A young woman's voice answered that Susan Wallis was there and that she had come to ask if Mrs. Newberry could give her some mustard to make a poultice, as her father was very sick with chest issues.

The minister, having neither bell nor servant, was compelled to act in person. 'I will call Mrs. Newberry,' he said. Partly dressing himself; he went along the passage and tapped at Lizzy's door. She did not answer, and, thinking of her erratic habits in the matter of sleep, he thumped the door persistently, when he discovered, by its moving ajar under his knocking, that it had only been gently pushed to. As there was now a sufficient entry for the voice, he knocked no longer, but said in firm tones, 'Mrs. Newberry, you are wanted.'

The minister, without a bell or a servant, had to handle things himself. "I'll call Mrs. Newberry," he said. Partly getting dressed, he walked down the hallway and knocked on Lizzy's door. She didn’t respond, and thinking about her unpredictable sleep habits, he knocked more forcefully. When he realized the door had only been lightly closed as it moved open under his knocking, he stopped knocking and said in a steady voice, "Mrs. Newberry, you are needed."

The room was quite silent; not a breathing, not a rustle, came from any part of it. Stockdale now sent a positive shout through the open space of the door: 'Mrs. Newberry!'-still no answer, or movement of any kind within. Then he heard sounds from the opposite room, that of Lizzy's mother, as if she had been aroused by his uproar though Lizzy had not, and was dressing herself hastily. Stockdale softly closed the younger woman's door and went on to the other, which was opened by Mrs. Simpkins before he could reach it. She was in her ordinary clothes, and had a light in her hand.

The room was completely silent; there wasn’t a breath or a sound coming from anywhere. Stockdale called out loudly through the open door: "Mrs. Newberry!"—still, there was no reply or any movement inside. Then he heard noises from the other room, Lizzy's mother’s, as if she had been awakened by his shouting, even though Lizzy hadn’t, and was quickly getting dressed. Stockdale quietly closed the door to the younger woman’s room and moved to the other door, which Mrs. Simpkins opened before he could get there. She was in her everyday clothes and held a light in her hand.

'What's the person calling about?' she said in alarm.

'What’s the person calling about?' she said in surprise.

Stockdale told the girl's errand, adding seriously, 'I cannot wake Mrs. Newberry.'

Stockdale mentioned the girl's task, adding seriously, 'I can't wake up Mrs. Newberry.'

'It is no matter,' said her mother. 'I can let the girl have what she wants as well as my daughter.' And she came out of the room and went downstairs.

'It's no big deal,' her mother said. 'I can give the girl what she wants just like I do for my daughter.' Then she left the room and went downstairs.

Stockdale retired towards his own apartment, saying, however, to Mrs. Simpkins from the landing, as if on second thoughts, 'I suppose there is nothing the matter with Mrs. Newberry, that I could not wake her?'

Stockdale headed back to his apartment but, thinking it over, called out to Mrs. Simpkins from the landing, 'I guess there's nothing wrong with Mrs. Newberry that I couldn't wake her up for?'

'O no,' said the old lady hastily. 'Nothing at all.'

'O no,' said the old lady quickly. 'Nothing at all.'

Still the minister was not satisfied. 'Will you go in and see?' he said. 'I should be much more at ease.'

Still, the minister wasn't satisfied. 'Will you go in and see?' he asked. 'I would feel much more comfortable.'

Mrs. Simpkins returned up the staircase, went to her daughter's room, and came out again almost instantly. 'There is nothing at all the matter with Lizzy,' she said; and descended again to attend to the applicant, who, having seen the light, had remained quiet during this interval.

Mrs. Simpkins went back up the stairs, headed to her daughter's room, and came out almost immediately. "There's nothing wrong with Lizzy," she said, and went back down to help the person waiting, who had stayed quiet during this time after seeing the light.

Stockdale went into his room and lay down as before. He heard Lizzy's mother open the front door, admit the girl, and then the murmured discourse of both as they went to the store-cupboard for the medicament required. The girl departed, the door was fastened, Mrs. Simpkins came upstairs, and the house was again in silence. Still the minister did not fall asleep. He could not get rid of a singular suspicion, which was all the more harassing in being, if true, the most unaccountable thing within his experience. That Lizzy Newberry was in her bedroom when he made such a clamour at the door he could not possibly convince himself; notwithstanding that he had heard her come upstairs at the usual time, go into her chamber, and shut herself up in the usual way. Yet all reason was so much against her being elsewhere, that he was constrained to go back again to the unlikely theory of a heavy sleep, though he had heard neither breath nor movement during a shouting and knocking loud enough to rouse the Seven Sleepers.

Stockdale went into his room and lay down as before. He heard Lizzy's mother open the front door, let the girl in, and then the soft conversation between them as they went to the pantry for the medicine they needed. The girl left, the door was locked, Mrs. Simpkins came upstairs, and the house was silent again. Still, the minister couldn't fall asleep. He couldn't shake a strange suspicion, which was even more troubling because, if it were true, it was the most baffling thing he had ever experienced. He couldn’t convince himself that Lizzy Newberry was in her bedroom when he had made such a fuss at the door; even though he had heard her come upstairs at the usual time, go into her room, and lock herself in as she always did. Yet all logic pointed against her being anywhere else, so he was forced to return to the unlikely idea that she was in a deep sleep, even though he hadn’t heard a peep or any movement during his loud shouting and knocking, which would have been enough to wake the Seven Sleepers.

Before coming to any positive conclusion he fell asleep himself, and did not awake till day. He saw nothing of Mrs. Newberry in the morning, before he went out to meet the rising sun, as he liked to do when the weather was fine; but as this was by no means unusual, he took no notice of it. At breakfast-time he knew that she was not far off by hearing her in the kitchen, and though he saw nothing of her person, that back apartment being rigorously closed against his eyes, she seemed to be talking, ordering, and bustling about among the pots and skimmers in so ordinary a manner, that there was no reason for his wasting more time in fruitless surmise.

Before he reached any definite conclusion, he fell asleep and didn’t wake up until morning. He didn’t see Mrs. Newberry in the morning before he went out to greet the rising sun, which he liked to do when the weather was nice; but since this wasn’t unusual, he didn’t think much of it. At breakfast, he could tell she was nearby by the sounds coming from the kitchen, and although he couldn’t see her because that back room was completely closed off, she sounded like she was busy talking, directing, and moving around among the pots and utensils in such a normal way that he saw no reason to waste more time on pointless speculation.

The minister suffered from these distractions, and his extemporized sermons were not improved thereby. Already he often said Romans for Corinthians in the pulpit, and gave out hymns in strange cramped metres, that hitherto had always been skipped, because the congregation could not raise a tune to fit them. He fully resolved that as soon as his few weeks of stay approached their end he would cut the matter short, and commit himself by proposing a definite engagement, repenting at leisure if necessary.

The minister struggled with these distractions, and his off-the-cuff sermons didn't get any better because of it. He often mixed up Romans and Corinthians when preaching and introduced hymns with awkward rhythms that had always been ignored before because the congregation couldn’t sing them. He was determined that once his few weeks there were almost over, he would bring things to a close by suggesting a formal commitment, allowing himself to reconsider later if needed.

With this end in view, he suggested to her on the evening after her mysterious sleep that they should take a walk together just before dark, the latter part of the proposition being introduced that they might return home unseen. She consented to go; and away they went over a stile, to a shrouded footpath suited for the occasion. But, in spite of attempts on both sides, they were unable to infuse much spirit into the ramble. She looked rather paler than usual, and sometimes turned her head away.

With this in mind, he suggested to her the night after her mysterious sleep that they should take a walk together just before dark, mentioning that they could return home without being seen. She agreed to go, and off they went over a stile to a secluded path that was perfect for the occasion. However, despite their efforts, they couldn't seem to bring much energy to their walk. She appeared a bit paler than usual and occasionally turned her head away.

'Lizzy,' said Stockdale reproachfully, when they had walked in silence a long distance.

'Lizzy,' Stockdale said, sounding disappointed, after they had walked silently for a long time.

'Yes,' said she.

'Yes,' she said.

'You yawned-much my company is to you!' He put it in that way, but he was really wondering whether her yawn could possibly have more to do with physical weariness from the night before than mental weariness of that present moment. Lizzy apologized, and owned that she was rather tired, which gave him an opening for a direct question on the point; but his modesty would not allow him to put it to her; and he uncomfortably resolved to wait.

"You yawned—guess my company really bores you!" He framed it like that, but he was actually curious if her yawn was more about being physically tired from the night before than feeling mentally drained right then. Lizzy apologized and admitted that she was a bit tired, which gave him a chance to ask her directly about it; but his shyness stopped him from bringing it up, and he awkwardly decided to wait.

The month of February passed with alternations of mud and frost, rain and sleet, east winds and north-westerly gales. The hollow places in the ploughed fields showed themselves as pools of water, which had settled there from the higher levels, and had not yet found time to soak away. The birds began to get lively, and a single thrush came just before sunset each evening, and sang hopefully on the large elm-tree which stood nearest to Mrs. Newberry's house. Cold blasts and brittle earth had given place to an oozing dampness more unpleasant in itself than frost; but it suggested coming spring, and its unpleasantness was of a bearable kind.

February passed with a mix of mud and frost, rain and sleet, east winds and northwesterly gales. The dips in the plowed fields appeared as pools of water that had gathered from the higher ground and hadn’t soaked away yet. The birds started to get more active, and a single thrush came just before sunset each evening, singing cheerfully on the large elm tree closest to Mrs. Newberry's house. Cold winds and hard ground were replaced by a dampness that was more uncomfortable than frost, but it hinted at the coming spring, and its discomfort was manageable.

Stockdale had been going to bring about a practical understanding with Lizzy at least half-a-dozen times; but, what with the mystery of her apparent absence on the night of the neighbour's call, and her curious way of lying in bed at unaccountable times, he felt a check within him whenever he wanted to speak out. Thus they still lived on as indefinitely affianced lovers, each of whom hardly acknowledged the other's claim to the name of chosen one. Stockdale persuaded himself that his hesitation was owing to the postponement of the ordained minister's arrival, and the consequent delay in his own departure, which did away with all necessity for haste in his courtship; but perhaps it was only that his discretion was reasserting itself, and telling him that he had better get clearer ideas of Lizzy before arranging for the grand contract of his life with her. She, on her part, always seemed ready to be urged further on that question than he had hitherto attempted to go; but she was none the less independent, and to a degree which would have kept from flagging the passion of a far more mutable man.

Stockdale had tried to establish a practical understanding with Lizzy at least half a dozen times; but between the mystery of her apparent absence the night the neighbor stopped by and her strange habit of lying in bed at odd hours, he felt a restraint inside him whenever he wanted to speak up. So, they continued to live as indefinitely engaged lovers, each hardly acknowledging the other's claim to being the chosen one. Stockdale convinced himself that his hesitation was due to the delay of the ordained minister's arrival and the resulting postponement of his own departure, which removed any urgency in his courtship. But perhaps it was just that his caution was coming back, telling him he should clarify his feelings about Lizzy before planning the major commitment of his life with her. She, for her part, always seemed ready to push further on that issue than he had previously dared to go; but she was still fiercely independent, a trait that would have stifled the passion of a far more changeable man.

On the evening of the first of March he went casually into his bedroom about dusk, and noticed lying on a chair a greatcoat, hat, and breeches. Having no recollection of leaving any clothes of his own in that spot, he went and examined them as well as he could in the twilight, and found that they did not belong to him. He paused for a moment to consider how they might have got there. He was the only man living in the house; and yet these were not his garments, unless he had made a mistake. No, they were not his. He called up Martha Sarah.

On the evening of March 1st, he casually walked into his bedroom around dusk and noticed a greatcoat, hat, and breeches lying on a chair. Since he had no memory of leaving any of his clothes there, he went over to check them out as best as he could in the dim light and realized they didn’t belong to him. He stopped for a moment to think about how they might have ended up there. He was the only man living in the house, and yet these weren’t his clothes, unless he had made a mistake. No, they definitely weren’t his. He called for Martha Sarah.

'How did these things come in my room?' he said, flinging the objectionable articles to the floor.

'How did these things get into my room?' he said, tossing the unwanted items onto the floor.

Martha said that Mrs. Newberry had given them to her to brush, and that she had brought them up there thinking they must be Mr. Stockdale's, as there was no other gentleman a-lodging there.

Martha said that Mrs. Newberry had given them to her to brush, and that she had brought them up there thinking they must be Mr. Stockdale's, since there was no other gentleman staying there.

'Of course you did,' said Stockdale. 'Now take them down to your mis'ess, and say they are some clothes I have found here and know nothing about.'

'Of course you did,' Stockdale said. 'Now take them down to your mistress and say they're some clothes I found here and have no idea about.'

As the door was left open he heard the conversation downstairs. 'How stupid!' said Mrs. Newberry, in a tone of confusion. 'Why, Marther Sarer, I did not tell you to take 'em to Mr. Stockdale's room?'

As the door was left open, he overheard the conversation downstairs. "How silly!" said Mrs. Newberry, sounding confused. "Marther Sarer, didn’t I tell you to take them to Mr. Stockdale's room?"

'I thought they must be his as they was so muddy,' said Martha humbly.

"I thought they had to be his since they were so muddy," Martha said, humbly.

'You should have left 'em on the clothes-horse,' said the young mistress severely; and she came upstairs with the garments on her arm, quickly passed Stockdale's room, and threw them forcibly into a closet at the end of a passage. With this the incident ended, and the house was silent again.

'You should have left them on the clothes rack,' said the young mistress firmly; and she came upstairs with the clothes on her arm, quickly passed Stockdale's room, and threw them forcefully into a closet at the end of the hallway. With this, the incident was over, and the house was quiet again.

There would have been nothing remarkable in finding such clothes in a widow's house had they been clean; or moth-eaten, or creased, or mouldy from long lying by; but that they should be splashed with recent mud bothered Stockdale a good deal. When a young pastor is in the aspen stage of attachment, and open to agitation at the merest trifles, a really substantial incongruity of this complexion is a disturbing thing. However, nothing further occurred at that time; but he became watchful, and given to conjecture, and was unable to forget the circumstance.

There wouldn’t have been anything unusual about finding those clothes in a widow's house if they had been clean, or even if they were moth-eaten, wrinkled, or moldy from sitting around for a long time. But the fact that they were splattered with fresh mud really bothered Stockdale. When a young pastor is emotionally vulnerable and easily stirred by the smallest things, a significant mismatch like this can be quite unsettling. However, nothing else happened at that moment; his awareness sharpened, he became more speculative, and he couldn't shake off the thought of it.

One morning, on looking from his window, he saw Mrs. Newberry herself brushing the tails of a long drab greatcoat, which, if he mistook not, was the very same garment as the one that had adorned the chair of his room. It was densely splashed up to the hollow of the back with neighbouring Nether-Moynton mud, to judge by its colour, the spots being distinctly visible to him in the sunlight. The previous day or two having been wet, the inference was irresistible that the wearer had quite recently been walking some considerable distance about the lanes and fields. Stockdale opened the window and looked out, and Mrs. Newberry turned her head. Her face became slowly red; she never had looked prettier, or more incomprehensible, he waved his hand affectionately, and said good-morning; she answered with embarrassment, having ceased her occupation on the instant that she saw him, and rolled up the coat half-cleaned.

One morning, when he looked out of his window, he saw Mrs. Newberry herself brushing the tails of a long, dull gray coat, which, if he wasn’t mistaken, was the same one that had hung on the chair in his room. It was heavily splattered with the mud from nearby Nether-Moynton, judging by its color, with the spots clearly visible to him in the sunlight. Since the previous couple of days had been wet, it was obvious that she had recently walked quite a distance through the lanes and fields. Stockdale opened the window and looked out, and Mrs. Newberry turned her head. Her face slowly turned red; she had never looked prettier or more mysterious. He waved his hand affectionately and said good morning; she responded with embarrassment, having stopped her task the moment she saw him, and rolled up the coat that she had half-cleaned.

Stockdale shut the window. Some simple explanation of her proceeding was doubtless within the bounds of possibility; but he himself could not think of one; and he wished that she had placed the matter beyond conjecture by voluntarily saying something about it there and then.

Stockdale shut the window. Some straightforward explanation for her actions was probably possible, but he couldn't come up with one himself; he wished she had clarified things by sharing some details right then and there.

But, though Lizzy had not offered an explanation at the moment, the subject was brought forward by her at the next time of their meeting. She was chatting to him concerning some other event, and remarked that it happened about the time when she was dusting some old clothes that had belonged to her poor husband.

But, even though Lizzy hadn't explained it at the time, she brought it up at their next meeting. She was chatting with him about something else and mentioned that it was around the time she was cleaning some old clothes that had belonged to her late husband.

'You keep them clean out of respect to his memory?' said Stockdale tentatively.

"You keep them clean out of respect for his memory?" Stockdale asked cautiously.

'I air and dust them sometimes,' she said, with the most charming innocence in the world.

'Do dead men come out of their graves and walk in mud?' murmured the minister, in a cold sweat at the deception that she was practising.

'Do dead men really rise from their graves and walk in the mud?' the minister whispered, sweating coldly at the trick she was playing.

'What did you say?' asked Lizzy.

'What did you say?' Lizzy asked.

'Nothing, nothing,' said he mournfully. 'Mere words-a phrase that will do for my sermon next Sunday.' It was too plain that Lizzy was unaware that he had seen actual pedestrian splashes upon the skirts of the tell- tale overcoat, and that she imagined him to believe it had come direct from some chest or drawer.

'Nothing, nothing,' he said sadly. 'Just some words—a line I can use for my sermon next Sunday.' It was clear that Lizzy didn't realize he had noticed actual mud splashes on the hem of the tell-tale overcoat, and she thought he believed it had come straight from a chest or drawer.

The aspect of the case was now considerably darker. Stockdale was so much depressed by it that he did not challenge her explanation, or threaten to go off as a missionary to benighted islanders, or reproach her in any way whatever. He simply parted from her when she had done talking, and lived on in perplexity, till by degrees his natural manner became sad and constrained.

The situation had now become much darker. Stockdale was so depressed by it that he didn’t challenge her explanation, threaten to leave as a missionary to lost islanders, or reproach her in any way. He simply walked away from her when she finished talking and continued to live in confusion until gradually his natural demeanor became sad and tense.

IV-AT THE TIME OF THE NEW MOON

The following Thursday was changeable, damp, and gloomy; and the night threatened to be windy and unpleasant. Stockdale had gone away to Knollsea in the morning, to be present at some commemoration service there, and on his return he was met by the attractive Lizzy in the passage. Whether influenced by the tide of cheerfulness which had attended him that day, or by the drive through the open air, or whether from a natural disposition to let bygones alone, he allowed himself to be fascinated into forgetfulness of the greatcoat incident, and upon the whole passed a pleasant evening; not so much in her society as within sound of her voice, as she sat talking in the back parlour to her mother, till the latter went to bed. Shortly after this Mrs. Newberry retired, and then Stockdale prepared to go upstairs himself. But before he left the room he remained standing by the dying embers awhile, thinking long of one thing and another; and was only aroused by the flickering of his candle in the socket as it suddenly declined and went out. Knowing that there were a tinder-box, matches, and another candle in his bedroom, he felt his way upstairs without a light. On reaching his chamber he laid his hand on every possible ledge and corner for the tinderbox, but for a long time in vain. Discovering it at length, Stockdale produced a spark, and was kindling the brimstone, when he fancied that he heard a movement in the passage. He blew harder at the lint, the match flared up, and looking by aid of the blue light through the door, which had been standing open all this time, he was surprised to see a male figure vanishing round the top of the staircase with the evident intention of escaping unobserved. The personage wore the clothes which Lizzy had been brushing, and something in the outline and gait suggested to the minister that the wearer was Lizzy herself.

The following Thursday was unpredictable, damp, and gloomy, and the night was set to be windy and unpleasant. Stockdale had gone to Knollsea in the morning for a commemoration service, and when he returned, he crossed paths with the charming Lizzy in the hallway. Whether it was the wave of good spirits that had accompanied him throughout the day, the fresh air from his drive, or simply a natural inclination to let the past go, he let himself be drawn into forgetting about the greatcoat incident and ended up having a nice evening; not so much in her company but within earshot of her voice, as she chatted in the back parlor with her mother until the latter went to bed. Shortly after Mrs. Newberry retired, Stockdale got ready to head upstairs himself. But before he left the room, he stood by the dying embers for a while, lost in thought about various things, until the flickering of his candle in the socket startled him as it suddenly extinguished. Knowing there was a tinderbox, matches, and another candle in his bedroom, he made his way upstairs in the dark. Once he reached his room, he searched every ledge and corner for the tinderbox but found it frustratingly elusive for a long time. Finally locating it, Stockdale struck a spark and was about to light the brimstone when he thought he heard a noise in the hallway. He blew harder at the lint, the match flared up, and looking through the blue light from the door, which had been left open, he was surprised to see a male figure disappearing around the top of the staircase, clearly trying to escape without being noticed. The figure was wearing the clothes that Lizzy had been brushing, and something about the shape and walk made Stockdale think it might actually be Lizzy herself.

But he was not sure of this; and, greatly excited, Stockdale determined to investigate the mystery, and to adopt his own way for doing it. He blew out the match without lighting the candle, went into the passage, and proceeded on tiptoe towards Lizzy's room. A faint grey square of light in the direction of the chamber-window as he approached told him that the door was open, and at once suggested that the occupant was gone. He turned and brought down his fist upon the handrail of the staircase: 'It was she; in her late husband's coat and hat!'

But he wasn't sure about that; and feeling really excited, Stockdale decided to dig into the mystery and do it his own way. He blew out the match without lighting the candle, went into the hallway, and tiptoed toward Lizzy's room. A faint gray square of light from the direction of the window in her room told him that the door was open, and instantly made him think that the tenant was gone. He turned and hit his fist against the handrail of the staircase: 'It was her; wearing her late husband's coat and hat!'

Somewhat relieved to find that there was no intruder in the case, yet none the less surprised, the minister crept down the stairs, softly put on his boots, overcoat, and hat, and tried the front door. It was fastened as usual: he went to the back door, found this unlocked, and emerged into the garden. The night was mild and moonless, and rain had lately been falling, though for the present it had ceased. There was a sudden dropping from the trees and bushes every now and then, as each passing wind shook their boughs. Among these sounds Stockdale heard the faint fall of feet upon the road outside, and he guessed from the step that it was Lizzy's. He followed the sound, and, helped by the circumstance of the wind blowing from the direction in which the pedestrian moved, he got nearly close to her, and kept there, without risk of being overheard. While he thus followed her up the street or lane, as it might indifferently be called, there being more hedge than houses on either side, a figure came forward to her from one of the cottage doors. Lizzy stopped; the minister stepped upon the grass and stopped also.

Somewhat relieved to discover that there was no intruder in the case, yet still surprised, the minister quietly moved down the stairs, put on his boots, overcoat, and hat, and tried the front door. It was locked as usual, so he went to the back door, found it unlocked, and stepped into the garden. The night was mild and moonless, and it had recently rained, although it had stopped for the moment. Every now and then, drops fell from the trees and bushes as the wind shook their branches. Amid these sounds, Stockdale heard the faint sound of footsteps on the road outside and guessed from the stride that it was Lizzy's. He followed the sound, aided by the wind blowing in the direction the person was walking, getting close to her while staying unnoticed. As he followed her up the street—or lane, as it could also be called, with more hedges than houses on either side—a figure emerged from one of the cottage doors to meet her. Lizzy stopped; the minister stepped onto the grass and halted as well.

'Is that Mrs. Newberry?' said the man who had come out, whose voice Stockdale recognized as that of one of the most devout members of his congregation.

'Is that Mrs. Newberry?' said the man who had come out, whose voice Stockdale recognized as that of one of the most dedicated members of his congregation.

'It is,' said Lizzy.

"It is," Lizzy said.

'I be quite ready-I've been here this quarter-hour.'

'I’m quite ready—I’ve been here for the last fifteen minutes.'

'Ah, John,' said she, 'I have bad news; there is danger to-night for our venture.'

'Oh, John,' she said, 'I have some bad news; there's danger tonight for our venture.'

'And d'ye tell o't! I dreamed there might be.'

'And do you believe it! I dreamed there could be.'

'Yes,' she said hurriedly; 'and you must go at once round to where the chaps are waiting, and tell them they will not be wanted till to-morrow night at the same time. I go to burn the lugger off.'

'Yes,' she said quickly; 'and you need to head straight over to where the guys are waiting and tell them they won't be needed until tomorrow night at the same time. I'm going to set the lugger on fire.'

'I will,' he said; and instantly went off through a gate, Lizzy continuing her way.

'I will,' he said, and immediately walked through a gate, while Lizzy continued on her path.

On she tripped at a quickening pace till the lane turned into the turnpike-road, which she crossed, and got into the track for Ringsworth. Here she ascended the hill without the least hesitation, passed the lonely hamlet of Holworth, and went down the vale on the other side. Stockdale had never taken any extensive walks in this direction, but he was aware that if she persisted in her course much longer she would draw near to the coast, which was here between two and three miles distant from Nether-Moynton; and as it had been about a quarter-past eleven o'clock when they set out, her intention seemed to be to reach the shore about midnight.

On she walked faster until the lane turned into the main road, which she crossed to get onto the path to Ringsworth. She climbed the hill without hesitation, passed the quiet village of Holworth, and went down the valley on the other side. Stockdale had never taken long walks in this direction, but he knew that if she kept going, she would soon be close to the coast, which was about two to three miles away from Nether-Moynton. Since it had been around a quarter past eleven when they set out, it seemed like her plan was to reach the shore around midnight.

Lizzy soon ascended a small mound, which Stockdale at the same time adroitly skirted on the left; and a dull monotonous roar burst upon his ear. The hillock was about fifty yards from the top of the cliffs, and by day it apparently commanded a full view of the bay. There was light enough in the sky to show her disguised figure against it when she reached the top, where she paused, and afterwards sat down. Stockdale, not wishing on any account to alarm her at this moment, yet desirous of being near her, sank upon his hands and knees, crept a little higher up, and there stayed still.

Lizzy quickly climbed a small mound, which Stockdale skillfully avoided on the left at the same time; a dull, monotonous roar filled his ears. The hill was about fifty yards from the edge of the cliffs, and during the day, it seemed to offer a complete view of the bay. There was enough light in the sky to outline her disguised figure when she reached the top, where she stopped and then sat down. Stockdale, not wanting to startle her now but eager to be close, sank to his hands and knees, crawled a little higher up, and stayed there quietly.

The wind was chilly, the ground damp, and his position one in which he did not care to remain long. However, before he had decided to leave it, the young man heard voices behind him. What they signified he did not know; but, fearing that Lizzy was in danger, he was about to run forward and warn her that she might be seen, when she crept to the shelter of a little bush which maintained a precarious existence in that exposed spot; and her form was absorbed in its dark and stunted outline as if she had become part of it. She had evidently heard the men as well as he. They passed near him, talking in loud and careless tones, which could be heard above the uninterrupted washings of the sea, and which suggested that they were not engaged in any business at their own risk. This proved to be the fact: some of their words floated across to him, and caused him to forget at once the coldness of his situation.

The wind was cold, the ground was damp, and he didn't want to stay in his spot for long. But before he decided to leave, the young man heard voices behind him. He didn’t know what they meant, but worried that Lizzy might be in danger, he was about to run forward and warn her that she could be seen when she crept into the shelter of a small bush that was barely surviving in that exposed area; her figure blended into its dark, stunted shape as if she had become part of it. She clearly heard the men too. They walked past him, chatting loudly and carelessly, their voices cutting through the constant sound of the sea, suggesting that they weren’t worried about their safety. That turned out to be true: some of their words drifted over to him, making him forget all about the chill of his situation.

'What's the vessel?'

'What's the ship?'

'A lugger, about fifty tons.'

'A fifty-ton lugger.'

'From Cherbourg, I suppose?'

"From Cherbourg, I guess?"

'Yes, 'a b'lieve.'

“Yes, I believe.”

'But it don't all belong to Owlett?'

'But it doesn't all belong to Owlett?'

'O no. He's only got a share. There's another or two in it-a farmer and such like, but the names I don't know.'

'O no. He's just got a share. There are a couple of others involved—a farmer and someone like that, but I don't know their names.'

The voices died away, and the heads and shoulders of the men diminished towards the cliff, and dropped out of sight.

The voices faded, and the heads and shoulders of the men shrank towards the cliff, disappearing from view.

'My darling has been tempted to buy a share by that unbeliever Owlett,' groaned the minister, his honest affection for Lizzy having quickened to its intensest point during these moments of risk to her person and name. 'That's why she's here,' he said to himself. 'O, it will be the ruin of her!'

'My darling has been tempted to buy a share by that unbeliever Owlett,' groaned the minister, his genuine love for Lizzy having reached its peak during these moments of danger to her safety and reputation. 'That's why she's here,' he thought. 'Oh, it will be the ruin of her!'

His perturbation was interrupted by the sudden bursting out of a bright and increasing light from the spot where Lizzy was in hiding. A few seconds later, and before it had reached the height of a blaze, he heard her rush past him down the hollow like a stone from a sling, in the direction of home. The light now flared high and wide, and showed its position clearly. She had kindled a bough of furze and stuck it into the bush under which she had been crouching; the wind fanned the flame, which crackled fiercely, and threatened to consume the bush as well as the bough. Stockdale paused just long enough to notice thus much, and then followed rapidly the route taken by the young woman. His intention was to overtake her, and reveal himself as a friend; but run as he would he could see nothing of her. Thus he flew across the open country about Holworth, twisting his legs and ankles in unexpected fissures and descents, till, on coming to the gate between the downs and the road, he was forced to pause to get breath. There was no audible movement either in front or behind him, and he now concluded that she had not outrun him, but that, hearing him at her heels, and believing him one of the excise party, she had hidden herself somewhere on the way, and let him pass by.

His anxiety was interrupted by a sudden burst of bright, increasing light from the spot where Lizzy was hiding. A few seconds later, before it turned into a full blaze, he heard her rush past him down the hollow like a stone from a slingshot, heading home. The light flared high and wide, clearly revealing its location. She had set fire to a bough of gorse and stuck it into the bush where she had been crouching; the wind fanned the flames, which crackled fiercely and threatened to consume both the bush and the bough. Stockdale paused just long enough to notice this, then quickly followed the path taken by the young woman. His intention was to catch up to her and reveal himself as a friend; but no matter how fast he ran, he couldn’t see her. He sprinted across the open country around Holworth, twisting his legs and ankles in unexpected cracks and slopes, until he reached the gate between the hills and the road and had to stop to catch his breath. There was no sound in front or behind him, and he concluded that she hadn’t outrun him, but instead, hearing him close behind and thinking he was one of the excise officers, she had hidden somewhere along the way and let him pass.

He went on at a more leisurely pace towards the village. On reaching the house he found his surmise to be correct, for the gate was on the latch, and the door unfastened, just as he had left them. Stockdale closed the door behind him, and waited silently in the passage. In about ten minutes he heard the same light footstep that he had heard in going out; it paused at the gate, which opened and shut softly, and then the door-latch was lifted, and Lizzy came in.

He walked at a slower pace toward the village. When he got to the house, he confirmed his suspicion; the gate was unlatched, and the door was unlocked, just as he had left them. Stockdale closed the door behind him and waited quietly in the hallway. About ten minutes later, he heard the same light footsteps he had heard when leaving; they stopped at the gate, which opened and closed gently, and then the door latch was lifted, and Lizzy walked in.

Stockdale went forward and said at once, 'Lizzy, don't be frightened. I have been waiting up for you.'

Stockdale moved closer and said immediately, 'Lizzy, don’t be scared. I’ve been waiting for you.'

She started, though she had recognized the voice. 'It is Mr. Stockdale, isn't it?' she said.

She jumped, even though she had recognized the voice. 'It's Mr. Stockdale, right?' she said.

'Yes,' he answered, becoming angry now that she was safe indoors, and not alarmed. 'And a nice game I've found you out in to-night. You are in man's clothes, and I am ashamed of you!'

'Yes,' he replied, getting angry now that she was safe inside and not worried. 'And what a nice game I've caught you in tonight. You're wearing men's clothes, and I'm embarrassed for you!'

Lizzy could hardly find a voice to answer this unexpected reproach.

Lizzy could barely find her voice to respond to this unexpected criticism.

'I am only partly in man's clothes,' she faltered, shrinking back to the wall. 'It is only his greatcoat and hat and breeches that I've got on, which is no harm, as he was my own husband; and I do it only because a cloak blows about so, and you can't use your arms. I have got my own dress under just the same-it is only tucked in! Will you go away upstairs and let me pass? I didn't want you to see me at such a time as this!'

'I’m only partly in men’s clothing,' she said hesitantly, stepping back against the wall. 'I’m just wearing his greatcoat, hat, and trousers, which isn’t a big deal since he was my husband; I’m doing it only because a cloak blows around so much, and you can’t move your arms properly. I’m wearing my own dress underneath—it's just tucked in! Can you please go upstairs and let me through? I didn’t want you to see me like this!'

'But I have a right to see you! How do you think there can be anything between us now?' Lizzy was silent. 'You are a smuggler,' he continued sadly.

'But I have the right to see you! How do you think we can have anything between us now?' Lizzy was quiet. 'You're a smuggler,' he continued sadly.

'I have only a share in the run,' she said.

'I only have a stake in the run,' she said.

'That makes no difference. Whatever did you engage in such a trade as that for, and keep it such a secret from me all this time?'

'That doesn’t matter. Why did you get involved in a trade like that and keep it a secret from me all this time?'

'I don't do it always. I only do it in winter-time when 'tis new moon.'

'I don't do it all the time. I only do it in winter when it's a new moon.'

'Well, I suppose that's because it can't be done anywhen else . . . You have regularly upset me, Lizzy.'

'Well, I guess that's because it can't be done any other time... You have constantly upset me, Lizzy.'

'I am sorry for that,' Lizzy meekly replied.

"I'm sorry about that," Lizzy said quietly.

'Well now,' said he more tenderly, 'no harm is done as yet. Won't you for the sake of me give up this blamable and dangerous practice altogether?'

'Well now,' he said more gently, 'no harm has been done so far. Will you, for my sake, give up this questionable and risky habit once and for all?'

'I must do my best to save this run,' said she, getting rather husky in the throat. 'I don't want to give you up-you know that; but I don't want to lose my venture. I don't know what to do now! Why I have kept it so secret from you is that I was afraid you would be angry if you knew.'

'I have to do my best to save this run,' she said, her voice getting a bit shaky. 'I don’t want to let you go—you know that; but I can’t afford to lose my investment. I’m not sure what to do now! The reason I kept it a secret from you is that I was worried you’d be upset if you found out.'

'I should think so! I suppose if I had married you without finding this out you'd have gone on with it just the same?'

'I would think so! I guess if I had married you without finding this out, you would have just gone on with it the same way?'

'I don't know. I did not think so far ahead. I only went to-night to burn the folks off, because we found that the excisemen knew where the tubs were to be landed.'

'I don't know. I didn't think that far ahead. I only went out tonight to burn the stuff, because we found out that the tax agents knew where the barrels were going to be dropped off.'

'It is a pretty mess to be in altogether, is this,' said the distracted young minister. 'Well, what will you do now?'

'This is quite a mess to be in,' said the distracted young minister. 'So, what will you do now?'

Lizzy slowly murmured the particulars of their plan, the chief of which were that they meant to try their luck at some other point of the shore the next night; that three landing-places were always agreed upon before the run was attempted, with the understanding that, if the vessel was 'burnt off' from the first point, which was Ringsworth, as it had been by her to-night, the crew should attempt to make the second, which was Lulstead Cove, on the second night; and if there, too, danger threatened, they should on the third night try the third place, which was behind a headland further west.

Lizzy quietly went over the details of their plan, which mainly included trying their luck at another spot along the shore the next night. They had always agreed on three landing spots before attempting the run, with the understanding that if the ship was "burnt off" from the first location, Ringsworth—like it had been that night—the crew would aim for the second location, Lulstead Cove, on the second night. If danger arose there too, they would try the third spot, which was behind a headland further west, on the third night.

'Suppose the officers hinder them landing there too?' he said, his attention to this interesting programme displacing for a moment his concern at her share in it.

'What if the officers stop them from landing there too?' he said, momentarily shifting his focus from his worries about her involvement in this intriguing plan.

'Then we shan't try anywhere else all this dark-that's what we call the time between moon and moon-and perhaps they'll string the tubs to a stray-line, and sink 'em a little-ways from shore, and take the bearings; and then when they have a chance they'll go to creep for 'em.'

'Then we won't look anywhere else during this dark time—that’s what we call the period between moons—and maybe they’ll tie the tubs to a stray line and lower them just a bit from the shore, then take the bearings; and when they get a chance, they'll sneak out to get them.'

'What's that?'

'What’s that?'

'O, they'll go out in a boat and drag a creeper-that's a grapnel-along the bottom till it catch hold of the stray-line.'

'O, they'll take a boat and drag a grapnel along the bottom until it catches the stray line.'

The minister stood thinking; and there was no sound within doors but the tick of the clock on the stairs, and the quick breathing of Lizzy, partly from her walk and partly from agitation, as she stood close to the wall, not in such complete darkness but that he could discern against its whitewashed surface the greatcoat and broad hat which covered her.

The minister stood there lost in thought, and the only sound inside was the ticking of the clock on the stairs and Lizzy's quick breaths, a mix of fatigue from her walk and anxiety as she stood close to the wall. The light was dim enough that he could make out the greatcoat and wide hat she wore against the whitewashed surface.

'Lizzy, all this is very wrong,' he said. 'Don't you remember the lesson of the tribute-money? "Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's." Surely you have heard that read times enough in your growing up?'

'Lizzy, this is all very wrong,' he said. 'Don't you remember the lesson of the tribute money? "Give to Caesar what belongs to Caesar." You've definitely heard that enough while growing up, right?'

'He's dead,' she pouted.

"He's dead," she said sadly.

'But the spirit of the text is in force just the same.'

'But the essence of the text is still relevant.'

'My father did it, and so did my grandfather, and almost everybody in Nether-Moynton lives by it, and life would be so dull if it wasn't for that, that I should not care to live at all.'

'My dad did it, and so did my granddad, and almost everyone in Nether-Moynton lives by it, and life would be so boring without it that I wouldn't even want to live at all.'

'I am nothing to live for, of course,' he replied bitterly. 'You would not think it worth while to give up this wild business and live for me alone?'

'I have nothing to live for, obviously,' he replied bitterly. 'You wouldn't consider it worth it to give up this crazy life and live for me alone?'

'I have never looked at it like that.'

'I’ve never seen it that way.'

'And you won't promise and wait till I am ready?'

'So you won't promise to wait until I'm ready?'

'I cannot give you my word to-night.' And, looking thoughtfully down, she gradually moved and moved away, going into the adjoining room, and closing the door between them. She remained there in the dark till he was tired of waiting, and had gone up to his own chamber.

'I can't promise you anything tonight.' She looked down, deep in thought, and slowly walked away into the next room, closing the door behind her. She stayed there in the dark until he got tired of waiting and went up to his own room.

Poor Stockdale was dreadfully depressed all the next day by the discoveries of the night before. Lizzy was unmistakably a fascinating young woman, but as a minister's wife she was hardly to be contemplated. 'If I had only stuck to father's little grocery business, instead of going in for the ministry, she would have suited me beautifully!' he said sadly, until he remembered that in that case he would never have come from his distant home to Nether-Moynton, and never have known her.

Poor Stockdale was extremely down all the next day because of what he discovered the night before. Lizzy was undeniably an interesting young woman, but as a minister's wife, she was hardly a suitable idea. 'If I had just stuck with my father's little grocery store instead of going into the ministry, she would have been perfect for me!' he said sadly, until he realized that if that had been the case, he would never have left his distant home for Nether-Moynton and would never have met her.

The estrangement between them was not complete, but it was sufficient to keep them out of each other's company. Once during the day he met her in the garden-path, and said, turning a reproachful eye upon her, 'Do you promise, Lizzy?' But she did not reply. The evening drew on, and he knew well enough that Lizzy would repeat her excursion at night-her half-offended manner had shown that she had not the slightest intention of altering her plans at present. He did not wish to repeat his own share of the adventure; but, act as he would, his uneasiness on her account increased with the decline of day. Supposing that an accident should befall her, he would never forgive himself for not being there to help, much as he disliked the idea of seeming to countenance such unlawful escapades.

The distance between them wasn't total, but it was enough to keep them apart. Once during the day, he saw her on the garden path and said, giving her a reproachful look, "Do you promise, Lizzy?" But she didn’t answer. As evening approached, he was well aware that Lizzy would go out again at night—her somewhat offended demeanor made it clear she had no intention of changing her plans right now. He didn't want to go through his part in the adventure again, but no matter what he did, his worry for her grew as the day ended. If something were to happen to her, he would never forgive himself for not being there to help, even though he hated the idea of appearing to support such reckless outings.

V-HOW THEY WENT TO LULSTEAD COVE

As he had expected, she left the house at the same hour at night, this time passing his door without stealth, as if she knew very well that he would be watching, and were resolved to brave his displeasure. He was quite ready, opened the door quickly, and reached the back door almost as soon as she.

As he expected, she left the house at the same hour at night, this time walking past his door openly, as if she knew he would be watching and was determined to face his annoyance. He was fully prepared, opened the door quickly, and got to the back door almost as soon as she did.

'Then you will go, Lizzy?' he said as he stood on the step beside her, who now again appeared as a little man with a face altogether unsuited to his clothes.

'Then you will go, Lizzy?' he said as he stood on the step beside her, who now again appeared as a little man with a face that completely clashed with his clothes.

'I must,' she said, repressed by his stern manner.

'I have to,' she said, held back by his serious attitude.

'Then I shall go too,' said he.

'Then I'll go too,' he said.

'And I am sure you will enjoy it!' she exclaimed in more buoyant tones. 'Everybody does who tries it.'

'And I know you’re going to love it!' she said with more energy. 'Everyone does who gives it a shot.'

'God forbid that I should!' he said. 'But I must look after you.'

'Heaven forbid that I should!' he said. 'But I have to take care of you.'

They opened the wicket and went up the road abreast of each other, but at some distance apart, scarcely a word passing between them. The evening was rather less favourable to smuggling enterprise than the last had been, the wind being lower, and the sky somewhat clear towards the north.

They opened the small gate and walked up the road side by side, but at a distance from each other, hardly speaking a word. The evening was not as good for smuggling as the previous one had been, with the wind being calmer and the sky somewhat clear towards the north.

'It is rather lighter,' said Stockdale.

'It's a bit lighter,' said Stockdale.

''Tis, unfortunately,' said she. 'But it is only from those few stars over there. The moon was new to-day at four o'clock, and I expected clouds. I hope we shall be able to do it this dark, for when we have to sink 'em for long it makes the stuff taste bleachy, and folks don't like it so well.'

''It is, unfortunately,' she said. 'But it’s just from those few stars over there. The moon was new today at four o'clock, and I expected clouds. I hope we can do it in this darkness, because when we have to soak them for too long, it makes the stuff taste bleached, and people don’t like it as much.'

Her course was different from that of the preceding night, branching off to the left over Lord's Barrow as soon as they had got out of the lane and crossed the highway. By the time they reached Chaldon Down, Stockdale, who had been in perplexed thought as to what he should say to her, decided that he would not attempt expostulation now, while she was excited by the adventure, but wait till it was over, and endeavour to keep her from such practices in future. It occurred to him once or twice, as they rambled on, that should they be surprised by the excisemen, his situation would be more awkward than hers, for it would be difficult to prove his true motive in coming to the spot; but the risk was a slight consideration beside his wish to be with her.

Her path was different from the previous night, veering left over Lord's Barrow as soon as they got out of the lane and crossed the highway. By the time they reached Chaldon Down, Stockdale, who had been deep in thought about what to say to her, decided not to confront her now, while she was excited about the adventure, but to wait until it was over and try to dissuade her from such activities in the future. It crossed his mind once or twice as they strolled along that if they were caught by the excisemen, he would be in a more difficult position than she would, since it would be hard to prove his true intentions for being there; but the risk seemed minor compared to his desire to be with her.

They now arrived at a ravine which lay on the outskirts of Chaldon, a village two miles on their way towards the point of the shore they sought. Lizzy broke the silence this time: 'I have to wait here to meet the carriers. I don't know if they have come yet. As I told you, we go to Lulstead Cove to-night, and it is two miles further than Ringsworth.'

They had now reached a ravine on the edge of Chaldon, a village two miles away from the shore they were heading to. Lizzy broke the silence this time: 'I have to wait here to meet the carriers. I’m not sure if they’ve arrived yet. Like I mentioned, we're going to Lulstead Cove tonight, and that’s two miles farther than Ringsworth.'

It turned out that the men had already come; for while she spoke two or three dozen heads broke the line of the slope, and a company of them at once descended from the bushes where they had been lying in wait. These carriers were men whom Lizzy and other proprietors regularly employed to bring the tubs from the boat to a hiding-place inland. They were all young fellows of Nether-Moynton, Chaldon, and the neighbourhood, quiet and inoffensive persons, who simply engaged to carry the cargo for Lizzy and her cousin Owlett, as they would have engaged in any other labour for which they were fairly well paid.

It turned out that the men had already arrived; just as she was speaking, two or three dozen heads appeared over the slope, and a group of them suddenly came down from the bushes where they had been waiting. These workers were guys that Lizzy and other owners regularly hired to transport the tubs from the boat to a safe spot inland. They were all young men from Nether-Moynton, Chaldon, and the surrounding area, quiet and harmless individuals who had simply agreed to carry the cargo for Lizzy and her cousin Owlett, just as they would have taken on any other job for which they were reasonably well compensated.

At a word from her they closed in together. 'You had better take it now,' she said to them; and handed to each a packet. It contained six shillings, their remuneration for the night's undertaking, which was paid beforehand without reference to success or failure; but, besides this, they had the privilege of selling as agents when the run was successfully made. As soon as it was done, she said to them, 'The place is the old one near Lulstead Cove;' the men till that moment not having been told whither they were bound, for obvious reasons. 'Owlett will meet you there,' added Lizzy. 'I shall follow behind, to see that we are not watched.'

At her signal, they gathered around. "You might as well take it now," she told them, handing each of them a packet. It had six shillings inside, their payment for the night's task, given upfront regardless of whether it succeeded or failed. Plus, they had the opportunity to sell as agents once the run went well. Once everything was settled, she informed them, "The location is the old spot near Lulstead Cove," as the men hadn't been told where they were heading up to that point for good reason. "Owlett will meet you there," Lizzy added. "I’ll follow behind to make sure we aren’t being watched."

The carriers went on, and Stockdale and Mrs. Newberry followed at a distance of a stone's throw. 'What do these men do by day?' he said.

The carriers moved ahead, and Stockdale and Mrs. Newberry followed a short distance behind. "What do these guys do during the day?" he asked.

'Twelve or fourteen of them are labouring men. Some are brickmakers, some carpenters, some shoe-makers, some thatchers. They are all known to me very well. Nine of 'em are of your own congregation.'

'Twelve or fourteen of them are working men. Some are bricklayers, some are carpenters, some are shoemakers, and some are roofers. I know all of them quite well. Nine of them are from your own congregation.'

'I can't help that,' said Stockdale.

'I can't help that,' Stockdale said.

'O, I know you can't. I only told you. The others are more church- inclined, because they supply the pa'son with all the spirits he requires, and they don't wish to show unfriendliness to a customer.'

'O, I know you can't. I only mentioned it. The others are more into church because they provide the pastor with all the liquor he needs, and they don't want to come off as unfriendly to a customer.'

'How do you choose 'em?' said Stockdale.

'How do you choose them?' said Stockdale.

'We choose 'em for their closeness, and because they are strong and surefooted, and able to carry a heavy load a long way without being tired.'

'We choose them for their closeness, and because they are strong and surefooted, able to carry a heavy load for a long distance without getting tired.'

Stockdale sighed as she enumerated each particular, for it proved how far involved in the business a woman must be who was so well acquainted with its conditions and needs. And yet he felt more tenderly towards her at this moment than he had felt all the foregoing day. Perhaps it was that her experienced manner and hold indifference stirred his admiration in spite of himself.

Stockdale sighed as she listed each detail, as it showed just how deeply a woman had to be involved in the business to be so familiar with its conditions and needs. Yet, at that moment, he felt more affection for her than he had all day. Maybe it was her confident attitude and apparent indifference that sparked his admiration despite himself.

'Take my arm, Lizzy,' he murmured.

'Take my arm, Lizzy,' he said softly.

'I don't want it,' she said. 'Besides, we may never be to each other again what we once have been.'

'I don't want it,' she said. 'Besides, we might never be what we once were to each other.'

'That depends upon you,' said he, and they went on again as before.

'That depends on you,' he said, and they continued on as before.

The hired carriers paced along over Chaldon Down with as little hesitation as if it had been day, avoiding the cart-way, and leaving the village of East Chaldon on the left, so as to reach the crest of the hill at a lonely trackless place not far from the ancient earthwork called Round Pound. An hour's brisk walking brought them within sound of the sea, not many hundred yards from Lulstead Cove. Here they paused, and Lizzy and Stockdale came up with them, when they went on together to the verge of the cliff. One of the men now produced an iron bar, which he drove firmly into the soil a yard from the edge, and attached to it a rope that he had uncoiled from his body. They all began to descend, partly stepping, partly sliding down the incline, as the rope slipped through their hands.

The hired carriers moved along Chaldon Down with as much confidence as if it were daytime, avoiding the cart path and leaving the village of East Chaldon behind, aiming to reach the top of the hill at a remote, unmarked spot not far from the ancient earthwork known as Round Pound. After an hour of brisk walking, they could hear the sea, just a few hundred yards from Lulstead Cove. They paused here, and Lizzy and Stockdale caught up with them as they continued together to the edge of the cliff. One of the men then pulled out an iron bar, which he drove securely into the ground a yard from the edge, and attached a rope he had uncoiled from his body. They all started to descend, partly stepping and partly sliding down the slope as the rope slipped through their hands.

'You will not go to the bottom, Lizzy?' said Stockdale anxiously.

'You won't go to the bottom, Lizzy?' Stockdale asked anxiously.

'No. I stay here to watch,' she said. 'Owlett is down there.'

'No. I'm staying here to watch,' she said. 'Owlett is down there.'

The men remained quite silent when they reached the shore; and the next thing audible to the two at the top was the dip of heavy oars, and the dashing of waves against a boat's bow. In a moment the keel gently touched the shingle, and Stockdale heard the footsteps of the thirty-six carriers running forwards over the pebbles towards the point of landing.

The men stayed completely quiet when they got to the shore, and the next thing the two at the top heard was the sound of heavy oars dipping in the water and the waves crashing against the bow of a boat. In no time, the keel lightly bumped against the shingle, and Stockdale heard the thirty-six carriers' footsteps running over the pebbles toward the landing point.

There was a sousing in the water as of a brood of ducks plunging in, showing that the men had not been particular about keeping their legs, or even their waists, dry from the brine: but it was impossible to see what they were doing, and in a few minutes the shingle was trampled again. The iron bar sustaining the rope, on which Stockdale's hand rested, began to swerve a little, and the carriers one by one appeared climbing up the sloping cliff; dripping audibly as they came, and sustaining themselves by the guide-rope. Each man on reaching the top was seen to be carrying a pair of tubs, one on his back and one on his chest, the two being slung together by cords passing round the chine hoops, and resting on the carrier's shoulders. Some of the stronger men carried three by putting an extra one on the top behind, but the customary load was a pair, these being quite weighty enough to give their bearer the sensation of having chest and backbone in contact after a walk of four or five miles.

There was a splash in the water like a group of ducks diving in, indicating that the men hadn’t bothered to keep their legs or even their waists dry from the saltwater. But it was impossible to see what they were doing, and in a few minutes, the shoreline was trampled again. The iron bar supporting the rope, which Stockdale's hand rested on, began to wobble slightly, and the carriers started appearing one by one, climbing up the sloping cliff, dripping as they came, and using the guide rope for support. Each man, upon reaching the top, was seen carrying a pair of tubs—one on his back and one on his chest—secured together by cords that wrapped around the hoop, resting on the carrier's shoulders. Some of the stronger men carried three by stacking an extra one on top behind, but the usual load was a pair, which was heavy enough for the bearer to feel like his chest and back were in contact after a walk of four or five miles.

'Where is Owlett?' said Lizzy to one of them.

'Where's Owlett?' Lizzy asked one of them.

'He will not come up this way,' said the carrier. 'He's to bide on shore till we be safe off.' Then, without waiting for the rest, the foremost men plunged across the down; and, when the last had ascended, Lizzy pulled up the rope, wound it round her arm, wriggled the bar from the sod, and turned to follow the carriers.

'He won't come this way,' said the carrier. 'He’s supposed to stay on shore until we're safely off.' Then, without waiting for the others, the leading men dashed across the hillside; and, when the last one had climbed up, Lizzy pulled up the rope, wrapped it around her arm, wriggled the bar from the ground, and turned to follow the carriers.

'You are very anxious about Owlett's safety,' said the minister.

"You’re really worried about Owlett's safety," said the minister.

'Was there ever such a man!' said Lizzy. 'Why, isn't he my cousin?'

'Was there ever such a man!' Lizzy exclaimed. 'Wait, isn't he my cousin?'

'Yes. Well, it is a bad night's work,' said Stockdale heavily. 'But I'll carry the bar and rope for you.'

'Yes. Well, it was a rough night,' said Stockdale with a sigh. 'But I'll take the bar and rope for you.'

'Thank God, the tubs have got so far all right,' said she.

'Thank God, the tubs have made it this far okay,' she said.

Stockdale shook his head, and, taking the bar, walked by her side towards the downs; and the moan of the sea was heard no more.

Stockdale shook his head, took the bar, and walked alongside her toward the hills; the sound of the sea was no longer heard.

'Is this what you meant the other day when you spoke of having business with Owlett?' the young man asked.

"Is this what you meant the other day when you talked about having business with Owlett?" the young man asked.

'This is it,' she replied. 'I never see him on any other matter.'

'This is it,' she said. 'I never see him about anything else.'

'A partnership of that kind with a young man is very odd.'

'A partnership like that with a young man is really strange.'

'It was begun by my father and his, who were brother-laws.'

'It was started by my father and his brother-in-law.'

Her companion could not blind himself to the fact that where tastes and pursuits were so akin as Lizzy's and Owlett's, and where risks were shared, as with them, in every undertaking, there would be a peculiar appropriateness in her answering Owlett's standing question on matrimony in the affirmative. This did not soothe Stockdale, its tendency being rather to stimulate in him an effort to make the pair as inappropriate as possible, and win her away from this nocturnal crew to correctness of conduct and a minister's parlour in some far-removed inland county.

Her companion couldn't ignore the fact that with tastes and interests as similar as Lizzy's and Owlett's, and with risks shared in every endeavor, it made perfect sense for her to answer Owlett's recurring question about marriage positively. This realization didn’t comfort Stockdale; instead, it pushed him to try to make the couple seem as mismatched as possible, and to steer her away from this nighttime group towards proper behavior and the parlor of a minister in some distant inland county.

They had been walking near enough to the file of carriers for Stockdale to perceive that, when they got into the road to the village, they split up into two companies of unequal size, each of which made off in a direction of its own. One company, the smaller of the two, went towards the church, and by the time that Lizzy and Stockdale reached their own house these men had scaled the churchyard wall, and were proceeding noiselessly over the grass within.

They had been walking close enough to the group of carriers for Stockdale to notice that when they hit the road to the village, they split into two groups of different sizes, each heading off in its own direction. One group, the smaller of the two, went toward the church, and by the time Lizzy and Stockdale got back to their house, those men had climbed over the churchyard wall and were quietly moving across the grass inside.

'I see that Owlett has arranged for one batch to be put in the church again,' observed Lizzy. 'Do you remember my taking you there the first night you came?'

'I see that Owlett has arranged for one batch to be put in the church again,' Lizzy remarked. 'Do you remember when I took you there the first night you arrived?'

'Yes, of course,' said Stockdale. 'No wonder you had permission to broach the tubs-they were his, I suppose?'

'Yes, of course,' Stockdale said. 'No surprise you were allowed to open the tubs—they belonged to him, right?'

'No, they were not-they were mine; I had permission from myself. The day after that they went several miles inland in a waggon-load of manure, and sold very well.'

'No, they weren’t— they were mine; I had permission from myself. The day after that, they took several miles inland in a wagon-load of manure and sold really well.'

At this moment the group of men who had made off to the left some time before began leaping one by one from the hedge opposite Lizzy's house, and the first man, who had no tubs upon his shoulders, came forward.

At this moment, the group of men who had gone to the left a while ago started jumping one by one from the hedge across from Lizzy's house, and the first man, who wasn't carrying any tubs, stepped forward.

'Mrs. Newberry, isn't it?' he said hastily.

'Mrs. Newberry, right?' he said quickly.

'Yes, Jim,' said she. 'What's the matter?'

'Yeah, Jim,' she said. 'What's going on?'

'I find that we can't put any in Badger's Clump to-night, Lizzy,' said Owlett. 'The place is watched. We must sling the apple-tree in the orchet if there's time. We can't put any more under the church lumber than I have sent on there, and my mixen hev already more in en than is safe.'

'I think we can't put any in Badger's Clump tonight, Lizzy,' said Owlett. 'The place is being watched. We need to hide the apple tree in the orchard if there's time. We can't bury anything more under the church lumber than what I've already sent there, and my mixen already has more in it than is safe.'

'Very well,' she said. 'Be quick about it-that's all. What can I do?'

'Alright,' she said. 'Just hurry up—that's all. What can I do?'

'Nothing at all, please. Ah, it is the minister!-you two that can't do anything had better get indoors and not be zeed.'

'Nothing at all, thanks. Oh, it’s the minister! You two who can’t do anything should probably head inside and not be seen.'

While Owlett thus conversed, in a tone so full of contraband anxiety and so free from lover's jealousy, the men who followed him had been descending one by one from the hedge; and it unfortunately happened that when the hindmost took his leap, the cord slipped which sustained his tubs: the result was that both the kegs fell into the road, one of them being stove in by the blow.

While Owlett was talking, in a tone filled with hidden worry and free from jealous feelings, the men following him had been climbing down from the hedge one by one. Unfortunately, when the last one jumped down, the rope holding his barrels slipped. As a result, both kegs fell onto the road, one of them getting crushed on impact.

''Od drown it all!' said Owlett, rushing back.

''Oh, drown it all!' said Owlett, rushing back.

'It is worth a good deal, I suppose?' said Stockdale.

'It's worth quite a bit, I guess?' said Stockdale.

'O no-about two guineas and half to us now,' said Lizzy excitedly. 'It isn't that-it is the smell! It is so blazing strong before it has been lowered by water, that it smells dreadfully when spilt in the road like that! I do hope Latimer won't pass by till it is gone off.'

'O no—about two guineas and a half for us now,' Lizzy said excitedly. 'It’s not that—it’s the smell! It’s so overpowering before it’s diluted by water that it stinks terribly when spilled on the road like that! I really hope Latimer doesn't come by until it's gone.'

Owlett and one or two others picked up the burst tub and began to scrape and trample over the spot, to disperse the liquor as much as possible; and then they all entered the gate of Owlett's orchard, which adjoined Lizzy's garden on the right. Stockdale did not care to follow them, for several on recognizing him had looked wonderingly at his presence, though they said nothing. Lizzy left his side and went to the bottom of the garden, looking over the hedge into the orchard, where the men could be dimly seen bustling about, and apparently hiding the tubs. All was done noiselessly, and without a light; and when it was over they dispersed in different directions, those who had taken their cargoes to the church having already gone off to their homes.

Owlett and a couple of others picked up the broken tub and started to scrape and stomp on the spot to spread out the liquor as much as they could. Then, they all went through the gate of Owlett's orchard, which was next to Lizzy's garden on the right. Stockdale didn’t want to follow them since several people, upon recognizing him, looked at him with curiosity but didn't say anything. Lizzy left his side and walked to the bottom of the garden, peering over the hedge into the orchard, where the men could be faintly seen moving around, apparently hiding the tubs. Everything was done quietly and without light; once it was finished, they scattered in different directions, with those who had taken their loads to the church already heading home.

Lizzy returned to the garden-gate, over which Stockdale was still abstractedly leaning. 'It is all finished: I am going indoors now,' she said gently. 'I will leave the door ajar for you.'

Lizzy walked back to the garden gate, where Stockdale was still leaning, lost in thought. "It's all done; I'm going inside now," she said softly. "I’ll leave the door slightly open for you."

'O no-you needn't,' said Stockdale; 'I am coming too.'

'O no, you don't need to,' Stockdale said; 'I'm coming too.'

But before either of them had moved, the faint clatter of horses' hoofs broke upon the ear, and it seemed to come from the point where the track across the down joined the hard road.

But before either of them had moved, the faint sound of horses' hooves broke the silence, and it seemed to come from where the path across the hillside met the paved road.

'They are just too late!' cried Lizzy exultingly.

'They are just too late!' Lizzy exclaimed with joy.

'Who?' said Stockdale.

"Who?" Stockdale asked.

'Latimer, the riding-officer, and some assistant of his. We had better go indoors.'

'Latimer, the officer on horseback, and one of his assistants. We should go inside.'

They entered the house, and Lizzy bolted the door. 'Please don't get a light, Mr. Stockdale,' she said.

They walked into the house, and Lizzy locked the door. 'Please don't light a candle, Mr. Stockdale,' she said.

'Of course I will not,' said he.

'Of course I won't,' he said.

'I thought you might be on the side of the king,' said Lizzy, with faintest sarcasm.

"I thought you might be on the king's side," Lizzy said, with the slightest hint of sarcasm.

'I am,' said Stockdale. 'But, Lizzy Newberry, I love you, and you know it perfectly well; and you ought to know, if you do not, what I have suffered in my conscience on your account these last few days!'

'I am,' Stockdale said. 'But, Lizzy Newberry, I love you, and you know it very well; and you should know, if you don’t, what I've been through in my conscience because of you these past few days!'

'I guess very well,' she said hurriedly. 'Yet I don't see why. Ah, you are better than I!'

'I guess I understand pretty well,' she said quickly. 'But I don't see why. Ah, you're better than I am!'

The trotting of the horses seemed to have again died away, and the pair of listeners touched each other's fingers in the cold 'Good-night' of those whom something seriously divided. They were on the landing, but before they had taken three steps apart, the tramp of the horsemen suddenly revived, almost close to the house. Lizzy turned to the staircase window, opened the casement about an inch, and put her face close to the aperture. 'Yes, one of 'em is Latimer,' she whispered. 'He always rides a white horse. One would think it was the last colour for a man in that line.'

The sound of the horses had faded away again, and the two listeners lightly touched fingers in the cold 'Good-night' shared by those who are deeply separated. They were on the landing, but before they had taken three steps apart, the sound of the horsemen suddenly returned, nearly right by the house. Lizzy turned to the staircase window, opened it about an inch, and leaned her face close to the opening. 'Yes, one of them is Latimer,' she whispered. 'He always rides a white horse. You'd think that would be the last color for a man like him.'

Stockdale looked, and saw the white shape of the animal as it passed by; but before the riders had gone another ten yards, Latimer reined in his horse, and said something to his companion which neither Stockdale nor Lizzy could hear. Its drift was, however, soon made evident, for the other man stopped also; and sharply turning the horses' heads they cautiously retraced their steps. When they were again opposite Mrs. Newberry's garden, Latimer dismounted, and the man on the dark horse did the same.

Stockdale looked and saw the white shape of the animal as it went by; but before the riders had gone another ten yards, Latimer pulled in his horse and said something to his companion that neither Stockdale nor Lizzy could hear. Its purpose became clear quickly, as the other man also stopped; and sharply turning the horses' heads, they carefully retraced their steps. When they were back in front of Mrs. Newberry's garden, Latimer got off his horse, and the man on the dark horse did the same.

Lizzy and Stockdale, intently listening and observing the proceedings, naturally put their heads as close as possible to the slit formed by the slightly opened casement; and thus it occurred that at last their cheeks came positively into contact. They went on listening, as if they did not know of the singular incident which had happened to their faces, and the pressure of each to each rather increased than lessened with the lapse of time.

Lizzy and Stockdale, focused on listening and watching what was happening, instinctively leaned their heads as close as they could to the narrow gap created by the partially opened window. As a result, their cheeks eventually touched. They continued to listen, acting as if they were unaware of the unusual incident involving their faces, and the pressure between them only grew stronger as time went on.

They could hear the excisemen sniffing the air like hounds as they paced slowly along. When they reached the spot where the tub had burst, both stopped on the instant.

They could hear the excisemen sniffing the air like dogs as they walked slowly by. When they got to the spot where the tub had burst, both stopped immediately.

'Ay, ay, 'tis quite strong here,' said the second officer. 'Shall we knock at the door?'

'Ay, ay, it's pretty strong here,' said the second officer. 'Should we knock on the door?'

'Well, no,' said Latimer. 'Maybe this is only a trick to put us off the scent. They wouldn't kick up this stink anywhere near their hiding- place. I have known such things before.'

'Well, no,' said Latimer. 'Maybe this is just a trick to throw us off. They wouldn't make this much noise close to their hiding spot. I've seen this kind of thing happen before.'

'Anyhow, the things, or some of 'em, must have been brought this way,' said the other.

'Anyway, some of those things must have been brought this way,' said the other.

'Yes,' said Latimer musingly. 'Unless 'tis all done to tole us the wrong way. I have a mind that we go home for to-night without saying a word, and come the first thing in the morning with more hands. I know they have storages about here, but we can do nothing by this owl's light. We will look round the parish and see if everybody is in bed, John; and if all is quiet, we will do as I say.'

'Yes,' Latimer said thoughtfully. 'Unless it’s all meant to mislead us. I think we should head home for the night without saying anything and come back first thing in the morning with more help. I know they have supplies around here, but we can't do anything in this dim light. Let's check the area and see if everyone is in bed, John; and if it's all quiet, we'll do as I suggest.'

They went on, and the two inside the window could hear them passing leisurely through the whole village, the street of which curved round at the bottom and entered the turnpike road at another junction. This way the excisemen followed, and the amble of their horses died quite away.

They continued on, and the two inside the window could hear them casually moving through the entire village, where the street curved around at the end and connected to the turnpike road at another intersection. This was the path the excisemen took, and the sound of their horses faded away completely.

'What will you do?' said Stockdale, withdrawing from his position.

'What are you going to do?' Stockdale said, stepping back from his spot.

She knew that he alluded to the coming search by the officers, to divert her attention from their own tender incident by the casement, which he wished to be passed over as a thing rather dreamt of than done. 'O, nothing,' she replied, with as much coolness as she could command under her disappointment at his manner. 'We often have such storms as this. You would not be frightened if you knew what fools they are. Fancy riding o' horseback through the place: of course they will hear and see nobody while they make that noise; but they are always afraid to get off, in case some of our fellows should burst out upon 'em, and tie them up to the gate-post, as they have done before now. Good-night, Mr. Stockdale.'

She knew he was hinting at the upcoming search by the officers to distract her from their own intimate moment by the window, which he hoped would be forgotten, like a dream rather than a reality. "Oh, nothing," she replied, trying to sound as calm as possible despite her disappointment at his attitude. "We often have storms like this. You wouldn’t be scared if you knew how foolish they are. Just imagine riding your horse through the area: of course, they'll hear and see nothing while making all that noise; but they’re always too scared to get off, in case some of our guys surprise them and tie them to the gatepost, like they've done before. Good night, Mr. Stockdale."

She closed the window and went to her room, where a tear fell from her eyes; and that not because of the alertness of the riding-officers.

She closed the window and went to her room, where a tear fell from her eyes, and not because of the vigilance of the riding officers.

VI-THE GREAT SEARCH AT NETHER-MOYNTON

Stockdale was so excited by the events of the evening, and the dilemma that he was placed in between conscience and love, that he did not sleep, or even doze, but remained as broadly awake as at noonday. As soon as the grey light began to touch ever so faintly the whiter objects in his bedroom he arose, dressed himself, and went downstairs into the road.

Stockdale was so thrilled by the events of the evening and the struggle he faced between his conscience and love that he couldn’t sleep, or even doze off; he stayed wide awake like it was noon. As soon as the gray light started to barely illuminate the white objects in his bedroom, he got up, got dressed, and went downstairs into the street.

The village was already astir. Several of the carriers had heard the well-known tramp of Latimer's horse while they were undressing in the dark that night, and had already communicated with each other and Owlett on the subject. The only doubt seemed to be about the safety of those tubs which had been left under the church gallery-stairs, and after a short discussion at the corner of the mill, it was agreed that these should be removed before it got lighter, and hidden in the middle of a double hedge bordering the adjoining field. However, before anything could be carried into effect, the footsteps of many men were heard coming down the lane from the highway.

The village was already buzzing with activity. A few of the carriers had heard the familiar sound of Latimer's horse while they were getting dressed in the dark that night, and they had already shared this information with each other and Owlett. The only concern seemed to be the safety of the tubs left under the church gallery stairs, and after a brief discussion at the corner of the mill, they agreed to move them before it got light and hide them in the middle of a double hedge next to the field. However, before they could put any plans into action, they heard the footsteps of several men coming down the lane from the highway.

'Damn it, here they be,' said Owlett, who, having already drawn the hatch and started his mill for the day, stood stolidly at the mill-door covered with flour, as if the interest of his whole soul was bound up in the shaking walls around him.

'Damn it, here they are,' said Owlett, who, having already pulled down the hatch and started his mill for the day, stood firmly at the mill door covered in flour, as if the focus of his entire being was tied up in the quaking walls around him.

The two or three with whom he had been talking dispersed to their usual work, and when the excise officers, and the formidable body of men they had hired, reached the village cross, between the mill and Mrs. Newberry's house, the village wore the natural aspect of a place beginning its morning labours.

The two or three people he had been talking to went back to their usual tasks, and when the excise officers and the intimidating group of men they had hired arrived at the village cross, situated between the mill and Mrs. Newberry's house, the village looked like any other place starting its morning routines.

'Now,' said Latimer to his associates, who numbered thirteen men in all, 'what I know is that the things are somewhere in this here place. We have got the day before us, and 'tis hard if we can't light upon 'em and get 'em to Budmouth Custom-house before night. First we will try the fuel-houses, and then we'll work our way into the chimmers, and then to the ricks and stables, and so creep round. You have nothing but your noses to guide ye, mind, so use 'em to-day if you never did in your lives before.'

'Now,' Latimer said to his associates, who numbered thirteen men in total, 'what I know is that the things are somewhere in this place. We have the whole day ahead of us, and it would be difficult if we can't find them and get them to Budmouth Custom-house before night. First, we will check the fuel houses, then we'll move into the chimneys, and then to the stacks and stables, and so we'll work our way around. You only have your noses to guide you, so make sure to use them today like you never have before.'

Then the search began. Owlett, during the early part, watched from his mill-window, Lizzy from the door of her house, with the greatest self- possession. A farmer down below, who also had a share in the run, rode about with one eye on his fields and the other on Latimer and his myrmidons, prepared to put them off the scent if he should be asked a question. Stockdale, who was no smuggler at all, felt more anxiety than the worst of them, and went about his studies with a heavy heart, coming frequently to the door to ask Lizzy some question or other on the consequences to her of the tubs being found.

Then the search started. Owlett, during the initial part, watched from his mill window, while Lizzy stood at the door of her house, maintaining her composure. A farmer down below, who also had a stake in the operation, rode around with one eye on his fields and the other on Latimer and his crew, ready to mislead them if anyone asked him a question. Stockdale, who wasn't involved in smuggling at all, felt more anxious than the worst of them and went about his studies with a heavy heart, frequently coming to the door to ask Lizzy various questions about the impact of the tubs being discovered.

'The consequences,' she said quietly, 'are simply that I shall lose 'em. As I have none in the house or garden, they can't touch me personally.'

'The consequences,' she said quietly, 'are just that I'll lose them. Since I don't have any in the house or garden, they can't affect me personally.'

'But you have some in the orchard?'

'But do you have any in the orchard?'

'Owlett rents that of me, and he lends it to others. So it will be hard to say who put any tubs there if they should be found.'

'Owlett rents from me, and he lends it to others. So it'll be hard to say who put any tubs there if they’re found.'

There was never such a tremendous sniffing known as that which took place in Nether-Moynton parish and its vicinity this day. All was done methodically, and mostly on hands and knees. At different hours of the day they had different plans. From daybreak to breakfast-time the officers used their sense of smell in a direct and straightforward manner only, pausing nowhere but at such places as the tubs might be supposed to be secreted in at that very moment, pending their removal on the following night. Among the places tested and examined were

There was never a sniffing event as intense as the one that happened in Nether-Moynton parish and the surrounding area today. Everything was done systematically, mostly on hands and knees. They had different strategies at various times of the day. From dawn until breakfast, the officers relied solely on their sense of smell, only stopping at locations where the tubs could be hidden at that moment, before being moved the next night. Among the places they checked were

Hollow trees Cupboards Culverts Potato-graves Clock-cases Hedgerows Fuel-houses Chimney-flues Faggot-ricks Bedrooms Rainwater-butts Haystacks Apple-lofts Pigsties Coppers and ovens.

Hollow trees, cupboards, culverts, potato graves, clock cases, hedgerows, fuel houses, chimney flues, faggot stacks, bedrooms, rainwater barrels, haystacks, apple lofts, pigsties, coppers, and ovens.

After breakfast they recommenced with renewed vigour, taking a new line; that is to say, directing their attention to clothes that might be supposed to have come in contact with the tubs in their removal from the shore, such garments being usually tainted with the spirit, owing to its oozing between the staves. They now sniffed at -

After breakfast, they started up again with fresh energy, switching their focus; that is to say, they directed their attention to clothes that might have touched the barrels during their transfer from the shore, as those clothes were typically soaked with the spirit because it seeped between the staves. They now sniffed at -

Smock-frocks Smiths' and shoemakers' aprons Old shirts and waistcoats Knee-naps and hedging-gloves Coats and hats Tarpaulins Breeches and leggings Market-cloaks Women's shawls and gowns Scarecrows

Smock-frocks, Smiths' and shoemakers' aprons, old shirts and vests, knee pads and garden gloves, coats and hats, tarps, breeches and leggings, market cloaks, women's shawls and dresses, scarecrows.

And as soon as the mid-day meal was over, they pushed their search into places where the spirits might have been thrown away in alarm:-

And as soon as they finished the lunch, they continued their search in areas where the spirits might have been discarded in fear:-

Horse-ponds Mixens Sinks in yards Stable-drains Wet ditches Road-scrapings, and Cinder-heaps Cesspools Back- door gutters.

Horse ponds, muck heaps, sinks in yards, stable drains, wet ditches, road scrapings, cinder piles, cesspools, backdoor gutters.

But still these indefatigable excisemen discovered nothing more than the original tell-tale smell in the road opposite Lizzy's house, which even yet had not passed off.

But still these tireless customs officers found nothing more than the lingering tell-tale smell on the road across from Lizzy's house, which hadn't faded yet.

'I'll tell ye what it is, men,' said Latimer, about three o'clock in the afternoon, 'we must begin over again. Find them tubs I will.'

"I'll tell you what it is, guys," said Latimer, around three o'clock in the afternoon, "we need to start over. I'll go find those tubs."

The men, who had been hired for the day, looked at their hands and knees, muddy with creeping on all fours so frequently, and rubbed their noses, as if they had almost had enough of it; for the quantity of bad air which had passed into each one's nostril had rendered it nearly as insensible as a flue. However, after a moment's hesitation, they prepared to start anew, except three, whose power of smell had quite succumbed under the excessive wear and tear of the day.

The men, hired for the day, looked at their hands and knees, caked with mud from crawling around so much, and rubbed their noses, as if they were almost done with it; the amount of bad air they had breathed in had made their sense of smell nearly numb. However, after a moment of hesitation, they got ready to start again, except for three, whose sense of smell had completely failed after the long day.

By this time not a male villager was to be seen in the parish. Owlett was not at his mill, the farmers were not in their fields, the parson was not in his garden, the smith had left his forge, and the wheelwright's shop was silent.

By this time, there wasn’t a single male villager in the parish. Owlett wasn’t at his mill, the farmers weren’t in their fields, the parson wasn’t in his garden, the blacksmith had left his forge, and the wheelwright’s shop was quiet.

'Where the divil are the folk gone?' said Latimer, waking up to the fact of their absence, and looking round. 'I'll have 'em up for this! Why don't they come and help us? There's not a man about the place but the Methodist parson, and he's an old woman. I demand assistance in the king's name!'

'Where the hell have all the people gone?' said Latimer, realizing that they were missing and glancing around. 'I'll have them for this! Why aren't they coming to help us? There's not a single man around except for the Methodist preacher, and he's useless. I demand help in the king's name!'

'We must find the jineral public afore we can demand that,' said his lieutenant.

'We need to find the general public before we can demand that,' said his lieutenant.

'Well, well, we shall do better without 'em,' said Latimer, who changed his moods at a moment's notice. 'But there's great cause of suspicion in this silence and this keeping out of sight, and I'll bear it in mind. Now we will go across to Owlett's orchard, and see what we can find there.'

'Well, well, we’ll manage just fine without them,' said Latimer, who could switch moods in an instant. 'But there’s definitely something suspicious about this silence and avoiding contact, and I’ll remember that. Now let's head over to Owlett's orchard and see what we can discover there.'

Stockdale, who heard this discussion from the garden-gate, over which he had been leaning, was rather alarmed, and thought it a mistake of the villagers to keep so completely out of the way. He himself, like the excisemen, had been wondering for the last half-hour what could have become of them. Some labourers were of necessity engaged in distant fields, but the master-workmen should have been at home; though one and all, after just showing themselves at their shops, had apparently gone off for the day. He went in to Lizzy, who sat at a back window sewing, and said, 'Lizzy, where are the men?'

Stockdale, who overheard this conversation from the garden gate he was leaning on, felt a bit uneasy and thought it was a mistake for the villagers to stay hidden. He had been wondering for the last half-hour, like the excisemen, where everyone had gone. Some of the laborers were understandably working in distant fields, but the master workmen should have been at home; however, it seemed they had all just briefly shown up at their shops and then left for the day. He went inside to Lizzy, who was sewing at a back window, and asked, "Lizzy, where are the men?"

Lizzy laughed. 'Where they mostly are when they're run so hard as this.' She cast her eyes to heaven. 'Up there,' she said.

Lizzy laughed. 'That's usually where they are when they're pushed this hard.' She looked up to the sky. 'Up there,' she said.

Stockdale looked up. 'What-on the top of the church tower?' he asked, seeing the direction of her glance.

Stockdale looked up. "What's that on top of the church tower?" he asked, noticing where she was looking.

'Yes.'

Yes.

'Well, I expect they will soon have to come down,' said he gravely. 'I have been listening to the officers, and they are going to search the orchard over again, and then every nook in the church.'

'Well, I think they'll have to come down soon,' he said seriously. 'I've been listening to the officers, and they're going to search the orchard again and then every corner of the church.'

Lizzy looked alarmed for the first time. 'Will you go and tell our folk?' she said. 'They ought to be let know.' Seeing his conscience struggling within him like a boiling pot, she added, 'No, never mind, I'll go myself.'

Lizzy looked worried for the first time. 'Will you go and tell our people?' she asked. 'They need to be informed.' Seeing his conscience battling inside him like a boiling pot, she added, 'No, never mind, I'll just go myself.'

She went out, descended the garden, and climbed over the churchyard wall at the same time that the preventive-men were ascending the road to the orchard. Stockdale could do no less than follow her. By the time that she reached the tower entrance he was at her side, and they entered together.

She went out, walked down the garden, and climbed over the churchyard wall just as the patrol officers were making their way up the road to the orchard. Stockdale had no choice but to follow her. By the time she got to the entrance of the tower, he was right beside her, and they walked in together.

Nether-Moynton church-tower was, as in many villages, without a turret, and the only way to the top was by going up to the singers' gallery, and thence ascending by a ladder to a square trap-door in the floor of the bell-loft, above which a permanent ladder was fixed, passing through the bells to a hole in the roof. When Lizzy and Stockdale reached the gallery and looked up, nothing but the trap-door and the five holes for the bell-ropes appeared. The ladder was gone.

Nether-Moynton church tower was, like in many villages, without a turret, and the only way to the top was by going up to the singers' gallery and then climbing a ladder to a square trap-door in the floor of the bell loft, above which a permanent ladder was attached, going through the bells to a hole in the roof. When Lizzy and Stockdale reached the gallery and looked up, all they could see was the trap-door and the five holes for the bell ropes. The ladder was missing.

'There's no getting up,' said Stockdale.

'There's no getting up,' Stockdale said.

'O yes, there is,' said she. 'There's an eye looking at us at this moment through a knot-hole in that trap-door.'

'O yes, there is,' she said. 'There's someone watching us right now through a knot-hole in that trap-door.'

And as she spoke the trap opened, and the dark line of the ladder was seen descending against the white-washed wall. When it touched the bottom Lizzy dragged it to its place, and said, 'If you'll go up, I'll follow.'

And as she spoke, the trap opened, revealing the dark line of the ladder descending against the white wall. When it hit the bottom, Lizzy pulled it into position and said, "If you go up, I'll follow."

The young man ascended, and presently found himself among consecrated bells for the first time in his life, nonconformity having been in the Stockdale blood for some generations. He eyed them uneasily, and looked round for Lizzy. Owlett stood here, holding the top of the ladder.

The young man climbed up and soon found himself among sacred bells for the first time in his life, as nonconformity had been in the Stockdale family for generations. He watched them nervously and looked around for Lizzy. Owlett was standing there, holding the top of the ladder.

'What, be you really one of us?' said the miller.

'What, are you really one of us?' said the miller.

'It seems so,' said Stockdale sadly.

'It looks that way,' said Stockdale sadly.

'He's not,' said Lizzy, who overheard. 'He's neither for nor against us. He'll do us no harm.'

'He's not,' said Lizzy, who overheard. 'He's neither for us nor against us. He won't hurt us.'

She stepped up beside them, and then they went on to the next stage, which, when they had clambered over the dusty bell-carriages, was of easy ascent, leading towards the hole through which the pale sky appeared, and into the open air. Owlett remained behind for a moment, to pull up the lower ladder.

She stepped up next to them, and then they moved on to the next stage, which, after they scrambled over the dusty bell carriages, was an easy climb leading toward the opening where the pale sky was visible, and into the fresh air. Owlett stayed back for a moment to pull up the lower ladder.

'Keep down your heads,' said a voice, as soon as they set foot on the flat.

'Lower your heads,' said a voice, as soon as they stepped onto the flat.

Stockdale here beheld all the missing parishioners, lying on their stomachs on the tower roof, except a few who, elevated on their hands and knees, were peeping through the embrasures of the parapet. Stockdale did the same, and saw the village lying like a map below him, over which moved the figures of the excisemen, each foreshortened to a crablike object, the crown of his hat forming a circular disc in the centre of him. Some of the men had turned their heads when the young preacher's figure arose among them.

Stockdale looked out and saw all the missing parishioners lying on their stomachs on the tower roof, except for a few who were up on their hands and knees, peeking through the gaps in the parapet. Stockdale joined them and saw the village spread out like a map below him, with excise officers moving around, each appearing as a strange, squashed figure, the top of their hats making a round disc in the center of them. Some of the men turned their heads when they noticed the young preacher standing among them.

'What, Mr. Stockdale?' said Matt Grey, in a tone of surprise.

'What, Mr. Stockdale?' Matt Grey said, sounding surprised.

'I'd as lief that it hadn't been,' said Jim Clarke. 'If the pa'son should see him a trespassing here in his tower, 'twould be none the better for we, seeing how 'a do hate chapel-members. He'd never buy a tub of us again, and he's as good a customer as we have got this side o' Warm'll.'

"I'd rather it hadn't happened," said Jim Clarke. "If the parson sees him trespassing here in his tower, it won't be good for us, considering how he hates chapel members. He'd never buy a tub from us again, and he's our best customer on this side of Warm'll."

'Where is the pa'son?' said Lizzy.

'Where is the pastor?' said Lizzy.

'In his house, to be sure, that he mid see nothing of what's going on-where all good folks ought to be, and this young man likewise.'

'In his house, of course, he could see nothing of what’s happening—where all the good people should be, and this young man too.'

'Well, he has brought some news,' said Lizzy. 'They are going to search the orchet and church; can we do anything if they should find?'

'Well, he has brought some news,' said Lizzy. 'They are going to search the orchard and the church; can we do anything if they find something?'

'Yes,' said her cousin Owlett. 'That's what we've been talking o', and we have settled our line. Well, be dazed!'

'Yes,' said her cousin Owlett. 'That's what we've been talking about, and we've made our decision. Wow, that's surprising!'

The exclamation was caused by his perceiving that some of the searchers, having got into the orchard, and begun stooping and creeping hither and thither, were pausing in the middle, where a tree smaller than the rest was growing. They drew closer, and bent lower than ever upon the ground.

The shout came when he noticed that some of the searchers, who had entered the orchard and were starting to bend and crawl around, had stopped in the middle, where a smaller tree was growing among the others. They got closer and crouched down even lower to the ground.

'O, my tubs!' said Lizzy faintly, as she peered through the parapet at them.

'O, my tubs!' Lizzy said weakly as she looked through the railing at them.

'They have got 'em, 'a b'lieve,' said Owlett.

'They've got them, I believe,' said Owlett.

The interest in the movements of the officers was so keen that not a single eye was looking in any other direction; but at that moment a shout from the church beneath them attracted the attention of the smugglers, as it did also of the party in the orchard, who sprang to their feet and went towards the churchyard wall. At the same time those of the Government men who had entered the church unperceived by the smugglers cried aloud, 'Here be some of 'em at last.'

The interest in the officers' movements was so intense that not a single person was looking elsewhere; but at that moment, a shout from the church below caught the smugglers' attention, as well as that of the group in the orchard, who jumped to their feet and headed toward the churchyard wall. At the same time, those Government men who had entered the church unnoticed by the smugglers shouted, 'Here are some of them at last.'

The smugglers remained in a blank silence, uncertain whether 'some of 'em' meant tubs or men; but again peeping cautiously over the edge of the tower they learnt that tubs were the things descried; and soon these fated articles were brought one by one into the middle of the churchyard from their hiding-place under the gallery-stairs.

The smugglers stayed silent, unsure if 'some of 'em' referred to barrels or people; but after peeking cautiously over the edge of the tower again, they realized it was barrels that were being spotted. Soon, these doomed items were brought one by one into the center of the churchyard from their hiding place under the gallery stairs.

'They are going to put 'em on Hinton's vault till they find the rest!' said Lizzy hopelessly. The excisemen had, in fact, begun to pile up the tubs on a large stone slab which was fixed there; and when all were brought out from the tower, two or three of the men were left standing by them, the rest of the party again proceeding to the orchard.

'They’re going to stack them on Hinton’s vault until they find the rest!' said Lizzy, feeling hopeless. The excisemen had actually started to pile the tubs on a large stone slab that was set there; and once all were brought out from the tower, two or three of the men stayed by them while the others headed back to the orchard.

The interest of the smugglers in the next manoeuvres of their enemies became painfully intense. Only about thirty tubs had been secreted in the lumber of the tower, but seventy were hidden in the orchard, making up all that they had brought ashore as yet, the remainder of the cargo having been tied to a sinker and dropped overboard for another night's operations. The excisemen, having re-entered the orchard, acted as if they were positive that here lay hidden the rest of the tubs, which they were determined to find before nightfall. They spread themselves out round the field, and advancing on all fours as before, went anew round every apple-tree in the enclosure. The young tree in the middle again led them to pause, and at length the whole company gathered there in a way which signified that a second chain of reasoning had led to the same results as the first.

The smugglers' interest in their enemies' next moves became really intense. They had only hidden about thirty tubs in the tower's lumber, but seventy were stashed in the orchard, making up all they had brought ashore so far; the rest of the cargo was tied to a sinker and dropped overboard for another night’s operations. The excise officers, having re-entered the orchard, acted like they were sure the rest of the tubs were hidden here, and they were determined to find them before nightfall. They spread out across the field, crawling on all fours like before, and went around every apple tree in the enclosure again. The young tree in the middle made them stop once more, and eventually, the whole group gathered there in a way that showed a second line of reasoning had led to the same conclusion as the first.

When they had examined the sod hereabouts for some minutes, one of the men rose, ran to a disused porch of the church where tools were kept, and returned with the sexton's pickaxe and shovel, with which they set to work.

When they had looked at the ground here for a few minutes, one of the guys got up, ran to an old porch of the church where they stored tools, and came back with the sexton's pickaxe and shovel, with which they started working.

'Are they really buried there?' said the minister, for the grass was so green and uninjured that it was difficult to believe it had been disturbed. The smugglers were too interested to reply, and presently they saw, to their chagrin, the officers stand several on each side of the tree; and, stooping and applying their hands to the soil, they bodily lifted the tree and the turf around it. The apple-tree now showed itself to be growing in a shallow box, with handles for lifting at each of the four sides. Under the site of the tree a square hole was revealed, and an exciseman went and looked down.

“Are they really buried there?” asked the minister, since the grass was so green and undamaged that it was hard to believe it had been disturbed. The smugglers were too curious to respond, and soon they realized with dismay that several officers were standing on either side of the tree; they bent down and began digging into the soil, ultimately lifting the tree and the turf around it. The apple tree was revealed to be planted in a shallow box, with handles for lifting on each of its four sides. Beneath where the tree had been, a square hole was uncovered, and one of the excise officers leaned in to take a look.

'It is all up now,' said Owlett quietly. 'And now all of ye get down before they notice we are here; and be ready for our next move. I had better bide here till dark, or they may take me on suspicion, as 'tis on my ground. I'll be with ye as soon as daylight begins to pink in.'

"It’s all set now," Owlett said quietly. "Now everyone get down before they spot us; and be ready for what comes next. I should probably stay here until it's dark, or they might suspect me since it’s on my land. I’ll join you as soon as the first light starts to show."

'And I?' said Lizzy.

"And me?" said Lizzy.

'You please look to the linch-pins and screws; then go indoors and know nothing at all. The chaps will do the rest.'

'You just check the linch-pins and screws; then go inside and don’t worry about anything. The guys will handle the rest.'

The ladder was replaced, and all but Owlett descended, the men passing off one by one at the back of the church, and vanishing on their respective errands.

The ladder was replaced, and everyone but Owlett climbed down, the men leaving one by one through the back of the church and disappearing on their various tasks.

Lizzy walked boldly along the street, followed closely by the minister.

Lizzy confidently walked down the street, closely followed by the minister.

'You are going indoors, Mrs. Newberry?' he said.

'Are you going inside, Mrs. Newberry?' he said.

She knew from the words 'Mrs. Newberry' that the division between them had widened yet another degree.

She realized from the name 'Mrs. Newberry' that the gap between them had increased even more.

'I am not going home,' she said. 'I have a little thing to do before I go in. Martha Sarah will get your tea.'

'I’m not going home,' she said. 'I have a couple of things to wrap up before I head in. Martha Sarah will bring you your tea.'

'O, I don't mean on that account,' said Stockdale. 'What can you have to do further in this unhallowed affair?'

'O, I don't mean because of that,' said Stockdale. 'What else do you have to do in this unholy situation?'

'Only a little,' she said.

'Just a bit,' she said.

'What is that? I'll go with you.'

'What’s that? I’ll go with you.'

'No, I shall go by myself. Will you please go indoors? I shall be there in less than an hour.'

'No, I’ll go by myself. Can you please go inside? I’ll be there in less than an hour.'

'You are not going to run any danger, Lizzy?' said the young man, his tenderness reasserting itself.

'You're not in any danger, are you, Lizzy?' said the young man, his tenderness coming back.

'None whatever-worth mentioning,' answered she, and went down towards the Cross.

'Nothing worth mentioning,' she replied, and walked down towards the Cross.

Stockdale entered the garden gate, and stood behind it looking on. The excisemen were still busy in the orchard, and at last he was tempted to enter, and watch their proceedings. When he came closer he found that the secret cellar, of whose existence he had been totally unaware, was formed by timbers placed across from side to side about a foot under the ground, and grassed over.

Stockdale walked through the garden gate and stood behind it, watching. The customs officers were still working in the orchard, and eventually, he felt drawn to go in and observe what they were doing. As he got closer, he discovered a hidden cellar, which he hadn't known existed. It was made of beams laid across from side to side about a foot underground and covered with grass.

The excisemen looked up at Stockdale's fair and downy countenance, and evidently thinking him above suspicion, went on with their work again. As soon as all the tubs were taken out, they began tearing up the turf; pulling out the timbers, and breaking in the sides, till the cellar was wholly dismantled and shapeless, the apple-tree lying with its roots high to the air. But the hole which had in its time held so much contraband merchandize was never completely filled up, either then or afterwards, a depression in the greensward marking the spot to this day.

The tax collectors looked at Stockdale's youthful and innocent face, and clearly believing he was above suspicion, returned to their work. Once all the barrels were removed, they started tearing up the ground; pulling out the beams and breaking down the walls, until the cellar was entirely ruined and unrecognizable, with the apple tree's roots exposed. But the hole that once held so much illegal goods was never completely filled, either then or later, leaving a dip in the grass that marks the spot to this day.

VII-THE WALK TO WARM'ELL CROSS AND AFTERWARDS

As the goods had all to be carried to Budmouth that night, the excisemen's next object was to find horses and carts for the journey, and they went about the village for that purpose. Latimer strode hither and thither with a lump of chalk in his hand, marking broad-arrows so vigorously on every vehicle and set of harness that he came across, that it seemed as if he would chalk broad-arrows on the very hedges and roads. The owner of every conveyance so marked was bound to give it up for Government purposes. Stockdale, who had had enough of the scene, turned indoors thoughtful and depressed. Lizzy was already there, having come in at the back, though she had not yet taken off her bonnet. She looked tired, and her mood was not much brighter than his own. They had but little to say to each other; and the minister went away and attempted to read; but at this he could not succeed, and he shook the little bell for tea.

As the goods needed to be transported to Budmouth that night, the excisemen's next goal was to find horses and carts for the journey, so they went around the village to do just that. Latimer walked back and forth with a piece of chalk in his hand, marking broad arrows so energetically on every vehicle and set of harness he found that it seemed like he would chalk broad arrows on the hedges and roads themselves. Every owner of a marked conveyance was required to surrender it for government use. Stockdale, feeling overwhelmed by the situation, went inside feeling thoughtful and downcast. Lizzy was already there, having entered from the back, though she hadn’t taken off her bonnet yet. She looked exhausted, and her mood was just as gloomy as his. They had little to say to each other; the minister went away to try to read, but he couldn't focus, so he rang the little bell for tea.

Lizzy herself brought in the tray, the girl having run off into the village during the afternoon, too full of excitement at the proceedings to remember her state of life. However, almost before the sad lovers had said anything to each other, Martha came in in a steaming state.

Lizzy herself brought in the tray, the girl having dashed off into the village during the afternoon, too caught up in the excitement of the events to remember her circumstances. However, almost before the heartbroken lovers had said anything to each other, Martha came in all flustered.

'O, there's such a stoor, Mrs. Newberry and Mr. Stockdale! The king's excisemen can't get the carts ready nohow at all! They pulled Thomas Ballam's, and William Rogers's, and Stephen Sprake's carts into the road, and off came the wheels, and down fell the carts; and they found there was no linch-pins in the arms; and then they tried Samuel Shane's waggon, and found that the screws were gone from he, and at last they looked at the dairyman's cart, and he's got none neither! They have gone now to the blacksmith's to get some made, but he's nowhere to be found!'

'O, there's such a mess, Mrs. Newberry and Mr. Stockdale! The king's customs officers can't get the carts ready at all! They pulled Thomas Ballam's, and William Rogers's, and Stephen Sprake's carts into the road, and off came the wheels, and down fell the carts; and they discovered there were no linch-pins in the arms; and then they tried Samuel Shane's wagon, and found that the screws were missing from it, and finally they looked at the dairyman's cart, and he doesn't have any either! They've now gone to the blacksmith's to get some made, but he's nowhere to be found!'

Stockdale looked at Lizzy, who blushed very slightly, and went out of the room, followed by Martha Sarah. But before they had got through the passage there was a rap at the front door, and Stockdale recognized Latimer's voice addressing Mrs. Newberry, who had turned back.

Stockdale glanced at Lizzy, who slightly blushed, and left the room, followed by Martha Sarah. But before they reached the hallway, there was a knock at the front door, and Stockdale recognized Latimer's voice speaking to Mrs. Newberry, who had turned back.

'For God's sake, Mrs. Newberry, have you seen Hardman the blacksmith up this way? If we could get hold of him, we'd e'en a'most drag him by the hair of his head to his anvil, where he ought to be.'

'For goodness' sake, Mrs. Newberry, have you seen Hardman the blacksmith around here? If we could find him, we'd practically drag him by the hair to his anvil, where he belongs.'

'He's an idle man, Mr. Latimer,' said Lizzy archly. 'What do you want him for?'

'He's a lazy guy, Mr. Latimer,' Lizzy said with a playful tone. 'What do you need him for?'

'Why, there isn't a horse in the place that has got more than three shoes on, and some have only two. The waggon-wheels be without strakes, and there's no linch-pins to the carts. What with that, and the bother about every set of harness being out of order, we shan't be off before nightfall-upon my soul we shan't. 'Tis a rough lot, Mrs. Newberry, that you've got about you here; but they'll play at this game once too often, mark my words they will! There's not a man in the parish that don't deserve to be whipped.'

'There isn’t a single horse around here that has more than three shoes on, and some have only two. The wagon wheels are missing their rims, and there are no linchpins on the carts. With that, plus the hassle of every set of harness being out of order, we won’t be leaving until after dark—I swear we won’t. It’s a rough crowd you have around here, Mrs. Newberry; but they’ll play this game one too many times, trust me! There’s not a man in the parish who doesn’t deserve a beating.'

It happened that Hardman was at that moment a little further up the lane, smoking his pipe behind a holly-bush. When Latimer had done speaking he went on in this direction, and Hardman, hearing the exciseman's steps, found curiosity too strong for prudence. He peeped out from the bush at the very moment that Latimer's glance was on it. There was nothing left for him to do but to come forward with unconcern.

It just so happened that Hardman was a little further up the lane, smoking his pipe behind a holly bush. When Latimer finished speaking, he headed in that direction, and Hardman, hearing the exciseman’s footsteps, couldn't resist the urge to take a look. He peeked out from the bush just as Latimer was looking over. There was nothing for him to do but step out casually.

'I've been looking for you for the last hour!' said Latimer with a glare in his eye.

'I’ve been searching for you for the past hour!' said Latimer, glaring at him.

'Sorry to hear that,' said Hardman. 'I've been out for a stroll, to look for more hid tubs, to deliver 'em up to Gover'ment.'

"Sorry to hear that," Hardman said. "I've been out for a walk, looking for more hidden tubs to deliver to the government."

'O yes, Hardman, we know it,' said Latimer, with withering sarcasm. 'We know that you'll deliver 'em up to Gover'ment. We know that all the parish is helping us, and have been all day! Now you please walk along with me down to your shop, and kindly let me hire ye in the king's name.'

'O yes, Hardman, we get it,' said Latimer, with cutting sarcasm. 'We know you'll hand them over to the government. We know the whole parish has been helping us, and they’ve been at it all day! Now, please walk with me down to your shop, and kindly let me hire you in the king's name.'

They went down the lane together; and presently there resounded from the smithy the ring of a hammer not very briskly swung. However, the carts and horses were got into some sort of travelling condition, but it was not until after the clock had struck six, when the muddy roads were glistening under the horizontal light of the fading day. The smuggled tubs were soon packed into the vehicles, and Latimer, with three of his assistants, drove slowly out of the village in the direction of the port of Budmouth, some considerable number of miles distant, the other excisemen being left to watch for the remainder of the cargo, which they knew to have been sunk somewhere between Ringsworth and Lulstead Cove, and to unearth Owlett, the only person clearly implicated by the discovery of the cave.

They walked down the lane together, and soon they heard the sound of a hammer being swung slowly from the smithy. The carts and horses were ready for travel, but it wasn’t until after the clock struck six that the muddy roads glimmered under the fading light of the day. The smuggled barrels were quickly loaded onto the vehicles, and Latimer, along with three of his helpers, drove out of the village at a slow pace toward the port of Budmouth, which was quite a distance away. The other customs officers stayed behind to keep watch for the rest of the cargo, which they knew had been sunk somewhere between Ringsworth and Lulstead Cove, and to find Owlett, the only person clearly connected to the discovery of the cave.

Women and children stood at the doors as the carts, each chalked with the Government pitchfork, passed in the increasing twilight; and as they stood they looked at the confiscated property with a melancholy expression that told only too plainly the relation which they bore to the trade.

Women and children stood by the doors as the carts, each marked with the Government pitchfork, went by in the growing twilight. As they stood there, they gazed at the confiscated belongings with sad expressions that clearly showed their connection to the situation.

'Well, Lizzy,' said Stockdale, when the crackle of the wheels had nearly died away. 'This is a fit finish to your adventure. I am truly thankful that you have got off without suspicion, and the loss only of the liquor. Will you sit down and let me talk to you?'

'Well, Lizzy,' Stockdale said, when the sound of the wheels had almost faded away. 'This is a perfect ending to your adventure. I'm really grateful that you got away without raising any suspicion, and that the only loss was the liquor. Will you sit down so I can talk to you?'

'By and by,' she said. 'But I must go out now.'

'Eventually,' she said. 'But I really need to head out now.'

'Not to that horrid shore again?' he said blankly.

'Not to that awful shore again?' he said blankly.

'No, not there. I am only going to see the end of this day's business.'

'No, not there. I'm just going to wrap up the last of today's tasks.'

He did not answer to this, and she moved towards the door slowly, as if waiting for him to say something more.

He didn't respond to this, and she walked slowly toward the door, as if she were waiting for him to say something else.

'You don't offer to come with me,' she added at last. 'I suppose that's because you hate me after all this?'

'You didn’t offer to come with me,' she finally said. 'I guess that’s because you actually hate me after everything that’s happened?'

'Can you say it, Lizzy, when you know I only want to save you from such practices? Come with you of course I will, if it is only to take care of you. But why will you go out again?'

'Can you really say that, Lizzy, when you know I just want to protect you from those kinds of things? Of course, I'll come with you, even if it's just to look after you. But why do you want to go out again?'

'Because I cannot rest indoors. Something is happening, and I must know what. Now, come!' And they went into the dusk together.

'Because I can't stay inside. Something's happening, and I need to find out what it is. Come on!' And they walked into the twilight together.

When they reached the turnpike-road she turned to the right, and he soon perceived that they were following the direction of the excisemen and their load. He had given her his arm, and every now and then she suddenly pulled it back, to signify that he was to halt a moment and listen. They had walked rather quickly along the first quarter of a mile, and on the second or third time of standing still she said, 'I hear them ahead-don't you?'

When they got to the toll road, she turned right, and he quickly realized they were heading in the same direction as the customs officers and their cart. He had offered her his arm, but occasionally she would suddenly pull it away to signal him to pause for a moment and listen. They had walked fairly quickly for the first quarter mile, and on the second or third time they stopped, she said, 'I hear them up ahead—don't you?'

'Yes,' he said; 'I hear the wheels. But what of that?'

'Yes,' he said; 'I can hear the wheels. But so what?'

'I only want to know if they get clear away from the neighbourhood.'

'I just want to know if they manage to move away from the neighborhood.'

'Ah,' said he, a light breaking upon him. 'Something desperate is to be attempted!-and now I remember there was not a man about the village when we left.'

'Ah,' he said, realization hitting him. 'We have to try something drastic! And now I remember there wasn’t anyone in the village when we left.'

'Hark!' she murmured. The noise of the cartwheels had stopped, and given place to another sort of sound.

'Hear that!' she whispered. The sound of the cartwheels had stopped, replaced by a different kind of noise.

''Tis a scuffle!' said Stockdale. 'There'll be murder! Lizzy, let go my arm; I am going on. On my conscience, I must not stay here and do nothing!'

"There's a fight!" said Stockdale. "Someone's going to get killed! Lizzy, let go of my arm; I'm going. I swear, I can't just stand here and do nothing!"

'There'll be no murder, and not even a broken head,' she said. 'Our men are thirty to four of them: no harm will be done at all.'

'There won’t be any murder, and not even a head injury,' she said. 'Our guys are thirty compared to just four of them: nothing bad will happen at all.'

'Then there is an attack!' exclaimed Stockdale; 'and you knew it was to be. Why should you side with men who break the laws like this?'

'Then there's an attack!' Stockdale exclaimed. 'And you knew it was coming. Why would you side with people who break the law like this?'

'Why should you side with men who take from country traders what they have honestly bought wi' their own money in France?' said she firmly.

'Why should you support men who take from local traders what they have honestly purchased with their own money in France?' she said firmly.

'They are not honestly bought,' said he.

'They aren't truly bought,' he said.

'They are,' she contradicted. 'I and Owlett and the others paid thirty shillings for every one of the tubs before they were put on board at Cherbourg, and if a king who is nothing to us sends his people to steal our property, we have a right to steal it back again.'

'They are,' she argued. 'Owlett and I and the others paid thirty shillings for each of the tubs before they were put on board at Cherbourg, and if a king who has nothing to do with us sends his people to steal our stuff, we have every right to take it back.'

Stockdale did not stop to argue the matter, but went quickly in the direction of the noise, Lizzy keeping at his side. 'Don't you interfere, will you, dear Richard?' she said anxiously, as they drew near. 'Don't let us go any closer: 'tis at Warm'ell Cross where they are seizing 'em. You can do no good, and you may meet with a hard blow!'

Stockdale didn't stop to discuss it but quickly headed toward the noise, with Lizzy by his side. "Please don't get involved, dear Richard," she said anxiously as they approached. "Let's not go any closer; they're seizing them at Warm'ell Cross. You won't help, and you might get hurt!"

'Let us see first what is going on,' he said. But before they had got much further the noise of the cartwheels began again; and Stockdale soon found that they were coming towards him. In another minute the three carts came up, and Stockdale and Lizzy stood in the ditch to let them pass.

'Let's see what's happening first,' he said. But before they could move much further, the sound of the cartwheels started up again; and Stockdale quickly realized that they were approaching him. A minute later, the three carts arrived, and Stockdale and Lizzy stepped into the ditch to let them go by.

Instead of being conducted by four men, as had happened when they went out of the village, the horses and carts were now accompanied by a body of from twenty to thirty, all of whom, as Stockdale perceived to his astonishment, had blackened faces. Among them walked six or eight huge female figures, whom, from their wide strides, Stockdale guessed to be men in disguise. As soon as the party discerned Lizzy and her companion four or five fell back, and when the carts had passed, came close to the pair.

Instead of being led by four men like when they left the village, the horses and carts were now followed by a group of about twenty to thirty people, all of whom, to Stockdale’s surprise, had their faces painted black. Among them were six or eight large female figures, whom Stockdale suspected were men in disguise because of their long strides. As soon as the group spotted Lizzy and her companion, four or five of them fell back, and once the carts had passed, they came closer to the pair.

'There is no walking up this way for the present,' said one of the gaunt women, who wore curls a foot long, dangling down the sides of her face, in the fashion of the time. Stockdale recognized this lady's voice as Owlett's.

'You can't walk this way right now,' said one of the thin women, whose foot-long curls hung down the sides of her face, in the style of the time. Stockdale recognized her voice as Owlett's.

'Why not?' said Stockdale. 'This is the public highway.'

'Why not?' Stockdale said. 'This is the public road.'

'Now look here, youngster,' said Owlett. 'O, 'tis the Methodist parson!-what, and Mrs. Newberry! Well, you'd better not go up that way, Lizzy. They've all run off, and folks have got their own again.'

'Now listen here, kid,' said Owlett. 'Oh, it's the Methodist pastor! And Mrs. Newberry! Well, you’d better not head that way, Lizzy. They've all taken off, and people have gone back to their own.'

The miller then hastened on and joined his comrades. Stockdale and Lizzy also turned back. 'I wish all this hadn't been forced upon us,' she said regretfully. 'But if those excisemen had got off with the tubs, half the people in the parish would have been in want for the next month or two.'

The miller quickly moved on to rejoin his friends. Stockdale and Lizzy also headed back. "I wish we hadn't been put in this situation," she said with a sigh. "But if those customs officers had taken the barrels, half of the people in the parish would have been struggling for the next month or two."

Stockdale was not paying much attention to her words, and he said, 'I don't think I can go back like this. Those four poor excisemen may be murdered for all I know.'

Stockdale wasn't really listening to her, and he said, 'I don't think I can go back like this. Those four poor customs officers might be killed for all I know.'

'Murdered!' said Lizzy impatiently. 'We don't do murder here.'

'Murdered!' Lizzy said impatiently. 'We don’t do murder here.'

'Well, I shall go as far as Warm'ell Cross to see,' said Stockdale decisively; and, without wishing her safe home or anything else, the minister turned back. Lizzy stood looking at him till his form was absorbed in the shades; and then, with sadness, she went in the direction of Nether-Moynton.

'Well, I’ll go as far as Warm'ell Cross to check it out,' Stockdale said firmly; and without wishing her a safe trip home or anything else, the minister turned back. Lizzy watched him until he disappeared into the shadows; then, feeling down, she headed toward Nether-Moynton.

The road was lonely, and after nightfall at this time of the year there was often not a passer for hours. Stockdale pursued his way without hearing a sound beyond that of his own footsteps; and in due time he passed beneath the trees of the plantation which surrounded the Warm'ell Cross-road. Before he had reached the point of intersection he heard voices from the thicket.

The road was empty, and after dark at this time of year, there often weren't any passerby for hours. Stockdale continued on his path, only hearing the sound of his own footsteps; eventually, he walked under the trees of the plantation surrounding the Warm'ell Cross-road. Just before he reached the intersection, he heard voices coming from the thicket.

'Hoi-hoi-hoi! Help, help!'

'Hoi-hoi-hoi! Help! Help!'

The voices were not at all feeble or despairing, but they were unmistakably anxious. Stockdale had no weapon, and before plunging into the pitchy darkness of the plantation he pulled a stake from the hedge, to use in case of need. When he got among the trees he shouted-'What's the matter-where are you?'

The voices were not weak or hopeless, but they were definitely filled with anxiety. Stockdale had no weapon, and before entering the thick darkness of the plantation, he pulled a stake from the hedge to use if necessary. Once he was among the trees, he shouted, "What's going on—where are you?"

'Here,' answered the voices; and, pushing through the brambles in that direction, he came near the objects of his search.

'Over here,' the voices replied; and, pushing through the thorns in that direction, he got closer to what he was looking for.

'Why don't you come forward?' said Stockdale.

'Why don't you step up?' said Stockdale.

'We be tied to the trees!'

'We're stuck in the trees!'

'Who are you?'

'Poor Will Latimer the exciseman!' said one plaintively. 'Just come and cut these cords, there's a good man. We were afraid nobody would pass by to-night.'

'Poor Will Latimer the tax collector!' one said sadly. 'Just come and cut these ropes, please. We were worried nobody would come by tonight.'

Stockdale soon loosened them, upon which they stretched their limbs and stood at their ease.

Stockdale soon loosened them, and they stretched their limbs and relaxed.

'The rascals!' said Latimer, getting now into a rage, though he had seemed quite meek when Stockdale first came up. ''Tis the same set of fellows. I know they were Moynton chaps to a man.'

'Those troublemakers!' said Latimer, now getting furious, even though he had seemed pretty calm when Stockdale first arrived. 'It's the same group of guys. I know they were all from Moynton.'

'But we can't swear to 'em,' said another. 'Not one of 'em spoke.'

'But we can't swear to them,' said another. 'Not one of them spoke.'

'What are you going to do?' said Stockdale.

'What are you going to do?' Stockdale asked.

'I'd fain go back to Moynton, and have at 'em again!' said Latimer.

"I'd really like to go back to Moynton and face them again!" said Latimer.

'So would we!' said his comrades.

'So would we!' said his friends.

'Fight till we die!' said Latimer.

'Fight until we die!' said Latimer.

'We will, we will!' said his men.

'We will, we will!' said his guys.

'But,' said Latimer, more frigidly, as they came out of the plantation, 'we don't know that these chaps with black faces were Moynton men? And proof is a hard thing.'

'But,' said Latimer, more coldly, as they left the plantation, 'we don't actually know if these guys with black faces were Moynton men? And evidence is a tough thing to come by.'

'So it is,' said the rest.

'So it is,' said the others.

'And therefore we won't do nothing at all,' said Latimer, with complete dispassionateness. 'For my part, I'd sooner be them than we. The clitches of my arms are burning like fire from the cords those two strapping women tied round 'em. My opinion is, now I have had time to think o't, that you may serve your Gover'ment at too high a price. For these two nights and days I have not had an hour's rest; and, please God, here's for home-along.'

'And so we won’t do anything at all,' Latimer said, completely calm. 'Honestly, I’d rather be in their shoes than ours. The cuts on my arms are burning like fire from the ropes those two strong women tied around them. Now that I’ve had some time to think about it, I believe you can serve your government at too great a cost. For the past two nights and days, I haven’t had a moment's rest; and, God willing, I’m ready to go home.'

The other officers agreed heartily to this course; and, thanking Stockdale for his timely assistance, they parted from him at the Cross, taking themselves the western road, and Stockdale going back to Nether- Moynton.

The other officers fully supported this plan, and after thanking Stockdale for his timely help, they said goodbye to him at the Cross. They took the western road, while Stockdale headed back to Nether-Moynton.

During that walk the minister was lost in reverie of the most painful kind. As soon as he got into the house, and before entering his own rooms, he advanced to the door of the little back parlour in which Lizzy usually sat with her mother. He found her there alone. Stockdale went forward, and, like a man in a dream, looked down upon the table that stood between him and the young woman, who had her bonnet and cloak still on. As he did not speak, she looked up from her chair at him, with misgiving in her eye.

During that walk, the minister was deep in thought, feeling a kind of pain that weighed heavily on him. As soon as he entered the house and before going to his own room, he walked over to the door of the small back parlor where Lizzy usually sat with her mother. He found her there alone. Stockdale approached, and like someone in a dream, he looked down at the table between him and the young woman, who still had her bonnet and cloak on. Since he didn’t say anything, she glanced up from her chair at him, a look of uncertainty in her eyes.

'Where are they gone?' he then said listlessly.

'Where have they gone?' he said, sounding bored.

'Who?-I don't know. I have seen nothing of them since. I came straight in here.'

'Who? I have no idea. I haven't seen them at all since then. I came right in here.'

'If your men can manage to get off with those tubs, it will be a great profit to you, I suppose?'

'If your guys can manage to get away with those containers, it should be a great profit for you, right?'

'A share will be mine, a share my cousin Owlett's, a share to each of the two farmers, and a share divided amongst the men who helped us.'

'A share will be mine, a share will go to my cousin Owlett, a share for each of the two farmers, and a share split among the men who helped us.'

'And you still think,' he went on slowly, 'that you will not give this business up?'

'And you still think,' he continued slowly, 'that you won’t give this up?'

Lizzy rose, and put her hand upon his shoulder. 'Don't ask that,' she whispered. 'You don't know what you are asking. I must tell you, though I meant not to do it. What I make by that trade is all I have to keep my mother and myself with.'

Lizzy stood up and put her hand on his shoulder. "Don't ask that," she whispered. "You don’t realize what you're asking. I have to tell you, even though I didn’t want to. What I earn from that job is all I have to support my mother and myself."

He was astonished. 'I did not dream of such a thing,' he said. 'I would rather have swept the streets, had I been you. What is money compared with a clear conscience?'

He was amazed. 'I never imagined anything like this,' he said. 'I would have preferred to clean the streets if I were you. What is money compared to a clear conscience?'

'My conscience is clear. I know my mother, but the king I have never seen. His dues are nothing to me. But it is a great deal to me that my mother and I should live.'

'My conscience is clear. I know my mom, but I’ve never seen the king. His demands mean nothing to me. But it matters a lot that my mom and I should live.'

'Marry me, and promise to give it up. I will keep your mother.'

'Marry me, and promise to let it go. I will take care of your mother.'

'It is good of you,' she said, trembling a little. 'Let me think of it by myself. I would rather not answer now.'

'That's kind of you,' she said, shaking slightly. 'I’d like to think about it on my own. I’d prefer not to respond right now.'

She reserved her answer till the next day, and came into his room with a solemn face. 'I cannot do what you wished!' she said passionately. 'It is too much to ask. My whole life ha' been passed in this way.' Her words and manner showed that before entering she had been struggling with herself in private, and that the contention had been strong.

She held off on her answer until the next day and walked into his room with a serious expression. "I can't do what you asked!" she said passionately. "It's too much to ask. My whole life has been spent like this." Her words and attitude revealed that before coming in, she had been wrestling with herself privately, and the struggle had been intense.

Stockdale turned pale, but he spoke quietly. 'Then, Lizzy, we must part. I cannot go against my principles in this matter, and I cannot make my profession a mockery. You know how I love you, and what I would do for you; but this one thing I cannot do.'

Stockdale turned pale, but he spoke softly. 'Then, Lizzy, we have to say goodbye. I can't go against my principles in this situation, and I won't make my profession a joke. You know how much I love you and what I would do for you; but this one thing I just can't do.'

'But why should you belong to that profession?' she burst out. 'I have got this large house; why can't you marry me, and live here with us, and not be a Methodist preacher any more? I assure you, Richard, it is no harm, and I wish you could only see it as I do! We only carry it on in winter: in summer it is never done at all. It stirs up one's dull life at this time o' the year, and gives excitement, which I have got so used to now that I should hardly know how to do 'ithout it. At nights, when the wind blows, instead of being dull and stupid, and not noticing whether it do blow or not, your mind is afield, even if you are not afield yourself; and you are wondering how the chaps are getting on; and you walk up and down the room, and look out o' window, and then you go out yourself, and know your way about as well by night as by day, and have hairbreadth escapes from old Latimer and his fellows, who are too stupid ever to really frighten us, and only make us a bit nimble.'

'But why would you want to be a preacher?' she exclaimed. 'I have this big house; why can’t you marry me and live here with us, without being a Methodist preacher anymore? I promise you, Richard, it’s not wrong, and I wish you could see it my way! We only do this in the winter: in summer, it’s never an issue. It shakes up our boring lives this time of year and brings excitement, which I’m so used to now that I’d hardly know how to live without it. At night, when the wind blows, instead of being dull and unaware, you think about it, even if you're not outside; and you wonder how the guys are doing. You pace the room, look out the window, and then you go out yourself, knowing your way around just as well at night as during the day, having narrow escapes from old Latimer and his gang, who are too clueless to really scare us, and only make us a bit quicker on our feet.'

'He frightened you a little last night, anyhow: and I would advise you to drop it before it is worse.'

'He scared you a little last night, anyway, and I’d suggest you let it go before it gets worse.'

She shook her head. 'No, I must go on as I have begun. I was born to it. It is in my blood, and I can't be cured. O, Richard, you cannot think what a hard thing you have asked, and how sharp you try me when you put me between this and my love for 'ee!'

She shook her head. 'No, I have to continue as I've started. I was meant for this. It's in my blood, and I can't change that. Oh, Richard, you can't imagine how difficult your request is, and how much you're testing me by putting me in this position against my love for you!'

Stockdale was leaning with his elbow on the mantelpiece, his hands over his eyes. 'We ought never to have met, Lizzy,' he said. 'It was an ill day for us! I little thought there was anything so hopeless and impossible in our engagement as this. Well, it is too late now to regret consequences in this way. I have had the happiness of seeing you and knowing you at least.'

Stockdale was leaning with his elbow on the mantel, covering his eyes with his hands. “We should never have met, Lizzy,” he said. “It was a bad day for us! I never imagined our engagement could be so hopeless and impossible. Well, it’s too late to regret things like this now. At least I've had the happiness of seeing you and getting to know you.”

'You dissent from Church, and I dissent from State,' she said. 'And I don't see why we are not well matched.'

'You disagree with the Church, and I disagree with the State,' she said. 'And I don't understand why we're not a good match.'

He smiled sadly, while Lizzy remained looking down, her eyes beginning to overflow.

He smiled sadly, while Lizzy kept her head down, her eyes starting to overflow.

That was an unhappy evening for both of them, and the days that followed were unhappy days. Both she and he went mechanically about their employments, and his depression was marked in the village by more than one of his denomination with whom he came in contact. But Lizzy, who passed her days indoors, was unsuspected of being the cause: for it was generally understood that a quiet engagement to marry existed between her and her cousin Owlett, and had existed for some time.

That was a sad evening for both of them, and the days that followed were just as gloomy. They both went through their daily routines like robots, and his sadness was noticed in the village by more than one person from his community he interacted with. However, Lizzy, who spent her days inside, was not seen as the reason for this; it was widely believed that she was in a quiet engagement to marry her cousin Owlett, which had been going on for a while.

Thus uncertainly the week passed on; till one morning Stockdale said to her: 'I have had a letter, Lizzy. I must call you that till I am gone.'

Thus uncertainly the week went by; until one morning Stockdale said to her, 'I got a letter, Lizzy. I have to call you that until I leave.'

'Gone?' said she blankly.

"Gone?" she said blankly.

'Yes,' he said. 'I am going from this place. I felt it would be better for us both that I should not stay after what has happened. In fact, I couldn't stay here, and look on you from day to day, without becoming weak and faltering in my course. I have just heard of an arrangement by which the other minister can arrive here in about a week; and let me go elsewhere.'

'Yeah,' he said. 'I'm leaving this place. I thought it would be better for both of us if I didn't stick around after what happened. Honestly, I couldn't stay here and see you every day without getting weak and unsure of myself. I just heard about a plan for the other minister to arrive here in about a week, so let me go somewhere else.'

That he had all this time continued so firmly fixed in his resolution came upon her as a grievous surprise. 'You never loved me!' she said bitterly.

That he had all this time remained so steadfast in his decision hit her as a painful shock. "You never loved me!" she said angrily.

'I might say the same,' he returned; 'but I will not. Grant me one favour. Come and hear my last sermon on the day before I go.'

'I could say the same,' he replied; 'but I won't. Do me a favor. Come and listen to my last sermon the day before I leave.'

Lizzy, who was a church-goer on Sunday mornings, frequently attended Stockdale's chapel in the evening with the rest of the double-minded; and she promised.

Lizzy, who went to church on Sunday mornings, often visited Stockdale's chapel in the evening with the rest of the uncertain crowd; and she made a promise.

It became known that Stockdale was going to leave, and a good many people outside his own sect were sorry to hear it. The intervening days flew rapidly away, and on the evening of the Sunday which preceded the morning of his departure Lizzy sat in the chapel to hear him for the last time. The little building was full to overflowing, and he took up the subject which all had expected, that of the contraband trade so extensively practised among them. His hearers, in laying his words to their own hearts, did not perceive that they were most particularly directed against Lizzy, till the sermon waxed warm, and Stockdale nearly broke down with emotion. In truth his own earnestness, and her sad eyes looking up at him, were too much for the young man's equanimity. He hardly knew how he ended. He saw Lizzy, as through a mist, turn and go away with the rest of the congregation; and shortly afterwards followed her home.

It became known that Stockdale was planning to leave, and many people outside his own group were sad to hear it. The days flew by quickly, and on the Sunday evening before his departure, Lizzy sat in the chapel to hear him speak for the last time. The small building was packed, and he chose to discuss the issue everyone anticipated: the illegal trade that was so common among them. As his audience reflected on his words, they didn't realize that his messages were especially directed at Lizzy, until the sermon became intense and Stockdale nearly broke down with emotion. His genuine passion, combined with her sad eyes looking up at him, overwhelmed the young man. He barely knew how he finished. He saw Lizzy, as if through a fog, turn and leave with the rest of the congregation, and shortly after, he followed her home.

She invited him to supper, and they sat down alone, her mother having, as was usual with her on Sunday nights, gone to bed early.

She invited him over for dinner, and they sat down alone, her mom having gone to bed early, as she typically did on Sunday nights.

'We will part friends, won't we?' said Lizzy, with forced gaiety, and never alluding to the sermon: a reticence which rather disappointed him.

'We'll leave as friends, right?' Lizzy said, trying to sound cheerful, and she didn't mention the sermon at all: a silence that somewhat disappointed him.

'We will,' he said, with a forced smile on his part; and they sat down.

'We will,' he said, forcing a smile; and they sat down.

It was the first meal that they had ever shared together in their lives, and probably the last that they would so share. When it was over, and the indifferent conversation could no longer be continued, he arose and took her hand. 'Lizzy,' he said, 'do you say we must part-do you?'

It was the first meal they had ever shared together in their lives, and probably the last time they would do so. When it was over, and the dull conversation could no longer go on, he stood up and took her hand. “Lizzy,” he said, “do you think we have to say goodbye—do you?”

'You do,' she said solemnly. 'I can say no more.'

'You do,' she said seriously. 'I can't say anything else.'

'Nor I,' said he. 'If that is your answer, good-bye!'

'Me neither,' he said. 'If that's your answer, goodbye!'

Stockdale bent over her and kissed her, and she involuntarily returned his kiss. 'I shall go early,' he said hurriedly. 'I shall not see you again.'

Stockdale leaned over and kissed her, and she instinctively kissed him back. 'I'll leave early,' he said quickly. 'I won't see you again.'

And he did leave early. He fancied, when stepping forth into the grey morning light, to mount the van which was to carry him away, that he saw a face between the parted curtains of Lizzy's window, but the light was faint, and the panes glistened with wet; so he could not be sure. Stockdale mounted the vehicle, and was gone; and on the following Sunday the new minister preached in the chapel of the Moynton Wesleyans.

And he did leave early. He thought, as he stepped out into the gray morning light, that he saw a face between the parted curtains of Lizzy's window, but the light was weak, and the panes were wet, so he couldn’t be sure. Stockdale got on the vehicle and left; and the following Sunday, the new minister preached at the Moynton Wesleyan chapel.

One day, two years after the parting, Stockdale, now settled in a midland town, came into Nether-Moynton by carrier in the original way. Jogging along in the van that afternoon he had put questions to the driver, and the answers that he received interested the minister deeply. The result of them was that he went without the least hesitation to the door of his former lodging. It was about six o'clock in the evening, and the same time of year as when he had left; now, too, the ground was damp and glistening, the west was bright, and Lizzy's snowdrops were raising their heads in the border under the wall.

One day, two years after they had parted ways, Stockdale, now living in a midland town, arrived in Nether-Moynton by carrier just as he had before. As he rode along in the van that afternoon, he asked the driver some questions, and the answers he received intrigued the minister greatly. As a result, he confidently walked up to the door of his old lodging. It was around six o'clock in the evening, the same time of year as when he had left; the ground was damp and shiny, the western sky was bright, and Lizzy's snowdrops were poking their heads up in the flowerbed by the wall.

Lizzy must have caught sight of him from the window, for by the time that he reached the door she was there holding it open: and then, as if she had not sufficiently considered her act of coming out, she drew herself back, saying with some constraint, 'Mr. Stockdale!'

Lizzy must have seen him from the window, because by the time he got to the door, she was there holding it open. But then, as if she hadn’t fully thought through her decision to come out, she pulled back, saying somewhat awkwardly, 'Mr. Stockdale!'

'You knew it was,' said Stockdale, taking her hand. 'I wrote to say I should call.'

'You knew I would,' Stockdale said, taking her hand. 'I wrote to let you know I'd be stopping by.'

'Yes, but you did not say when,' she answered.

'Yes, but you didn't say when,' she replied.

'I did not. I was not quite sure when my business would lead me to these parts.'

'I didn't. I wasn't really sure when my work would bring me to this area.'

'You only came because business brought you near?'

'You only came because work brought you this way?'

'Well, that is the fact; but I have often thought I should like to come on purpose to see you . . . But what's all this that has happened? I told you how it would be, Lizzy, and you would not listen to me.'

'Well, that’s the truth; but I’ve often thought I’d like to come just to see you . . . But what’s going on here? I told you how this would turn out, Lizzy, and you didn’t want to hear me.'

'I would not,' she said sadly. 'But I had been brought up to that life; and it was second nature to me. However, it is all over now. The officers have blood-money for taking a man dead or alive, and the trade is going to nothing. We were hunted down like rats.'

'I wouldn’t,' she said sadly. 'But I was raised for that life; it came naturally to me. However, it’s all over now. The officers have rewards for capturing a man, dead or alive, and the business is going nowhere. We were hunted down like rats.'

'Owlett is quite gone, I hear.'

'Owlett is totally gone, I hear.'

'Yes. He is in America. We had a dreadful struggle that last time, when they tried to take him. It is a perfect miracle that he lived through it; and it is a wonder that I was not killed. I was shot in the hand. It was not by aim; the shot was really meant for my cousin; but I was behind, looking on as usual, and the bullet came to me. It bled terribly, but I got home without fainting; and it healed after a time. You know how he suffered?'

'Yes. He’s in America. We had a terrible fight the last time they tried to take him. It’s a miracle that he survived it; and it's amazing that I wasn't killed. I got shot in the hand. The shot wasn’t meant for me; it was actually aimed at my cousin, but I was behind, watching as usual, and the bullet hit me. I bled a lot, but I made it home without passing out; and it healed after a while. You know how much he suffered?'

'No,' said Stockdale. 'I only heard that he just escaped with his life.'

'No,' said Stockdale. 'I only heard that he barely made it out alive.'

'He was shot in the back; but a rib turned the ball. He was badly hurt. We would not let him be took. The men carried him all night across the meads to Kingsbere, and hid him in a barn, dressing his wound as well as they could, till he was so far recovered as to be able to get about. He had gied up his mill for some time; and at last he got to Bristol, and took a passage to America, and he's settled in Wisconsin.'

'He was shot in the back, but a rib deflected the bullet. He was seriously injured. We wouldn’t let him be taken away. The men carried him all night across the meadows to Kingsbere and hid him in a barn, treating his wound as best as they could until he had recovered enough to move around. He had given up his mill for a while; eventually, he made it to Bristol, bought a ticket to America, and he’s now settled in Wisconsin.'

'What do you think of smuggling now?' said the minister gravely.

'What do you think about smuggling now?' the minister asked seriously.

'I own that we were wrong,' said she. 'But I have suffered for it. I am very poor now, and my mother has been dead these twelve months . . . But won't you come in, Mr. Stockdale?'

'I admit we were wrong,' she said. 'But I've paid for it. I'm very poor now, and my mother has been dead for a year... But won't you come in, Mr. Stockdale?'

Stockdale went in; and it is to be supposed that they came to an understanding; for a fortnight later there was a sale of Lizzy's furniture, and after that a wedding at a chapel in a neighbouring town.

Stockdale went in, and it’s safe to assume they reached an agreement; because two weeks later, there was a sale of Lizzy's furniture, and soon after that, a wedding at a chapel in a nearby town.

He took her away from her old haunts to the home that he had made for himself in his native county, where she studied her duties as a minister's wife with praiseworthy assiduity. It is said that in after years she wrote an excellent tract called Render unto Caesar; or, The Repentant Villagers, in which her own experience was anonymously used as the introductory story. Stockdale got it printed, after making some corrections, and putting in a few powerful sentences of his own; and many hundreds of copies were distributed by the couple in the course of their married life.

He took her away from her old hangouts to the home he had created for himself in his hometown, where she diligently learned her responsibilities as a minister's wife. It's said that years later, she wrote a great pamphlet titled Render unto Caesar; or, The Repentant Villagers, using her own experience as the opening story without revealing her identity. Stockdale had it printed after making some edits and adding a few strong sentences of his own; and the couple distributed hundreds of copies during their married life.

April 1879.

A CHANGED MAN AND OTHER TALES

By Thomas Hardy

CONTENTS

Table of Contents

CHAPTER I.-SHE MISSES HER SISTER

CHAPTER II.-NEWS INTERESTING AND SERIOUS

CHAPTER III.-HER GLOOM LIGHTENS A LITTLE

CHAPTER IV.-SHE BEHOLDS THE ATTRACTIVE STRANGER

CHAPTER V.-HER SITUATION IS A TRYING ONE

CHAPTER VI.-HER INGENUITY INSTIGATES HER

CHAPTER VII.-A SURPRISE AWAITS HER

CHAPTER VIII.-SHE TRAVELS IN PURSUIT

CHAPTER IX.-SHE WITNESSES THE END

CHAPTER X.-SHE ADDS A NOTE LONG AFTER

THE GRAVE BY THE HANDPOST

ENTER A DRAGOON

A TRYST AT AN ANCIENT EARTH WORK

WHAT THE SHEPHERD SAW

A COMMITTEE-MAN OF 'THE TERROR'

MASTER JOHN HORSELEIGH, KNIGHT

THE DUKE'S REAPPEARANCE-A FAMILY TRADITION

PREFATORY NOTE

I reprint in this volume, for what they may be worth, a dozen minor novels that have been published in the periodical press at various dates in the past, in order to render them accessible to readers who desire to have them in the complete series issued by my publishers. For aid in reclaiming some of the narratives I express my thanks to the proprietors and editors of the newspapers and magazines in whose pages they first appeared.

I’m reprinting in this volume, for whatever they're worth, a dozen minor novels that were published in various periodicals over the years, to make them available to readers who want them in the complete series released by my publishers. I would like to thank the owners and editors of the newspapers and magazines where these stories first appeared for their help in recovering some of the narratives.

T. H. August 1913.

T. H. Aug 1913.

A CHANGED MAN

CHAPTER I

The person who, next to the actors themselves, chanced to know most of their story, lived just below 'Top o' Town' (as the spot was called) in an old substantially-built house, distinguished among its neighbours by having an oriel window on the first floor, whence could be obtained a raking view of the High Street, west and east, the former including Laura's dwelling, the end of the Town Avenue hard by (in which were played the odd pranks hereafter to be mentioned), the Port-Bredy road rising westwards, and the turning that led to the cavalry barracks where the Captain was quartered. Looking eastward down the town from the same favoured gazebo, the long perspective of houses declined and dwindled till they merged in the highway across the moor. The white riband of road disappeared over Grey's Bridge a quarter of a mile off, to plunge into innumerable rustic windings, shy shades, and solitary undulations up hill and down dale for one hundred and twenty miles till it exhibited itself at Hyde Park Corner as a smooth bland surface in touch with a busy and fashionable world.

The person who, next to the actors themselves, happened to know most of their story lived just below 'Top o' Town' (as the area was referred to) in an old, sturdy house, standing out from its neighbors with an oriel window on the first floor. From this window, there was a great view of High Street, both west and east. To the west, you could see Laura's house, the end of Town Avenue nearby (where the unusual pranks mentioned later took place), the Port-Bredy road rising upward, and the turn that led to the cavalry barracks where the Captain was stationed. Looking east from the same favored spot, the long line of houses faded away until it connected with the road across the moor. The winding white ribbon of road disappeared over Grey's Bridge a quarter of a mile away, diving into countless rural twists, quiet nooks, and lonely hillsides for one hundred and twenty miles until it appeared again at Hyde Park Corner as a smooth, inviting road meeting a busy, stylish world.

To the barracks aforesaid had recently arrived the —-th Hussars, a regiment new to the locality. Almost before any acquaintance with its members had been made by the townspeople, a report spread that they were a 'crack' body of men, and had brought a splendid band. For some reason or other the town had not been used as the headquarters of cavalry for many years, the various troops stationed there having consisted of casual detachments only; so that it was with a sense of honour that everybody-even the small furniture-broker from whom the married troopers hired tables and chairs-received the news of their crack quality.

To the aforementioned barracks had recently arrived the —-th Hussars, a regiment new to the area. Almost before the townspeople had a chance to get to know its members, a rumor started circulating that they were an elite group of soldiers and had brought along an amazing band. For some reason, the town hadn't served as the headquarters for cavalry in many years; the various troops stationed there had only been temporary detachments. So, it was with a sense of pride that everyone—even the small furniture dealer from whom the married soldiers rented tables and chairs—welcomed the news of their impressive reputation.

In those days the Hussar regiments still wore over the left shoulder that attractive attachment, or frilled half-coat, hanging loosely behind like the wounded wing of a bird, which was called the pelisse, though it was known among the troopers themselves as a 'sling-jacket.' It added amazingly to their picturesqueness in women's eyes, and, indeed, in the eyes of men also.

In those days, the Hussar regiments still sported that stylish accessory, a frilled half-coat draped loosely behind like a bird’s injured wing, known as the pelisse, though the soldiers called it a 'sling-jacket.' It really enhanced their appeal in the eyes of women and, honestly, in the eyes of men as well.

The burgher who lived in the house with the oriel window sat during a great many hours of the day in that projection, for he was an invalid, and time hung heavily on his hands unless he maintained a constant interest in proceedings without. Not more than a week after the arrival of the Hussars his ears were assailed by the shout of one schoolboy to another in the street below.

The townsperson living in the house with the bay window spent many hours of the day in that nook, as he was unwell, and time felt long and tedious unless he kept a steady interest in what was happening outside. Just a week after the Hussars arrived, he was jolted by the shout of one schoolboy to another in the street below.

'Have 'ee heard this about the Hussars? They are haunted! Yes-a ghost troubles 'em; he has followed 'em about the world for years.'

'Have you heard this about the Hussars? They’re haunted! Yeah—a ghost troubles them; he’s been following them around the world for years.'

A haunted regiment: that was a new idea for either invalid or stalwart. The listener in the oriel came to the conclusion that there were some lively characters among the —-th Hussars.

A haunted regiment: that was a fresh concept for either the weak or the strong. The person listening in the oriel decided that there were some interesting characters among the —-th Hussars.

He made Captain Maumbry's acquaintance in an informal manner at an afternoon tea to which he went in a wheeled chair-one of the very rare outings that the state of his health permitted. Maumbry showed himself to be a handsome man of twenty-eight or thirty, with an attractive hint of wickedness in his manner that was sure to make him adorable with good young women. The large dark eyes that lit his pale face expressed this wickedness strongly, though such was the adaptability of their rays that one could think they might have expressed sadness or seriousness just as readily, if he had had a mind for such.

He met Captain Maumbry in a casual way at an afternoon tea, an outing he could manage in his wheelchair—one of the few times his health allowed him to go out. Maumbry was a handsome guy, about twenty-eight or thirty, with a charming hint of mischief in his demeanor that was sure to make him appealing to young women. His large dark eyes lit up his pale face, strongly conveying that mischief, but they were also flexible enough that you could imagine they might express sadness or seriousness just as easily, had he felt like it.

An old and deaf lady who was present asked Captain Maumbry bluntly: 'What's this we hear about you? They say your regiment is haunted.'

An old and deaf lady who was there asked Captain Maumbry directly: 'What's this we hear about you? People say your regiment is haunted.'

The Captain's face assumed an aspect of grave, even sad, concern. 'Yes,' he replied, 'it is too true.'

The Captain's face took on a serious, even sad, expression. 'Yes,' he responded, 'it's all too true.'

Some younger ladies smiled till they saw how serious he looked, when they looked serious likewise.

Some younger women smiled until they noticed how serious he looked, at which point they also appeared serious.

'Really?' said the old lady.

"Seriously?" said the old lady.

'Yes. We naturally don't wish to say much about it.'

'Yes. We obviously don't want to say much about it.'

'No, no; of course not. But-how haunted?'

'No, no; of course not. But—how haunted?'

'Well; the-thing, as I'll call it, follows us. In country quarters or town, abroad or at home, it's just the same.'

'Well, the thing, as I'll call it, follows us. In rural areas or cities, whether we're abroad or at home, it’s always the same.'

'How do you account for it?'

'How do you explain this?'

'H'm.' Maumbry lowered his voice. 'Some crime committed by certain of our regiment in past years, we suppose.'

'Hmm.' Maumbry lowered his voice. 'Some crime committed by a few members of our regiment in previous years, we assume.'

'Dear me . . . How very horrid, and singular!'

'Oh my... How awful and unusual!'

'But, as I said, we don't speak of it much.'

'But, as I mentioned, we don't talk about it much.'

'No . . . no.'

'No... no.'

When the Hussar was gone, a young lady, disclosing a long-suppressed interest, asked if the ghost had been seen by any of the town.

When the Hussar left, a young woman, revealing a long-hidden curiosity, asked if anyone in town had seen the ghost.

The lawyer's son, who always had the latest borough news, said that, though it was seldom seen by any one but the Hussars themselves, more than one townsman and woman had already set eyes on it, to his or her terror. The phantom mostly appeared very late at night, under the dense trees of the town-avenue nearest the barracks. It was about ten feet high; its teeth chattered with a dry naked sound, as if they were those of a skeleton; and its hip-bones could be heard grating in their sockets.

The lawyer's son, who always had the latest news from the neighborhood, said that, although it was rarely seen by anyone except the Hussars themselves, more than one local man and woman had already encountered it, to their horror. The ghost mostly showed up very late at night, under the thick trees of the town avenue closest to the barracks. It was about ten feet tall; its teeth rattled with a dry, hollow sound, like those of a skeleton; and its hip bones could be heard grinding in their sockets.

During the darkest weeks of winter several timid persons were seriously frightened by the object answering to this cheerful description, and the police began to look into the matter. Whereupon the appearances grew less frequent, and some of the Boys of the regiment thankfully stated that they had not been so free from ghostly visitation for years as they had become since their arrival in Casterbridge.

During the bleakest weeks of winter, a few nervous individuals were genuinely alarmed by the object that matched this cheerful description, prompting the police to investigate. As a result, the sightings became less common, and some of the soldiers in the regiment happily reported that they hadn’t experienced such a break from ghostly encounters in years since arriving in Casterbridge.

This playing at ghosts was the most innocent of the amusements indulged in by the choice young spirits who inhabited the lichened, red-brick building at the top of the town bearing 'W.D.' and a broad arrow on its quoins. Far more serious escapades-levities relating to love, wine, cards, betting-were talked of, with no doubt more or less of exaggeration. That the Hussars, Captain Maumbry included, were the cause of bitter tears to several young women of the town and country is unquestionably true, despite the fact that the gaieties of the young men wore a more staring colour in this old-fashioned place than they would have done in a large and modern city.

This playing at ghosts was the most innocent of the fun activities that the select young people living in the mossy, red-brick building at the top of town, marked with 'W.D.' and a broad arrow on its corners, enjoyed. Much more serious adventures—lighthearted affairs involving love, drinks, cards, and gambling—were talked about, likely with a bit of exaggeration. It's definitely true that the Hussars, including Captain Maumbry, caused heartbreak for several young women from the town and surrounding areas, even though the antics of these young men seemed more outrageous in this old-fashioned place than they would have in a large, modern city.

CHAPTER II

Regularly once a week they rode out in marching order.

Returning up the town on one of these occasions, the romantic pelisse flapping behind each horseman's shoulder in the soft south-west wind, Captain Maumbry glanced up at the oriel. A mutual nod was exchanged between him and the person who sat there reading. The reader and a friend in the room with him followed the troop with their eyes all the way up the street, till, when the soldiers were opposite the house in which Laura lived, that young lady became discernible in the balcony.

Returning to town on one of these occasions, the romantic coat flapping behind each horseman's shoulder in the soft south-west wind, Captain Maumbry looked up at the oriel. He exchanged a nod with the person sitting there reading. The reader and a friend in the room followed the troop with their eyes all the way up the street, until, when the soldiers were in front of the house where Laura lived, that young lady became visible on the balcony.

'They are engaged to be married, I hear,' said the friend.

'I've heard they're engaged to get married,' said the friend.

'Who-Maumbry and Laura? Never-so soon?'

'Who-Maumbry and Laura? Not so soon?'

'Yes.'

Yes.

'He'll never marry. Several girls have been mentioned in connection with his name. I am sorry for Laura.'

'He'll never get married. A few girls have been linked to him. I feel bad for Laura.'

'Oh, but you needn't be. They are excellently matched.'

'Oh, but you don't have to be. They go really well together.'

'She's only one more.'

'She's just one more.'

'She's one more, and more still. She has regularly caught him. She is a born player of the game of hearts, and she knew how to beat him in his own practices. If there is one woman in the town who has any chance of holding her own and marrying him, she is that woman.'

'She's just another one, and there are even more. She's consistently outsmarted him. She's a natural at the game of love, and she knows how to win at his own game. If there's anyone in town who stands a chance of keeping up with him and marrying him, it's definitely her.'

This was true, as it turned out. By natural proclivity Laura had from the first entered heart and soul into military romance as exhibited in the plots and characters of those living exponents of it who came under her notice. From her earliest young womanhood civilians, however promising, had no chance of winning her interest if the meanest warrior were within the horizon. It may be that the position of her uncle's house (which was her home) at the corner of West Street nearest the barracks, the daily passing of the troops, the constant blowing of trumpet-calls a furlong from her windows, coupled with the fact that she knew nothing of the inner realities of military life, and hence idealized it, had also helped her mind's original bias for thinking men- at-arms the only ones worthy of a woman's heart.

This was true, as it turned out. Naturally, Laura had completely immersed herself in military romance from the start, as shown in the stories and characters of those living examples she encountered. From her early young adulthood, civilians, no matter how promising, had no chance of capturing her interest if even the least impressive soldier was in sight. The location of her uncle's house (which was her home) at the corner of West Street nearest the barracks, the daily passing of the troops, the regular trumpet calls just a short distance from her windows, combined with her lack of knowledge about the realities of military life—leading her to romanticize it—may have contributed to her belief that only men-at-arms were worthy of a woman's love.

Captain Maumbry was a typical prize; one whom all surrounding maidens had coveted, ached for, angled for, wept for, had by her judicious management become subdued to her purpose; and in addition to the pleasure of marrying the man she loved, Laura had the joy of feeling herself hated by the mothers of all the marriageable girls of the neighbourhood.

Captain Maumbry was a typical catch; someone all the local girls had wanted, longed for, tried to impress, and cried over. Through her skillful tactics, he had become aligned with her goals; and besides the happiness of marrying the man she loved, Laura also took delight in knowing that she was hated by the mothers of all the eligible girls in the neighborhood.

The man in the oriel went to the wedding; not as a guest, for at this time he was but slightly acquainted with the parties; but mainly because the church was close to his house; partly, too, for a reason which moved many others to be spectators of the ceremony; a subconsciousness that, though the couple might be happy in their experiences, there was sufficient possibility of their being otherwise to colour the musings of an onlooker with a pleasing pathos of conjecture. He could on occasion do a pretty stroke of rhyming in those days, and he beguiled the time of waiting by pencilling on a blank page of his prayer-book a few lines which, though kept private then, may be given here:-

The man in the oriel went to the wedding; not as a guest, since he only knew the couple a little at this point; but mainly because the church was close to his house; partly, too, for a reason that attracted many others to watch the ceremony; a sense that, even though the couple might be happy in their journey, there was enough chance of things going differently to make an observer's thoughts tinged with a touching sense of speculation. He could occasionally write some decent rhymes back then, and he passed the time waiting by scribbling a few lines on a blank page of his prayer book that, though kept private at the time, can be shared here:-

AT A HASTY WEDDING

(Triolet)

If hours be years the twain are blest, For now they solace swift desire By lifelong ties that tether zest If hours be years. The twain are blest Do eastern suns slope never west, Nor pallid ashes follow fire. If hours be years the twain are blest For now they solace swift desire.

If hours are like years, the two of them are lucky, Because now they comfort quick desire With lifelong bonds that bring excitement. If hours are like years, the two of them are lucky. Do eastern suns ever set in the west, Or do pale ashes follow the fire? If hours are like years, the two of them are lucky, Because now they comfort quick desire.

As if, however, to falsify all prophecies, the couple seemed to find in marriage the secret of perpetuating the intoxication of a courtship which, on Maumbry's side at least, had opened without serious intent. During the winter following they were the most popular pair in and about Casterbridge-nay in South Wessex itself. No smart dinner in the country houses of the younger and gayer families within driving distance of the borough was complete without their lively presence; Mrs. Maumbry was the blithest of the whirling figures at the county ball; and when followed that inevitable incident of garrison-town life, an amateur dramatic entertainment, it was just the same. The acting was for the benefit of such and such an excellent charity-nobody cared what, provided the play were played-and both Captain Maumbry and his wife were in the piece, having been in fact, by mutual consent, the originators of the performance. And so with laughter, and thoughtlessness, and movement, all went merrily. There was a little backwardness in the bill-paying of the couple; but in justice to them it must be added that sooner or later all owings were paid.

As if to defy all predictions, the couple seemed to discover in marriage the secret to maintaining the excitement of a courtship that, at least for Maumbry, had started without any serious intention. During the following winter, they were the most popular couple in and around Casterbridge—indeed, throughout South Wessex. No stylish dinner at the country houses of the younger, more vibrant families within driving distance of the borough was complete without their lively presence; Mrs. Maumbry was the most cheerful of the twirling figures at the county ball; and when the inevitable event of garrison-town life, an amateur dramatic performance, rolled around, it was the same story. The acting was for the benefit of a particular charity—nobody cared which, as long as the play was performed—and both Captain Maumbry and his wife were part of it, having actually come up with the idea for the show together. So, with laughter, carefreeness, and movement, everything went joyfully. There was a bit of slowness in the couple's bill-paying, but it's fair to say that sooner or later, all debts were settled.

CHAPTER III

At the chapel-of-ease attended by the troops there arose above the edge of the pulpit one Sunday an unknown face. This was the face of a new curate. He placed upon the desk, not the familiar sermon book, but merely a Bible. The person who tells these things was not present at that service, but he soon learnt that the young curate was nothing less than a great surprise to his congregation; a mixed one always, for though the Hussars occupied the body of the building, its nooks and corners were crammed with civilians, whom, up to the present, even the least uncharitable would have described as being attracted thither less by the services than by the soldiery.

At the chapel used by the troops, an unfamiliar face appeared behind the pulpit one Sunday. This was the face of a new curate. Instead of the usual sermon book, he placed only a Bible on the desk. The person sharing this story wasn't at that service, but soon learned that the young curate was quite a surprise for his congregation; it was always a mixed crowd because, while the Hussars filled the main part of the building, its nooks and corners were packed with civilians, who, until now, even the least judgmental would have said were drawn there more by the soldiers than by the services.

Now there arose a second reason for squeezing into an already overcrowded church. The persuasive and gentle eloquence of Mr. Sainway operated like a charm upon those accustomed only to the higher and dryer styles of preaching, and for a time the other churches of the town were thinned of their sitters.

Now there was another reason to cram into an already packed church. Mr. Sainway’s persuasive and gentle style of speaking worked like magic on those used to the more formal and dry forms of preaching, and for a while, the other churches in town saw fewer attendees.

At this point in the nineteenth century the sermon was the sole reason for churchgoing amongst a vast body of religious people. The liturgy was a formal preliminary, which, like the Royal proclamation in a court of assize, had to be got through before the real interest began; and on reaching home the question was simply: Who preached, and how did he handle his subject? Even had an archbishop officiated in the service proper nobody would have cared much about what was said or sung. People who had formerly attended in the morning only began to go in the evening, and even to the special addresses in the afternoon.

At this point in the nineteenth century, the sermon was the main reason for church attendance among a large number of religious people. The liturgy was just a formal thing that had to be completed, like a Royal proclamation in a court, before the real interest began. When they got home, the main question was simply: Who preached, and how did they handle their topic? Even if an archbishop led the actual service, nobody would have really cared about what was said or sung. People who used to attend only in the morning began going in the evening and even to the special talks in the afternoon.

One day when Captain Maumbry entered his wife's drawing-room, filled with hired furniture, she thought he was somebody else, for he had not come upstairs humming the most catching air afloat in musical circles or in his usual careless way.

One day when Captain Maumbry walked into his wife's living room, filled with rented furniture, she thought he was someone else because he hadn't come upstairs humming the catchiest tune in the music scene or in his usual laid-back manner.

'What's the matter, Jack?' she said without looking up from a note she was writing.

'What's wrong, Jack?' she said without looking up from the note she was writing.

'Well-not much, that I know.'

'Not much that I know.'

'O, but there is,' she murmured as she wrote.

'O, but there is,' she said softly as she wrote.

'Why-this cursed new lath in a sheet-I mean the new parson! He wants us to stop the band-playing on Sunday afternoons.'

'Why this cursed new guy in the parish—I mean the new priest! He wants us to stop the band playing on Sunday afternoons.'

Laura looked up aghast.

Laura looked up in shock.

'Why, it is the one thing that enables the few rational beings hereabouts to keep alive from Saturday to Monday!'

'Why, it’s the one thing that lets the few logical people around here survive from Saturday to Monday!'

'He says all the town flock to the music and don't come to the service, and that the pieces played are profane, or mundane, or inane, or something-not what ought to be played on Sunday. Of course 'tis Lautmann who settles those things.'

'He says everyone in town rushes to the music instead of coming to the service, and that the songs being played are disrespectful, ordinary, silly, or something else—not what should be played on Sunday. Of course, it's Lautmann who decides those things.'

Lautmann was the bandmaster.

Lautmann was the bandleader.

The barrack-green on Sunday afternoons had, indeed, become the promenade of a great many townspeople cheerfully inclined, many even of those who attended in the morning at Mr. Sainway's service; and little boys who ought to have been listening to the curate's afternoon lecture were too often seen rolling upon the grass and making faces behind the more dignified listeners.

The barrack-green on Sunday afternoons had definitely become a popular spot for many townspeople who were in a cheerful mood, including quite a few who had attended Mr. Sainway's morning service; and little boys who should have been paying attention to the curate's afternoon lecture were often spotted rolling on the grass and making faces behind the more serious listeners.

Laura heard no more about the matter, however, for two or three weeks, when suddenly remembering it she asked her husband if any further objections had been raised.

Laura didn't hear anything more about it for two or three weeks, but then suddenly remembering, she asked her husband if any other objections had come up.

'O-Mr. Sainway. I forgot to tell you. I've made his acquaintance. He is not a bad sort of man.'

'O-Mr. Sainway. I forgot to mention. I've met him. He's not a bad guy.'

Laura asked if either Maumbry or some others of the officers did not give the presumptuous curate a good setting down for his interference.

Laura asked if either Maumbry or some of the other officers didn’t put the arrogant curate in his place for his interference.

'O well-we've forgotten that. He's a stunning preacher, they tell me.'

'O well, we've forgotten that. He's an amazing preacher, I've heard.'

The acquaintance developed apparently, for the Captain said to her a little later on, 'There's a good deal in Sainway's argument about having no band on Sunday afternoons. After all, it is close to his church. But he doesn't press his objections unduly.'

The acquaintance seemed to grow naturally, because the Captain later said to her, 'There's a lot to Sainway's point about not having a band on Sunday afternoons. After all, it is right by his church. But he doesn't push his objections too hard.'

'I am surprised to hear you defend him!'

'I can't believe you're defending him!'

'It was only a passing thought of mine. We naturally don't wish to offend the inhabitants of the town if they don't like it.'

'It was just a fleeting thought of mine. We obviously don’t want to upset the people in town if they don’t like it.'

'But they do.'

The invalid in the oriel never clearly gathered the details of progress in this conflict of lay and clerical opinion; but so it was that, to the disappointment of musicians, the grief of out-walking lovers, and the regret of the junior population of the town and country round, the band- playing on Sunday afternoons ceased in Casterbridge barrack-square.

The person in the oriel never quite understood the ins and outs of the ongoing conflict between lay and clerical opinions; however, it turned out that, much to the disappointment of musicians, the sorrow of strolling couples, and the regret of the younger people in the town and surrounding areas, the band performances on Sunday afternoons stopped in Casterbridge barrack-square.

By this time the Maumbrys had frequently listened to the preaching of the gentle if narrow-minded curate; for these light-natured, hit-or- miss, rackety people went to church like others for respectability's sake. None so orthodox as your unmitigated worldling. A more remarkable event was the sight to the man in the window of Captain Maumbry and Mr. Sainway walking down the High Street in earnest conversation. On his mentioning this fact to a caller he was assured that it was a matter of common talk that they were always together.

By this time, the Maumbrys had often listened to the preaching of the gentle yet narrow-minded curate; these light-hearted, haphazard people went to church like everyone else for the sake of appearing respectable. No one is as orthodox as a completely worldly person. A more noteworthy event was when the man in the window saw Captain Maumbry and Mr. Sainway walking down the High Street deep in conversation. When he mentioned this to a visitor, he was told it was a common topic of discussion that they were always together.

The observer would soon have learnt this with his own eyes if he had not been told. They began to pass together nearly every day. Hitherto Mrs. Maumbry, in fashionable walking clothes, had usually been her husband's companion; but this was less frequent now. The close and singular friendship between the two men went on for nearly a year, when Mr. Sainway was presented to a living in a densely-populated town in the midland counties. He bade the parishioners of his old place a reluctant farewell and departed, the touching sermon he preached on the occasion being published by the local printer. Everybody was sorry to lose him; and it was with genuine grief that his Casterbridge congregation learnt later on that soon after his induction to his benefice, during some bitter weather, he had fallen seriously ill of inflammation of the lungs, of which he eventually died.

The observer would soon have figured this out for himself if he hadn't been told. They started to spend time together nearly every day. Until now, Mrs. Maumbry, dressed in fashionable walking clothes, had usually been her husband's companion; but that happened less often now. The close and unique friendship between the two men lasted for nearly a year, until Mr. Sainway was offered a position in a busy town in the midlands. He said a reluctant goodbye to the people of his old parish and left, delivering a touching sermon on the occasion that was later published by the local printer. Everyone was sad to see him go; and it was with real grief that his Casterbridge congregation later learned that shortly after he took on his new role, during some harsh weather, he had become seriously ill with pneumonia, which eventually led to his death.

We now get below the surface of things. Of all who had known the dead curate, none grieved for him like the man who on his first arrival had called him a 'lath in a sheet.' Mrs. Maumbry had never greatly sympathized with the impressive parson; indeed, she had been secretly glad that he had gone away to better himself. He had considerably diminished the pleasures of a woman by whom the joys of earth and good company had been appreciated to the full. Sorry for her husband in his loss of a friend who had been none of hers, she was yet quite unprepared for the sequel.

We’re now digging deeper into things. Of everyone who had known the deceased curate, none mourned him like the man who, on his arrival, had referred to him as a 'lath in a sheet.' Mrs. Maumbry had never really felt much sympathy for the impressive parson; in fact, she had secretly felt pleased that he had left to improve himself. He had significantly reduced the pleasures of a woman who had fully appreciated the joys of life and good company. Feeling sorry for her husband over the loss of a friend who hadn’t been hers, she was still completely unprepared for what would happen next.

'There is something that I have wanted to tell you lately, dear,' he said one morning at breakfast with hesitation. 'Have you guessed what it is?'

'There's something I've been wanting to tell you lately, dear,' he said one morning at breakfast, hesitating. 'Have you figured out what it is?'

She had guessed nothing.

She didn’t suspect anything.

'That I think of retiring from the army.'

'That I’m thinking about retiring from the army.'

'What!'

'I have thought more and more of Sainway since his death, and of what he used to say to me so earnestly. And I feel certain I shall be right in obeying a call within me to give up this fighting trade and enter the Church.'

'I have thought about Sainway more and more since he passed away, and about what he used to say to me so sincerely. I’m sure I’m doing the right thing by following this inner urge to give up this fighting career and join the Church.'

'What-be a parson?'

'What is a parson?'

'Yes.'

'Yeah.'

'But what should I do?'

'Be a parson's wife.'

'Be a pastor's wife.'

'Never!' she affirmed.

"Not ever!" she affirmed.

'But how can you help it?'

'But how can you avoid it?'

'I'll run away rather!' she said vehemently;

"I'd rather run away!" she said passionately;

'No, you mustn't,' Maumbry replied, in the tone he used when his mind was made up. 'You'll get accustomed to the idea, for I am constrained to carry it out, though it is against my worldly interests. I am forced on by a Hand outside me to tread in the steps of Sainway.'

'No, you can't,' Maumbry said, using the tone he had when he was set on something. 'You'll get used to it because I have to do it, even though it goes against my own interests. I feel pushed by a force beyond me to follow in Sainway's footsteps.'

'Jack,' she asked, with calm pallor and round eyes; 'do you mean to say seriously that you are arranging to be a curate instead of a soldier?'

'Jack,' she asked, with a calm look and wide eyes; 'are you seriously saying that you're planning to be a curate instead of a soldier?'

'I might say a curate is a soldier-of the church militant; but I don't want to offend you with doctrine. I distinctly say, yes.'

'I could say a curate is a soldier of the church in action; but I don’t want to upset you with doctrine. I clearly say, yes.'

Late one evening, a little time onward, he caught her sitting by the dim firelight in her room. She did not know he had entered; and he found her weeping. 'What are you crying about, poor dearest?' he said.

Late one evening, not long after, he found her sitting by the dim firelight in her room. She didn’t realize he had come in; and he saw her crying. 'What’s wrong, my dear?' he asked.

She started. 'Because of what you have told me!' The Captain grew very unhappy; but he was undeterred.

She gasped. 'Because of what you told me!' The Captain felt very unhappy, but he didn’t back down.

In due time the town learnt, to its intense surprise, that Captain Maumbry had retired from the —-th Hussars and gone to Fountall Theological College to prepare for the ministry.

In due time, the town learned, to its great surprise, that Captain Maumbry had retired from the —-th Hussars and gone to Fountall Theological College to prepare for the ministry.

CHAPTER IV

'O, the pity of it! Such a dashing soldier-so popular-such an acquisition to the town-the soul of social life here! And now! . . . One should not speak ill of the dead, but that dreadful Mr. Sainway-it was too cruel of him!'

'O, the pity of it! Such a charming soldier—so popular—such a great addition to the town—the life of the party here! And now! . . . You shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but that awful Mr. Sainway—it was so cruel of him!'

This is a summary of what was said when Captain, now the Reverend, John Maumbry was enabled by circumstances to indulge his heart's desire of returning to the scene of his former exploits in the capacity of a minister of the Gospel. A low-lying district of the town, which at that date was crowded with impoverished cottagers, was crying for a curate, and Mr. Maumbry generously offered himself as one willing to undertake labours that were certain to produce little result, and no thanks, credit, or emolument.

This is a summary of what happened when Captain John Maumbry, now a Reverend, was given the opportunity by circumstance to fulfill his dream of going back to the place of his past adventures as a minister of the Gospel. A low-lying area of town, which at that time was filled with struggling residents, was in desperate need of a curate, and Mr. Maumbry selflessly volunteered to take on duties that were sure to lead to minimal results, with no gratitude, recognition, or financial reward.

Let the truth be told about him as a clergyman; he proved to be anything but a brilliant success. Painstaking, single-minded, deeply in earnest as all could see, his delivery was laboured, his sermons were dull to listen to, and alas, too, too long. Even the dispassionate judges who sat by the hour in the bar-parlour of the White Hart-an inn standing at the dividing line between the poor quarter aforesaid and the fashionable quarter of Maumbry's former triumphs, and hence affording a position of strict impartiality-agreed in substance with the young ladies to the westward, though their views were somewhat more tersely expressed: 'Surely, God A'mighty spwiled a good sojer to make a bad pa'son when He shifted Cap'n Ma'mbry into a sarpless!'

Let’s be honest about him as a clergyman; he turned out to be anything but a great success. Diligent, focused, and completely sincere, as everyone could see, his delivery was heavy, his sermons were boring to listen to, and unfortunately, way too long. Even the neutral judges who spent hours in the bar of the White Hart—a pub located right between the poor area mentioned and the upscale part of Maumbry’s former glories, providing a perfectly neutral view—agreed with the young ladies in the west, although they expressed their opinions a bit more bluntly: "Surely, God Almighty ruined a good soldier to make a bad pastor when He turned Captain Maumbry into a clergyman!"

The latter knew that such things were said, but he pursued his daily' labours in and out of the hovels with serene unconcern.

The latter was aware that such things were being said, but he went about his daily work in and out of the shacks with calm indifference.

It was about this time that the invalid in the oriel became more than a mere bowing acquaintance of Mrs. Maumbry's. She had returned to the town with her husband, and was living with him in a little house in the centre of his circle of ministration, when by some means she became one of the invalid's visitors. After a general conversation while sitting in his room with a friend of both, an incident led up to the matter that still rankled deeply in her soul. Her face was now paler and thinner than it had been; even more attractive, her disappointments having inscribed themselves as meek thoughtfulness on a look that was once a little frivolous. The two ladies had called to be allowed to use the window for observing the departure of the Hussars, who were leaving for barracks much nearer to London.

It was around this time that the patient in the oriel became more than just a casual acquaintance of Mrs. Maumbry's. She had come back to the town with her husband and was living with him in a small house right in the middle of his community work when, somehow, she became one of the patient’s visitors. After some casual conversation while sitting in his room with a mutual friend, an incident brought up a lingering issue that still troubled her deeply. Her face was now paler and thinner than it used to be; even more attractive, her disappointments had etched a quiet thoughtfulness on a look that was once a bit carefree. The two women had stopped by to ask if they could use the window to watch the Hussars leave for barracks that were much closer to London.

The troopers turned the corner of Barrack Road into the top of High Street, headed by their band playing 'The girl I left behind me' (which was formerly always the tune for such times, though it is now nearly disused). They came and passed the oriel, where an officer or two, looking up and discovering Mrs. Maumbry, saluted her, whose eyes filled with tears as the notes of the band waned away. Before the little group had recovered from that sense of the romantic which such spectacles impart, Mr. Maumbry came along the pavement. He probably had bidden his former brethren-in-arms a farewell at the top of the street, for he walked from that direction in his rather shabby clerical clothes, and with a basket on his arm which seemed to hold some purchases he had been making for his poorer parishioners. Unlike the soldiers he went along quite unconscious of his appearance or of the scene around.

The troops turned the corner of Barrack Road onto High Street, led by their band playing 'The Girl I Left Behind Me' (which used to be the standard tune for these occasions, though it’s now almost forgotten). They passed the oriel, where a couple of officers, noticing Mrs. Maumbry, saluted her. Her eyes filled with tears as the music faded away. Before the small group could shake off the romantic feeling that such sights bring, Mr. Maumbry walked along the sidewalk. He had probably said goodbye to his fellow soldiers at the top of the street, as he came from that direction in his somewhat worn clerical clothes, with a basket on his arm that seemed to hold some supplies he had been buying for his less fortunate parishioners. Unlike the soldiers, he walked along completely unaware of his appearance or the scene around him.

The contrast was too much for Laura. With lips that now quivered, she asked the invalid what he thought of the change that had come to her.

The difference was overwhelming for Laura. With lips that trembled now, she asked the invalid what he thought about the change that had happened to her.

It was difficult to answer, and with a wilfulness that was too strong in her she repeated the question.

It was hard to answer, and with a stubbornness that was too intense in her, she asked the question again.

'Do you think,' she added, 'that a woman's husband has a right to do such a thing, even if he does feel a certain call to it?'

'Do you think,' she added, 'that a woman’s husband has the right to do something like that, even if he feels a strong urge to?'

Her listener sympathized too largely with both of them to be anything but unsatisfactory in his reply. Laura gazed longingly out of the window towards the thin dusty line of Hussars, now smalling towards the Mellstock Ridge. 'I,' she said, 'who should have been in their van on the way to London, am doomed to fester in a hole in Durnover Lane!'

Her listener felt too much compassion for both of them to give anything but an unsatisfactory response. Laura gazed longingly out the window at the faint, dusty line of Hussars, now shrinking toward the Mellstock Ridge. 'I,' she said, 'who should have been in their lead heading to London, am stuck festering in a hole on Durnover Lane!'

Many events had passed and many rumours had been current concerning her before the invalid saw her again after her leave-taking that day.

Many events had occurred and many rumors had circulated about her before the sick person saw her again after she left that day.

CHAPTER V

Casterbridge had known many military and civil episodes; many happy times, and times less happy; and now came the time of her visitation. The scourge of cholera had been laid on the suffering country, and the low-lying purlieus of this ancient borough had more than their share of the infliction. Mixen Lane, in the Durnover quarter, and in Maumbry's parish, was where the blow fell most heavily. Yet there was a certain mercy in its choice of a date, for Maumbry was the man for such an hour.

Casterbridge had experienced many military and civil events; many enjoyable moments, and some that were less so; and now it was facing her moment of crisis. The cholera outbreak had struck the struggling country, and the low-lying outskirts of this old town were suffering disproportionately. Mixen Lane, in the Durnover area, and within Maumbry's parish, was hit hardest. However, there was a bit of luck in the timing, because Maumbry was the right person for such a difficult time.

The spread of the epidemic was so rapid that many left the town and took lodgings in the villages and farms. Mr. Maumbry's house was close to the most infected street, and he himself was occupied morn, noon, and night in endeavours to stamp out the plague and in alleviating the sufferings of the victims. So, as a matter of ordinary precaution, he decided to isolate his wife somewhere away from him for a while.

The spread of the epidemic was so fast that many people left the town and found places to stay in the villages and on farms. Mr. Maumbry's house was near the most infected street, and he spent all his time trying to control the plague and help the victims. So, as a precaution, he decided to keep his wife isolated somewhere away from him for a while.

She suggested a village by the sea, near Budmouth Regis, and lodgings were obtained for her at Creston, a spot divided from the Casterbridge valley by a high ridge that gave it quite another atmosphere, though it lay no more than six miles off.

She recommended a village by the sea, near Budmouth Regis, and accommodations were arranged for her at Creston, a place separated from the Casterbridge valley by a high ridge that created a completely different vibe, even though it was only six miles away.

Thither she went. While she was rusticating in this place of safety, and her husband was slaving in the slums, she struck up an acquaintance with a lieutenant in the —-st Foot, a Mr. Vannicock, who was stationed with his regiment at the Budmouth infantry barracks. As Laura frequently sat on the shelving beach, watching each thin wave slide up to her, and hearing, without heeding, its gnaw at the pebbles in its retreat, he often took a walk that way.

There she went. While she was relaxing in this safe spot and her husband was working hard in the tough areas, she became friends with a lieutenant in the —-st Foot, a Mr. Vannicock, who was stationed with his regiment at the Budmouth infantry barracks. As Laura often sat on the sloping beach, watching each thin wave roll up to her and hearing, but not really paying attention to, its erosion of the pebbles as it pulled back, he often took a walk that way.

The acquaintance grew and ripened. Her situation, her history, her beauty, her age-a year or two above his own-all tended to make an impression on the young man's heart, and a reckless flirtation was soon in blithe progress upon that lonely shore.

The friendship deepened and matured. Her circumstances, her past, her looks, her age—just a year or two older than his—all made a strong impact on the young man's heart, and a carefree flirtation quickly developed on that secluded beach.

It was said by her detractors afterwards that she had chosen her lodging to be near this gentleman, but there is reason to believe that she had never seen him till her arrival there. Just now Casterbridge was so deeply occupied with its own sad affairs-a daily burying of the dead and destruction of contaminated clothes and bedding-that it had little inclination to promulgate such gossip as may have reached its ears on the pair. Nobody long considered Laura in the tragic cloud which overhung all.

It was said by her critics later on that she had picked her place to stay close to this guy, but there's reason to think she hadn't even seen him until she got there. At that moment, Casterbridge was so caught up in its own grim issues—a daily routine of burying the dead and getting rid of contaminated clothes and bedding—that it had little interest in spreading any gossip about the two of them. No one gave Laura much thought amid the tragic situation that overshadowed everything.

Meanwhile, on the Budmouth side of the hill the very mood of men was in contrast. The visitation there had been slight and much earlier, and normal occupations and pastimes had been resumed. Mr. Maumbry had arranged to see Laura twice a week in the open air, that she might run no risk from him; and, having heard nothing of the faint rumour, he met her as usual one dry and windy afternoon on the summit of the dividing hill, near where the high road from town to town crosses the old Ridge- way at right angles.

Meanwhile, on the Budmouth side of the hill, the mood of the people was completely different. The impact there had been minimal and happened much earlier, so normal activities and pastimes had resumed. Mr. Maumbry had scheduled to meet Laura twice a week outdoors, to ensure she wouldn’t be at risk from him. Since he hadn’t heard anything about the faint rumor, he met her as usual one dry and windy afternoon at the top of the dividing hill, close to where the main road from town to town intersects the old Ridge-way at right angles.

He waved his hand, and smiled as she approached, shouting to her: 'We will keep this wall between us, dear.' (Walls formed the field-fences here.) 'You mustn't be endangered. It won't be for long, with God's help!'

He waved his hand and smiled as she came closer, yelling to her, "We'll keep this wall between us, dear." (Walls served as the field fences here.) "You mustn't be in danger. It won't be for long, with God's help!"

'I will do as you tell me, Jack. But you are running too much risk yourself, aren't you? I get little news of you; but I fancy you are.'

'I’ll do what you say, Jack. But you’re putting yourself at too much risk, aren’t you? I don’t hear much news about you; but I have a feeling you are.'

'Not more than others.'

'Not more than anyone else.'

Thus somewhat formally they talked, an insulating wind beating the wall between them like a mill-weir.

Thus, they talked somewhat formally, an isolating wind pounding against the wall between them like a mill dam.

'But you wanted to ask me something?' he added.

'But you wanted to ask me something?' he continued.

'Yes. You know we are trying in Budmouth to raise some money for your sufferers; and the way we have thought of is by a dramatic performance. They want me to take a part.'

'Yes. You know we’re trying in Budmouth to raise some money for your people, and the idea we came up with is to do a play. They want me to take a role.'

His face saddened. 'I have known so much of that sort of thing, and all that accompanies it! I wish you had thought of some other way.'

His expression turned somber. 'I've experienced so much of that kind of thing, and everything that comes with it! I wish you had considered another option.'

She said lightly that she was afraid it was all settled. 'You object to my taking a part, then? Of course-'

She casually mentioned that she was worried it was all decided. "So, you have a problem with me participating, then? Of course—"

He told her that he did not like to say he positively objected. He wished they had chosen an oratorio, or lecture, or anything more in keeping with the necessity it was to relieve.

He told her that he didn't want to say he totally objected. He wished they had picked an oratorio, a lecture, or anything more suitable for the situation they needed to address.

'But,' said she impatiently, 'people won't come to oratorios or lectures! They will crowd to comedies and farces.'

'But,' she said impatiently, 'people won't show up for oratorios or lectures! They'll flock to comedies and farces.'

'Well, I cannot dictate to Budmouth how it shall earn the money it is going to give us. Who is getting up this performance?'

'Well, I can’t tell Budmouth how it should make the money it’s going to give us. Who is organizing this performance?'

'The boys of the —-st.'

'The boys of the street.'

'Ah, yes; our old game!' replied Mr. Maumbry. 'The grief of Casterbridge is the excuse for their frivolity. Candidly, dear Laura, I wish you wouldn't play in it. But I don't forbid you to. I leave the whole to your judgment.'

'Ah, yes; our old game!' replied Mr. Maumbry. 'The sorrow of Casterbridge is the excuse for their playfulness. Honestly, dear Laura, I wish you wouldn't participate in it. But I’m not stopping you. I’ll leave the entire decision up to you.'

The interview ended, and they went their ways northward and southward. Time disclosed to all concerned that Mrs. Maumbry played in the comedy as the heroine, the lover's part being taken by Mr. Vannicock.

The interview wrapped up, and they headed off in different directions—one to the north and the other to the south. Eventually, it became clear to everyone involved that Mrs. Maumbry was starring as the heroine in the play, while Mr. Vannicock took on the role of the lover.

CHAPTER VI

Thus was helped on an event which the conduct of the mutually-attracted ones had been generating for some time.

Thus was facilitated an event that the actions of those mutually attracted had been creating for some time.

It is unnecessary to give details. The —-st Foot left for Bristol, and this precipitated their action. After a week of hesitation she agreed to leave her home at Creston and meet Vannicock on the ridge hard by, and to accompany him to Bath, where he had secured lodgings for her, so that she would be only about a dozen miles from his quarters.

It’s not necessary to go into details. The —-st Foot left for Bristol, which triggered their decision. After a week of hesitation, she agreed to leave her home in Creston and meet Vannicock on the nearby ridge, and to go with him to Bath, where he had arranged housing for her, keeping her only about twelve miles from his location.

Accordingly, on the evening chosen, she laid on her dressing-table a note for her husband, running thus:-

Accordingly, on the chosen evening, she placed a note for her husband on her dressing table, which said:

DEAR JACK-I am unable to endure this life any longer, and I have resolved to put an end to it. I told you I should run away if you persisted in being a clergyman, and now I am doing it. One cannot help one's nature. I have resolved to throw in my lot with Mr. Vannicock, and I hope rather than expect you will forgive me.-L.

DEAR JACK, I can’t take this life anymore, and I’ve decided to end it. I told you I would run away if you kept being a clergyman, and now I’m going to do it. You can’t change who you are. I’ve made up my mind to join Mr. Vannicock, and I hope, more than anything, that you’ll forgive me. -L.

Then, with hardly a scrap of luggage, she went, ascending to the ridge in the dusk of early evening. Almost on the very spot where her husband had stood at their last tryst she beheld the outline of Vannicock, who had come all the way from Bristol to fetch her.

Then, with barely any luggage, she set off, climbing to the ridge in the fading light of early evening. Almost right where her husband had stood during their last meeting, she saw the figure of Vannicock, who had traveled all the way from Bristol to pick her up.

'I don't like meeting here-it is so unlucky!' she cried to him. 'For God's sake let us have a place of our own. Go back to the milestone, and I'll come on.'

"I don’t like meeting here—it’s so unlucky!" she exclaimed at him. "For God’s sake, let’s find a place of our own. Go back to the milestone, and I’ll catch up."

He went back to the milestone that stands on the north slope of the ridge, where the old and new roads diverge, and she joined him there.

He returned to the milestone on the north slope of the ridge, where the old and new roads split, and she met him there.

She was taciturn and sorrowful when he asked her why she would not meet him on the top. At last she inquired how they were going to travel.

She was quiet and sad when he asked her why she wouldn't meet him at the top. Finally, she asked how they were going to travel.

He explained that he proposed to walk to Mellstock Hill, on the other side of Casterbridge, where a fly was waiting to take them by a cross- cut into the Ivell Road, and onward to that town. The Bristol railway was open to Ivell.

He said he suggested walking to Mellstock Hill, on the other side of Casterbridge, where a carriage was waiting to take them through a shortcut to the Ivell Road, and then on to that town. The Bristol train line was open to Ivell.

This plan they followed, and walked briskly through the dull gloom till they neared Casterbridge, which place they avoided by turning to the right at the Roman Amphitheatre and bearing round to Durnover Cross. Thence the way was solitary and open across the moor to the hill whereon the Ivell fly awaited them.

This plan they followed, and walked quickly through the dull gloom until they got close to Casterbridge, which they avoided by turning right at the Roman Amphitheater and then heading over to Durnover Cross. From there, the path was quiet and clear across the moor to the hill where the Ivell fly was waiting for them.

'I have noticed for some time,' she said, 'a lurid glare over the Durnover end of the town. It seems to come from somewhere about Mixen Lane.'

'I have noticed for a while,' she said, 'a bright, creepy light over the Durnover end of the town. It looks like it's coming from somewhere around Mixen Lane.'

'The lamps,' he suggested.

"The lights," he suggested.

'There's not a lamp as big as a rushlight in the whole lane. It is where the cholera is worst.'

'There's not a lamp as big as a rushlight in the whole street. That's where the cholera is the worst.'

By Standfast Corner, a little beyond the Cross, they suddenly obtained an end view of the lane. Large bonfires were burning in the middle of the way, with a view to purifying the air; and from the wretched tenements with which the lane was lined in those days persons were bringing out bedding and clothing. Some was thrown into the fires, the rest placed in wheel-barrows and wheeled into the moor directly in the track of the fugitives.

By Standfast Corner, just past the Cross, they suddenly got a clear view of the lane. Big bonfires were burning in the middle of the path, meant to clean the air; and from the rundown homes lining the lane at that time, people were carrying out bedding and clothes. Some of it was thrown into the fires, while the rest was loaded into wheelbarrows and taken to the moor right in the path of those escaping.

They followed on, and came up to where a vast copper was set in the open air. Here the linen was boiled and disinfected. By the light of the lanterns Laura discovered that her husband was standing by the copper, and that it was he who unloaded the barrow and immersed its contents. The night was so calm and muggy that the conversation by the copper reached her ears.

They continued on and reached a large copper pot set up outdoors. This is where the linen was boiled and disinfected. By the light of the lanterns, Laura noticed that her husband was standing by the copper, unloading the wheelbarrow and putting its contents in. The night was so still and humid that she could hear the conversation by the copper.

'Are there many more loads to-night?'

'Are there a lot more loads tonight?'

'There's the clothes o' they that died this afternoon, sir. But that might bide till to-morrow, for you must be tired out.'

'Here are the clothes of those who died this afternoon, sir. But that can wait until tomorrow, as you must be exhausted.'

'We'll do it at once, for I can't ask anybody else to undertake it. Overturn that load on the grass and fetch the rest.'

'Let's get it done right away, because I can't ask anyone else to take it on. Tip that load onto the grass and bring the rest here.'

The man did so and went off with the barrow. Maumbry paused for a moment to wipe his face, and resumed his homely drudgery amid this squalid and reeking scene, pressing down and stirring the contents of the copper with what looked like an old rolling-pin. The steam therefrom, laden with death, travelled in a low trail across the meadow.

The man did that and left with the cart. Maumbry took a moment to wipe his face and got back to his routine amid this dirty and foul-smelling scene, pressing down and stirring the contents of the pot with what looked like an old rolling pin. The steam rising from it, heavy with death, drifted low across the meadow.

Laura spoke suddenly: 'I won't go to-night after all. He is so tired, and I must help him. I didn't know things were so bad as this!'

Laura suddenly said, 'I won't go tonight after all. He’s so tired, and I need to help him. I didn't realize things were this bad!'

Vannicock's arm dropped from her waist, where it had been resting as they walked. 'Will you leave?' she asked.

Vannicock's arm fell away from her waist, where it had been resting as they walked. "Are you going to leave?" she asked.

'I will if you say I must. But I'd rather help too.' There was no expostulation in his tone.

'I will if you say I have to. But I’d rather help too.' There was no argument in his tone.

Laura had gone forward. 'Jack,' she said, 'I am come to help!'

Laura stepped forward. 'Jack,' she said, 'I'm here to help!'

The weary curate turned and held up the lantern. 'O-what, is it you, Laura?' he asked in surprise. 'Why did you come into this? You had better go back-the risk is great.'

The tired curate turned and lifted the lantern. 'Oh, is that you, Laura?' he asked in surprise. 'Why did you come here? You should head back—the risk is too high.'

'But I want to help you, Jack. Please let me help! I didn't come by myself-Mr. Vannicock kept me company. He will make himself useful too, if he's not gone on. Mr. Vannicock!'

'But I want to help you, Jack. Please let me help! I didn't come by myself—Mr. Vannicock kept me company. He'll be helpful too, if he hasn't left. Mr. Vannicock!'

The young lieutenant came forward reluctantly. Mr. Maumbry spoke formally to him, adding as he resumed his labour, 'I thought the —-st Foot had gone to Bristol.'

The young lieutenant stepped forward hesitantly. Mr. Maumbry addressed him in a formal tone, adding as he got back to his work, 'I thought the —-st Foot had gone to Bristol.'

'We have. But I have run down again for a few things.'

'We have. But I ran down again for a few things.'

The two newcomers began to assist, Vannicock placing on the ground the small bag containing Laura's toilet articles that he had been carrying. The barrowman soon returned with another load, and all continued work for nearly a half-hour, when a coachman came out from the shadows to the north.

The two newcomers started to help, with Vannicock setting down the small bag of Laura's toiletries that he had been carrying. The barrowman soon came back with another load, and they all kept working for almost half an hour when a coachman stepped out from the shadows to the north.

'Beg pardon, sir,' he whispered to Vannicock, 'but I've waited so long on Mellstock hill that at last I drove down to the turnpike; and seeing the light here, I ran on to find out what had happened.'

'Excuse me, sir,' he whispered to Vannicock, 'but I waited so long on Mellstock Hill that I finally went down to the tollgate; and seeing the light here, I rushed over to find out what was going on.'

Lieutenant Vannicock told him to wait a few minutes, and the last barrow-load was got through. Mr. Maumbry stretched himself and breathed heavily, saying, 'There; we can do no more.'

Lieutenant Vannicock instructed him to hold on for a few minutes, and the final barrow-load was completed. Mr. Maumbry stretched out and took a deep breath, saying, 'There; we can’t do any more.'

As if from the relaxation of effort he seemed to be seized with violent pain. He pressed his hands to his sides and bent forward.

As if the tension had let up, he suddenly felt a sharp pain. He placed his hands on his sides and leaned forward.

'Ah! I think it has got hold of me at last,' he said with difficulty. 'I must try to get home. Let Mr. Vannicock take you back, Laura.'

'Ah! I think it’s finally got a hold of me,' he said with difficulty. 'I need to try to get home. Let Mr. Vannicock take you back, Laura.'

He walked a few steps, they helping him, but was obliged to sink down on the grass.

He took a few steps with their help but had to sit down on the grass.

'I am-afraid-you'll have to send for a hurdle, or shutter, or something,' he went on feebly, 'or try to get me into the barrow.'

'I’m afraid you’ll need to get a hurdle, or a shutter, or something,' he continued weakly, 'or try to get me into the cart.'

But Vannicock had called to the driver of the fly, and they waited until it was brought on from the turnpike hard by. Mr. Maumbry was placed therein. Laura entered with him, and they drove to his humble residence near the Cross, where he was got upstairs.

But Vannicock called to the driver of the carriage, and they waited until it was brought up from the nearby turnpike. Mr. Maumbry was helped in. Laura got in with him, and they drove to his modest home near the Cross, where he was taken upstairs.

Vannicock stood outside by the empty fly awhile, but Laura did not reappear. He thereupon entered the fly and told the driver to take him back to Ivell.

Vannicock stood outside by the empty carriage for a while, but Laura didn't come back. He then got into the carriage and told the driver to take him back to Ivell.

CHAPTER VII

Mr. Maumbry had over-exerted himself in the relief of the suffering poor, and fell a victim-one of the last-to the pestilence which had carried off so many. Two days later he lay in his coffin.

Mr. Maumbry had pushed himself too hard to help the suffering poor and became one of the last victims of the disease that had taken so many lives. Two days later, he was in his coffin.

Laura was in the room below. A servant brought in some letters, and she glanced them over. One was the note from herself to Maumbry, informing him that she was unable to endure life with him any longer and was about to elope with Vannicock. Having read the letter she took it upstairs to where the dead man was, and slipped it into his coffin. The next day she buried him.

Laura was in the room below. A servant brought in some letters, and she quickly glanced through them. One was a note she had written to Maumbry, telling him that she could no longer stand life with him and was planning to run away with Vannicock. After reading the letter, she took it upstairs to where the deceased man was and slipped it into his coffin. The next day, she buried him.

She was now free.

She is now free.

She shut up his house at Durnover Cross and returned to her lodgings at Creston. Soon she had a letter from Vannicock, and six weeks after her husband's death her lover came to see her.

She locked up his house at Durnover Cross and went back to her place in Creston. Before long, she received a letter from Vannicock, and six weeks after her husband passed away, her lover came to visit her.

'I forgot to give you back this-that night,' he said presently, handing her the little bag she had taken as her whole luggage when leaving.

'I forgot to give this back to you that night,' he said after a moment, handing her the small bag she had taken as her only luggage when she left.

Laura received it and absently shook it out. There fell upon the carpet her brush, comb, slippers, nightdress, and other simple necessaries for a journey. They had an intolerably ghastly look now, and she tried to cover them.

Laura took it and absentmindedly shook it out. Her brush, comb, slippers, nightdress, and other basic essentials for a trip fell onto the carpet. They looked unbearably awful now, and she tried to hide them.

'I can now,' he said, 'ask you to belong to me legally-when a proper interval has gone-instead of as we meant.'

"I can now," he said, "ask you to legally belong to me—after a suitable amount of time has passed—rather than how we intended."

There was languor in his utterance, hinting at a possibility that it was perfunctorily made. Laura picked up her articles, answering that he certainly could so ask her-she was free. Yet not her expression either could be called an ardent response. Then she bCHANGElinked more and more quickly and put her handkerchief to her face. She was weeping violently.

There was a slowness in his speech, suggesting that it was said without much thought. Laura picked up her things, replying that he definitely could ask her—she was free. However, her expression couldn't exactly be called enthusiastic. Then she started to breathe more rapidly and pressed her handkerchief to her face. She was crying hard.

He did not move or try to comfort her in any way. What had come between them? No living person. They had been lovers. There was now no material obstacle whatever to their union. But there was the insistent shadow of that unconscious one; the thin figure of him, moving to and fro in front of the ghastly furnace in the gloom of Durnover Moor.

He didn't move or try to comfort her at all. What had come between them? No living person. They had been lovers. Now, there was no real obstacle to their togetherness. But there was the persistent shadow of that unknowing figure; the slender shape of him, pacing back and forth in front of the eerie furnace in the dark of Durnover Moor.

Yet Vannicock called upon Laura when he was in the neighbourhood, which was not often; but in two years, as if on purpose to further the marriage which everybody was expecting, the —-st Foot returned to Budmouth Regis.

Yet Vannicock visited Laura when he was in the area, which wasn’t often; but in two years, seemingly to encourage the marriage that everyone was anticipating, the —-st Foot returned to Budmouth Regis.

Thereupon the two could not help encountering each other at times. But whether because the obstacle had been the source of the love, or from a sense of error, and because Mrs. Maumbry bore a less attractive look as a widow than before, their feelings seemed to decline from their former incandescence to a mere tepid civility. What domestic issues supervened in Vannicock's further story the man in the oriel never knew; but Mrs. Maumbry lived and died a widow.

Thereafter, the two couldn't help but run into each other occasionally. However, whether it was because the barrier had fueled their love or due to a feeling of regret, and because Mrs. Maumbry appeared less appealing as a widow than she had before, their feelings seemed to cool from their previous intensity to a simple polite interaction. What personal issues arose in Vannicock's later story, the man in the oriel never found out; but Mrs. Maumbry lived and died as a widow.

1900.

THE WAITING SUPPER

CHAPTER I

Whoever had perceived the yeoman standing on Squire Everard's lawn in the dusk of that October evening fifty years ago, might have said at first sight that he was loitering there from idle curiosity. For a large five-light window of the manor-house in front of him was unshuttered and uncurtained, so that the illuminated room within could be scanned almost to its four corners. Obviously nobody was ever expected to be in this part of the grounds after nightfall.

Whoever saw the farmer standing on Squire Everard's lawn in the dusk of that October evening fifty years ago might have thought at first glance that he was hanging around out of sheer curiosity. A large five-light window of the manor house in front of him was unshuttered and uncurtained, allowing a clear view of the well-lit room inside, almost to its four corners. It was clear that no one was expected to be in this part of the grounds after dark.

The apartment thus swept by an eye from without was occupied by two persons; they were sitting over dessert, the tablecloth having been removed in the old-fashioned way. The fruits were local, consisting of apples, pears, nuts, and such other products of the summer as might be presumed to grow on the estate. There was strong ale and rum on the table, and but little wine. Moreover, the appointments of the dining- room were simple and homely even for the date, betokening a countrified household of the smaller gentry, without much wealth or ambition-formerly a numerous class, but now in great part ousted by the territorial landlords.

The apartment, viewed from the outside, was home to two people who were enjoying dessert, with the tablecloth having been removed in the old-fashioned way. The fruits were local, including apples, pears, nuts, and other summer produce that could be expected to grow on the estate. There was strong ale and rum on the table, and very little wine. Additionally, the dining room's furnishings were simple and cozy, even for that time, indicating a rural household of the lower gentry, with little wealth or ambition—once a large class but now largely pushed out by the wealthy landowners.

One of the two sitters was a young lady in white muslin, who listened somewhat impatiently to the remarks of her companion, an elderly, rubicund personage, whom the merest stranger could have pronounced to be her father. The watcher evinced no signs of moving, and it became evident that affairs were not so simple as they first had seemed. The tall farmer was in fact no accidental spectator, and he stood by premeditation close to the trunk of a tree, so that had any traveller passed along the road without the park gate, or even round the lawn to the door, that person would scarce have noticed the other, notwithstanding that the gate was quite near at hand, and the park little larger than a paddock. There was still light enough in the western heaven to brighten faintly one side of the man's face, and to show against the trunk of the tree behind the admirable cut of his profile; also to reveal that the front of the manor-house, small though it seemed, was solidly built of stone in that never-to-be-surpassed style for the English country residence-the mullioned and transomed Elizabethan.

One of the two people sitting there was a young woman in a white dress, who listened somewhat impatiently to her companion, an older, rosy-faced man, who anyone could tell was her father. The observer showed no signs of moving, and it became clear that things were not as straightforward as they initially appeared. The tall farmer was actually no random onlooker; he stood deliberately close to the trunk of a tree, so that if any traveler passed along the road without going through the park gate, or even walked around the lawn to the door, they would hardly have noticed him, even though the gate was quite nearby and the park was barely larger than a small field. There was still enough light in the western sky to faintly illuminate one side of the man's face and highlight the sharp line of his profile against the tree trunk. It also revealed that the front of the manor house, though it seemed small, was solidly built of stone in that style that can’t be outdone for English country homes—the mullioned and transomed Elizabethan.

The lawn, although neglected, was still as level as a bowling- green-which indeed it might once have served for; and the blades of grass before the window were raked by the candle-shine, which stretched over them so far as to touch the yeoman's face in front.

The lawn, though neglected, was still as flat as a bowling green—which it might have once been used for; and the blades of grass in front of the window were brushed by the candlelight, which reached out far enough to touch the farmer's face in front.

Within the dining-room there were also, with one of the twain, the same signs of a hidden purpose that marked the farmer. The young lady's mind was straying as clearly into the shadows as that of the loiterer was fixed upon the room-nay, it could be said that she was quite conscious of his presence outside. Impatience caused her foot to beat silently on the carpet, and she more than once rose to leave the table. This proceeding was checked by her father, who would put his hand upon her shoulder and unceremoniously press her down into her chair, till he should have concluded his observations. Her replies were brief enough, and there was factitiousness in her smiles of assent to his views. A small iron casement between two of the mullions was open, and some occasional words of the dialogue were audible without.

In the dining room, there were signs of hidden intentions, similar to those of the farmer, tied to one of the two people present. The young lady's thoughts were drifting into the shadows just as the loiterer's attention was focused on the room—it could even be said that she was aware of his presence outside. Frustration made her foot tap quietly on the carpet, and she got up from the table more than once. Her father stopped her, placing a hand on her shoulder and firmly pushing her back into her chair until he finished his comments. Her responses were short, and her smiles in agreement felt forced. A small iron window between two of the mullions was open, allowing some snippets of the conversation to be heard from outside.

'As for drains-how can I put in drains? The pipes don't cost much, that's true; but the labour in sinking the trenches is ruination. And then the gates-they should be hung to stone posts, otherwise there's no keeping them up through harvest.' The Squire's voice was strongly toned with the local accent, so that he said 'drains' and 'geats' like the rustics on his estate.

'As for drains—how can I install drains? The pipes aren't that expensive, that's true; but the labor to dig the trenches is a huge cost. And then the gates—they should be hung to stone posts, otherwise they won't stay up during the harvest.' The Squire's voice was heavily marked by the local accent, so that he pronounced 'drains' and 'gates' like the locals on his estate.

The landscape without grew darker, and the young man's figure seemed to be absorbed into the trunk of the tree. The small stars filled in between the larger, the nebulae between the small stars, the trees quite lost their voice; and if there was still a sound, it was from the cascade of a stream which stretched along under the trees that bounded the lawn on its northern side.

The landscape outside grew darker, and the young man's figure appeared to blend into the trunk of the tree. The small stars filled in the spaces between the larger ones, the nebulae between the small stars, the trees completely lost their sound; and if there was still any noise, it came from the rushing stream that flowed under the trees lining the northern edge of the lawn.

At last the young girl did get to her feet and secure her retreat. 'I have something to do, papa,' she said. 'I shall not be in the drawing- room just yet.'

At last, the young girl got to her feet and made her escape. "I have something to do, Dad," she said. "I won't be in the living room just yet."

'Very well,' replied he. 'Then I won't hurry.' And closing the door behind her, he drew his decanters together and settled down in his chair.

'Alright,' he replied. 'Then I won't rush.' After closing the door behind her, he pulled his decanters closer and got comfortable in his chair.

Three minutes after that a woman's shape emerged from the drawing-room window, and passing through a wall-door to the entrance front, came across the grass. She kept well clear of the dining-room window, but enough of its light fell on her to show, escaping from the dark-hooded cloak that she wore, stray verges of the same light dress which had figured but recently at the dinner-table. The hood was contracted tight about her face with a drawing-string, making her countenance small and baby-like, and lovelier even than before.

Three minutes later, a woman's figure appeared at the drawing-room window and, passing through a wall door to the entrance, walked across the grass. She stayed far enough away from the dining-room window, but some of its light illuminated her, revealing glimpses of the same light dress she had worn recently at the dinner table peeking out from under her dark hooded cloak. The hood was pulled tight around her face with a drawstring, making her features look smaller and more youthful, and even more beautiful than before.

Without hesitation she brushed across the grass to the tree under which the young man stood concealed. The moment she had reached him he enclosed her form with his arm. The meeting and embrace, though by no means formal, were yet not passionate; the whole proceeding was that of persons who had repeated the act so often as to be unconscious of its performance. She turned within his arm, and faced in the same direction with himself, which was towards the window; and thus they stood without speaking, the back of her head leaning against his shoulder. For a while each seemed to be thinking his and her diverse thoughts.

Without hesitation, she walked across the grass to the tree where the young man was hiding. As soon as she reached him, he wrapped his arm around her. The meeting and hug, while not formal, weren’t exactly passionate either; it felt like something they had done so many times that they barely noticed it. She turned within his arm to face the same direction he was, which was towards the window, and they stood there silently, the back of her head resting against his shoulder. For a moment, it seemed like each of them was lost in their own separate thoughts.

'You have kept me waiting a long time, dear Christine,' he said at last. 'I wanted to speak to you particularly, or I should not have stayed. How came you to be dining at this time o' night?'

'You've kept me waiting a long time, dear Christine,' he finally said. 'I wanted to talk to you specifically, or I wouldn't have stayed. How come you’re dining at this time of night?'

'Father has been out all day, and dinner was put back till six. I know I have kept you; but Nicholas, how can I help it sometimes, if I am not to run any risk? My poor father insists upon my listening to all he has to say; since my brother left he has had nobody else to listen to him; and to-night he was particularly tedious on his usual topics-draining, and tenant-farmers, and the village people. I must take daddy to London; he gets so narrow always staying here.'

'Dad has been out all day, and dinner was pushed back to six. I know I've kept you waiting, but Nicholas, how can I help it sometimes if I don’t want to take any risks? My poor dad insists that I listen to everything he has to say; ever since my brother left, he hasn’t had anyone else to talk to. Tonight, he was especially boring, going on about the usual stuff—draining, tenant farmers, and the villagers. I really need to take Dad to London; he gets so stuck in his ways just staying here.'

'And what did you say to it all?'

'And what did you say about all of it?'

'Well, I took the part of the tenant-farmers, of course, as the beloved of one should in duty do.' There followed a little break or gasp, implying a strangled sigh.

'Well, I took the role of the tenant-farmers, as anyone in love should, of course.' There was a brief pause or gasp, suggesting a suppressed sigh.

'You are sorry you have encouraged that beloving one?'

'Are you regretting that you encouraged that beloved one?'

'O no, Nicholas . . . What is it you want to see me for particularly?'

'O no, Nicholas... What do you want to see me for specifically?'

'I know you are sorry, as time goes on, and everything is at a dead- lock, with no prospect of change, and your rural swain loses his freshness! Only think, this secret understanding between us has lasted near three year, ever since you was a little over sixteen.'

'I know you're sorry, as time goes on and everything is at a standstill, with no chance of change, and your country guy is losing his charm! Just think, this secret connection between us has lasted almost three years, ever since you were a little over sixteen.'

'Yes; it has been a long time.'

"Yeah, it's been a minute."

'And I an untamed, uncultivated man, who has never seen London, and knows nothing about society at all.'

'And I, an unrefined, unpolished man, who has never been to London, and knows nothing about society at all.'

'Not uncultivated, dear Nicholas. Untravelled, socially unpractised, if you will,' she said, smiling. 'Well, I did sigh; but not because I regret being your promised one. What I do sometimes regret is that the scheme, which my meetings with you are but a part of, has not been carried out completely. You said, Nicholas, that if I consented to swear to keep faith with you, you would go away and travel, and see nations, and peoples, and cities, and take a professor with you, and study books and art, simultaneously with your study of men and manners; and then come back at the end of two years, when I should find that my father would by no means be indisposed to accept you as a son-in-law. You said your reason for wishing to get my promise before starting was that your mind would then be more at rest when you were far away, and so could give itself more completely to knowledge than if you went as my unaccepted lover only, fuming with anxiety as to how I should be when you came back. I saw how reasonable that was; and solemnly swore myself to you in consequence. But instead of going to see the world you stay on and on here to see me.'

'Not uncultured, dear Nicholas. Just untraveled and not very experienced socially, if that’s what you mean,' she said with a smile. 'I did sigh, but not because I regret being your fiancée. What I sometimes regret is that the plan, which my meetings with you are just a part of, hasn’t been fully realized. You said, Nicholas, that if I agreed to promise my loyalty to you, you would go away and travel, seeing countries, people, and cities, and that you’d take a professor with you to study books and art alongside learning about people and their customs; then you’d come back in two years, when I’d find that my father would definitely be open to accepting you as a son-in-law. You mentioned that the reason you wanted my promise before leaving was because it would put your mind at ease while you were away, allowing you to focus on learning without worrying about how I would be when you returned. I recognized how reasonable that was and solemnly swore my commitment to you in response. But instead of exploring the world, you keep staying here to be with me.'

'And you don't want me to see you?'

'So you don't want me to see you?'

'Yes-no-it is not that. It is that I have latterly felt frightened at what I am doing when not in your actual presence. It seems so wicked not to tell my father that I have a lover close at hand, within touch and view of both of us; whereas if you were absent my conduct would not seem quite so treacherous. The realities would not stare at one so. You would be a pleasant dream to me, which I should be free to indulge in without reproach of my conscience; I should live in hopeful expectation of your returning fully qualified to boldly claim me of my father. There, I have been terribly frank, I know.'

'No, that's not it. It's just that I've recently felt scared about what I'm doing when you're not actually here with me. It feels really wrong not to tell my dad that I have a boyfriend so close by, right in front of us; but if you were away, my actions wouldn’t seem as disloyal. The reality wouldn’t be so glaring. You would be a nice daydream for me, one I could enjoy without feeling guilty; I would be waiting hopefully for you to come back ready to confidently ask my dad for me. There, I've been really honest, I know.'

He in his turn had lapsed into gloomy breathings now. 'I did plan it as you state,' he answered. 'I did mean to go away the moment I had your promise. But, dear Christine, I did not foresee two or three things. I did not know what a lot of pain it would cost to tear myself from you. And I did not know that my stingy uncle-heaven forgive me calling him so!-would so flatly refuse to advance me money for my purpose-the scheme of travelling with a first-rate tutor costing a formidable sum o' money. You have no idea what it would cost!'

He had fallen into a gloomy mood now. "I did plan it as you described," he replied. "I intended to leave the moment I had your promise. But, dear Christine, I didn’t anticipate a couple of things. I didn’t realize how much pain it would cause me to leave you. And I didn’t know that my miserly uncle—heaven forgive me for saying that—would flatly refuse to lend me money for my plans. The idea of traveling with a top-notch tutor costs a lot of money. You have no idea how much it would be!"

'But I have said that I'll find the money.'

'But I've said that I'll find the money.'

'Ah, there,' he returned, 'you have hit a sore place. To speak truly, dear, I would rather stay unpolished a hundred years than take your money.'

'Ah, there,' he replied, 'you've touched a sensitive spot. Honestly, dear, I would rather remain unrefined for a hundred years than accept your money.'

'But why? Men continually use the money of the women they marry.'

'But why? Men are always using the money of the women they marry.'

'Yes; but not till afterwards. No man would like to touch your money at present, and I should feel very mean if I were to do so in present circumstances. That brings me to what I was going to propose. But no-upon the whole I will not propose it now.'

'Yes; but not until later. No one would want to take your money right now, and I would feel really low if I did that under these circumstances. That leads me to what I was going to suggest. But no—overall, I won’t suggest it now.'

'Ah! I would guarantee expenses, and you won't let me! The money is my personal possession: it comes to me from my late grandfather, and not from my father at all.'

'Ah! I would cover the costs, and you won't allow me! The money is mine: it comes from my late grandfather, not from my father at all.'

He laughed forcedly and pressed her hand. 'There are more reasons why I cannot tear myself away,' he added. 'What would become of my uncle's farming? Six hundred acres in this parish, and five hundred in the next-a constant traipsing from one farm to the other; he can't be in two places at once. Still, that might be got over if it were not for the other matters. Besides, dear, I still should be a little uneasy, even though I have your promise, lest somebody should snap you up away from me.'

He let out a forced laugh and held her hand. "There are more reasons I can't just walk away," he continued. "What would happen to my uncle's farm? Six hundred acres in this parish and five hundred in the next—I'd have to constantly go back and forth between farms; he can't be in two places at once. Still, that could be managed if it weren't for other reasons. Besides, my dear, I'd still feel a bit anxious, even with your promise, in case someone else comes along and takes you from me."

'Ah, you should have thought of that before. Otherwise I have committed myself for nothing.'

'Oh, you should have considered that earlier. Otherwise, I’ve put myself on the line for nothing.'

'I should have thought of it,' he answered gravely. 'But I did not. There lies my fault, I admit it freely. Ah, if you would only commit yourself a little more, I might at least get over that difficulty! But I won't ask you. You have no idea how much you are to me still; you could not argue so coolly if you had. What property belongs to you I hate the very sound of; it is you I care for. I wish you hadn't a farthing in the world but what I could earn for you!'

"I should have thought of that," he replied seriously. "But I didn’t. That’s my mistake, and I admit it openly. Ah, if only you would let yourself be a little more involved, I might at least be able to move past that issue! But I won’t ask you to. You have no idea how much you mean to me; you wouldn’t be able to argue so calmly if you did. I can’t stand even the thought of what belongs to you; it’s you that I care about. I wish you didn’t have a single penny in the world except what I could earn for you!"

'I don't altogether wish that,' she murmured.

'I don't really wish that,' she murmured.

'I wish it, because it would have made what I was going to propose much easier to do than it is now. Indeed I will not propose it, although I came on purpose, after what you have said in your frankness.'

'I wish it were true, because it would have made what I wanted to suggest much easier than it is now. In fact, I won’t propose it, even though I came specifically because of what you openly said.'

'Nonsense, Nic. Come, tell me. How can you be so touchy?'

'Nonsense, Nic. Come on, tell me. Why are you being so sensitive?'

'Look at this then, Christine dear.' He drew from his breast-pocket a sheet of paper and unfolded it, when it was observable that a seal dangled from the bottom.

'Look at this, Christine dear.' He pulled a sheet of paper from his breast pocket and unfolded it, revealing a seal hanging from the bottom.

'What is it?' She held the paper sideways, so that what there was of window-light fell on its surface. 'I can only read the Old English letters-why-our names! Surely it is not a marriage-licence?'

'What is it?' She held the paper sideways, so that the little bit of window light fell on its surface. 'I can only read the Old English letters—wait, our names! Surely it’s not a marriage license?'

'It is.'

"It is."

She trembled. 'O Nic! how could you do this-and without telling me!'

She shook. "Oh Nic! How could you do this without telling me?"

'Why should I have thought I must tell you? You had not spoken "frankly" then as you have now. We have been all to each other more than these two years, and I thought I would propose that we marry privately, and that I then leave you on the instant. I would have taken my travelling-bag to church, and you would have gone home alone. I should not have started on my adventures in the brilliant manner of our original plan, but should have roughed it a little at first; my great gain would have been that the absolute possession of you would have enabled me to work with spirit and purpose, such as nothing else could do. But I dare not ask you now-so frank as you have been.'

'Why did I think I needed to tell you? You hadn’t been as “open” back then as you are now. For more than two years, we have meant a lot to each other, and I thought I would suggest that we get married quietly, and then I would leave you right away. I would have taken my travel bag to the ceremony, and you would have gone home alone. I wouldn’t have set off on my adventures in the spectacular way we originally planned, but I would have managed a bit of hardship at first; my main advantage would have been that having you completely would have motivated me to work with passion and intention like nothing else could. But I can’t ask you now—since you’ve been so honest.'

She did not answer. The document he had produced gave such unexpected substantiality to the venture with which she had so long toyed as a vague dream merely, that she was, in truth, frightened a little. 'I-don't know about it!' she said.

She didn’t respond. The document he presented added an unexpected weight to the project she had long considered just a vague dream, making her feel a little scared. “I don’t know about this!” she said.

'Perhaps not. Ah, my little lady, you are wearying of me!'

'Maybe not. Ah, my little lady, you’re getting tired of me!'

'No, Nic,' responded she, creeping closer. 'I am not. Upon my word, and truth, and honour, I am not, Nic.'

'No, Nic,' she replied, moving closer. 'I truly am not. I swear, on my word, my truth, and my honor, I am not, Nic.'

'A mere tiller of the soil, as I should be called,' he continued, without heeding her. 'And you-well, a daughter of one of the-I won't say oldest families, because that's absurd, all families are the same age-one of the longest chronicled families about here, whose name is actually the name of the place.'

"I'm just a simple farmer," he said, not paying attention to her. "And you—well, you're a daughter of one of the—I won’t say oldest families, because that’s ridiculous; all families are the same age—one of the longest documented families around here, whose name is actually the name of the town."

'That's not much, I am sorry to say! My poor brother-but I won't speak of that . . . Well,' she murmured mischievously, after a pause, 'you certainly would not need to be uneasy if I were to do this that you want me to do. You would have me safe enough in your trap then; I couldn't get away!'

'That's not great, I hate to say! My poor brother—but I won't get into that... Well,' she said playfully after a pause, 'you definitely wouldn't need to worry if I were to do what you want me to do. You'd have me secured in your trap then; I couldn't escape!'

'That's just it!' he said vehemently. 'It is a trap-you feel it so, and that though you wouldn't be able to get away from me you might particularly wish to! Ah, if I had asked you two years ago you would have agreed instantly. But I thought I was bound to wait for the proposal to come from you as the superior!'

'That's exactly it!' he said passionately. 'It's a trap—you know it, and even though you might want to get away from me, you wouldn't be able to! Oh, if I had asked you two years ago, you would have said yes right away. But I thought I should wait for you to propose since you're the one in the superior position!'

'Now you are angry, and take seriously what I meant purely in fun. You don't know me even yet! To show you that you have not been mistaken in me, I do propose to carry out this licence. I'll marry you, dear Nicholas, to-morrow morning.'

'Now you're angry, and you take what I said in jest way too seriously. You don't really know me yet! To prove that you haven't misjudged me, I actually plan to go through with this. I'll marry you, dear Nicholas, tomorrow morning.'

'Ah, Christine! I am afraid I have stung you on to this, so that I cannot-'

'Ah, Christine! I'm afraid I've pushed you into this, so that I cannot-'

'No, no, no!' she hastily rejoined; and there was something in her tone which suggested that she had been put upon her mettle and would not flinch. 'Take me whilst I am in the humour. What church is the licence for?'

'No, no, no!' she quickly replied, and there was something in her tone that hinted she had been challenged and wouldn't back down. 'Let's do this while I'm feeling up to it. Which church is the license for?'

'That I've not looked to see-why our parish church here, of course. Ah, then we cannot use it! We dare not be married here.'

'That I haven't checked to see—why our parish church is here, of course. Ah, then we can't use it! We can't get married here.'

'We do dare,' said she. 'And we will too, if you'll be there.'

'We do dare,' she said. 'And we will too, if you'll be there.'

'If I'll be there!'

"If I’ll be there!"

They speedily came to an agreement that he should be in the church-porch at ten minutes to eight on the following morning, awaiting her; and that, immediately after the conclusion of the service which would make them one, Nicholas should set out on his long-deferred educational tour, towards the cost of which she was resolving to bring a substantial subscription with her to church. Then, slipping from him, she went indoors by the way she had come, and Nicholas bent his steps homewards.

They quickly agreed that he would be at the church porch at seven fifty in the morning, waiting for her; and that right after the service that would make them married, Nicholas would leave for his long-awaited educational trip, for which she planned to bring a generous donation to church. Then, slipping away from him, she went inside the way she had come, and Nicholas headed home.

CHAPTER II

Instead of leaving the spot by the gate, he flung himself over the fence, and pursued a direction towards the river under the trees. And it was now, in his lonely progress, that he showed for the first time outwardly that he was not altogether unworthy of her. He wore long water-boots reaching above his knees, and, instead of making a circuit to find a bridge by which he might cross the Froom-the river aforesaid-he made straight for the point whence proceeded the low roar that was at this hour the only evidence of the stream's existence. He speedily stood on the verge of the waterfall which caused the noise, and stepping into the water at the top of the fall, waded through with the sure tread of one who knew every inch of his footing, even though the canopy of trees rendered the darkness almost absolute, and a false step would have precipitated him into the pool beneath. Soon reaching the boundary of the grounds, he continued in the same direct line to traverse the alluvial valley, full of brooks and tributaries to the main stream-in former times quite impassable, and impassable in winter now. Sometimes he would cross a deep gully on a plank not wider than the hand; at another time he ploughed his way through beds of spear-grass, where at a few feet to the right or left he might have been sucked down into a morass. At last he reached firm land on the other side of this watery tract, and came to his house on the rise behind-Elsenford-an ordinary farmstead, from the back of which rose indistinct breathings, belchings, and snortings, the rattle of halters, and other familiar features of an agriculturist's home.

Instead of leaving the spot by the gate, he jumped over the fence and headed toward the river under the trees. It was during this solitary journey that he first showed he was not entirely unworthy of her. He wore tall water boots that went above his knees, and instead of going the long way to find a bridge to cross the Froom—the river in question—he headed straight toward the source of the low roar, which was the only sign of the stream's presence at that hour. He quickly found himself at the edge of the waterfall that created the noise, and stepping into the water at the top of the fall, he waded through with the confident stride of someone who knew exactly where to step, even though the tree canopy made the darkness almost complete, and a misstep could send him tumbling into the pool below. Soon reaching the edge of the grounds, he continued in the same line to cross the alluvial valley, filled with streams and tributaries of the main river—once completely impassable, and still difficult to navigate in winter. Sometimes he crossed a deep gully on a plank barely wider than his hand; other times, he made his way through thick beds of spear-grass, where just a few feet to the right or left could have swallowed him into a swamp. Finally, he reached solid ground on the other side of this watery area and arrived at his house on the hill behind—Elsenford—an ordinary farmstead, from the back of which rose indistinct sounds of breathing, snorting, and the rattling of halters, along with other familiar aspects of a farmer’s home.

While Nicholas Long was packing his bag in an upper room of this dwelling, Miss Christine Everard sat at a desk in her own chamber at Froom-Everard manor-house, looking with pale fixed countenance at the candles.

While Nicholas Long was packing his bag in an upper room of this house, Miss Christine Everard sat at a desk in her own room at Froom-Everard manor, staring with a pale, expressionless face at the candles.

'I ought-I must now!' she whispered to herself. 'I should not have begun it if I had not meant to carry it through! It runs in the blood of us, I suppose.' She alluded to a fact unknown to her lover, the clandestine marriage of an aunt under circumstances somewhat similar to the present. In a few minutes she had penned the following note:-

'I should—I have to now!' she whispered to herself. 'I shouldn't have started this if I didn't plan to see it through! I guess it runs in our blood.' She referred to a fact her lover was unaware of, the secret marriage of an aunt under somewhat similar circumstances. In a few minutes, she had written the following note:-

October 13, 183-.

October 13, 183-

DEAR MR. BEALAND-Can you make it convenient to yourself to meet me at the Church to-morrow morning at eight? I name the early hour because it would suit me better than later on in the day. You will find me in the chancel, if you can come. An answer yes or no by the bearer of this will be sufficient.

DEAR MR. BEALAND - Could you make it work for you to meet me at the church tomorrow morning at eight? I’m suggesting the early hour because it works better for me than later in the day. You’ll find me in the chancel, if you can make it. A simple yes or no response with this messenger will be enough.

CHRISTINE EVERARD.

She sent the note to the rector immediately, waiting at a small side- door of the house till she heard the servant's footsteps returning along the lane, when she went round and met him in the passage. The rector had taken the trouble to write a line, and answered that he would meet her with pleasure.

She sent the note to the rector right away, waiting by a small side door of the house until she heard the servant's footsteps coming back down the lane. Then she went around and met him in the hallway. The rector had taken the time to write a response and said he would be happy to meet her.

A dripping fog which ushered in the next morning was highly favourable to the scheme of the pair. At that time of the century Froom-Everard House had not been altered and enlarged; the public lane passed close under its walls; and there was a door opening directly from one of the old parlours-the south parlour, as it was called-into the lane which led to the village. Christine came out this way, and after following the lane for a short distance entered upon a path within a belt of plantation, by which the church could be reached privately. She even avoided the churchyard gate, walking along to a place where the turf without the low wall rose into a mound, enabling her to mount upon the coping and spring down inside. She crossed the wet graves, and so glided round to the door. He was there, with his bag in his hand. He kissed her with a sort of surprise, as if he had expected that at the last moment her heart would fail her.

A dripping fog that rolled in the next morning was perfect for the couple's plan. At that time, Froom-Everard House hadn't been updated or expanded; the public lane ran right alongside its walls, and there was a door from one of the old parlors—the south parlor, as it was called—leading directly into the lane that went to the village. Christine went out this way, and after walking down the lane for a short distance, she entered a path within a grove of trees, which allowed her to get to the church privately. She even avoided the churchyard gate, heading to a spot where the grass outside the low wall rose into a mound, letting her climb up onto the coping and jump down inside. She crossed the damp graves and quietly made her way to the door. He was there, holding his bag. He kissed her with a hint of surprise, as if he thought she might change her mind at the last moment.

Though it had not failed her, there was, nevertheless, no great ardour in Christine's bearing-merely the momentum of an antecedent impulse. They went up the aisle together, the bottle-green glass of the old lead quarries admitting but little light at that hour, and under such an atmosphere. They stood by the altar-rail in silence, Christine's skirt visibly quivering at each beat of her heart.

Though it hadn’t let her down, there was still no great passion in Christine’s demeanor—just the momentum of a previous impulse. They walked up the aisle together, the bottle-green glass of the old lead quarries letting in very little light at that hour and in that atmosphere. They stood by the altar rail in silence, Christine’s skirt visibly trembling with each beat of her heart.

Presently a quick step ground upon the gravel, and Mr. Bealand came round by the front. He was a quiet bachelor, courteous towards Christine, and not at first recognizing in Nicholas a neighbouring yeoman (for he lived aloofly in the next parish), advanced to her without revealing any surprise at her unusual request. But in truth he was surprised, the keen interest taken by many country young women at the present day in church decoration and festivals being then unknown.

Right now, a quick step crunched on the gravel, and Mr. Bealand appeared around the front. He was a reserved bachelor, polite to Christine, and not initially recognizing Nicholas as a neighboring farmer (since he kept himself distant in the next parish), approached her without showing any surprise at her unusual request. But in reality, he was surprised; the strong interest that many young women in the countryside have nowadays in church decoration and festivals was unheard of back then.

'Good morning,' he said; and repeated the same words to Nicholas more mechanically.

'Good morning,' he said, repeating the same words to Nicholas in a more robotic way.

'Good morning,' she replied gravely. 'Mr. Bealand, I have a serious reason for asking you to meet me-us, I may say. We wish you to marry us.'

'Good morning,' she said seriously. 'Mr. Bealand, I have an important reason for asking you to meet with us. We want you to marry us.'

The rector's gaze hardened to fixity, rather between than upon either of them, and he neither moved nor replied for some time.

The rector's gaze became intensely focused, more on the space between them than on either of them, and he didn’t move or respond for a while.

'Ah!' he said at last.

'Wow!' he said at last.

'And we are quite ready.'

'And we're all set.'

'I had no idea-'

"I had no clue-"

'It has been kept rather private,' she said calmly.

'It's been kept pretty private,' she said calmly.

'Where are your witnesses?'

'Where are your witnesses at?'

'They are outside in the meadow, sir. I can call them in a moment,' said Nicholas.

'They’re outside in the meadow, sir. I can call them in a moment,' said Nicholas.

'Oh-I see it is-Mr. Nicholas Long,' said Mr. Bealand, and turning again to Christine, 'Does your father know of this?'

'Oh, I see it is Mr. Nicholas Long,' said Mr. Bealand, and turning back to Christine, he asked, 'Does your father know about this?'

'Is it necessary that I should answer that question, Mr. Bealand?'

'Do I really have to answer that question, Mr. Bealand?'

'I am afraid it is-highly necessary.'

"I'm sorry, but it's essential."

Christine began to look concerned.

Christine started to look worried.

'Where is the licence?' the rector asked; 'since there have been no banns.'

'Where's the license?' the rector asked; 'since there haven't been any banns.'

Nicholas produced it, Mr. Bealand read it, an operation which occupied him several minutes-or at least he made it appear so; till Christine said impatiently, 'We are quite ready, Mr. Bealand. Will you proceed? Mr. Long has to take a journey of a great many miles to-day.'

Nicholas handed it over, Mr. Bealand read it, a task that took him several minutes—or at least he made it seem that way; until Christine said impatiently, "We're all set, Mr. Bealand. Could you please continue? Mr. Long has a long journey ahead of him today."

'And you?'

'No. I remain.'

'No. I’m staying.'

Mr. Bealand assumed firmness. 'There is something wrong in this,' he said. 'I cannot marry you without your father's presence.'

Mr. Bealand took a firm stance. "There's something off about this," he said. "I can't marry you without your father's presence."

'But have you a right to refuse us?' interposed Nicholas. 'I believe we are in a position to demand your fulfilment of our request.'

'But do you have the right to refuse us?' interjected Nicholas. 'I think we are in a position to demand that you fulfill our request.'

'No, you are not! Is Miss Everard of age? I think not. I think she is months from being so. Eh, Miss Everard?'

'No, you're not! Is Miss Everard old enough? I don't think so. I believe she’s months away from that. Right, Miss Everard?'

'Am I bound to tell that?'

'Am I obligated to say that?'

'Certainly. At any rate you are bound to write it. Meanwhile I refuse to solemnize the service. And let me entreat you two young people to do nothing so rash as this, even if by going to some strange church, you may do so without discovery. The tragedy of marriage-'

'Absolutely. Either way, you have to write it. In the meantime, I won't officiate the ceremony. And I urge you two young people not to take such a reckless step, even if going to some random church allows you to do it without being found out. The tragedy of marriage—'

'Tragedy?'

'Certainly. It is full of crises and catastrophes, and ends with the death of one of the actors. The tragedy of marriage, as I was saying, is one I shall not be a party to your beginning with such light hearts, and I shall feel bound to put your father on his guard, Miss Everard. Think better of it, I entreat you! Remember the proverb, "Marry in haste and repent at leisure."'

'Of course. It's full of crises and disasters, and it ends with one of the characters dying. The tragedy of marriage, as I mentioned, is one I can't let you start with such carefree attitudes, and I feel obligated to warn your father, Miss Everard. Please reconsider! Remember the saying, "Marry quickly and regret slowly."'

Christine, spurred by opposition, almost stormed at him. Nicholas implored; but nothing would turn that obstinate rector. She sat down and reflected. By-and-by she confronted Mr. Bealand.

Christine, fueled by opposition, nearly charged at him. Nicholas pleaded; but nothing would sway that stubborn rector. She took a seat and thought it over. Eventually, she faced Mr. Bealand.

'Our marriage is not to be this morning, I see,' she said. 'Now grant me one favour, and in return I'll promise you to do nothing rashly. Do not tell my father a word of what has happened here.'

'Our marriage isn't happening this morning, I see,' she said. 'Now do me a favor, and in return, I promise I won't do anything impulsive. Don't tell my father anything about what happened here.'

'I agree-if you undertake not to elope.'

'I agree—if you promise not to run away.'

She looked at Nicholas, and he looked at her. 'Do you wish me to elope, Nic?' she asked.

She looked at Nicholas, and he looked at her. "Do you want me to run away with you, Nic?" she asked.

'No,' he said.

So the compact was made, and they left the church singly, Nicholas remaining till the last, and closing the door. On his way home, carrying the well-packed bag which was just now to go no further, the two men who were mending water-carriers in the meadows approached the hedge, as if they had been on the alert all the time.

So the agreement was made, and they left the church one by one, with Nicholas being the last to go and shutting the door behind him. On his way home, carrying the packed bag that wouldn’t be going any further, he passed two men who were fixing water carriers in the fields, and they approached the hedge as if they had been waiting for this moment all along.

'You said you mid want us for zummat, sir?'

'You said you might want us for something, sir?'

'All right-never mind,' he answered through the hedge. 'I did not require you after all.'

'All right, never mind,' he said through the hedge. 'I didn't need you after all.'

CHAPTER III

At a manor not far away there lived a queer and primitive couple who had lately been blessed with a son and heir. The christening took place during the week under notice, and this had been followed by a feast to the parishioners. Christine's father, one of the same generation and kind, had been asked to drive over and assist in the entertainment, and Christine, as a matter of course, accompanied him.

At a manor not far away, there lived an unusual and simple couple who had recently welcomed a son and heir. The christening took place during the week in question, followed by a feast for the parishioners. Christine's father, who was of the same generation and type, had been invited to drive over and help with the entertainment, and Christine naturally went along with him.

When they reached Athelhall, as the house was called, they found the usually quiet nook a lively spectacle. Tables had been spread in the apartment which lent its name to the whole building-the hall proper-covered with a fine open-timbered roof, whose braces, purlins, and rafters made a brown thicket of oak overhead. Here tenantry of all ages sat with their wives and families, and the servants were assisted in their ministrations by the sons and daughters of the owner's friends and neighbours. Christine lent a hand among the rest.

When they arrived at Athelhall, as the house was named, they found the usually quiet spot buzzing with activity. Tables were set up in the main room of the building—the proper hall—featuring a beautiful open-timbered ceiling, with its beams, supports, and rafters creating a brown canopy of oak above. Here, tenants of all ages sat with their wives and families, while the servants were helped by the sons and daughters of the owner's friends and neighbors. Christine joined in to assist along with everyone else.

She was holding a plate in each hand towards a huge brown platter of baked rice-pudding, from which a footman was scooping a large spoonful, when a voice reached her ear over her shoulder: 'Allow me to hold them for you.'

She was holding a plate in each hand, facing a large brown platter of baked rice pudding, from which a footman was serving a big spoonful, when a voice came from behind her: 'Let me hold those for you.'

Christine turned, and recognized in the speaker the nephew of the entertainer, a young man from London, whom she had already met on two or three occasions.

Christine turned and recognized the speaker as the entertainer's nephew, a young man from London whom she had met two or three times before.

She accepted the proffered help, and from that moment, whenever he passed her in their marchings to and fro during the remainder of the serving, he smiled acquaintance. When their work was done, he improved the few words into a conversation. He plainly had been attracted by her fairness.

She accepted the offered help, and from that moment on, whenever he passed her during their comings and goings for the rest of the serving, he smiled in recognition. When their work was finished, he turned the few words they exchanged into a conversation. It was clear he was drawn to her beauty.

Bellston was a self-assured young man, not particularly good-looking, with more colour in his skin than even Nicholas had. He had flushed a little in attracting her notice, though the flush had nothing of nervousness in it-the air with which it was accompanied making it curiously suggestive of a flush of anger; and even when he laughed it was difficult to banish that fancy.

Bellston was a confident young man, not especially good-looking, with more color in his skin than even Nicholas. He had blushed a bit when he caught her attention, but the blush didn’t seem nervous; instead, it oddly resembled a blush of anger. Even when he laughed, it was hard to shake off that impression.

The late autumn sunlight streamed in through the window panes upon the heads and shoulders of the venerable patriarchs of the hamlet, and upon the middle-aged, and upon the young; upon men and women who had played out, or were to play, tragedies or tragi-comedies in that nook of civilization not less great, essentially, than those which, enacted on more central arenas, fix the attention of the world. One of the party was a cousin of Nicholas Long's, who sat with her husband and children.

The late autumn sunlight flowed in through the window panes onto the heads and shoulders of the respected elders of the village, as well as the middle-aged and the young; touching both men and women who had experienced, or were yet to experience, their own dramas or tragicomedies in this corner of civilization, no less significant than those performed on larger stages that capture the world's attention. Among the group was a cousin of Nicholas Long, who sat with her husband and children.

To make himself as locally harmonious as possible, Mr. Bellston remarked to his companion on the scene-'It does one's heart good,' he said, 'to see these simple peasants enjoying themselves.'

To fit in with the locals, Mr. Bellston commented to his friend about the scene, "It really warms your heart," he said, "to see these simple farmers having a good time."

'O Mr. Bellston!' exclaimed Christine; 'don't be too sure about that word "simple"! You little think what they see and meditate! Their reasonings and emotions are as complicated as ours.'

'O Mr. Bellston!' exclaimed Christine; 'don’t be too sure about that word "simple"! You have no idea what they see and think about! Their reasoning and emotions are just as complicated as ours.'

She spoke with a vehemence which would have been hardly present in her words but for her own relation to Nicholas. The sense of that produced in her a nameless depression thenceforward. The young man, however, still followed her up.

She spoke with a intensity that wouldn't have been evident in her words if it weren't for her connection to Nicholas. The awareness of that left her with a vague sense of sadness from then on. The young man, however, continued to pursue her.

'I am glad to hear you say it,' he returned warmly. 'I was merely attuning myself to your mood, as I thought. The real truth is that I know more of the Parthians, and Medes, and dwellers in Mesopotamia-almost of any people, indeed-than of the English rustics. Travel and exploration are my profession, not the study of the British peasantry.'

'I’m really glad to hear you say that,' he replied warmly. 'I was just trying to get in sync with your mood, or so I thought. The truth is, I know way more about the Parthians, Medes, and people of Mesopotamia—almost any group, really—than I do about the English farmers. Travel and exploration are my career, not studying British peasants.'

Travel. There was sufficient coincidence between his declaration and the course she had urged upon her lover, to lend Bellston's account of himself a certain interest in Christine's ears. He might perhaps be able to tell her something that would be useful to Nicholas, if their dream were carried out. A door opened from the hall into the garden, and she somehow found herself outside, chatting with Mr. Bellston on this topic, till she thought that upon the whole she liked the young man. The garden being his uncle's, he took her round it with an air of proprietorship; and they went on amongst the Michaelmas daisies and chrysanthemums, and through a door to the fruit-garden. A green-house was open, and he went in and cut her a bunch of grapes.

Travel. There was enough coincidence between his statement and the route she had suggested to her partner to make Bellston's story somewhat interesting to Christine. He might have information that could help Nicholas if their dream became a reality. A door opened from the hallway into the garden, and she somehow found herself outside, discussing this topic with Mr. Bellston until she felt that, overall, she liked the young man. Since the garden belonged to his uncle, he guided her through it with a sense of ownership; they walked among the Michaelmas daisies and chrysanthemums, then through a door into the fruit garden. A greenhouse was open, and he went inside and picked her a bunch of grapes.

'How daring of you! They are your uncle's.'

"How bold of you! They belong to your uncle."

'O, he don't mind-I do anything here. A rough old buffer, isn't he?'

'O, he doesn't mind—I can do anything here. What a rough old guy, right?'

She was thinking of her Nic, and felt that, by comparison with her present acquaintance, the farmer more than held his own as a fine and intelligent fellow; but the harmony with her own existence in little things, which she found here, imparted an alien tinge to Nicholas just now. The latter, idealized by moonlight, or a thousand miles of distance, was altogether a more romantic object for a woman's dream than this smart new-lacquered man; but in the sun of afternoon, and amid a surrounding company, Mr. Bellston was a very tolerable companion.

She was thinking about Nic and felt that, compared to her current acquaintance, the farmer was definitely a fine and intelligent guy. However, the way she connected with the little details of her life here made Nicholas seem a bit distant at the moment. He, idealized by moonlight or a thousand miles away, was a far more romantic figure for a woman's dream than this polished new man. But in the afternoon sun, surrounded by company, Mr. Bellston was actually a pretty decent companion.

When they re-entered the hall, Bellston entreated her to come with him up a spiral stair in the thickness of the wall, leading to a passage and gallery whence they could look down upon the scene below. The people had finished their feast, the newly-christened baby had been exhibited, and a few words having been spoken to them they began, amid a racketing of forms, to make for the greensward without, Nicholas's cousin and cousin's wife and cousin's children among the rest. While they were filing out, a voice was heard calling-'Hullo!-here, Jim; where are you?' said Bellston's uncle. The young man descended, Christine following at leisure.

When they went back into the hall, Bellston urged her to follow him up a spiral staircase built into the wall, which led to a passage and gallery where they could look down at what was happening below. The guests had finished their meal, the newly-christened baby had been shown off, and after a few words were exchanged, they started, amid a clatter of chairs, to head for the lawn outside, with Nicholas's cousin, cousin's wife, and cousin's kids among them. As they were leaving, a voice called out, "Hey! Here, Jim; where are you?" It was Bellston's uncle. The young man came down, with Christine following at a relaxed pace.

'Now will ye be a good fellow,' the Squire continued, 'and set them going outside in some dance or other that they know? I'm dog-tired, and I want to have a yew words with Mr. Everard before we join 'em-hey, Everard? They are shy till somebody starts 'em; afterwards they'll keep gwine brisk enough.'

'Now, will you be a good guy,' the Squire continued, 'and get them started outside in some dance they know? I'm dead tired, and I want to have a few words with Mr. Everard before we join them—right, Everard? They’re shy until someone gets them going; after that, they'll keep moving along just fine.'

'Ay, that they wool,' said Squire Everard.

'Ay, that's how it is,' said Squire Everard.

They followed to the lawn; and here it proved that James Bellston was as shy, or rather as averse, as any of the tenantry themselves, to acting the part of fugleman. Only the parish people had been at the feast, but outlying neighbours had now strolled in for a dance.

They went out to the lawn, and it turned out that James Bellston was just as shy, or actually just as unwilling, as any of the tenants when it came to taking the lead. Only the local parish people had attended the feast, but nearby neighbors had now come over to join in the dancing.

'They want "Speed the Plough,"' said Bellston, coming up breathless. 'It must be a country dance, I suppose? Now, Miss Everard, do have pity upon me. I am supposed to lead off; but really I know no more about speeding the plough than a child just born! Would you take one of the villagers?-just to start them, my uncle says. Suppose you take that handsome young farmer over there-I don't know his name, but I dare say you do-and I'll come on with one of the dairyman's daughters as a second couple.'

"They want 'Speed the Plough,'" said Bellston, catching his breath as he approached. "It has to be a country dance, right? Now, Miss Everard, please have mercy on me. I'm supposed to lead off, but honestly, I know as much about speeding the plough as a newborn! Would you mind taking one of the villagers—just to get things started, as my uncle suggests? How about you take that handsome young farmer over there—I don’t know his name, but I’m sure you do—and I'll join in with one of the dairyman's daughters as the second couple."

Christine turned in the direction signified, and changed colour-though in the shade nobody noticed it, 'Oh, yes-I know him,' she said coolly. 'He is from near our own place-Mr. Nicholas Long.'

Christine turned in the indicated direction and changed color—though in the shade, nobody noticed. "Oh, yeah—I know him," she said casually. "He’s from around our area—Mr. Nicholas Long."

'That's capital-then you can easily make him stand as first couple with you. Now I must pick up mine.'

'That's great—then you can easily have him be the first couple with you. Now I need to choose mine.'

'I-I think I'll dance with you, Mr. Bellston,' she said with some trepidation. 'Because, you see,' she explained eagerly, 'I know the figure and you don't-so that I can help you; while Nicholas Long, I know, is familiar with the figure, and that will make two couples who know it-which is necessary, at least.'

"I think I'll dance with you, Mr. Bellston," she said nervously. "Because, you see," she added excitedly, "I know the dance, and you don't—so I can help you; while Nicholas Long, I know, is familiar with the dance too, and that will give us two couples who know it—which is at least necessary."

Bellston showed his gratification by one of his angry-pleasant flushes-he had hardly dared to ask for what she proffered freely; and having requested Nicholas to take the dairyman's daughter, led Christine to her place, Long promptly stepping up second with his charge. There were grim silent depths in Nic's character; a small deedy spark in his eye, as it caught Christine's, was all that showed his consciousness of her. Then the fiddlers began-the celebrated Mellstock fiddlers who, given free stripping, could play from sunset to dawn without turning a hair. The couples wheeled and swung, Nicholas taking Christine's hand in the course of business with the figure, when she waited for him to give it a little squeeze; but he did not.

Bellston expressed his mixed feelings with one of his angry-pleasant blushes—he had barely dared to ask for what she offered so freely. After asking Nicholas to take the dairyman's daughter, he led Christine to her spot, with Long quickly stepping in second with his partner. There were deep, silent layers to Nic's personality; a slight glimmer in his eye, when it met Christine's, was the only sign of his awareness of her. Then the fiddlers started—the famous Mellstock fiddlers who, if given the chance, could play from sunset to dawn without breaking a sweat. The couples moved and spun, with Nicholas taking Christine's hand as part of the dance, and she waited for him to give it a gentle squeeze; but he didn't.

Christine had the greatest difficulty in steering her partner through the maze, on account of his self-will, and when at last they reached the bottom of the long line, she was breathless with her hard labour.. Resting here, she watched Nic and his lady; and, though she had decidedly cooled off in these later months, began to admire him anew. Nobody knew these dances like him, after all, or could do anything of this sort so well. His performance with the dairyman's daughter so won upon her, that when 'Speed the Plough' was over she contrived to speak to him.

Christine struggled to guide her partner through the maze because of his stubbornness, and when they finally reached the end of the long path, she was exhausted from the effort. Taking a break, she watched Nic and his date; even though she had lost interest in him in recent months, she started to admire him again. Nobody understood these dances like he did, and no one could perform them as well. His routine with the dairyman's daughter impressed her so much that when 'Speed the Plough' was over, she managed to talk to him.

'Nic, you are to dance with me next time.'

'Nic, you need to dance with me next time.'

He said he would, and presently asked her in a formal public manner, lifting his hat gallantly. She showed a little backwardness, which he quite understood, and allowed him to lead her to the top, a row of enormous length appearing below them as if by magic as soon as they had taken their places. Truly the Squire was right when he said that they only wanted starting.

He said he would, and soon asked her in a formal public way, lifting his hat in a gentlemanly manner. She hesitated slightly, which he totally understood, and let him guide her to the top. A long line appeared below them as if by magic once they had taken their places. The Squire was right when he said that they just needed to get started.

'What is it to be?' whispered Nicholas.

'What is it going to be?' whispered Nicholas.

She turned to the band. 'The Honeymoon,' she said.

She turned to the band. "The Honeymoon," she said.

And then they trod the delightful last-century measure of that name, which if it had been ever danced better, was never danced with more zest. The perfect responsiveness which their tender acquaintance threw into the motions of Nicholas and his partner lent to their gyrations the fine adjustment of two interacting parts of a single machine. The excitement of the movement carried Christine back to the time-the unreflecting passionate time, about two years before-when she and Nic had been incipient lovers only; and it made her forget the carking anxieties, the vision of social breakers ahead, that had begun to take the gilding off her position now. Nicholas, on his part, had never ceased to be a lover; no personal worries had as yet made him conscious of any staleness, flatness, or unprofitableness in his admiration of Christine.

And then they danced the charming old-fashioned dance of that name, which, if it had ever been done better, had never been done with more enthusiasm. The perfect responsiveness that their close relationship brought to Nicholas and his partner’s movements gave their steps the smooth coordination of two parts working together like a well-oiled machine. The thrill of dancing took Christine back to a time—the carefree, passionate time, about two years earlier—when she and Nic were just starting to fall in love; and it helped her forget the nagging worries and the looming social challenges that were beginning to tarnish her current position. Nicholas, for his part, had never stopped being a lover; no personal issues had yet made him feel any dullness, boredom, or unfulfilling feelings in his admiration for Christine.

'Not quite so wildly, Nic,' she whispered. 'I don't object personally; but they'll notice us. How came you here?'

'Not so crazy, Nic,' she whispered. 'I don't mind personally, but they'll see us. How did you get here?'

'I heard that you had driven over; and I set out-on purpose for this.'

'I heard you drove over, so I came out here on purpose for this.'

'What-you have walked?'

'What have you walked?'

'Yes. If I had waited for one of uncle's horses I should have been too late.'

'Yes. If I had waited for one of my uncle's horses, I would have been too late.'

'Five miles here and five back-ten miles on foot-merely to dance!'

'Five miles here and five back—ten miles on foot—just to dance!'

'With you. What made you think of this old "Honeymoon" thing?'

'O! it came into my head when I saw you, as what would have been a reality with us if you had not been stupid about that licence, and had got it for a distant church.'

'O! it hit me when I saw you, about what could have been real for us if you hadn't messed up with that license and had actually gotten it for a church far away.'

'Shall we try again?'

"Should we try again?"

'No-I don't know. I'll think it over.'

'No—I don’t know. I’ll think about it.'

The villagers admired their grace and skill, as the dancers themselves perceived; but they did not know what accompanied that admiration in one spot, at least.

The villagers admired their grace and skill, just as the dancers themselves realized; but they had no idea what else came with that admiration in one place, at least.

'People who wonder they can foot it so featly together should know what some others think,' a waterman was saying to his neighbour. 'Then their wonder would be less.'

'People who are amazed that they can walk so gracefully together should understand what some others think,' a waterman was saying to his neighbor. 'Then they wouldn't be as surprised.'

His comrade asked for information.

His buddy asked for info.

'Well-really I hardly believe it-but 'tis said they be man and wife. Yes, sure-went to church and did the job a'most afore 'twas light one morning. But mind, not a word of this; for 'twould be the loss of a winter's work to me if I had spread such a report and it were not true.'

'Well, I can barely believe it, but they say they're married. Yeah, they went to church and got it done almost before dawn one morning. But just so you know, don’t breathe a word of this; it’d be the end of a winter's work for me if I spread such a rumor and it turned out to be false.'

When the dance had ended she rejoined her own section of the company. Her father and Mr. Bellston the elder had now come out from the house, and were smoking in the background. Presently she found that her father was at her elbow.

When the dance was over, she went back to her team. Her dad and Mr. Bellston the elder had come out from the house and were smoking in the background. Soon, she realized her dad was standing next to her.

'Christine, don't dance too often with young Long-as a mere matter of prudence, I mean, as volk might think it odd, he being one of our own neighbouring farmers. I should not mention this to 'ee if he were an ordinary young fellow; but being superior to the rest it behoves you to be careful.'

'Christine, try not to dance too often with young Long—just for your own good, you know? People might think it's strange since he’s one of our neighboring farmers. I wouldn’t bring this up if he were an average guy, but since he's above the rest, you need to be cautious.'

'Exactly, papa,' said Christine.

"Exactly, dad," said Christine.

But the revived sense that she was deceiving him threw a damp over her spirits. 'But, after all,' she said to herself, 'he is a young man of Elsenford, handsome, able, and the soul of honour; and I am a young woman of the adjoining parish, who have been constantly thrown into communication with him. Is it not, by nature's rule, the most proper thing in the world that I should marry him, and is it not an absurd conventional regulation which says that such a union would be wrong?'

But the renewed feeling that she was misleading him brought her down. "But, after all," she told herself, "he's a young man from Elsenford, good-looking, capable, and honorable; and I'm a young woman from the neighboring parish who's often interacted with him. Isn't it, by nature's way, totally natural for me to marry him, and isn't it just a silly social rule that says such a marriage would be wrong?"

It may be concluded that the strength of Christine's large-minded argument was rather an evidence of weakness than of strength in the passion it concerned, which had required neither argument nor reasoning of any kind for its maintenance when full and flush in its early days.

It can be concluded that the power of Christine's broad-minded argument was more of a sign of weakness than strength in the passion it addressed, which didn't need any argument or reasoning to survive when it was strong and thriving in its early days.

When driving home in the dark with her father she sank into pensive silence. She was thinking of Nicholas having to trudge on foot all those miles back after his exertions on the sward. Mr. Everard, arousing himself from a nap, said suddenly, 'I have something to mention to 'ee, by George-so I have, Chris! You probably know what it is?'

When driving home in the dark with her dad, she fell into deep thought. She was thinking about Nicholas having to walk all those miles back after working so hard on the lawn. Mr. Everard, waking up from a nap, suddenly said, "I have something to tell you, by George—I do, Chris! You probably know what it is?"

She expressed ignorance, wondering if her father had discovered anything of her secret.

She expressed uncertainty, wondering if her father had found out anything about her secret.

'Well, according to him you know it. But I will tell 'ee. Perhaps you noticed young Jim Bellston walking me off down the lawn with him?-whether or no, we walked together a good while; and he informed me that he wanted to pay his addresses to 'ee. I naturally said that it depended upon yourself; and he replied that you were willing enough; you had given him particular encouragement-showing your preference for him by specially choosing him for your partner-hey? "In that case," says I, "go on and conquer-settle it with her-I have no objection." The poor fellow was very grateful, and in short, there we left the matter. He'll propose to-morrow.'

'Well, according to him, you know it. But I’ll tell you. Maybe you noticed young Jim Bellston walking me down the lawn?- whether you did or not, we walked together for a while; and he told me he wanted to ask for your hand. I naturally said that it depended on you; and he replied that you seemed quite willing; you had given him some particular encouragement—showing your preference for him by choosing him as your partner—right? “In that case,” I said, “go ahead and win her over—settle it with her—I have no objection.” The poor guy was really grateful, and we left it at that. He’ll propose tomorrow.'

She saw now to her dismay what James Bellston had read as encouragement. 'He has mistaken me altogether,' she said. 'I had no idea of such a thing.'

She now realized with disappointment what James Bellston had interpreted as support. 'He has completely misunderstood me,' she said. 'I had no intention of that.'

'What, you won't have him?'

'What, you’re not taking him?'

'Indeed, I cannot!'

'Absolutely, I can't!'

'Chrissy,' said Mr. Everard with emphasis, 'there's noobody whom I should so like you to marry as that young man. He's a thoroughly clever fellow, and fairly well provided for. He's travelled all over the temperate zone; but he says that directly he marries he's going to give up all that, and be a regular stay-at-home. You would be nowhere safer than in his hands.'

'Chrissy,' said Mr. Everard firmly, 'there's no one I would prefer you to marry than that young man. He's really smart and has a decent setup for himself. He’s traveled all over the temperate zone; but he says as soon as he gets married, he plans to quit all that and become a true homebody. You would be in no safer hands than his.'

'It is true,' she answered. 'He is a highly desirable match, and I should be well provided for, and probably very safe in his hands.'

'That's true,' she replied. 'He's a very attractive match, and I'd be well taken care of, and probably quite safe with him.'

'Then don't be skittish, and stand-to.'

Then don’t be nervous, and get ready.

She had spoken from her conscience and understanding, and not to please her father. As a reflecting woman she believed that such a marriage would be a wise one. In great things Nicholas was closest to her nature; in little things Bellston seemed immeasurably nearer than Nic; and life was made up of little things.

She spoke from her conscience and understanding, not to make her father happy. As a thoughtful woman, she believed that such a marriage would be a smart choice. In major matters, Nicholas was the closest match for her nature; in the small things, Bellston felt much nearer than Nic; and life was made up of those little things.

Altogether the firmament looked black for Nicholas Long, notwithstanding her half-hour's ardour for him when she saw him dancing with the dairyman's daughter. Most great passions, movements, and beliefs-individual and national-burst during their decline into a temporary irradiation, which rivals their original splendour; and then they speedily become extinct. Perhaps the dance had given the last flare-up to Christine's love. It seemed to have improvidently consumed for its immediate purpose all her ardour forwards, so that for the future there was nothing left but frigidity.

Overall, the situation looked bleak for Nicholas Long, despite Christine's half-hour of excitement for him when she saw him dancing with the dairyman's daughter. Most major passions, movements, and beliefs—both personal and national—flare up in a brief glow during their decline, rivaling their initial brilliance, and then they quickly fade away. Maybe the dance had sparked the final burst of Christine's love. It seemed to have recklessly drained all her enthusiasm in the moment, leaving her with only coldness for what was to come.

Nicholas had certainly been very foolish about that licence!

Nicholas had definitely been really foolish about that license!

CHAPTER IV

This laxity of emotional tone was further increased by an incident, when, two days later, she kept an appointment with Nicholas in the Sallows. The Sallows was an extension of shrubberies and plantations along the banks of the Froom, accessible from the lawn of Froom-Everard House only, except by wading through the river at the waterfall or elsewhere. Near the brink was a thicket of box in which a trunk lay prostrate; this had been once or twice their trysting-place, though it was by no means a safe one; and it was here she sat awaiting him now.

This relaxed emotional vibe was heightened by an event when, two days later, she met Nicholas at the Sallows. The Sallows was an extension of shrubs and trees along the banks of the Froom, accessible only from the lawn of Froom-Everard House, unless you chose to wade through the river at the waterfall or another spot. Near the edge was a thicket of box where a trunk lay flat; this had been their meeting spot once or twice, though it wasn't exactly a secure one; and it was here she sat waiting for him now.

The noise of the stream muffled any sound of footsteps, and it was before she was aware of his approach that she looked up and saw him wading across at the top of the waterfall.

The noise of the stream drowned out any sound of footsteps, and it was before she noticed him coming that she looked up and saw him wading across at the top of the waterfall.

Noontide lights and dwarfed shadows always banished the romantic aspect of her love for Nicholas. Moreover, something new had occurred to disturb her; and if ever she had regretted giving way to a tenderness for him-which perhaps she had not done with any distinctness-she regretted it now. Yet in the bottom of their hearts those two were excellently paired, the very twin halves of a perfect whole; and their love was pure. But at this hour surfaces showed garishly, and obscured the depths. Probably her regret appeared in her face.

Noontime light and short shadows always wiped away the romantic side of her feelings for Nicholas. Plus, something new had happened to unsettle her; and if she had ever regretted developing feelings for him—which she probably hadn’t in any clear way—she regretted it now. Still, deep down, those two were perfectly matched, like two halves of a complete whole; and their love was genuine. But at this moment, everything was too bright on the surface, hiding what was beneath. Her regret was likely visible on her face.

He walked up to her without speaking, the water running from his boots; and, taking one of her hands in each of his own, looked narrowly into her eyes.

He walked up to her in silence, water dripping from his boots; and, taking one of her hands in each of his, looked closely into her eyes.

'Have you thought it over?'

'Have you considered it?'

'What?'

'Whether we shall try again; you remember saying you would at the dance?'

'Are we going to try again? I remember you said you would at the dance.'

'Oh, I had forgotten that!'

'Oh, I totally forgot that!'

'You are sorry we tried at all!' he said accusingly.

"You regret that we even tried!" he said, pointing a finger.

'I am not so sorry for the fact as for the rumours,' she said.

'I’m not really upset about the fact itself, but about the rumors,' she said.

'Ah! rumours?'

'Oh! rumors?'

'They say we are already married.'

'They say we’re married already.'

'Who?'

'Who’s that?'

'I cannot tell exactly. I heard some whispering to that effect. Somebody in the village told one of the servants, I believe. This man said that he was crossing the churchyard early on that unfortunate foggy morning, and heard voices in the chancel, and peeped through the window as well as the dim panes would let him; and there he saw you and me and Mr. Bealand, and so on; but thinking his surmises would be dangerous knowledge, he hastened on. And so the story got afloat. Then your aunt, too-'

'I can't say for sure. I heard some whispers about it. Someone in the village told one of the servants, I think. This person said that he was walking through the churchyard early on that foggy morning and heard voices in the chancel. He peeked through the window as best as he could through the misty panes and saw you, me, and Mr. Bealand, among others; but thinking that knowing this could be risky, he hurried away. And that's how the story spread. Then your aunt, too-'

'Good Lord!-what has she done?'

'Oh no! What has she done?'

The story was, told her, and she said proudly, "O yes, it is true enough. I have seen the licence. But it is not to be known yet."'

The story was told to her, and she replied proudly, "Oh yes, that's true. I've seen the license. But it can't be revealed yet."

'Seen the licence? How the-'

'Have you seen the license? How the-'

'Accidentally, I believe, when your coat was hanging somewhere.'

'It must have happened by accident when your coat was hanging somewhere.'

The information, coupled with the infelicitous word 'proudly,' caused Nicholas to flush with mortification. He knew that it was in his aunt's nature to make a brag of that sort; but worse than the brag was the fact that this was the first occasion on which Christine had deigned to show her consciousness that such a marriage would be a source of pride to his relatives-the only two he had in the world.

The information, along with the unfortunate word "proudly," made Nicholas flush with embarrassment. He knew it was typical of his aunt to boast like that; but even worse than the bragging was the fact that this was the first time Christine had acknowledged that such a marriage would be a point of pride for his relatives—the only two he had in the world.

'You are sorry, then, even to be thought my wife, much less to be it.' He dropped her hand, which fell lifelessly.

'You feel sorry, then, even to be seen as my wife, let alone to actually be it.' He dropped her hand, which fell limply.

'It is not sorry exactly, dear Nic. But I feel uncomfortable and vexed, that after screwing up my courage, my fidelity, to the point of going to church, you should have so muddled-managed the matter that it has ended in neither one thing nor the other. How can I meet acquaintances, when I don't know what they are thinking of me?'

'It's not regret, exactly, dear Nic. But I feel uneasy and frustrated that after building up my courage and loyalty to the point of going to church, you handled the situation so poorly that it ended up being neither here nor there. How can I face people I know when I have no idea what they think of me?'

'Then, dear Christine, let us mend the muddle. I'll go away for a few days and get another licence, and you can come to me.'

'Then, dear Christine, let's sort out this mess. I'll leave for a few days to get another license, and you can come to me.'

She shrank from this perceptibly. 'I cannot screw myself up to it a second time,' she said. 'I am sure I cannot! Besides, I promised Mr. Bealand. And yet how can I continue to see you after such a rumour? We shall be watched now, for certain.'

She visibly recoiled from this. 'I can't bring myself to do it again,' she said. 'I'm sure I can't! Besides, I promised Mr. Bealand. But how can I keep seeing you after such a rumor? We’ll definitely be under scrutiny now.'

'Then don't see me.'

'Then don't look for me.'

'I fear I must not for the present. Altogether-'

'I’m afraid I can't right now. Overall-'

'What?'

'I am very depressed.'

"I'm feeling really down."

These views were not very inspiriting to Nicholas, as he construed them. It may indeed have been possible that he construed them wrongly, and should have insisted upon her making the rumour true. Unfortunately, too, he had come to her in a hurry through brambles and briars, water and weed, and the shaggy wildness which hung about his appearance at this fine and correct time of day lent an impracticability to the look of him.

These views didn’t really inspire Nicholas, as he interpreted them. It’s possible he misinterpreted them and should have insisted she make the rumor true. Unfortunately, he also rushed to her through thorns and weeds, and the disheveled look he had at this fine time of day made him seem impractical.

'You blame me-you repent your courses-you repent that you ever, ever owned anything to me!'

'You blame me—you regret your actions—you regret that you ever, ever owed me anything!'

'No, Nicholas, I do not repent that,' she returned gently, though with firmness. 'But I think that you ought not to have got that licence without asking me first; and I also think that you ought to have known how it would be if you lived on here in your present position, and made no effort to better it. I can bear whatever comes, for social ruin is not personal ruin or even personal disgrace. But as a sensible, new- risen poet says, whom I have been reading this morning:-

'No, Nicholas, I don’t regret that,' she replied softly but firmly. 'But I believe you shouldn’t have gotten that license without asking me first; and you should have realized what would happen if you stayed in your current situation without trying to improve it. I can handle whatever comes my way, because social ruin isn’t the same as personal ruin or even personal disgrace. But as a smart, up-and-coming poet says, whom I’ve been reading this morning:-

The world and its ways have a certain worth: And to press a point while these oppose Were simple policy. Better wait.

The world and its ways have some value: And to insist on a point while these disagree Would be foolish. It's better to hold off.

As soon as you had got my promise, Nic, you should have gone away-yes-and made a name, and come back to claim me. That was my silly girlish dream about my hero.'

As soon as you got my promise, Nic, you should've left—yeah—and made a name for yourself, then come back to claim me. That was my silly, girlish dream about my hero.

'Perhaps I can do as much yet! And would you have indeed liked better to live away from me for family reasons, than to run a risk in seeing me for affection's sake? O what a cold heart it has grown! If I had been a prince, and you a dairymaid, I'd have stood by you in the face of the world!'

'Maybe I can still do just as much! Would you really have preferred to live away from me for family reasons rather than take a chance on seeing me for love? Oh, how cold your heart has become! If I had been a prince and you a dairymaid, I would have supported you against the whole world!'

She shook her head. 'Ah-you don't know what society is-you don't know.'

She shook her head. 'Oh, you have no idea what society is—you really don’t know.'

'Perhaps not. Who was that strange gentleman of about seven-and-twenty I saw at Mr. Bellston's christening feast?'

'Maybe not. Who was that unusual guy around twenty-seven that I saw at Mr. Bellston's christening party?'

'Oh-that was his nephew James. Now he is a man who has seen an unusual extent of the world for his age. He is a great traveller, you know.'

'Oh—that was his nephew James. Now he’s a guy who has experienced a lot of the world for his age. He’s a really great traveler, you know.'

'Indeed.'

'Definitely.'

'In fact an explorer. He is very entertaining.'

'He's actually an explorer. He's really entertaining.'

'No doubt.'

'Definitely.'

Nicholas received no shock of jealousy from her announcement. He knew her so well that he could see she was not in the least in love with Bellston. But he asked if Bellston were going to continue his explorations.

Nicholas wasn’t surprised or jealous by her announcement. He knew her well enough to see that she wasn’t in love with Bellston at all. But he asked if Bellston was going to continue his explorations.

'Not if he settles in life. Otherwise he will, I suppose.'

'Not if he finds his way in life. Otherwise, I guess he will.'

'Perhaps I could be a great explorer, too, if I tried.'

'Maybe I could be a great explorer, too, if I gave it a shot.'

'You could, I am sure.'

'I'm sure you could.'

They sat apart, and not together; each looking afar off at vague objects, and not in each other's eyes. Thus the sad autumn afternoon waned, while the waterfall hissed sarcastically of the inevitableness of the unpleasant. Very different this from the time when they had first met there.

They sat separately, not together; each gazing into the distance at blurry shapes, and not into each other’s eyes. So the gloomy autumn afternoon faded away, while the waterfall mockingly alluded to the unavoidable nature of discomfort. This was so different from when they had first met there.

The nook was most picturesque; but it looked horridly common and stupid now. Their sentiment had set a colour hardly less visible than a material one on surrounding objects, as sentiment must where life is but thought. Nicholas was as devoted as ever to the fair Christine; but unhappily he too had moods and humours, and the division between them was not closed.

The nook was really beautiful; but it now seemed terribly ordinary and silly. Their feelings had cast a hue almost as noticeable as a physical one on the things around them, as feelings tend to do when life is just thought. Nicholas was still as devoted as ever to the lovely Christine; but unfortunately, he also had his own moods and emotions, and the gap between them wasn't bridged.

She had no sooner got indoors and sat down to her work-table than her father entered the drawing-room.

She had just gotten inside and sat down at her work table when her father walked into the living room.

She handed him his newspaper; he took it without a word, went and stood on the hearthrug, and flung the paper on the floor.

She handed him his newspaper; he took it without saying a word, walked over to the hearthrug, and tossed the paper on the floor.

'Christine, what's the meaning of this terrible story? I was just on my way to look at the register.'

'Christine, what’s the meaning of this awful story? I was just on my way to check the register.'

She looked at him without speech.

She stared at him in silence.

'You have married-Nicholas Long?'

'You married Nicholas Long?'

'No, father.'

'No way, dad.'

'No? Can you say no in the face of such facts as I have been put in possession of?'

'No? Can you really say no given the facts I have presented to you?'

'Yes.'

'Yep.'

'But-the note you wrote to the rector-and the going to church?'

'But the note you sent to the rector—and going to church?'

She briefly explained that their attempt had failed.

She quickly explained that their attempt had not worked.

'Ah! Then this is what that dancing meant, was it? By —-, it makes me —-. How long has this been going on, may I ask?'

'Ah! So that's what that dancing was about, huh? By —-, it really gets me —-. How long has this been happening, if I may ask?'

'This what?'

'What is this?'

'What, indeed! Why, making him your beau. Now listen to me. All's well that ends well; from this day, madam, this moment, he is to be nothing more to you. You are not to see him. Cut him adrift instantly! I only wish his volk were on my farm-out they should go, or I would know the reason why. However, you are to write him a letter to this effect at once.'

'What, really! You're making him your boyfriend. Now listen to me. All's well that ends well; from this day, madam, from this moment on, he is to be nothing more to you. You are not to see him. Cut him loose immediately! I only wish his people were on my farm—they'd be gone, or I would have to find out why. Anyway, you need to write him a letter to this effect right away.'

'How can I cut him adrift?'

'How can I let him go?'

'Why not? You must, my good maid!'

'Why not? You have to, my dear maid!'

'Well, though I have not actually married him, I have solemnly sworn to be his wife when he comes home from abroad to claim me. It would be gross perjury not to fulfil my promise. Besides, no woman can go to church with a man to deliberately solemnize matrimony, and refuse him afterwards, if he does nothing wrong meanwhile.'

'Well, even though I haven’t actually married him yet, I have seriously promised to be his wife when he comes back from abroad to claim me. It would be a serious betrayal not to keep my promise. Plus, no woman can go to church with a man to intentionally formalize their marriage and then refuse him afterward if he hasn’t done anything wrong in the meantime.'

The uttered sound of her strong conviction seemed to kindle in Christine a livelier perception of all its bearings than she had known while it had lain unformulated in her mind. For when she had done speaking she fell down on her knees before her father, covered her face, and said, 'Please, please forgive me, papa! How could I do it without letting you know! I don't know, I don't know!'

The force of her strong belief sparked in Christine a clearer understanding of everything it involved than she had when it was just an unspoken thought in her mind. After she finished speaking, she dropped to her knees in front of her father, covered her face, and said, 'Please, please forgive me, Dad! How could I do it without telling you! I don't know, I don't know!'

When she looked up she found that, in the turmoil of his mind, her father was moving about the room. 'You are within an ace of ruining yourself, ruining me, ruining us all!' he said. 'You are nearly as bad as your brother, begad!'

When she glanced up, she realized that her father was pacing the room, troubled by his thoughts. "You're on the verge of ruining yourself, ruining me, ruining all of us!" he exclaimed. "You're almost as bad as your brother, I swear!"

'Perhaps I am-yes-perhaps I am!'

'Maybe I am—yeah—maybe I am!'

'That I should father such a harum-scarum brood!'

'That I should raise such a wild and unruly bunch!'

'It is very bad; but Nicholas-'

'It's really bad, but Nicholas-'

'He's a scoundrel!'

'He's a rascal!'

'He is not a scoundrel!' cried she, turning quickly. 'He's as good and worthy as you or I, or anybody bearing our name, or any nobleman in the kingdom, if you come to that! Only-only'-she could not continue the argument on those lines. 'Now, father, listen!' she sobbed; 'if you taunt me I'll go off and join him at his farm this very day, and marry him to-morrow, that's what I'll do!'

'He’s not a jerk!' she yelled, turning quickly. 'He’s just as good and worthy as you or me, or anyone with our name, or any noble in the kingdom, if you think about it! Only—only'—she couldn't keep arguing that way. 'Now, Dad, listen!' she cried; 'if you keep teasing me, I’ll leave right now and join him at his farm, and marry him tomorrow, that’s what I’ll do!'

'I don't taant ye!'

"I don't want you!"

'I wish to avoid unseemliness as much as you.'

"I want to avoid any awkwardness just as much as you do."

She went away. When she came back a quarter of an hour later, thinking to find the room empty, he was standing there as before, never having apparently moved. His manner had quite changed. He seemed to take a resigned and entirely different view of circumstances.

She left. When she returned fifteen minutes later, expecting to find the room empty, he was still standing there, having apparently not moved at all. His demeanor had completely shifted. He seemed to have a resigned and entirely different perspective on the situation.

'Christine, here's a paragraph in the paper hinting at a secret wedding, and I'm blazed if it don't point to you. Well, since this was to happen, I'll bear it, and not complain. All volk have crosses, and this is one of mine. Now, this is what I've got to say-I feel that you must carry out this attempt at marrying Nicholas Long. Faith, you must! The rumour will become a scandal if you don't-that's my view. I have tried to look at the brightest side of the case. Nicholas Long is a young man superior to most of his class, and fairly presentable. And he's not poor-at least his uncle is not. I believe the old muddler could buy me up any day. However, a farmer's wife you must be, as far as I can see. As you've made your bed, so ye must lie. Parents propose, and ungrateful children dispose. You shall marry him, and immediately.'

'Christine, there's a paragraph in the paper suggesting a secret wedding, and I’m sure it’s pointing to you. Well, since this is happening, I’ll deal with it and won’t complain. Everyone has their burdens, and this is one of mine. Now, here’s what I have to say—I feel you need to go through with this plan to marry Nicholas Long. Seriously, you have to! If you don’t, the rumor will turn into a scandal—that's how I see it. I’ve tried to focus on the positive side. Nicholas Long is a young man who stands out compared to most from his background, and he’s pretty decent-looking. And he’s not poor—at least, his uncle isn’t. I think the old guy could buy me out any day. However, you must become a farmer’s wife, from what I can see. As you’ve made your choices, you have to stick with them. Parents decide, and ungrateful children have to accept. You will marry him, and without delay.'

Christine hardly knew what to make of this. 'He is quite willing to wait, and so am I. We can wait for two or three years, and then he will be as worthy as-'

Christine hardly knew what to think about this. 'He is completely okay with waiting, and so am I. We can wait for two or three years, and then he will be just as worthy as-'

'You must marry him. And the sooner the better, if 'tis to be done at all . . . And yet I did wish you could have been Jim Bellston's wife. I did wish it! But no.'

'You have to marry him. The sooner, the better, if it's going to happen at all . . . But I really wish you could have been Jim Bellston's wife. I really do! But no.'

'I, too, wished it and do still, in one sense,' she returned gently. His moderation had won her out of her defiant mood, and she was willing to reason with him.

'I, too, want that and still do, in a way,' she replied softly. His calmness had brought her out of her rebellious mood, and she was open to discussing things with him.

'You do?' he said surprised.

"You do?" he said, surprised.

'I see that in a worldly sense my conduct with Mr. Long may be considered a mistake.'

'I realize that, in a practical sense, my behavior with Mr. Long might be seen as a mistake.'

'H'm-I am glad to hear that-after my death you may see it more clearly still; and you won't have long to wait, to my reckoning.'

'H'm—I’m glad to hear that. After I’m gone, you might understand it even better; and you won’t have to wait long, by my estimation.'

She fell into bitter repentance, and kissed him in her anguish. 'Don't say that!' she cried. 'Tell me what to do?'

She was overcome with regret and kissed him in her pain. "Don't say that!" she exclaimed. "What should I do?"

'If you'll leave me for an hour or two I'll think. Drive to the market and back-the carriage is at the door-and I'll try to collect my senses. Dinner can be put back till you return.'

'If you could leave me for an hour or two, I’ll think. Take the carriage to the market and back—it’s waiting at the door—and I’ll try to gather my thoughts. We can delay dinner until you get back.'

In a few minutes she was dressed, and the carriage bore her up the hill which divided the village and manor from the market-town.

In just a few minutes, she was dressed, and the carriage took her up the hill that separated the village and manor from the market town.

CHAPTER V

A quarter of an hour brought her into the High Street, and for want of a more important errand she called at the harness-maker's for a dog-collar that she required.

A fifteen-minute walk took her to High Street, and since she didn't have a more important task, she stopped by the harness shop to pick up a dog collar she needed.

It happened to be market-day, and Nicholas, having postponed the engagements which called him thither to keep the appointment with her in the Sallows, rushed off at the end of the afternoon to attend to them as well as he could. Arriving thus in a great hurry on account of the lateness of the hour, he still retained the wild, amphibious appearance which had marked him when he came up from the meadows to her side-an exceptional condition of things which had scarcely ever before occurred. When she crossed the pavement from the shop door, the shopman bowing and escorting her to the carriage, Nicholas chanced to be standing at the road-waggon office, talking to the master of the waggons. There were a good many people about, and those near paused and looked at her transit, in the full stroke of the level October sun, which went under the brims of their hats, and pierced through their button-holes. From the group she heard murmured the words: 'Mrs. Nicholas Long.'

It was market day, and Nicholas, having postponed his other plans to keep his appointment with her in the Sallows, rushed off at the end of the afternoon to take care of them as best as he could. Arriving in a hurry because of the late hour, he still had the wild, rugged look he had when he came up from the meadows to her side—an unusual situation that had rarely happened before. As she crossed the pavement from the shop door, the shopkeeper bowing and escorting her to the carriage, Nicholas happened to be standing at the road-wagon office, talking to the wagon master. There were quite a few people around, and those nearby paused to watch her pass, bathed in the strong light of the October sun, which peeked under the brims of their hats and pierced through their buttonholes. From the group, she heard whispers of the words: 'Mrs. Nicholas Long.'

The unexpected remark, not without distinct satire in its tone, took her so greatly by surprise that she was confounded. Nicholas was by this time nearer, though coming against the sun he had not yet perceived her. Influenced by her father's lecture, she felt angry with him for being there and causing this awkwardness. Her notice of him was therefore slight, supercilious perhaps, slurred over; and her vexation at his presence showed distinctly in her face as she sat down in her seat. Instead of catching his waiting eye, she positively turned her head away.

The unexpected comment, laced with clear sarcasm, took her completely off guard and left her speechless. Nicholas was closer now, but he still hadn't noticed her because he was facing the sun. Influenced by her father's lecture, she felt annoyed at him for being there and creating this uncomfortable situation. As a result, she barely acknowledged him, perhaps even dismissively; her irritation at his presence was evident on her face as she sat down. Instead of looking at him, she deliberately turned her head away.

A moment after she was sorry she had treated him so; but he was gone.

A moment later, she regretted how she had treated him, but he was gone.

Reaching home she found on her dressing-table a note from her father. The statement was brief:

Reaching home, she found a note from her father on her dresser. The message was short:

I have considered and am of the same opinion. You must marry him. He can leave home at once and travel as proposed. I have written to him to this effect. I don't want any victuals, so don't wait dinner for me.

I’ve thought it over and I agree. You need to marry him. He can leave home right away and travel as planned. I’ve already written to him about this. I don’t want any food, so don’t wait for dinner for me.

Nicholas was the wrong kind of man to be blind to his Christine's mortification, though he did not know its entire cause. He had lately foreseen something of this sort as possible.

Nicholas was not the type of man to overlook Christine's embarrassment, even though he didn’t fully understand why she felt that way. Lately, he had sensed that something like this might happen.

'It serves me right,' he thought, as he trotted homeward. 'It was absurd-wicked of me to lead her on so. The sacrifice would have been too great-too cruel!' And yet, though he thus took her part, he flushed with indignation every time he said to himself, 'She is ashamed of me!'

'It's my own fault,' he thought as he walked home. 'It was ridiculous—mean of me to encourage her like that. The cost would have been too high—too harsh!' And yet, even as he defended her, he felt a surge of anger every time he reminded himself, 'She is ashamed of me!'

On the ridge which overlooked Froom-Everard he met a neighbour of his-a stock-dealer-in his gig, and they drew rein and exchanged a few words. A part of the dealer's conversation had much meaning for Nicholas.

On the ridge that overlooked Froom-Everard, he ran into a neighbor of his—a stock dealer—in his carriage, and they pulled up and exchanged a few words. A part of the dealer's conversation had a lot of significance for Nicholas.

'I've had occasion to call on Squire Everard,' the former said; 'but he couldn't see me on account of being quite knocked up at some bad news he has heard.'

'I've had a chance to visit Squire Everard,' the former said; 'but he couldn't see me because he was really exhausted from some bad news he received.'

Nicholas rode on past Froom-Everard to Elsenford Farm, pondering. He had new and startling matter for thought as soon as he got there. The Squire's note had arrived. At first he could not credit its import; then he saw further, took in the tone of the letter, saw the writer's contempt behind the words, and understood that the letter was written as by a man hemmed into a corner. Christine was defiantly-insultingly-hurled at his head. He was accepted because he was so despised.

Nicholas rode past Froom-Everard to Elsenford Farm, deep in thought. He had new and shocking things to consider as soon as he arrived. The Squire's note had come. At first, he couldn't believe what it meant; then he realized more, picked up on the tone of the letter, recognized the writer's disdain behind the words, and understood that the letter came from someone feeling trapped. Christine was thrown at him defiantly and insultingly. He was accepted simply because he was so loathed.

And yet with what respect he had treated her and hers! Now he was reminded of what an agricultural friend had said years ago, seeing the eyes of Nicholas fixed on Christine as on an angel when she passed: 'Better a little fire to warm 'ee than a great one to burn 'ee. No good can come of throwing your heart there.' He went into the mead, sat down, and asked himself four questions:

And yet, how respectfully he had treated her and her family! Now he was reminded of something an agricultural friend had said years ago, seeing Nicholas gazing at Christine like she was an angel when she walked by: 'Better a small fire to warm you than a big one to burn you. Nothing good comes from throwing your heart into that.' He went into the meadow, sat down, and asked himself four questions:

1. How could she live near her acquaintance as his wife, even in his absence, without suffering martyrdom from the stings of their contempt?

1. How could she live close to her acquaintance as his wife, even when he wasn't around, without feeling tormented by their scorn?

2. Would not this entail total estrangement between Christine and her family also, and her own consequent misery?

2. Wouldn't this mean complete separation between Christine and her family, leading to her own unhappiness?

3. Must not such isolation extinguish her affection for him?

3. Isn't such isolation bound to diminish her feelings for him?

4. Supposing that her father rigged them out as colonists and sent them off to America, was not the effect of such exile upon one of her gentle nurture likely to be as the last?

4. If her father sent them off to America as colonists, wouldn't the impact of such exile on someone raised so gently be similar to the last?

In short, whatever they should embark in together would be cruelty to her, and his death would be a relief. It would, indeed, in one aspect be a relief to her now, if she were so ashamed of him as she had appeared to be that day. Were he dead, this little episode with him would fade away like a dream.

In short, anything they tried to do together would be cruel to her, and his death would actually be a relief. It would, in some ways, be a relief to her now if she felt as ashamed of him as she seemed to that day. If he were dead, this brief situation with him would disappear like a dream.

Mr. Everard was a good-hearted man at bottom, but to take his enraged offer seriously was impossible. Obviously it was hotly made in his first bitterness at what he had heard. The least thing that he could do would be to go away and never trouble her more. To travel and learn and come back in two years, as mapped out in their first sanguine scheme, required a staunch heart on her side, if the necessary expenditure of time and money were to be afterwards justified; and it were folly to calculate on that when he had seen to-day that her heart was failing her already. To travel and disappear and not be heard of for many years would be a far more independent stroke, and it would leave her entirely unfettered. Perhaps he might rival in this kind the accomplished Mr. Bellston, of whose journeyings he had heard so much.

Mr. Everard was a genuinely kind man, but it was impossible to take his angry offer seriously. It was obviously made in the heat of his initial anger at what he had just heard. The least he could do would be to walk away and stop bothering her. Traveling, learning, and returning in two years, as they had originally planned with such enthusiasm, would require a strong commitment from her if they were to justify the necessary time and money spent. It was foolish to rely on that when he had seen today that she was already struggling with her feelings. Traveling away and disappearing for many years would be a much more independent choice and would leave her completely free. Maybe he could even match the adventures of the skilled Mr. Bellston, whose travels he had heard so much about.

He sat and sat, and the fog rose out of the river, enveloping him like a fleece; first his feet and knees, then his arms and body, and finally submerging his head. When he had come to a decision he went up again into the homestead. He would be independent, if he died for it, and he would free Christine. Exile was the only course. The first step was to inform his uncle of his determination.

He sat there for a long time, and the fog floated up from the river, wrapping around him like a blanket; first his feet and knees, then his arms and torso, and finally covering his head. Once he made up his mind, he went back up to the house. He was determined to be independent, even if it cost him his life, and he wanted to free Christine. Exile was the only option. The first step was to let his uncle know about his decision.

Two days later Nicholas was on the same spot in the mead, at almost the same hour of eve. But there was no fog now; a blusterous autumn wind had ousted the still, golden days and misty nights; and he was going, full of purpose, in the opposite direction. When he had last entered the mead he was an inhabitant of the Froom valley; in forty-eight hours he had severed himself from that spot as completely as if he had never belonged to it. All that appertained to him in the Froom valley now was circumscribed by the portmanteau in his hand.

Two days later, Nicholas was in the same spot in the meadow, at almost the same time in the evening. But there was no fog now; a strong autumn wind had chased away the calm, golden days and misty nights. He was walking, full of determination, in the opposite direction. When he had last entered the meadow, he was a resident of the Froom valley; in forty-eight hours, he had cut himself off from that place as completely as if he had never belonged to it. All that connected him to the Froom valley now was limited to the suitcase in his hand.

In making his preparations for departure he had unconsciously held a faint, foolish hope that she would communicate with him and make up their estrangement in some soft womanly way. But she had given no signal, and it was too evident to him that her latest mood had grown to be her fixed one, proving how well founded had been his impulse to set her free.

In getting ready to leave, he had unconsciously clung to a slight, silly hope that she would reach out to him and reconcile their distance in some gentle, feminine way. But she made no move, and it became clear to him that her current mood had become a constant, confirming how justified his decision to let her go had been.

He entered the Sallows, found his way in the dark to the garden-door of the house, slipped under it a note to tell her of his departure, and explaining its true reason to be a consciousness of her growing feeling that he was an encumbrance and a humiliation. Of the direction of his journey and of the date of his return he said nothing.

He went into the Sallows, made his way through the dark to the garden door of the house, and slipped a note under it to let her know he was leaving. In the note, he explained that the real reason for his departure was his awareness of her growing belief that he was a burden and an embarrassment. He didn't mention where he was going or when he would be back.

His course now took him into the high road, which he pursued for some miles in a north-easterly direction, still spinning the thread of sad inferences, and asking himself why he should ever return. At daybreak he stood on the hill above Shottsford-Forum, and awaited a coach which passed about this time along that highway towards Melchester and London.

His journey now led him onto the highway, which he followed for several miles in a northeastern direction, still weaving a thread of sad thoughts and wondering why he should ever go back. At dawn, he stood on the hill above Shottsford-Forum, waiting for a coach that usually passed by around this time, heading toward Melchester and London.

CHAPTER VI

Some fifteen years after the date of the foregoing incidents, a man who had dwelt in far countries, and viewed many cities, arrived at Roy-Town, a roadside hamlet on the old western turnpike road, not five miles from Froom-Everard, and put up at the Buck's Head, an isolated inn at that spot. He was still barely of middle age, but it could be seen that a haze of grey was settling upon the locks of his hair, and that his face had lost colour and curve, as if by exposure to bleaching climates and strange atmospheres, or from ailments incidental thereto. He seemed to observe little around him, by reason of the intrusion of his musings upon the scene. In truth Nicholas Long was just now the creature of old hopes and fears consequent upon his arrival-this man who once had not cared if his name were blotted out from that district. The evening light showed wistful lines which he could not smooth away by the worldling's gloss of nonchalance that he had learnt to fling over his face.

Some fifteen years after the events mentioned earlier, a man who had traveled to distant lands and seen many cities arrived at Roy-Town, a small village on the old western turnpike road, not five miles from Froom-Everard, and checked into the Buck's Head, a secluded inn in that area. He was still just shy of middle age, but it was clear that streaks of gray were starting to show in his hair, and his face had lost its color and shape, as if from exposure to harsh climates and unfamiliar environments, or from related illnesses. He seemed to take little notice of his surroundings, distracted by his thoughts about what was happening. In fact, Nicholas Long was currently caught up in old hopes and fears that had resurfaced with his return—this was a man who once didn't care if his name vanished from that place. The evening light revealed sad lines on his face that he couldn't hide with the casual nonchalance he had learned to wear as a mask.

The Buck's Head was a somewhat unusual place for a man of this sort to choose as a house of sojourn in preference to some Casterbridge inn four miles further on. Before he left home it had been a lively old tavern at which High-flyers, and Heralds, and Tally-hoes had changed horses on their stages up and down the country; but now the house was rather cavernous and chilly, the stable-roofs were hollow-backed, the landlord was asthmatic, and the traffic gone.

The Buck's Head was an odd choice for a guy like him to stay at instead of one of the inns in Casterbridge, which was four miles down the road. Back when he lived there, it was a bustling tavern where high-flyers, heralds, and tally-ho drivers would stop to change horses on their journeys across the country. But now, the place felt pretty empty and cold, the stable roofs were sagging, the landlord had asthma, and there was hardly any traffic.

He arrived in the afternoon, and when he had sent back the fly and was having a nondescript meal, he put a question to the waiting-maid with a mien of indifference.

He arrived in the afternoon, and after he had sent the fly away and was having a bland meal, he asked the waiting maid a question with an air of indifference.

'Squire Everard, of Froom-Everard Manor, has been dead some years, I believe?'

'Squire Everard, of Froom-Everard Manor, has been dead for several years, I think?'

She replied in the affirmative.

She replied yes.

'And are any of the family left there still?'

'Are any of the family still there?'

'O no, bless you, sir! They sold the place years ago-Squire Everard's son did-and went away. I've never heard where they went to. They came quite to nothing.'

'O no, bless you, sir! They sold the place years ago—Squire Everard's son did—and left. I’ve never heard where they went. They ended up with nothing.'

'Never heard anything of the young lady-the Squire's daughter?'

'Never heard anything about the young lady—the Squire's daughter?'

'No. You see 'twas before I came to these parts.'

'No. You see, it was before I arrived in this area.'

When the waitress left the room, Nicholas pushed aside his plate and gazed out of the window. He was not going over into the Froom Valley altogether on Christine's account, but she had greatly animated his motive in coming that way. Anyhow he would push on there now that he was so near, and not ask questions here where he was liable to be wrongly informed. The fundamental inquiry he had not ventured to make-whether Christine had married before the family went away. He had abstained because of an absurd dread of extinguishing hopeful surmise. That the Everards had left their old home was bad enough intelligence for one day.

When the waitress left the room, Nicholas pushed his plate aside and looked out the window. He wasn't going to the Froom Valley solely for Christine, but she had definitely inspired him to take this route. Anyway, now that he was so close, he would continue there and avoid asking questions here that might lead to wrong answers. He hadn't dared to ask the crucial question—whether Christine had married before the family left. He held back because of a silly fear that he’d ruin his hopeful expectations. It was already tough news that the Everards had left their old home.

Rising from the table he put on his hat and went out, ascending towards the upland which divided this district from his native vale. The first familiar feature that met his eye was a little spot on the distant sky-a clump of trees standing on a barrow which surmounted a yet more remote upland-a point where, in his childhood, he had believed people could stand and see America. He reached the further verge of the plateau on which he had entered. Ah, there was the valley-a greenish-grey stretch of colour-still looking placid and serene, as though it had not much missed him. If Christine was no longer there, why should he pause over it this evening? His uncle and aunt were dead, and to-morrow would be soon enough to inquire for remoter relatives. Thus, disinclined to go further, he turned to retrace his way to the inn.

Rising from the table, he put on his hat and stepped outside, making his way up to the high ground that separated this area from his hometown valley. The first familiar sight that caught his attention was a little spot in the distant sky—a cluster of trees on a hill that overlooked an even more distant upland—a place where, in his childhood, he had thought people could stand and see America. He reached the edge of the plateau where he had entered. Ah, there was the valley—a greenish-grey expanse still looking calm and peaceful, as if it hadn’t really missed him. If Christine wasn’t there anymore, why should he linger over it this evening? His uncle and aunt were gone, and tomorrow would be soon enough to ask about distant relatives. So, feeling reluctant to go any further, he turned to make his way back to the inn.

In the backward path he now perceived the figure of a woman, who had been walking at a distance behind him; and as she drew nearer he began to be startled. Surely, despite the variations introduced into that figure by changing years, its ground-lines were those of Christine?

In the path behind him, he now noticed a woman who had been walking a short distance back; as she approached, he started to feel surprised. Surely, even with the changes brought by the passing years, the basic shape of that figure was unmistakably Christine's?

Nicholas had been sentimental enough to write to Christine immediately on landing at Southampton a day or two before this, addressing his letter at a venture to the old house, and merely telling her that he planned to reach the Roy-Town inn on the present afternoon. The news of the scattering of the Everards had dissipated his hope of hearing of her; but here she was.

Nicholas had been sentimental enough to write to Christine right after landing in Southampton a day or two ago, sending his letter to the old house on a whim, and just letting her know that he intended to arrive at the Roy-Town inn that afternoon. The news about the Everards dispersing had crushed his hope of hearing from her; but here she was.

So they met-there, alone, on the open down by a pond, just as if the meeting had been carefully arranged.

So they met there, alone, in the open field by a pond, just as if the meeting had been planned out perfectly.

She threw up her veil. She was still beautiful, though the years had touched her; a little more matronly-much more homely. Or was it only that he was much less homely now-a man of the world-the sense of homeliness being relative? Her face had grown to be pre-eminently of the sort that would be called interesting. Her habiliments were of a demure and sober cast, though she was one who had used to dress so airily and so gaily. Years had laid on a few shadows too in this.

She lifted her veil. She was still beautiful, even though the years had changed her; a bit more mature—definitely more ordinary. Or maybe it was just that he looked far less ordinary now—a worldly man—the idea of ordinariness being relative? Her face had become distinctly the kind that people would describe as interesting. Her clothes were modest and understated, even though she used to dress so lightheartedly and colorfully. The years had added a few shadows to this as well.

'I received your letter,' she said, when the momentary embarrassment of their first approach had passed. 'And I thought I would walk across the hills to-day, as it was fine. I have just called at the inn, and they told me you were out. I was now on my way homeward.'

'I got your letter,' she said, once the awkwardness of their first meeting had faded. 'I thought I’d take a walk across the hills today since the weather is nice. I just stopped by the inn, and they told me you were out. I was just on my way back home.'

He hardly listened to this, though he intently gazed at her. 'Christine,' he said, 'one word. Are you free?'

He barely listened to this, even though he was staring at her intently. 'Christine,' he said, 'just one word. Are you free?'

'I-I am in a certain sense,' she replied, colouring.

"I-I am in a way," she replied, blushing.

The announcement had a magical effect. The intervening time between past and present closed up for him, and moved by an impulse which he had combated for fifteen years, he seized her two hands and drew her towards him.

The announcement had a captivating effect. The time between the past and present blurred for him, and driven by an impulse he had fought for fifteen years, he took her hands in his and pulled her close.

She started back, and became almost a mere acquaintance. 'I have to tell you,' she gasped, 'that I have-been married.'

She stepped back and became almost just an acquaintance. 'I have to tell you,' she breathed, 'that I've been married.'

Nicholas's rose-coloured dream was immediately toned down to a greyish tinge.

Nicholas's rosy dream quickly became overshadowed by a dull gray.

'I did not marry till many years after you had left,' she continued in the humble tones of one confessing to a crime. 'Oh Nic,' she cried reproachfully, 'how could you stay away so long?'

'I didn’t get married until many years after you left,' she continued in a humble tone, like someone admitting to a wrongdoing. 'Oh Nic,' she exclaimed, sounding hurt, 'how could you be gone for so long?'

'Whom did you marry?'

'Who did you marry?'

'Mr. Bellston.'

'I-ought to have expected it.' He was going to add, 'And is he dead?' but he checked himself. Her dress unmistakably suggested widowhood; and she had said she was free.

'I should have seen this coming.' He was about to say, 'Is he dead?' but held back. Her dress clearly indicated that she was a widow, and she had mentioned that she was free.

'I must now hasten home,' said she. 'I felt that, considering my shortcomings at our parting so many years ago, I owed you the initiative now.'

"I need to get home now," she said. "I felt that, given my flaws when we parted all those years ago, I should take the initiative now."

'There is some of your old generosity in that. I'll walk with you, if I may. Where are you living, Christine?'

'There's a bit of your old kindness in that. I'll walk with you, if that's okay. Where are you living, Christine?'

'In the same house, but not on the old conditions. I have part of it on lease; the farmer now tenanting the premises found the whole more than he wanted, and the owner allowed me to keep what rooms I chose. I am poor now, you know, Nicholas, and almost friendless. My brother sold the Froom-Everard estate when it came to him, and the person who bought it turned our home into a farmhouse. Till my father's death my husband and I lived in the manor-house with him, so that I have never lived away from the spot.'

'I'm in the same house, but things are different now. I have a lease for part of it; the farmer who's renting the place found it too much to handle, so the owner let me keep the rooms I wanted. I'm struggling financially now, you know, Nicholas, and I feel almost friendless. My brother sold the Froom-Everard estate when he got it, and the buyer converted our home into a farmhouse. Until my father died, my husband and I lived in the manor-house with him, so I've never really lived anywhere else.'

She was poor. That, and the change of name, sufficiently accounted for the inn-servant's ignorance of her continued existence within the walls of her old home.

She was poor. That, along with the name change, was enough to explain why the inn servant didn’t know she was still living in her old home.

It was growing dusk, and he still walked with her. A woman's head arose from the declivity before them, and as she drew nearer, Christine asked him to go back.

It was getting dark, and he was still walking with her. A woman's head appeared from the slope ahead of them, and as she got closer, Christine asked him to turn back.

'This is the wife of the farmer who shares the house,' she said. 'She is accustomed to come out and meet me whenever I walk far and am benighted. I am obliged to walk everywhere now.'

'This is the farmer's wife who shares the house,' she said. 'She usually comes out to greet me whenever I walk far and it's getting dark. I have to walk everywhere now.'

The farmer's wife, seeing that Christine was not alone, paused in her advance, and Nicholas said, 'Dear Christine, if you are obliged to do these things, I am not, and what wealth I can command you may command likewise. They say rolling stones gather no moss; but they gather dross sometimes. I was one of the pioneers to the gold-fields, you know, and made a sufficient fortune there for my wants. What is more, I kept it. When I had done this I was coming home, but hearing of my uncle's death I changed my plan, travelled, speculated, and increased my fortune. Now, before we part: you remember you stood with me at the altar once, and therefore I speak with less preparation than I should otherwise use. Before we part then I ask, shall another again intrude between us? Or shall we complete the union we began?'

The farmer's wife, noticing that Christine wasn’t alone, stopped her approach, and Nicholas said, "Dear Christine, if you have to handle these matters, I don’t, and whatever wealth I have, you are welcome to as well. They say that rolling stones gather no moss; but sometimes they just gather junk. I was one of the first to go to the gold fields, you know, and I made enough money there for my needs. What’s more, I kept it. After that, I was heading home, but when I heard about my uncle’s death, I changed my plans, traveled, invested, and grew my fortune. Now, before we say goodbye: you remember standing with me at the altar once, so I’m speaking with less formality than I might normally use. So, before we part, I ask, will someone else come between us again? Or shall we finish the union we started?"

She trembled-just as she had done at that very minute of standing with him in the church, to which he had recalled her mind. 'I will not enter into that now, dear Nicholas,' she replied. 'There will be more to talk of and consider first-more to explain, which it would have spoiled this meeting to have entered into now.'

She shook—just like she had when she stood with him in the church, which he had brought back to her mind. 'I won't get into that right now, dear Nicholas,' she said. 'There will be more to discuss and think about first—more to explain, and it would have ruined this meeting to dive into it now.'

'Yes, yes; but-'

"Yeah, yeah; but-"

'Further than the brief answer I first gave, Nic, don't press me to- night. I still have the old affection for you, or I should not have sought you. Let that suffice for the moment.'

'Beyond the short answer I gave you earlier, Nic, please don’t push me tonight. I still care about you, or I wouldn’t have come looking for you. Let that be enough for now.'

'Very well, dear one. And when shall I call to see you?'

'Alright, my dear. When should I come to see you?'

'I will write and fix an hour. I will tell you everything of my history then.'

'I’ll schedule an hour to write and share. I’ll tell you all about my history then.'

And thus they parted, Nicholas feeling that he had not come here fruitlessly. When she and her companion were out of sight he retraced his steps to Roy-Town, where he made himself as comfortable as he could in the deserted old inn of his boyhood's days. He missed her companionship this evening more than he had done at any time during the whole fifteen years; and it was as though instead of separation there had been constant communion with her throughout that period. The tones of her voice had stirred his heart in a nook which had lain stagnant ever since he last heard them. They recalled the woman to whom he had once lifted his eyes as to a goddess. Her announcement that she had been another's came as a little shock to him, and he did not now lift his eyes to her in precisely the same way as he had lifted them at first. But he forgave her for marrying Bellston; what could he expect after fifteen years?

And so they said goodbye, with Nicholas feeling like his visit hadn't been a waste. Once she and her friend were out of sight, he walked back to Roy-Town, where he settled into the old inn from his childhood as best as he could. He missed her company that evening more than he had in the past fifteen years; it felt as if, instead of being apart, they had been in constant connection throughout that time. The sound of her voice had awakened feelings in his heart that had been dormant since he last heard it. It brought back memories of the woman he had once admired like a goddess. Her revelation that she had belonged to someone else was a bit of a shock, and he could no longer look at her the same way he had at first. Still, he forgave her for marrying Bellston; what else could he expect after fifteen years?

He slept at Roy-Town that night, and in the morning there was a short note from her, repeating more emphatically her statement of the previous evening-that she wished to inform him clearly of her circumstances, and to calmly consider with him the position in which she was placed. Would he call upon her on Sunday afternoon, when she was sure to be alone?

He spent the night at Roy-Town, and in the morning, he found a brief note from her. It emphasized her message from the night before—she wanted to clearly explain her situation and thoughtfully discuss the position she was in with him. Would he visit her on Sunday afternoon when she was sure to be alone?

'Nic,' she wrote on, 'what a cosmopolite you are! I expected to find my old yeoman still; but I was quite awed in the presence of such a citizen of the world. Did I seem rusty and unpractised? Ah-you seemed so once to me!'

'Nic,' she wrote on, 'you're such a cosmopolitan! I thought I’d find my old countryman, but I was really impressed by someone so worldly. Did I come across as outdated and inexperienced? You seemed that way to me once too!'

Tender playful words; the old Christine was in them. She said Sunday afternoon, and it was now only Saturday morning. He wished she had said to-day; that short revival of her image had vitalized to sudden heat feelings that had almost been stilled. Whatever she might have to explain as to her position-and it was awkwardly narrowed, no doubt-he could not give her up. Miss Everard or Mrs. Bellston, what mattered it?-she was the same Christine.

Tender, playful words; the old Christine was in them. She said Sunday afternoon, and it was now only Saturday morning. He wished she had said today; that brief flash of her image had reignited feelings that had almost faded. Whatever she might need to explain about her situation—and it was undoubtedly complicated—he couldn’t let her go. Miss Everard or Mrs. Bellston, what did it matter? She was still the same Christine.

He did not go outside the inn all Saturday. He had no wish to see or do anything but to await the coming interview. So he smoked, and read the local newspaper of the previous week, and stowed himself in the chimney- corner. In the evening he felt that he could remain indoors no longer, and the moon being near the full, he started from the inn on foot in the same direction as that of yesterday, with the view of contemplating the old village and its precincts, and hovering round her house under the cloak of night.

He didn't leave the inn all Saturday. He had no desire to see or do anything except wait for the upcoming meeting. So, he smoked, read last week's local newspaper, and settled himself in the corner by the fireplace. In the evening, he felt he couldn't stay indoors any longer, and with the moon nearly full, he left the inn on foot, heading in the same direction as the day before, planning to admire the old village and its surroundings while lingering near her house under the cover of night.

With a stout stick in his hand he climbed over the five miles of upland in a comparatively short space of time. Nicholas had seen many strange lands and trodden many strange ways since he last walked that path, but as he trudged he seemed wonderfully like his old self, and had not the slightest difficulty in finding the way. In descending to the meads the streams perplexed him a little, some of the old foot-bridges having been removed; but he ultimately got across the larger water-courses, and pushed on to the village, avoiding her residence for the moment, lest she should encounter him, and think he had not respected the time of her appointment.

With a sturdy stick in his hand, he made his way over five miles of hilly terrain in a relatively short time. Nicholas had experienced many strange places and walked many unfamiliar paths since he last traveled this route, but as he trudged along, he felt surprisingly like his old self and had no trouble at all finding his way. While descending to the meadows, the streams confused him a bit, as some of the old footbridges were gone; however, he eventually crossed the larger waterways and continued on to the village, steering clear of her place for the moment, in case she saw him and thought he had disrespected the time of their appointment.

He found his way to the churchyard, and first ascertained where lay the two relations he had left alive at his departure; then he observed the gravestones of other inhabitants with whom he had been well acquainted, till by degrees he seemed to be in the society of all the elder Froom- Everard population, as he had known the place. Side by side as they had lived in his day here were they now. They had moved house in mass.

He made his way to the churchyard and first checked where the two relatives he had left alive were buried. Then he looked at the gravestones of other people he had known well, until he felt like he was surrounded by all the older Froom-Everard residents he had known in his time. They were all here, side by side, just as they had lived in his day. They had all moved in together.

But no tomb of Mr. Bellston was visible, though, as he had lived at the manor-house, it would have been natural to find it here. In truth Nicholas was more anxious to discover that than anything, being curious to know how long he had been dead. Seeing from the glimmer of a light in the church that somebody was there cleaning for Sunday he entered, and looked round upon the walls as well as he could. But there was no monument to her husband, though one had been erected to the Squire.

But there was no tomb of Mr. Bellston in sight, even though it would have made sense for it to be at the manor house where he lived. Honestly, Nicholas was more eager to find that out than anything else, as he was curious about how long he had been dead. Noticing a light flickering in the church that indicated someone was inside cleaning for Sunday, he stepped in and looked around at the walls as best as he could. However, there was no memorial for her husband, although one had been put up for the Squire.

Nicholas addressed the young man who was sweeping. 'I don't see any monument or tomb to the late Mr. Bellston?'

Nicholas spoke to the young man who was sweeping. 'I don't see any monument or grave for the late Mr. Bellston?'

'O no, sir; you won't see that,' said the young man drily.

'O no, sir; you won't see that,' the young man said dryly.

'Why, pray?'

'Why, please?'

'Because he's not buried here. He's not Christian-buried anywhere, as far as we know. In short, perhaps he's not buried at all; and between ourselves, perhaps he's alive.'

'Because he's not buried here. He’s not buried in a Christian way anywhere, as far as we know. In short, maybe he’s not buried at all; and to be honest, maybe he’s alive.'

Nicholas sank an inch shorter. 'Ah,' he answered.

Nicholas shrank an inch shorter. 'Oh,' he said.

'Then you don't know the peculiar circumstances, sir?'

'So, you don't know the strange situation, sir?'

'I am a stranger here-as to late years.'

'I feel like a stranger here, especially in recent years.'

'Mr. Bellston was a traveller-an explorer-it was his calling; you may have heard his name as such?'

'Mr. Bellston was a traveler—an explorer—it was his calling; you may have heard his name in that context?'

'I remember.' Nicholas recalled the fact that this very bent of Mr. Bellston's was the incentive to his own roaming.

'I remember.' Nicholas thought back to how Mr. Bellston's unusual behavior inspired his own wandering.

'Well, when he married he came and lived here with his wife and his wife's father, and said he would travel no more. But after a time he got weary of biding quiet here, and weary of her-he was not a good husband to the young lady by any means-and he betook himself again to his old trick of roving-with her money. Away he went, quite out of the realm of human foot, into the bowels of Asia, and never was heard of more. He was murdered, it is said, but nobody knows; though as that was nine years ago he's dead enough in principle, if not in corporation. His widow lives quite humble, for between her husband and her brother she's left in very lean pasturage.'

'Well, after he got married, he moved in with his wife and her dad, saying he wouldn’t travel anymore. But after a while, he got tired of staying put and tired of her—he wasn’t a good husband to her at all—and he went back to his old habit of wandering off—with her money. He disappeared completely, venturing into the heart of Asia, and nobody ever heard from him again. They say he was murdered, but no one knows for sure; still, since that was nine years ago, he’s pretty much dead in spirit, if not in body. His widow lives quite modestly, because between her husband and her brother, she’s been left with very little to get by.'

Nicholas went back to the Buck's Head without hovering round her dwelling. This then was the explanation which she had wanted to make. Not dead, but missing. How could he have expected that the first fair promise of happiness held out to him would remain untarnished? She had said that she was free; and legally she was free, no doubt. Moreover, from her tone and manner he felt himself justified in concluding that she would be willing to run the risk of a union with him, in the improbability of her husband's existence. Even if that husband lived, his return was not a likely event, to judge from his character. A man who could spend her money on his own personal adventures would not be anxious to disturb her poverty after such a lapse of time.

Nicholas went back to the Buck's Head without lingering around her place. This was what she had wanted to explain. Not dead, but missing. How could he have thought that the first real promise of happiness offered to him would stay untainted? She had said she was free; and legally, she was definitely free. Plus, from her tone and demeanor, he felt justified in thinking she would be willing to take the chance of being with him, considering the unlikelihood of her husband's existence. Even if that husband were alive, his return didn't seem likely, judging by his character. A man who could waste her money on his own personal escapades wouldn't be eager to disrupt her life after such a long time.

Well, the prospect was not so unclouded as it had seemed. But could he, even now, give up Christine?

Well, the outlook wasn't as clear as it had appeared. But could he, even now, let go of Christine?

CHAPTER VII

Two months more brought the year nearly to a close, and found Nicholas Long tenant of a spacious house in the market-town nearest to Froom- Everard. A man of means, genial character, and a bachelor, he was an object of great interest to his neighbours, and to his neighbours' wives and daughters. But he took little note of this, and had made it his business to go twice a week, no matter what the weather, to the now farmhouse at Froom-Everard, a wing of which had been retained as the refuge of Christine. He always walked, to give no trouble in putting up a horse to a housekeeper whose staff was limited.

Two months later, the year was almost over, and Nicholas Long was living in a spacious house in the nearest market town to Froom-Everard. A well-off, friendly bachelor, he was a source of great interest for his neighbors, as well as for the wives and daughters of those neighbors. However, he paid little attention to this and made it a point to visit the farmhouse at Froom-Everard twice a week, regardless of the weather. A wing of the farmhouse had been kept as a refuge for Christine. He always walked there to avoid inconveniencing the housekeeper, whose staff was limited.

The two had put their heads together on the situation, had gone to a solicitor, had balanced possibilities, and had resolved to make the plunge of matrimony. 'Nothing venture, nothing have,' Christine had said, with some of her old audacity.

The two had collaborated on the situation, visited a lawyer, weighed their options, and decided to take the leap into marriage. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained," Christine had said, with a hint of her old boldness.

With almost gratuitous honesty they had let their intentions be widely known. Christine, it is true, had rather shrunk from publicity at first; but Nicholas argued that their boldness in this respect would have good results. With his friends he held that there was not the slightest probability of her being other than a widow, and a challenge to the missing man now, followed by no response, would stultify any unpleasant remarks which might be thrown at her after their union. To this end a paragraph was inserted in the Wessex papers, announcing that their marriage was proposed to be celebrated on such and such a day in December.

With almost effortless honesty, they openly revealed their intentions. Christine had initially been hesitant about the publicity; however, Nicholas insisted that being bold about it would yield positive outcomes. He and his friends believed there was no chance she would be seen as anything but a widow, and a challenge to the missing man now, with no reply, would negate any unpleasant comments that might arise after their marriage. To this end, a notice was published in the Wessex papers, stating that their wedding was planned for a specific day in December.

His periodic walks along the south side of the valley to visit her were among the happiest experiences of his life. The yellow leaves falling around him in the foreground, the well-watered meads on the left hand, and the woman he loved awaiting him at the back of the scene, promised a future of much serenity, as far as human judgment could foresee. On arriving, he would sit with her in the 'parlour' of the wing she retained, her general sitting-room, where the only relics of her early surroundings were an old clock from the other end of the house, and her own piano. Before it was quite dark they would stand, hand in hand, looking out of the window across the flat turf to the dark clump of trees which hid further view from their eyes.

His regular walks along the south side of the valley to visit her were some of the happiest moments of his life. The yellow leaves falling around him in the foreground, the well-watered meadows to his left, and the woman he loved waiting for him in the background promised a future full of peace, as far as anyone could tell. When he arrived, he would sit with her in the "parlor" of the wing she kept, her main sitting room, where the only reminders of her early life were an old clock from the other end of the house and her own piano. Before it got too dark, they would stand, hand in hand, looking out the window across the flat grass to the dark cluster of trees that blocked their view beyond.

'Do you wish you were still mistress here, dear?' he once said.

'Do you wish you were still in charge here, dear?' he once said.

'Not at all,' said she cheerfully. 'I have a good enough room, and a good enough fire, and a good enough friend. Besides, my latter days as mistress of the house were not happy ones, and they spoilt the place for me. It was a punishment for my faithlessness. Nic, you do forgive me? Really you do?'

'Not at all,' she said cheerfully. 'I have a nice room, a warm fire, and a good friend. Besides, my last days as the head of the house weren't happy ones, and they ruined the place for me. It was a consequence of my unfaithfulness. Nic, can you forgive me? Really, you do?'

The twenty-third of December, the eve of the wedding-day, had arrived at last in the train of such uneventful ones as these. Nicholas had arranged to visit her that day a little later than usual, and see that everything was ready with her for the morrow's event and her removal to his house; for he had begun to look after her domestic affairs, and to lighten as much as possible the duties of her housekeeping.

The twenty-third of December, the night before the wedding, had finally arrived after a series of uneventful days. Nicholas planned to visit her that day a bit later than usual to make sure everything was set for the next day’s event and her move to his house. He had started to take care of her home responsibilities and aimed to reduce her housekeeping workload as much as possible.

He was to come to an early supper, which she had arranged to take the place of a wedding-breakfast next day-the latter not being feasible in her present situation. An hour or so after dark the wife of the farmer who lived in the other part of the house entered Christine's parlour to lay the cloth.

He was supposed to come for an early dinner, which she had planned to serve instead of a wedding breakfast the next day—since that wasn't practical for her right now. About an hour after dark, the farmer's wife, who lived in the other part of the house, came into Christine's parlor to set the table.

'What with getting the ham skinned, and the black-puddings hotted up,' she said, 'it will take me all my time before he's here, if I begin this minute.'

'With getting the ham skinned and the black puddings heated up,' she said, 'it'll take me all my time before he's here if I start this minute.'

'I'll lay the table myself,' said Christine, jumping up. 'Do you attend to the cooking.'

"I'll set the table myself," Christine said, getting up. "You focus on the cooking."

'Thank you, ma'am. And perhaps 'tis no matter, seeing that it is the last night you'll have to do such work. I knew this sort of life wouldn't last long for 'ee, being born to better things.'

'Thank you, ma'am. And maybe it doesn't matter, since this is the last night you'll have to do this kind of work. I always knew this way of life wouldn't last long for you, given that you're meant for better things.'

'It has lasted rather long, Mrs. Wake. And if he had not found me out it would have lasted all my days.'

'It's gone on for quite a while, Mrs. Wake. And if he hadn’t figured me out, it would have gone on for the rest of my life.'

'But he did find you out.'

'But he figured you out.'

'He did. And I'll lay the cloth immediately.'

'He did. And I'll set the table right away.'

Mrs. Wake went back to the kitchen, and Christine began to bustle about. She greatly enjoyed preparing this table for Nicholas and herself with her own hands. She took artistic pleasure in adjusting each article to its position, as if half an inch error were a point of high importance. Finally she placed the two candles where they were to stand, and sat down by the fire.

Mrs. Wake returned to the kitchen, and Christine started moving around busily. She really enjoyed setting the table for Nicholas and herself with her own hands. She took artistic pleasure in arranging everything just right, as if being off by half an inch was a big deal. Finally, she set the two candles in their spots and sat down by the fire.

Mrs. Wake re-entered and regarded the effect. 'Why not have another candle or two, ma'am?' she said. ''Twould make it livelier. Say four.'

Mrs. Wake came back in and looked at the scene. "Why not add another candle or two, ma'am?" she said. "It would brighten things up. Let's say four."

'Very well,' said Christine, and four candles were lighted. 'Really,' she added, surveying them, 'I have been now so long accustomed to little economies that they look quite extravagant.'

'Alright,' said Christine, and four candles were lit. 'Honestly,' she added, looking at them, 'I've gotten so used to saving that they actually seem pretty extravagant.'

'Ah, you'll soon think nothing of forty in his grand new house! Shall I bring in supper directly he comes, ma'am?'

'Oh, you won't think twice about forty in his fancy new house! Should I bring in dinner as soon as he arrives, ma'am?'

'No, not for half an hour; and, Mrs. Wake, you and Betsy are busy in the kitchen, I know; so when he knocks don't disturb yourselves; I can let him in.'

'No, not for half an hour; and, Mrs. Wake, you and Betsy are busy in the kitchen, I know; so when he knocks, don’t worry about it; I can let him in.'

She was again left alone, and, as it still wanted some time to Nicholas's appointment, she stood by the fire, looking at herself in the glass over the mantel. Reflectively raising a lock of her hair just above her temple she uncovered a small scar. That scar had a history. The terrible temper of her late husband-those sudden moods of irascibility which had made even his friendly excitements look like anger-had once caused him to set that mark upon her with the bezel of a ring he wore. He declared that the whole thing was an accident. She was a woman, and kept her own opinion.

She was left alone again, and since there was still some time before Nicholas's appointment, she stood by the fire, looking at herself in the mirror above the mantel. As she thoughtfully raised a lock of hair just above her temple, she revealed a small scar. That scar had a story. The awful temper of her late husband—those sudden angry moods that sometimes made even his friendly excitement seem like rage—had once caused him to leave that mark on her with the edge of a ring he wore. He insisted it was all an accident. She was a woman, and she had her own opinion.

Christine then turned her back to the glass and scanned the table and the candles, shining one at each corner like types of the four Evangelists, and thought they looked too assuming-too confident. She glanced up at the clock, which stood also in this room, there not being space enough for it in the passage. It was nearly seven, and she expected Nicholas at half-past. She liked the company of this venerable article in her lonely life: its tickings and whizzings were a sort of conversation. It now began to strike the hour. At the end something grated slightly. Then, without any warning, the clock slowly inclined forward and fell at full length upon the floor.

Christine turned her back to the window and looked at the table and the candles, one shining at each corner like the four Evangelists, and thought they seemed a bit over-the-top—too self-assured. She glanced at the clock that was in the room since there wasn't enough space for it in the hallway. It was nearly seven, and she was expecting Nicholas at half-past. She appreciated the company of this old clock in her solitary life: its ticking and whirring felt like a kind of conversation. It was about to strike the hour. In the end, there was a slight grinding sound. Then, without warning, the clock slowly leaned forward and crashed to the floor.

The crash brought the farmer's wife rushing into the room. Christine had well-nigh sprung out of her shoes. Mrs. Wake's enquiry what had happened was answered by the evidence of her own eyes.

The crash sent the farmer's wife rushing into the room. Christine nearly jumped out of her shoes. Mrs. Wake's question about what happened was answered by the sight in front of her.

'How did it occur?' she said.

'How did it happen?' she said.

'I cannot say; it was not firmly fixed, I suppose. Dear me, how sorry I am! My dear father's hall-clock! And now I suppose it is ruined.'

'I can’t say; it wasn’t secured properly, I guess. Oh no, I’m so sorry! My dear father's clock! And now I guess it’s broken.'

Assisted by Mrs. Wake, she lifted the clock. Every inch of glass was, of course, shattered, but very little harm besides appeared to be done. They propped it up temporarily, though it would not go again.

Assisted by Mrs. Wake, she lifted the clock. Every inch of glass was, of course, shattered, but very little other damage seemed to be done. They propped it up temporarily, though it wouldn't work again.

Christine had soon recovered her composure, but she saw that Mrs. Wake was gloomy. 'What does it mean, Mrs. Wake?' she said. 'Is it ominous?'

Christine quickly regained her composure, but she noticed that Mrs. Wake looked gloomy. 'What does this mean, Mrs. Wake?' she asked. 'Is it a bad sign?'

'It is a sign of a violent death in the family.'

'It indicates a violent death in the family.'

'Don't talk of it. I don't believe such things; and don't mention it to Mr. Long when he comes. He's not in the family yet, you know.'

'Don't bring it up. I don't believe in that stuff, and please don't mention it to Mr. Long when he arrives. He isn't family yet, you know.'

'O no, it cannot refer to him,' said Mrs. Wake musingly.

'O no, it can't be about him,' said Mrs. Wake thoughtfully.

'Some remote cousin, perhaps,' observed Christine, no less willing to humour her than to get rid of a shapeless dread which the incident had caused in her own mind. 'And-supper is almost ready, Mrs. Wake?'

'Maybe some distant cousin,' Christine remarked, equally eager to go along with her and shake off the vague unease that the incident had stirred in her own mind. 'And is supper almost ready, Mrs. Wake?'

'In three-quarters of an hour.'

'In 45 minutes.'

Mrs. Wake left the room, and Christine sat on. Though it still wanted fifteen minutes to the hour at which Nicholas had promised to be there, she began to grow impatient. After the accustomed ticking the dead silence was oppressive. But she had not to wait so long as she had expected; steps were heard approaching the door, and there was a knock.

Mrs. Wake left the room, and Christine stayed put. Even though there were still fifteen minutes until the time Nicholas said he would arrive, she started to feel restless. The usual ticking was replaced by an overwhelming silence. However, she didn't have to wait as long as she thought; she heard footsteps coming toward the door, followed by a knock.

Christine was already there to open it. The entrance had no lamp, but it was not particularly dark out of doors. She could see the outline of a man, and cried cheerfully, 'You are early; it is very good of you.'

Christine was already there to open it. The entrance had no light, but it was not particularly dark outside. She could see the silhouette of a man and called out cheerfully, "You're early; that's very nice of you."

'I beg pardon. It is not Mr. Bellston himself-only a messenger with his bag and great-coat. But he will be here soon.'

'I’m sorry. It’s not Mr. Bellston himself—just a messenger with his bag and overcoat. But he’ll be here soon.'

The voice was not the voice of Nicholas, and the intelligence was strange. 'I-I don't understand. Mr. Bellston?' she faintly replied.

The voice wasn't Nicholas's, and it felt odd. 'I-I don't get it. Mr. Bellston?' she replied softly.

'Yes, ma'am. A gentleman-a stranger to me-gave me these things at Casterbridge station to bring on here, and told me to say that Mr. Bellston had arrived there, and is detained for half-an-hour, but will be here in the course of the evening.'

'Yes, ma'am. A man—a stranger to me—gave me these items at Casterbridge station to bring here and told me to say that Mr. Bellston has arrived there and is held up for half an hour, but will be here later this evening.'

She sank into a chair. The porter put a small battered portmanteau on the floor, the coat on a chair, and looking into the room at the spread table said, 'If you are disappointed, ma'am, that your husband (as I s'pose he is) is not come, I can assure you he'll soon be here. He's stopped to get a shave, to my thinking, seeing he wanted it. What he said was that I could tell you he had heard the news in Ireland, and would have come sooner, his hand being forced; but was hindered crossing by the weather, having took passage in a sailing vessel. What news he meant he didn't say.'

She sank into a chair. The porter placed a small worn suitcase on the floor, the coat on a chair, and while looking into the room at the set table, he said, 'If you're disappointed that your husband (I assume that's who he is) hasn’t arrived yet, I can assure you he’ll be here soon. He stopped to get a shave, I think, since he needed one. What he told me was that I could let you know he heard the news from Ireland, and he would have come sooner, but he was delayed crossing due to the weather, having taken a trip on a sailing ship. He didn’t specify what news he meant.’

'Ah, yes,' she faltered. It was plain that the man knew nothing of her intended re-marriage.

'Oh, right,' she hesitated. It was clear that the man had no idea about her plans to get remarried.

Mechanically rising and giving him a shilling, she answered to his 'good-night,' and he withdrew, the beat of his footsteps lessening in the distance. She was alone; but in what a solitude.

Mechanically getting up and giving him a shilling, she replied to his 'good-night,' and he left, the sound of his footsteps fading away. She was alone, but what a lonely place it was.

Christine stood in the middle of the hall, just as the man had left her, in the gloomy silence of the stopped clock within the adjoining room, till she aroused herself, and turning to the portmanteau and great-coat brought them to the light of the candles, and examined them. The portmanteau bore painted upon it the initials 'J. B.' in white letters-the well-known initials of her husband.

Christine stood in the middle of the hall, just as the man had left her, in the gloomy silence of the stopped clock in the next room, until she shook herself out of her daze. She turned to the suitcase and coat, brought them into the light of the candles, and examined them. The suitcase had the initials 'J. B.' painted on it in white letters—the familiar initials of her husband.

She examined the great-coat. In the breast-pocket was an empty spirit flask, which she firmly fancied she recognized as the one she had filled many times for him when he was living at home with her.

She looked at the greatcoat. In the breast pocket was an empty liquor flask, which she strongly believed she recognized as the one she had filled many times for him when he was living at home with her.

She turned desultorily hither and thither, until she heard another tread without, and there came a second knocking at the door. She did not respond to it; and Nicholas-for it was he-thinking that he was not heard by reason of a concentration on to-morrow's proceedings, opened the door softly, and came on to the door of her room, which stood unclosed, just as it had been left by the Casterbridge porter.

She wandered aimlessly back and forth until she heard another footstep outside, followed by a second knock at the door. She didn’t answer it; and Nicholas—who it was—thinking he wasn’t heard because she was focused on tomorrow’s events, gently opened the door and moved toward her room, which was slightly ajar, just as the Casterbridge porter had left it.

Nicholas uttered a blithe greeting, cast his eye round the parlour, which with its tall candles, blazing fire, snow-white cloth, and prettily-spread table, formed a cheerful spectacle enough for a man who had been walking in the dark for an hour.

Nicholas gave a cheerful greeting, looked around the living room, which with its tall candles, bright fire, crisp white tablecloth, and nicely laid-out table, created a scene bright enough for someone who had just been walking in the dark for an hour.

'My bride-almost, at last!' he cried, encircling her with his arms.

'My bride—almost, at last!' he exclaimed, wrapping his arms around her.

Instead of responding, her figure became limp, frigid, heavy; her head fell back, and he found that she had fainted.

Instead of answering, her body went limp, cold, and heavy; her head fell back, and he realized that she had fainted.

It was natural, he thought. She had had many little worrying matters to attend to, and but slight assistance. He ought to have seen more effectually to her affairs; the closeness of the event had over-excited her. Nicholas kissed her unconscious face-more than once, little thinking what news it was that had changed its aspect. Loth to call Mrs. Wake, he carried Christine to a couch and laid her down. This had the effect of reviving her. Nicholas bent and whispered in her ear, 'Lie quiet, dearest, no hurry; and dream, dream, dream of happy days. It is only I. You will soon be better.' He held her by the hand.

It felt natural to him. She had a lot of little worries to deal with and very little help. He should have taken better care of her situation; the recent events had her really on edge. Nicholas kissed her unconscious face more than once, unaware of the news that had changed her appearance. Reluctant to call Mrs. Wake, he carried Christine to a couch and laid her down. This seemed to bring her back to consciousness. Nicholas bent down and whispered in her ear, "Just rest, my dear, no rush; and dream, dream, dream of happy days. It's just me. You'll feel better soon." He held her hand.

'No, no, no!' she said, with a stare. 'O, how can this be?'

'No, no, no!' she said, glaring. 'Oh, how can this be?'

Nicholas was alarmed and perplexed, but the disclosure was not long delayed. When she had sat up, and by degrees made the stunning event known to him, he stood as if transfixed.

Nicholas was shocked and confused, but the revelation didn’t take long to come. Once she sat up and gradually revealed the surprising news to him, he stood there as if frozen.

'Ah-is it so?' said he. Then, becoming quite meek, 'And why was he so cruel as to-delay his return till now?'

'Oh, is that right?' he said. Then, becoming very humble, 'And why was he so cruel as to delay his return until now?'

She dutifully recited the explanation her husband had given her through the messenger; but her mechanical manner of telling it showed how much she doubted its truth. It was too unlikely that his arrival at such a dramatic moment should not be a contrived surprise, quite of a piece with his previous dealings towards her.

She faithfully repeated the explanation her husband had provided through the messenger; however, her robotic way of delivering it revealed how much she questioned its truth. It seemed too unlikely that his arrival at such a dramatic moment wasn’t a planned surprise, perfectly in line with how he had acted towards her before.

'But perhaps it may be true-and he may have become kind now-not as he used to be,' she faltered. 'Yes, perhaps, Nicholas, he is an altered man-we'll hope he is. I suppose I ought not to have listened to my legal advisers, and assumed his death so surely! Anyhow, I am roughly received back into-the right way!'

'But maybe it’s true—and he might have changed for the better now—not like he used to be,' she hesitated. 'Yeah, maybe, Nicholas, he’s a different man—we can hope so. I guess I shouldn’t have listened to my lawyers and assumed he was definitely dead! Anyway, I’m getting roughly back on track!'

Nicholas burst out bitterly: 'O what too, too honest fools we were!-to so court daylight upon our intention by putting that announcement in the papers! Why could we not have married privately, and gone away, so that he would never have known what had become of you, even if he had returned? Christine, he has done it to . . . But I'll say no more. Of course we-might fly now.'

Nicholas shouted bitterly, "Oh, how foolish we were—to lay everything bare about our plans by putting that announcement in the papers! Why didn’t we just get married in secret and disappear, so he would never have found out what happened to you, even if he came back? Christine, he's done it to... But I won't say anything else. Clearly, we could run away now."

'No, no; we might not,' said she hastily.

'No, no; we might not,' she said quickly.

'Very well. But this is hard to bear! "When I looked for good then evil came unto me, and when I waited for light there came darkness." So once said a sorely tried man in the land of Uz, and so say I now! . . . I wonder if he is almost here at this moment?'

'Very well. But this is tough to handle! "When I sought good, then evil came to me, and when I expected light, darkness arrived." So once said a deeply troubled man in the land of Uz, and I say this now! . . . I wonder if he is almost here right now?'

She told him she supposed Bellston was approaching by the path across the fields, having sent on his great-coat, which he would not want walking.

She told him she thought Bellston was coming by the path through the fields, having sent on his coat, which he wouldn’t need for the walk.

'And is this meal laid for him, or for me?'

'Is this meal set for him, or for me?'

'It was laid for you.'

'It was set up for you.'

'And it will be eaten by him?'

'Is he going to eat it?'

'Yes.'

Yes.

'Christine, are you sure that he is come, or have you been sleeping over the fire and dreaming it?'

'Christine, are you sure he’s actually here, or have you been dozing by the fire and just dreaming it?'

She pointed anew to the portmanteau with the initials 'J. B.,' and to the coat beside it.

She pointed again to the suitcase with the initials 'J. B.' and to the coat next to it.

'Well, good-bye-good-bye! Curse that parson for not marrying us fifteen years ago!'

'Well, goodbye—goodbye! Curse that preacher for not marrying us fifteen years ago!'

It is unnecessary to dwell further upon that parting. There are scenes wherein the words spoken do not even approximate to the level of the mental communion between the actors. Suffice it to say that part they did, and quickly; and Nicholas, more dead than alive, went out of the house homewards.

It’s pointless to linger on that goodbye. There are moments when the words spoken don’t even come close to capturing the deep connection felt between the people involved. It’s enough to say that they parted ways, and fast; Nicholas, feeling more like a ghost than a person, left the house heading home.

Why had he ever come back? During his absence he had not cared for Christine as he cared now. If he had been younger he might have felt tempted to descend into the meads instead of keeping along their edge. The Froom was down there, and he knew of quiet pools in that stream to which death would come easily. But he was too old to put an end to himself for such a reason as love; and another thought, too, kept him from seriously contemplating any desperate act. His affection for her was strongly protective, and in the event of her requiring a friend's support in future troubles there was none but himself left in the world to afford it. So he walked on.

Why had he ever come back? During his time away, he hadn't cared for Christine like he did now. If he had been younger, he might have felt tempted to venture into the meadows instead of sticking to their edge. The Froom was down there, and he knew of quiet pools in that stream where death would come easily. But he was too old to end it all because of love; and another thought also kept him from seriously considering any desperate action. His love for her was deeply protective, and if she needed a friend's support in future troubles, he was the only one left in the world to offer it. So he walked on.

Meanwhile Christine had resigned herself to circumstances. A resolve to continue worthy of her history and of her family lent her heroism and dignity. She called Mrs. Wake, and explained to that worthy woman as much of what had occurred as she deemed necessary. Mrs. Wake was too amazed to reply; she retreated slowly, her lips parted; till at the door she said with a dry mouth, 'And the beautiful supper, ma'am?'

Meanwhile, Christine had accepted the situation. A determination to carry on, worthy of her background and her family, gave her a sense of heroism and dignity. She called Mrs. Wake and explained to that admirable woman as much of what had happened as she thought was necessary. Mrs. Wake was too shocked to respond; she stepped back slowly, her mouth open, until finally at the door she said with a dry mouth, "And the beautiful supper, ma'am?"

'Serve it when he comes.'

'Serve it when he arrives.'

'When Mr. Bellston-yes, ma'am, I will.' She still stood gazing, as if she could hardly take in the order.

'When Mr. Bellston—yes, ma'am, I will.' She continued to stare, almost in disbelief at the command.

'That will do, Mrs. Wake. I am much obliged to you for all your kindness.' And Christine was left alone again, and then she wept.

'That’s enough, Mrs. Wake. I really appreciate all your kindness.' And Christine was left alone again, and then she cried.

She sat down and waited. That awful silence of the stopped clock began anew, but she did not mind it now. She was listening for a footfall in a state of mental tensity which almost took away from her the power of motion. It seemed to her that the natural interval for her husband's journey thither must have expired; but she was not sure, and waited on.

She sat down and waited. That terrible silence of the stopped clock started again, but she didn’t mind it anymore. She was listening for a footstep, feeling so tense that it almost paralyzed her. It seemed to her that the usual time for her husband’s trip there had to be up by now, but she wasn’t certain, so she kept waiting.

Mrs. Wake again came in. 'You have not rung for supper-'

Mrs. Wake came in again. “You didn’t call for dinner—”

'He is not yet come, Mrs. Wake. If you want to go to bed, bring in the supper and set it on the table. It will be nearly as good cold. Leave the door unbarred.'

'He hasn't arrived yet, Mrs. Wake. If you want to go to bed, bring in the supper and put it on the table. It will be almost as good cold. Leave the door unlocked.'

Mrs. Wake did as was suggested, made up the fire, and went away. Shortly afterwards Christine heard her retire to her chamber. But Christine still sat on, and still her husband postponed his entry.

Mrs. Wake did as suggested, stoked the fire, and left. Soon after, Christine heard her go to her room. But Christine remained seated, and her husband continued to delay his arrival.

She aroused herself once or twice to freshen the fire, but was ignorant how the night was going. Her watch was upstairs and she did not make the effort to go up to consult it. In her seat she continued; and still the supper waited, and still he did not come.

She woke up once or twice to add some logs to the fire, but she had no idea how the night was progressing. Her watch was upstairs, and she didn't bother to go up to check it. She stayed in her spot, and still, dinner was waiting, and still, he didn't arrive.

At length she was so nearly persuaded that the arrival of his things must have been a dream after all, that she again went over to them, felt them, and examined them. His they unquestionably were; and their forwarding by the porter had been quite natural. She sighed and sat down again.

At last, she was so close to believing that the arrival of his stuff must have been a dream after all, that she went over to it again, felt it, and looked it over. It definitely belonged to him; the delivery by the porter made perfect sense. She sighed and sat down again.

Presently she fell into a doze, and when she again became conscious she found that the four candles had burnt into their sockets and gone out. The fire still emitted a feeble shine. Christine did not take the trouble to get more candles, but stirred the fire and sat on.

Presently, she dozed off, and when she woke up again, she noticed that the four candles had melted down into their holders and had gone out. The fire still gave off a faint glow. Christine didn't bother to light more candles; she just poked the fire and stayed where she was.

After a long period she heard a creaking of the chamber floor and stairs at the other end of the house, and knew that the farmer's family were getting up. By-and-by Mrs. Wake entered the room, candle in hand, bouncing open the door in her morning manner, obviously without any expectation of finding a person there.

After a long time, she heard the floor and stairs creaking at the other end of the house, realizing that the farmer's family was waking up. Soon, Mrs. Wake came into the room, holding a candle and swinging the door open in her usual morning way, clearly not expecting to find anyone there.

'Lord-a-mercy! What, sitting here again, ma'am?'

'Oh my goodness! What, are you sitting here again, ma'am?'

'Yes, I am sitting here still.'

'Yeah, I'm still sitting here.'

'You've been there ever since last night?'

'You've been there since last night?'

'Yes.'

Yes.

'Then-'

Then

'He's not come.'

'He hasn't come.'

'Well, he won't come at this time o' morning,' said the farmer's wife. 'Do 'ee get on to bed, ma'am. You must be shrammed to death!'

'Well, he won't come at this time in the morning,' said the farmer's wife. 'You should get on to bed, ma'am. You must be exhausted!'

It occurred to Christine now that possibly her husband had thought better of obtruding himself upon her company within an hour of revealing his existence to her, and had decided to pay a more formal visit next day. She therefore adopted Mrs. Wake's suggestion and retired.

It occurred to Christine now that maybe her husband had reconsidered interrupting her so soon after revealing himself to her, and had decided to make a more formal visit the next day. She thus took Mrs. Wake's advice and left.

CHAPTER VIII

Nicholas had gone straight home, neither speaking to nor seeing a soul. From that hour a change seemed to come over him. He had ever possessed a full share of self-consciousness; he had been readily piqued, had shown an unusual dread of being personally obtrusive. But now his sense of self, as an individual provoking opinion, appeared to leave him. When, therefore, after a day or two of seclusion, he came forth again, and the few acquaintances he had formed in the town condoled with him on what had happened, and pitied his haggard looks, he did not shrink from their regard as he would have done formerly, but took their sympathy as it would have been accepted by a child.

Nicholas went straight home, not speaking to or seeing anyone. From that moment, a change seemed to come over him. He had always been very self-conscious; he was easily offended and had an unusual fear of being too noticeable. But now his sense of self, as someone who evokes opinions, seemed to fade away. So, after a day or two of isolation, when he finally came out again, the few acquaintances he had made in town expressed their condolences for what had happened and commented on his tired appearance. He no longer recoiled from their attention as he would have before; instead, he accepted their sympathy like a child would.

It reached his ears that Bellston had not appeared on the evening of his arrival at any hotel in the town or neighbourhood, or entered his wife's house at all. 'That's a part of his cruelty,' thought Nicholas. And when two or three days had passed, and still no account came to him of Bellston having joined her, he ventured to set out for Froom-Everard.

It reached his ears that Bellston hadn’t checked into any hotel in town or visited his wife’s house at all on the night he arrived. ‘That’s part of his cruelty,’ Nicholas thought. After two or three days passed without any news of Bellston joining her, he decided to head out to Froom-Everard.

Christine was so shaken that she was obliged to receive him as she lay on a sofa, beside the square table which was to have borne their evening feast. She fixed her eyes wistfully upon him, and smiled a sad smile.

Christine was so shaken that she had to receive him while lying on a sofa, next to the square table that was supposed to hold their dinner. She looked at him longingly and gave a sad smile.

'He has not come?' said Nicholas under his breath.

"He hasn't come?" Nicholas said quietly.

'He has not.'

He hasn't.

Then Nicholas sat beside her, and they talked on general topics merely like saddened old friends. But they could not keep away the subject of Bellston, their voices dropping as it forced its way in. Christine, no less than Nicholas, knowing her husband's character, inferred that, having stopped her game, as he would have phrased it, he was taking things leisurely, and, finding nothing very attractive in her limited mode of living, was meaning to return to her only when he had nothing better to do.

Then Nicholas sat next to her, and they chatted about general topics like sad old friends. But they couldn’t avoid talking about Bellston, and their voices lowered as it intruded. Christine, just like Nicholas, knowing her husband’s character, realized that, having paused her game, as he would have put it, he was taking his time and, finding her limited way of life unappealing, planned to come back to her only when he had nothing better to do.

The bolt which laid low their hopes had struck so recently that they could hardly look each other in the face when speaking that day. But when a week or two had passed, and all the horizon still remained as vacant of Bellston as before, Nicholas and she could talk of the event with calm wonderment. Why had he come, to go again like this?

The blow that crushed their hopes had happened so recently that they could barely look at each other when they spoke that day. But after a week or two had gone by, and the horizon still showed no sign of Bellston, Nicholas and she could discuss the event with a sense of calm curiosity. Why had he come only to leave again like this?

And then there set in a period of resigned surmise, during which

And then a time of resigned speculation began, during which

So like, so very like, was day to day,

So much like, so very much like, was day to day,

that to tell of one of them is to tell of all. Nicholas would arrive between three and four in the afternoon, a faint trepidation influencing his walk as he neared her door. He would knock; she would always reply in person, having watched for him from the window. Then he would whisper-'He has not come?'

that telling about one of them means telling about all. Nicholas would get there between three and four in the afternoon, a slight nervousness affecting his steps as he approached her door. He would knock; she would always answer in person, having been watching for him from the window. Then he would whisper, "He hasn't come?"

'He has not,' she would say.

'He hasn't,' she said.

Nicholas would enter then, and she being ready bonneted, they would walk into the Sallows together as far as to the spot which they had frequently made their place of appointment in their youthful days. A plank bridge, which Bellston had caused to be thrown over the stream during his residence with her in the manor-house, was now again removed, and all was just the same as in Nicholas's time, when he had been accustomed to wade across on the edge of the cascade and come up to her like a merman from the deep. Here on the felled trunk, which still lay rotting in its old place, they would now sit, gazing at the descending sheet of water, with its never-ending sarcastic hiss at their baffled attempts to make themselves one flesh. Returning to the house they would sit down together to tea, after which, and the confidential chat that accompanied it, he walked home by the declining light. This proceeding became as periodic as an astronomical recurrence. Twice a week he came-all through that winter, all through the spring following, through the summer, through the autumn, the next winter, the next year, and the next, till an appreciable span of human life had passed by. Bellston still tarried.

Nicholas would come in, and she, ready with her bonnet on, would walk into the Sallows with him to the spot they often used to meet in their younger days. A wooden bridge, which Bellston had built over the stream during his time at the manor-house, was now gone again, and everything was just like it had been in Nicholas's time when he used to wade across at the edge of the waterfall and appear to her like a merman from the depths. They would sit on the decaying trunk that still lay in its old spot, gazing at the flowing water, which endlessly mocked their frustrated attempts to unite as one. After returning to the house, they would sit down for tea, following which he would head home as the daylight faded. This routine became as regular as the movements of the stars. He came twice a week—throughout that winter, the following spring, summer, autumn, the next winter, the year after, and the next, until a significant period of human life had passed. Bellston was still lingering.

Years and years Nic walked that way, at this interval of three days, from his house in the neighbouring town; and in every instance the aforesaid order of things was customary; and still on his arrival the form of words went on-'He has not come?'

Years and years Nic walked that way every three days, from his house in the nearby town; and every time, the routine was the same; and still upon his arrival, the usual question was asked—'He hasn't come?'

'He has not.'

'He hasn't.'

So they grew older. The dim shape of that third one stood continually between them; they could not displace it; neither, on the other hand, could it effectually part them. They were in close communion, yet not indissolubly united; lovers, yet never growing cured of love. By the time that the fifth year of Nic's visiting had arrived, on about the five-hundredth occasion of his presence at her tea-table, he noticed that the bleaching process which had begun upon his own locks was also spreading to hers. He told her so, and they laughed. Yet she was in good health: a condition of suspense, which would have half-killed a man, had been endured by her without complaint, and even with composure.

So they got older. The vague outline of that third one always stood between them; they couldn't push it away, but it also couldn’t truly separate them. They were close in spirit, yet not completely bound; they were lovers, yet never fully free from love. By the time the fifth year of Nic's visits rolled around, during what was about the five-hundredth time he sat at her tea table, he noticed that the graying process that had started with his own hair was starting to affect hers too. He mentioned it to her, and they both laughed. Still, she was in good health: a state of anxious waiting that would have nearly broken a man, she endured with grace, and even with calm.

One day, when these years of abeyance had numbered seven, they had strolled as usual as far as the waterfall, whose faint roar formed a sort of calling voice sufficient in the circumstances to direct their listlessness. Pausing there, he looked up at her face and said, 'Why should we not try again, Christine? We are legally at liberty to do so now. Nothing venture nothing have.'

One day, after seven years of waiting, they took their usual walk to the waterfall, whose soft roar served as a gentle reminder to shake off their boredom. Stopping there, he looked up at her and said, "Why shouldn’t we try again, Christine? We’re free to do it legally now. Nothing ventured, nothing gained."

But she would not. Perhaps a little primness of idea was by this time ousting the native daring of Christine. 'What he has done once he can do twice,' she said. 'He is not dead, and if we were to marry he would say we had "forced his hand," as he said before, and duly reappear.'

But she wouldn’t. Maybe a bit of modesty was pushing out Christine's natural boldness. "What he did once, he can do twice," she said. "He’s not dead, and if we got married, he’d claim we had 'forced his hand,' just like before, and would show up again."

Some years after, when Christine was about fifty, and Nicholas fifty- three, a new trouble of a minor kind arrived. He found an inconvenience in traversing the distance between their two houses, particularly in damp weather, the years he had spent in trying climates abroad having sown the seeds of rheumatism, which made a journey undesirable on inclement days, even in a carriage. He told her of this new difficulty, as he did of everything.

Some years later, when Christine was around fifty and Nicholas was fifty-three, a small trouble came up. He found it annoying to travel the distance between their two houses, especially in rainy weather. The years he spent in harsh climates abroad had left him with rheumatism, making trips uncomfortable on bad days, even in a carriage. He shared this new issue with her, just like he did with everything else.

'If you could live nearer,' suggested she.

'If you could live closer,' she suggested.

Unluckily there was no house near. But Nicholas, though not a millionaire, was a man of means; he obtained a small piece of ground on lease at the nearest spot to her home that it could be so obtained, which was on the opposite brink of the Froom, this river forming the boundary of the Froom-Everard manor; and here he built a cottage large enough for his wants. This took time, and when he got into it he found its situation a great comfort to him. He was not more than five hundred yards from her now, and gained a new pleasure in feeling that all sounds which greeted his ears, in the day or in the night, also fell upon hers-the caw of a particular rook, the voice of a neighbouring nightingale, the whistle of a local breeze, or the purl of the fall in the meadows, whose rush was a material rendering of Time's ceaseless scour over themselves, wearing them away without uniting them.

Unfortunately, there were no houses nearby. But Nicholas, while not wealthy, had enough resources; he secured a small piece of land on lease at the closest location to her home that was available, which was on the opposite bank of the Froom, the river that marked the boundary of the Froom-Everard estate. Here, he built a cottage that was just right for his needs. This took some time, and when he moved in, he found its location very comforting. He was now no more than five hundred yards away from her, and he took pleasure in knowing that all the sounds he heard, day or night, also reached her—like the caw of a specific rook, the song of a nearby nightingale, the rustle of a local breeze, or the soft flow of the stream in the meadows, which served as a tangible reminder of the relentless passage of time, wearing them down without bringing them together.

Christine's missing husband was taking shape as a myth among the surrounding residents; but he was still believed in as corporeally imminent by Christine herself, and also, in a milder degree, by Nicholas. For a curious unconsciousness of the long lapse of time since his revelation of himself seemed to affect the pair. There had been no passing events to serve as chronological milestones, and the evening on which she had kept supper waiting for him still loomed out with startling nearness in their retrospects.

Christine's missing husband was becoming a legend among the locals; yet, she still believed he would show up any day, and Nicholas felt the same, though to a lesser extent. It was strange how they seemed unaware of how much time had passed since he last appeared. There hadn’t been any significant events to mark the time, and the evening she had waited for him to come home for dinner still felt vividly close in their memories.

In the seventeenth pensive year of this their parallel march towards the common bourne, a labourer came in a hurry one day to Nicholas's house and brought strange tidings. The present owner of Froom-Everard-a non- resident-had been improving his property in sundry ways, and one of these was by dredging the stream which, in the course of years, had become choked with mud and weeds in its passage through the Sallows. The process necessitated a reconstruction of the waterfall. When the river had been pumped dry for this purpose, the skeleton of a man had been found jammed among the piles supporting the edge of the fall. Every particle of his flesh and clothing had been eaten by fishes or abraded to nothing by the water, but the relics of a gold watch remained, and on the inside of the case was engraved the name of the maker of her husband's watch, which she well remembered.

In the seventeenth somber year of their shared journey toward the same destination, a worker rushed to Nicholas's house with unusual news. The current owner of Froom-Everard—who lived elsewhere—had been making various improvements to the property, one of which involved dredging the stream that had, over the years, become clogged with mud and weeds as it flowed through the Sallows. This process required rebuilding the waterfall. When the river was drained for this work, the skeleton of a man was discovered wedged among the supports at the edge of the fall. Every bit of his flesh and clothing had been consumed by fish or worn away by the water, but the remains of a gold watch were found, and engraved on the inside of the case was the name of the maker of her husband's watch, which she remembered well.

Nicholas, deeply agitated, hastened down to the place and examined the remains attentively, afterwards going across to Christine, and breaking the discovery to her. She would not come to view the skeleton, which lay extended on the grass, not a finger or toe-bone missing, so neatly had the aquatic operators done their work. Conjecture was directed to the question how Bellston had got there; and conjecture alone could give an explanation.

Nicholas, feeling very upset, rushed to the site and carefully looked at the remains. Then he went over to Christine and told her what he found. She refused to see the skeleton, which lay flat on the grass, every bone intact, thanks to the skill of the workers. People speculated about how Bellston ended up there, but only speculation could provide an answer.

It was supposed that, on his way to call upon her, he had taken a short cut through the grounds, with which he was naturally very familiar, and coming to the fall under the trees had expected to find there the plank which, during his occupancy of the premises with Christine and her father, he had placed there for crossing into the meads on the other side instead of wading across as Nicholas had done. Before discovering its removal he had probably overbalanced himself, and was thus precipitated into the cascade, the piles beneath the descending current wedging him between them like the prongs of a pitchfork, and effectually preventing the rising of his body, over which the weeds grew. Such was the reasonable supposition concerning the discovery; but proof was never forthcoming.

It was thought that, on his way to visit her, he took a shortcut through the grounds he knew well, and when he reached the waterfall under the trees, he expected to find the plank he had put there during his time with Christine and her father, so he could cross to the meadows on the other side instead of wading across like Nicholas had. Before he realized it was gone, he likely lost his balance and fell into the waterfall, getting wedged between the piles under the rushing water like the tines of a pitchfork, which prevented his body from rising, and weeds grew over him. This was the reasonable assumption about what happened, but there was never any proof.

'To think,' said Nicholas, when the remains had been decently interred, and he was again sitting with Christine-though not beside the waterfall-'to think how we visited him! How we sat over him, hours and hours, gazing at him, bewailing our fate, when all the time he was ironically hissing at us from the spot, in an unknown tongue, that we could marry if we chose!'

'Can you believe it,' said Nicholas, after they had properly buried the remains, and he was back sitting with Christine—though not next to the waterfall—'that we visited him? We spent hours and hours just staring at him, grieving our situation, while all along he was ironically hissing at us from that spot, in a language we didn’t understand, that we could get married if we wanted to!'

She echoed the sentiment with a sigh.

She echoed the feeling with a sigh.

'I have strange fancies,' she said. 'I suppose it must have been my husband who came back, and not some other man.'

'I have weird thoughts,' she said. 'I guess it must have been my husband who returned, and not some other guy.'

Nicholas felt that there was little doubt. 'Besides-the skeleton,' he said.

Nicholas felt certain about it. "Besides the skeleton," he said.

'Yes . . . If it could not have been another person's-but no, of course it was he.'

'Yes... If it couldn't have been someone else's—but no, of course it was him.'

'You might have married me on the day we had fixed, and there would have been no impediment. You would now have been seventeen years my wife, and we might have had tall sons and daughters.'

'You could have married me on the day we planned, and there wouldn’t have been anything stopping us. You would now be my wife for seventeen years, and we might have had tall sons and daughters.'

'It might have been so,' she murmured.

"It could have been like that," she said softly.

'Well-is it still better late than never?'

'Well, is it still better late than never?'

The question was one which had become complicated by the increasing years of each. Their wills were somewhat enfeebled now, their hearts sickened of tender enterprise by hope too long deferred. Having postponed the consideration of their course till a year after the interment of Bellston, each seemed less disposed than formerly to take it up again.

The question had become complicated as they grew older. Their wills were starting to weaken, and their hearts were tired of hopeful ventures that had been put off for too long. After delaying the discussion of their plans for a year following Bellston's burial, each of them seemed less inclined than before to revisit it.

'Is it worth while, after so many years?' she said to him. 'We are fairly happy as we are-perhaps happier than we should be in any other relation, seeing what old people we have grown. The weight is gone from our lives; the shadow no longer divides us: then let us be joyful together as we are, dearest Nic, in the days of our vanity; and

'Is it worth it, after all these years?' she asked him. 'We're pretty happy as we are—maybe happier than we would be in any other relationship, considering how old we've gotten. The burden has lifted from our lives; the shadow no longer separates us: so let's enjoy our time together as we are, dear Nic, in these days of our vanity; and

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.'

With joy and laughter, let old wrinkles appear.

He fell in with these views of hers to some extent. But occasionally he ventured to urge her to reconsider the case, though he spoke not with the fervour of his earlier years.

He agreed with her views to some extent. But sometimes he dared to encourage her to rethink the situation, even though he didn't speak with the passion of his younger years.

Autumn, 1887.

Fall, 1887.

ALICIA'S DIARY

CHAPTER I.-SHE MISSES HER SISTER

July 7.-I wander about the house in a mood of unutterable sadness, for my dear sister Caroline has left home to-day with my mother, and I shall not see them again for several weeks. They have accepted a long- standing invitation to visit some old friends of ours, the Marlets, who live at Versailles for cheapness-my mother thinking that it will be for the good of Caroline to see a little of France and Paris. But I don't quite like her going. I fear she may lose some of that childlike simplicity and gentleness which so characterize her, and have been nourished by the seclusion of our life here. Her solicitude about her pony before starting was quite touching, and she made me promise to visit it daily, and see that it came to no harm.

July 7.-I'm wandering around the house feeling incredibly sad because my dear sister Caroline has left home today with my mom, and I won’t see them for several weeks. They've accepted a long-standing invitation to visit some old friends of ours, the Marlets, who live in Versailles for affordability—my mom thinks it will be good for Caroline to experience a bit of France and Paris. But I’m not too happy about her going. I’m worried she might lose some of her childlike simplicity and gentleness that define her, which have been nurtured by our secluded life here. Her concern for her pony before leaving was really touching; she made me promise to visit it every day and make sure it doesn't get hurt.

Caroline gone abroad, and I left here! It is the reverse of an ordinary situation, for good or ill-luck has mostly ordained that I should be the absent one. Mother will be quite tired out by the young enthusiasm of Caroline. She will demand to be taken everywhere-to Paris continually, of course; to all the stock shrines of history's devotees; to palaces and prisons; to kings' tombs and queens' tombs; to cemeteries and picture-galleries, and royal hunting forests. My poor mother, having gone over most of this ground many times before, will perhaps not find the perambulation so exhilarating as will Caroline herself. I wish I could have gone with them. I would not have minded having my legs walked off to please Caroline. But this regret is absurd: I could not, of course, leave my father with not a soul in the house to attend to the calls of the parishioners or to pour out his tea.

Caroline has gone abroad, and I'm the one left here! It's a complete switch from the usual situation, since good or bad luck has mostly meant I’m the one who stays behind. Mom is going to be really worn out by Caroline's youthful excitement. She’ll want to go everywhere—of course, to Paris all the time; to all the must-see historical sites; to palaces and prisons; to kings' and queens' tombs; to cemeteries and art galleries, and royal hunting grounds. My poor mom, having seen most of these places many times already, probably won’t find the sightseeing as thrilling as Caroline will. I wish I could have gone with them. I wouldn’t have minded walking for miles just to make Caroline happy. But this regret is silly: I couldn't possibly leave my dad alone with no one in the house to help with the parishioners' visits or to pour his tea.

July 15.-A letter from Caroline to-day. It is very strange that she tells me nothing which I expected her to tell-only trivial details. She seems dazzled by the brilliancy of Paris-which no doubt appears still more brilliant to her from the fact of her only being able to obtain occasional glimpses of it. She would see that Paris, too, has a seamy side if you live there. I was not aware that the Marlets knew so many people. If, as mother has said, they went to reside at Versailles for reasons of economy, they will not effect much in that direction while they make a practice of entertaining all the acquaintances who happen to be in their neighbourhood. They do not confine their hospitalities to English people, either. I wonder who this M. de la Feste is, in whom Caroline says my mother is so much interested.

July 15.-I got a letter from Caroline today. It's strange that she didn’t share anything I expected her to mention—just some trivial stuff. She seems captivated by the glitz of Paris, which probably seems even more dazzling to her because she can only catch glimpses of it now and then. She’d realize that Paris also has its downsides if she lived there. I didn’t know the Marlets knew so many people. If, as Mom said, they moved to Versailles to save money, they won’t achieve much if they keep inviting all their neighbors over. They don’t just host English people, either. I’m curious about this M. de la Feste that Caroline says Mom is so interested in.

July 18.-Another letter from Caroline. I have learnt from this epistle, that M. Charles de la Feste is 'only one of the many friends of the Marlets'; that though a Frenchman by birth, and now again temporarily at Versailles, he has lived in England many many years; that he is a talented landscape and marine painter, and has exhibited at the Salon, and I think in London. His style and subjects are considered somewhat peculiar in Paris-rather English than Continental. I have not as yet learnt his age, or his condition, married or single. From the tone and nature of her remarks about him he sometimes seems to be a middle-aged family man, sometimes quite the reverse. From his nomadic habits I should say the latter is the most likely. He has travelled and seen a great deal, she tells me, and knows more about English literature than she knows herself.

July 18.-I received another letter from Caroline. From this message, I’ve learned that M. Charles de la Feste is just one of many friends of the Marlets; that even though he’s French by birth and is currently back in Versailles for a bit, he has spent many years living in England; that he’s a skilled landscape and marine painter who has exhibited at the Salon and, I believe, in London. His style and subjects are considered somewhat unusual in Paris—more English than Continental. I still don’t know his age or whether he’s married or single. From the way Caroline talks about him, he sometimes seems like a middle-aged family man, but other times he seems completely the opposite. Given his wandering lifestyle, I’d say the latter is more likely. She tells me he has traveled a lot and knows more about English literature than she does.

July 21.-Letter from Caroline. Query: Is 'a friend of ours and the Marlets,' of whom she now anonymously and mysteriously speaks, the same personage as the 'M. de la Feste' of her former letters? He must be the same, I think, from his pursuits. If so, whence this sudden change of tone? . . . I have been lost in thought for at least a quarter of an hour since writing the preceding sentence. Suppose my dear sister is falling in love with this young man-there is no longer any doubt about his age; what a very awkward, risky thing for her! I do hope that my mother has an eye on these proceedings. But, then, poor mother never sees the drift of anything: she is in truth less of a mother to Caroline than I am. If I were there, how jealously I would watch him, and ascertain his designs!

July 21.-Letter from Caroline. Question: Is 'a friend of ours and the Marlets,' whom she now talks about anonymously and mysteriously, the same person as 'M. de la Feste' from her previous letters? I think it must be the same person, based on his interests. If that's true, why the sudden change in tone? . . . I've been lost in thought for at least fifteen minutes since writing the last sentence. What if my dear sister is falling for this young man—there's no doubt about his age anymore; what a very awkward and risky situation for her! I really hope that my mother is paying attention to all this. But then, poor mom never really understands what's going on: she is, in truth, less of a mother to Caroline than I am. If I were there, I would keep a close eye on him and figure out his intentions!

I am of a stronger nature than Caroline. How I have supported her in the past through her little troubles and great griefs! Is she agitated at the presence of this, to her, new and strange feeling? But I am assuming her to be desperately in love, when I have no proof of anything of the kind. He may be merely a casual friend, of whom I shall hear no more.

I am stronger than Caroline. I’ve helped her before with her little problems and big sorrows! Is she feeling uneasy about this new and unfamiliar emotion? But I’m just assuming that she’s head over heels in love, even though I have no real evidence of that. He might just be a random friend, and I might not hear about him again.

July 24.-Then he is a bachelor, as I suspected. 'If M. de la Feste ever marries he will,' etc. So she writes. They are getting into close quarters, obviously. Also, 'Something to keep my hair smooth, which M. de la Feste told me he had found useful for the tips of his moustache.' Very naively related this; and with how much unconsciousness of the intimacy between them that the remark reveals! But my mother-what can she be doing? Does she know of this? And if so, why does she not allude to it in her letters to my father? . . . I have been to look at Caroline's pony, in obedience to her reiterated request that I would not miss a day in seeing that she was well cared for. Anxious as Caroline was about this pony of hers before starting, she now never mentioned the poor animal once in her letters. The image of her pet suffers from displacement.

July 24.-So he’s a bachelor, just as I thought. "If M. de la Feste ever gets married, he will," etc. That’s what she wrote. They’re obviously getting closer. Also, "Something to keep my hair smooth, which M. de la Feste told me he found useful for the tips of his mustache." It’s so naively shared; you can see how unaware she is of the closeness this comment hints at! But what about my mother—what is she up to? Does she know about this? And if she does, why doesn’t she mention it in her letters to my father? . . . I went to check on Caroline's pony, following her repeated requests to make sure she was well taken care of. Even though Caroline was so worried about this pony before she left, she hasn’t mentioned the poor thing once in her letters. Her pet’s image is fading out of her mind.

August 3.-Caroline's forgetfulness of her pony has naturally enough extended to me, her sister. It is ten days since she last wrote, and but for a note from my mother I should not know if she were dead or alive.

August 3. - Caroline's forgetfulness about her pony has understandably extended to me, her sister. It's been ten days since she last wrote, and if it weren't for a note from my mom, I wouldn't know if she were dead or alive.

CHAPTER II.-NEWS INTERESTING AND SERIOUS

August 5.-A cloud of letters. A letter from Caroline, another from mother; also one from each to my father.

August 5.-A bunch of letters. One from Caroline, another from mom; also one from each to my dad.

The probability to which all the intelligence from my sister has pointed of late turns out to be a fact. There is an engagement, or almost an engagement, announced between my dear Caroline and M. de la Feste-to Caroline's sublime happiness, and my mother's entire satisfaction; as well as to that of the Marlets. They and my mother seem to know all about the young man-which is more than I do, though a little extended information about him, considering that I am Caroline's elder sister, would not have been amiss. I half feel with my father, who is much surprised, and, I am sure, not altogether satisfied, that he should not have been consulted at all before matters reached such a definite stage, though he is too amiable to say so openly. I don't quite say that a good thing should have been hindered for the sake of our opinion, if it is a good thing; but the announcement comes very suddenly. It must have been foreseen by my mother for some time that this upshot was probable, and Caroline might have told me more distinctly that M. de la Feste was her lover, instead of alluding so mysteriously to him as only a friend of the Marlets, and lately dropping his name altogether. My father, without exactly objecting to him as a Frenchman, 'wishes he were of English or some other reasonable nationality for one's son-in-law,' but I tell him that the demarcations of races, kingdoms, and creeds, are wearing down every day, that patriotism is a sort of vice, and that the character of the individual is all we need think about in this case. I wonder if, in the event of their marriage, he will continue to live at Versailles, or if he will come to England.

The likelihood that my sister's intelligence has pointed to lately turns out to be true. There’s an engagement, or something close to it, announced between my dear Caroline and M. de la Feste—bringing Caroline immense happiness and my mother complete satisfaction, as well as that of the Marlets. They and my mother seem to know everything about the young man—which is more than I do. A bit more information about him, considering I’m Caroline's older sister, would have been nice. I share my father's surprise and, I'm sure, his dissatisfaction that he wasn’t consulted before things got to this point, although he’s too nice to say anything about it. I’m not saying a good thing should have been stopped for our opinion if it is a good thing; but this announcement feels very sudden. My mother must have known for a while that this was likely to happen, and Caroline could have been clearer that M. de la Feste was her boyfriend instead of vaguely referring to him as just a friend of the Marlets and recently dropping his name altogether. My father, not outright opposing him for being French, “wishes he were English or from some other respectable nationality for a son-in-law,” but I remind him that the distinctions between races, countries, and beliefs are fading every day, that patriotism is somewhat of a vice, and that we should focus on the individual's character in this case. I wonder if, if they do get married, he will keep living in Versailles or come to England.

August 7.-A supplemental letter from Caroline, answering, by anticipation, some of the aforesaid queries. She tells me that 'Charles,' though he makes Versailles his present home, is by no means bound by his profession to continue there; that he will live just where she wishes, provided it be not too far from some centre of thought, art, and civilization. My mother and herself both think that the marriage should not take place till next year. He exhibits landscapes and canal scenery every year, she says; so I suppose he is popular, and that his income is sufficient to keep them in comfort. If not, I do not see why my father could not settle something more on them than he had intended, and diminish by a little what he had proposed for me, whilst it was imagined that I should be the first to stand in need of such.

August 7.-A follow-up letter from Caroline, preemptively answering some of the earlier questions. She tells me that 'Charles,' even though he currently lives in Versailles, isn't tied to his job there; he can live wherever she prefers, as long as it's not too far from a hub of thought, art, and culture. My mother and Caroline both think that the marriage should wait until next year. She says he showcases landscapes and canal scenes every year, so I assume he’s popular and earns enough to keep them comfortable. If that’s not the case, I don't see why my father couldn’t provide them with a bit more than he originally intended and reduce what he planned for me, considering it was thought that I would be the first in need of support.

'Of engaging manner, attractive appearance, and virtuous character,' is the reply I receive from her in answer to my request for a personal description. That is vague enough, and I would rather have had one definite fact of complexion, voice, deed, or opinion. But of course she has no eye now for material qualities; she cannot see him as he is. She sees him irradiated with glories such as never appertained and never will appertain to any man, foreign, English, or Colonial. To think that Caroline, two years my junior, and so childlike as to be five years my junior in nature, should be engaged to be married before me. But that is what happens in families more often than we are apt to remember.

'With a charming demeanor, good looks, and a strong character,' is the response I get from her when I ask for a personal description. That's pretty vague, and I would have preferred a specific detail about his appearance, voice, actions, or beliefs. But of course, she's not focused on physical traits right now; she can't see him for who he really is. She sees him surrounded by a glow that no man, whether foreign, English, or Colonial, has ever had or will ever have. It's hard to believe that Caroline, two years younger than me and so innocent that she seems five years younger in spirit, is getting engaged before I am. But that seems to happen in families more often than we tend to realize.

August 16.-Interesting news to-day. Charles, she says, has pleaded that their marriage may just as well be this year as next; and he seems to have nearly converted my mother to the same way of thinking. I do not myself see any reason for delay, beyond the standing one of my father having as yet had no opportunity of forming an opinion upon the man, the time, or anything. However, he takes his lot very quietly, and they are coming home to talk the question over with us; Caroline having decided not to make any positive arrangements for this change of state till she has seen me. Subject to my own and my father's approval, she says, they are inclined to settle the date of the wedding for November, three months from the present time, that it shall take place here in the village, that I, of course, shall be bridesmaid, and many other particulars. She draws an artless picture of the probable effect upon the minds of the villagers of this romantic performance in the chancel of our old church, in which she is to be chief actor-the foreign gentleman dropping down like a god from the skies, picking her up, and triumphantly carrying her off. Her only grief will be separation from me, but this is to be assuaged by my going and staying with her for long months at a time. This simple prattle is very sweet to me, my dear sister, but I cannot help feeling sad at the occasion of it. In the nature of things it is obvious that I shall never be to you again what I hitherto have been: your guide, counsellor, and most familiar friend.

August 16.- Interesting news today. Charles says that their wedding could just as well be this year as next; and he seems to have nearly convinced my mother to agree. I personally don’t see any reason to wait, aside from the fact that my father hasn’t had a chance to form an opinion on the guy, the timing, or anything else. Anyway, he’s taking it all quite calmly, and they are coming home to discuss the situation with us; Caroline has decided not to make any definite plans for this change until she has talked to me. She says that, pending my and my father's approval, they are thinking about setting the wedding date for November, three months from now, here in the village, and of course, I’ll be the bridesmaid, along with many other details. She paints a simple picture of how the villagers will react to this romantic event in the chancel of our old church, with her as the main character—the foreign guy swooping down like a god from the heavens, picking her up, and carrying her off triumphantly. Her only sadness will be being apart from me, but that’s to be eased by me visiting and staying with her for long stretches. This sweet, innocent chatter is lovely to hear, dear sister, but I can’t help but feel sad about the occasion. It’s clear that I will never again be to you what I’ve been until now: your guide, confidant, and closest friend.

M. de la Feste does certainly seem to be all that one could desire as protector to a sensitive fragile child like Caroline, and for that I am thankful. Still, I must remember that I see him as yet only through her eyes. For her sake I am intensely anxious to meet him, and scrutinise him through and through, and learn what the man is really made of who is to have such a treasure in his keeping. The engagement has certainly been formed a little precipitately; I quite agree with my father in that: still, good and happy marriages have been made in a hurry before now, and mother seems well satisfied.

M. de la Feste does seem to be everything you could want in a protector for a sensitive, delicate child like Caroline, and I'm grateful for that. However, I have to keep in mind that I'm seeing him only through her perspective. I'm really eager to meet him, to study him carefully, and find out what the man is truly like who gets to keep such a precious treasure. The engagement does seem to have happened a bit too quickly; I completely agree with my father on that. Still, good and happy marriages have happened in a rush before, and my mother seems quite pleased.

August 20.-A terrible announcement came this morning; and we are in deep trouble. I have been quite unable to steady my thoughts on anything to- day till now-half-past eleven at night-and I only attempt writing these notes because I am too restless to remain idle, and there is nothing but waiting and waiting left for me to do. Mother has been taken dangerously ill at Versailles: they were within a day or two of starting; but all thought of leaving must now be postponed, for she cannot possibly be moved in her present state. I don't like the sound of haemorrhage at all in a woman of her full habit, and Caroline and the Marlets have not exaggerated their accounts I am certain. On the receipt of the letter my father instantly decided to go to her, and I have been occupied all day in getting him off, for as he calculates on being absent several days, there have been many matters for him to arrange before setting out-the chief being to find some one who will do duty for him next Sunday-a quest of no small difficulty at such short notice; but at last poor old feeble Mr. Dugdale has agreed to attempt it, with Mr. Highman, the Scripture reader, to assist him in the lessons.

August 20. - A terrible announcement came this morning, and we are in deep trouble. I haven't been able to focus on anything today until now—half-past eleven at night—and I'm only writing these notes because I'm too restless to sit still, and there's nothing left for me to do but wait and wait. Mother has taken a serious turn for the worse at Versailles; they were just a day or two away from leaving, but now any thoughts of departure must be put on hold because she can't be moved in her current condition. I really don't like the sound of hemorrhage at all in a woman of her size, and I'm sure Caroline and the Marlets haven't exaggerated their descriptions. As soon as my father received the letter, he immediately decided to go to her, and I've spent the whole day getting him ready to leave. Since he expects to be gone for several days, he has had many arrangements to make before setting out—the main one being to find someone to cover for him next Sunday, which is no small task on such short notice. But finally, poor old, frail Mr. Dugdale has agreed to give it a shot, with Mr. Highman, the Scripture reader, to help him with the lessons.

I fain would have gone with my father to escape the irksome anxiety of awaiting her; but somebody had to stay, and I could best be spared. George has driven him to the station to meet the last train by which he will catch the midnight boat, and reach Havre some time in the morning. He hates the sea, and a night passage in particular. I hope he will get there without mishap of any kind; but I feel anxious for him, stay-at- home as he is, and unable to cope with any difficulty. Such an errand, too; the journey will be sad enough at best. I almost think I ought to have been the one to go to her.

I would have liked to go with my father to avoid the annoying wait for her, but someone had to stay behind, and I was the one who could be most easily spared. George has taken him to the station to catch the last train so he can make the midnight boat and arrive in Havre sometime in the morning. He hates the sea, especially a night crossing. I hope he gets there without any problems, but I’m worried about him since he’s not the type to handle difficulties well. It’s such a somber task; the journey will be sad enough as it is. I can’t help but feel that I should have been the one to go see her.

August 21.-I nearly fell asleep of heaviness of spirit last night over my writing. My father must have reached Paris by this time; and now here comes a letter . . .

August 21.-I almost fell asleep from feeling so down last night while writing. My dad must have made it to Paris by now; and here comes a letter . . .

Later.-The letter was to express an earnest hope that my father had set out. My poor mother is sinking, they fear. What will become of Caroline? O, how I wish I could see mother; why could not both have gone?

Later.-The letter was to express a sincere hope that my father had left. My poor mother is getting worse, they say. What will happen to Caroline? Oh, how I wish I could see my mother; why couldn't both of them have gone?

Later.-I get up from my chair, and walk from window to window, and then come and write a line. I cannot even divine how poor Caroline's marriage is to be carried out if mother dies. I pray that father may have got there in time to talk to her and receive some directions from her about Caroline and M. de la Feste-a man whom neither my father nor I have seen. I, who might be useful in this emergency, am doomed to stay here, waiting in suspense.

Later.-I get up from my chair, walk from window to window, and then come back to write a line. I can’t even guess how poor Caroline’s marriage is going to work out if our mother dies. I hope that our father made it in time to talk to her and get some advice about Caroline and M. de la Feste—a man neither my father nor I have met. I, who could be helpful in this situation, am stuck here, waiting in suspense.

August 23.-A letter from my father containing the sad news that my mother's spirit has flown. Poor little Caroline is heart-broken-she was always more my mother's pet than I was. It is some comfort to know that my father arrived in time to hear from her own lips her strongly expressed wish that Caroline's marriage should be solemnized as soon as possible. M. de la Feste seems to have been a great favourite of my dear mother's; and I suppose it now becomes almost a sacred duty of my father to accept him as a son-in-law without criticism.

August 23.-I got a letter from my dad with the sad news that my mom has passed away. Poor little Caroline is heartbroken—she was always more of my mom's favorite than I was. It's somewhat comforting to know that my dad got there in time to hear her express her strong wish for Caroline's marriage to happen as soon as possible. M. de la Feste seems to have been a big favorite of my dear mom’s, and I guess it’s now almost a sacred duty for my dad to accept him as a son-in-law without any complaints.

CHAPTER III.-HER GLOOM LIGHTENS A LITTLE

September 10.-I have inserted nothing in my diary for more than a fortnight. Events have been altogether too sad for me to have the spirit to put them on paper. And yet there comes a time when the act of recording one's trouble is recognized as a welcome method of dwelling upon it . . .

September 10.-I haven’t written anything in my diary for over two weeks. Things have been way too sad for me to have the energy to write them down. Yet, there comes a point when writing about one’s struggles is seen as a helpful way to process them . . .

My dear mother has been brought home and buried here in the parish. It was not so much her own wish that this should be done as my father's, who particularly desired that she should lie in the family vault beside his first wife. I saw them side by side before the vault was closed-two women beloved by one man. As I stood, and Caroline by my side, I fell into a sort of dream, and had an odd fancy that Caroline and I might be also beloved of one, and lie like these together-an impossibility, of course, being sisters. When I awoke from my reverie Caroline took my hand and said it was time to leave.

My dear mother has been brought home and buried here in the parish. It wasn’t so much her wish as my father’s, who especially wanted her to rest in the family vault next to his first wife. I saw them side by side before the vault was closed—two women loved by the same man. As I stood there, with Caroline by my side, I drifted into a sort of daydream and had a strange thought that Caroline and I could also be loved by one man and lie together like them— an impossibility, of course, since we’re sisters. When I snapped out of my thoughts, Caroline took my hand and said it was time to go.

September 14.-The wedding is indefinitely postponed. Caroline is like a girl awakening in the middle of a somnambulistic experience, and does not realize where she is, or how she stands. She walks about silently, and I cannot tell her thoughts, as I used to do. It was her own doing to write to M. de la Feste and tell him that the wedding could not possibly take place this autumn as originally planned. There is something depressing in this long postponement if she is to marry him at all; and yet I do not see how it could be avoided.

September 14.-The wedding is postponed indefinitely. Caroline feels like a girl waking up from a sleepwalking experience, not fully aware of where she is or how she's feeling. She moves around quietly, and I can no longer guess her thoughts like I used to. It was her choice to write to M. de la Feste and inform him that the wedding can't happen this autumn as we originally planned. There's something discouraging about this long delay if she’s going to marry him at all; yet, I can’t see how it could have been avoided.

October 20.-I have had so much to occupy me in consoling Caroline that I have been continually overlooking my diary. Her life was much nearer to my mother's than mine was. She has never, as I, lived away from home long enough to become self-dependent, and hence in her first loss, and all that it involved, she drooped like a rain-beaten lily. But she is of a nature whose wounds soon heal, even though they may be deep, and the supreme poignancy of her sorrow has already passed.

October 20.-I've been so busy comforting Caroline that I keep forgetting to write in my diary. Her life was much closer to my mom's than mine was. Unlike me, she hasn't spent enough time away from home to be independent, so when she faced her first big loss, she wilted like a rain-soaked lily. But she's the kind of person whose wounds heal quickly, even if they run deep, and the intense pain of her sorrow has already begun to fade.

My father is of opinion that the wedding should not be delayed too long. While at Versailles he made the acquaintance of M. de la Feste, and though they had but a short and hurried communion with each other, he was much impressed by M. de la Feste's disposition and conduct, and is strongly in favour of his suit. It is odd that Caroline's betrothed should influence in his favour all who come near him. His portrait, which dear Caroline has shown me, exhibits him to be of a physique that partly accounts for this: but there must be something more than mere appearance, and it is probably some sort of glamour or fascinating power-the quality which prevented Caroline from describing him to me with any accuracy of detail. At the same time, I see from the photograph that his face and head are remarkably well formed; and though the contours of his mouth are hidden by his moustache, his arched brows show well the romantic disposition of a true lover and painter of Nature. I think that the owner of such a face as this must be tender and sympathetic and true.

My dad believes that the wedding shouldn’t be postponed for too long. While in Versailles, he met M. de la Feste, and even though their time together was brief and rushed, he was quite impressed by M. de la Feste’s character and behavior, and he strongly supports his proposal. It’s strange how Caroline’s fiancé seems to sway everyone who gets close to him in his favor. The portrait that dear Caroline showed me reveals that he has a physique that might explain part of this; however, there has to be something more than just looks, probably some kind of charm or captivating presence—it's the same quality that made it hard for Caroline to describe him to me in detail. At the same time, I can tell from the photograph that his face and head are exceptionally well-shaped; although his moustache hides the contours of his mouth, his arched brows clearly convey the romantic nature of a genuine lover and admirer of Nature. I think someone with a face like that must be gentle, empathetic, and sincere.

October 30.-As my sister's grief for her mother becomes more and more calmed, her love for M. de la Feste begins to reassume its former absorbing command of her. She thinks of him incessantly, and writes whole treatises to him by way of letters. Her blank disappointment at his announcement of his inability to pay us a visit quite so soon as he had promised, was quite tragic. I, too, am disappointed, for I wanted to see and estimate him. But having arranged to go to Holland to seize some aerial effects for his pictures, which are only to be obtained at this time of the autumn, he is obliged to postpone his journey this way, which is now to be made early in the new year. I think myself that he ought to have come at all sacrifices, considering Caroline's recent loss, the sad postponement of what she was looking forward to, and her single-minded affection for him. Still, who knows; his professional success is important. Moreover, she is cheerful, and hopeful, and the delay will soon be overpast.

October 30.-As my sister’s sadness over her mother begins to ease, her love for M. de la Feste takes back its hold on her. She can’t stop thinking about him and writes long letters that feel like essays. She was heartbroken when he told us he wouldn’t be able to visit us as soon as he had promised. I’m also disappointed because I wanted to meet him and form my own opinion. However, he has to go to Holland to capture some atmospheric effects for his paintings that are only available this time of year in the fall, so he has to delay his trip here until early next year. I believe he should have made the effort to come despite everything, considering Caroline’s recent loss, the sad delay of what she was looking forward to, and her deep feelings for him. Still, who knows; his career success is important. Besides, she’s in good spirits and hopeful, and the wait won’t last much longer.

CHAPTER IV.-SHE BEHOLDS THE ATTRACTIVE STRANGER

February 16.-We have had such a dull life here all the winter that I have found nothing important enough to set down, and broke off my journal accordingly. I resume it now to make an entry on the subject of dear Caroline's future. It seems that she was too grieved, immediately after the loss of our mother, to answer definitely the question of M. de la Feste how long the postponement was to be; then, afterwards, it was agreed that the matter should be discussed on his autumn visit; but as he did not come, it has remained in abeyance till this week, when Caroline, with the greatest simplicity and confidence, has written to him without any further pressure on his part, and told him that she is quite ready to fix the time, and will do so as soon as he arrives to see her. She is a little frightened now, lest it should seem forward in her to have revived the subject of her own accord; but she may assume that his question has been waiting on for an answer ever since, and that she has, therefore, acted only within her promise. In truth, the secret at the bottom of it all is that she is somewhat saddened because he has not latterly reminded her of the pause in their affairs-that, in short, his original impatience to possess her is not now found to animate him so obviously. I suppose that he loves her as much as ever; indeed, I am sure he must do so, seeing how lovable she is. It is mostly thus with all men when women are out of their sight; they grow negligent. Caroline must have patience, and remember that a man of his genius has many and important calls upon his time. In justice to her I must add that she does remember it fairly well, and has as much patience as any girl ever had in the circumstances. He hopes to come at the beginning of April at latest. Well, when he comes we shall see him.

February 16.-We’ve had such a boring winter here that I didn’t feel like writing anything important, so I stopped my journal. I’m starting it up again to talk about dear Caroline’s future. It seems that she was too upset right after our mother’s death to answer M. de la Feste’s question about how long the delay would be; later, it was decided they would discuss it during his visit in the fall. However, since he didn’t come, it’s been on hold until this week when Caroline, quite simply and confidently, wrote to him without any pressure from him, saying she’s ready to set a date and will do so as soon as he comes to see her. She’s a bit worried now that it might seem too eager to bring it up herself, but she can assume his question has been waiting for an answer all this time, so she’s just following through on her promise. The truth is, she feels a bit down because he hasn’t reminded her about their situation recently—that, in fact, his previous eagerness to be with her doesn’t seem to be as strong now. I think he loves her just as much as before; I’m sure he does, given how lovable she is. It’s often like that with men when women are out of sight; they become a bit careless. Caroline needs to be patient and remember that a man of his talent has many important things vying for his attention. To be fair to her, she does keep that in mind and has as much patience as any girl could in her situation. He plans to arrive by the beginning of April at the latest. Well, when he gets here, we’ll see him.

April 5.-I think that what M. de la Feste writes is reasonable enough, though Caroline looks heart-sick about it. It is hardly worth while for him to cross all the way to England and back just now, while the sea is so turbulent, seeing that he will be obliged, in any event, to come in May, when he has to be in London for professional purposes, at which time he can take us easily on his way both coming and going. When Caroline becomes his wife she will be more practical, no doubt; but she is such a child as yet that there is no contenting her with reasons. However, the time will pass quickly, there being so much to do in preparing a trousseau for her, which must now be put in hand in order that we may have plenty of leisure to get it ready. On no account must Caroline be married in half-mourning; I am sure that mother, could she know, would not wish it, and it is odd that Caroline should be so intractably persistent on this point, when she is usually so yielding.

April 5.-I think what M. de la Feste writes makes sense, even though Caroline looks really upset about it. It's not worth it for him to make the long trip to England and back right now, especially with the sea so rough, since he will have to come in May anyway for work, and he can easily take us along both ways then. Once Caroline becomes his wife, she will be more practical for sure; but right now, she’s so naive that she can’t be satisfied with explanations. However, time will go by quickly with so much to do to prepare her trousseau, which we need to start right away so we have plenty of time to get it ready. Caroline absolutely cannot be married in half-mourning; I’m sure mother, if she knew, wouldn’t want that, and it’s strange that Caroline is being so stubborn about this when she’s usually so agreeable.

April 30.-This month has flown on swallow's wings. We are in a great state of excitement-I as much as she-I cannot quite tell why. He is really coming in ten days, he says.

April 30.-This month has sped by in a flash. We’re all feeling so excited—I as much as she—I can’t quite put my finger on why. He really is coming in ten days, he says.

May 9. Four p.m.-I am so agitated I can scarcely write, and yet am particularly impelled to do so before leaving my room. It is the unexpected shape of an expected event which has caused my absurd excitement, which proves me almost as much a school-girl as Caroline.

May 9. 4 p.m.-I'm so anxious I can hardly write, and yet I feel such a strong urge to do so before leaving my room. It's the surprising twist of something I thought I could predict that has triggered my silly excitement, making me just as much a schoolgirl as Caroline.

M. de la Feste was not, as we understood, to have come till to-morrow; but he is here-just arrived. All household directions have devolved upon me, for my father, not thinking M. de la Feste would appear before us for another four-and-twenty hours, left home before post time to attend a distant consecration; and hence Caroline and I were in no small excitement when Charles's letter was opened, and we read that he had been unexpectedly favoured in the dispatch of his studio work, and would follow his letter in a few hours. We sent the covered carriage to meet the train indicated, and waited like two newly strung harps for the first sound of the returning wheels. At last we heard them on the gravel; and the question arose who was to receive him. It was, strictly speaking, my duty; but I felt timid; I could not help shirking it, and insisted that Caroline should go down. She did not, however, go near the door as she usually does when anybody is expected, but waited palpitating in the drawing-room. He little thought when he saw the silent hall, and the apparently deserted house, how that house was at the very same moment alive and throbbing with interest under the surface. I stood at the back of the upper landing, where nobody could see me from downstairs, and heard him walk across the hall-a lighter step than my father's-and heard him then go into the drawing-room, and the servant shut the door behind him and go away.

M. de la Feste was supposed to arrive tomorrow, but he’s here—just arrived. All household responsibilities have fallen to me since my father, not expecting M. de la Feste to show up for another day, left home early to attend a distant ceremony. So, Caroline and I were quite excited when we opened Charles’s letter and read that he had unexpectedly finished his studio work and would follow his letter in a few hours. We sent the covered carriage to meet the indicated train and waited like two strung-up harps for the sound of the returning wheels. Finally, we heard them on the gravel, and the question came up of who should welcome him. Technically, it was my job, but I felt nervous; I couldn’t bring myself to do it and insisted that Caroline should go down. However, she didn’t approach the door like she usually does when someone is expected but waited anxiously in the drawing-room. He had no idea that when he saw the quiet hall and the seemingly empty house, it was actually alive and buzzing with anticipation just below the surface. I stood at the back of the upper landing, where nobody could see me from downstairs, and listened as he walked across the hall—a lighter step than my father’s—and then went into the drawing-room, where the servant shut the door behind him and left.

What a pretty lover's meeting they must have had in there all to themselves! Caroline's sweet face looking up from her black gown-how it must have touched him. I know she wept very much, for I heard her; and her eyes will be red afterwards, and no wonder, poor dear, though she is no doubt happy. I can imagine what she is telling him while I write this-her fears lest anything should have happened to prevent his coming after all-gentle, smiling reproaches for his long delay; and things of that sort. His two portmanteaus are at this moment crossing the landing on the way to his room. I wonder if I ought to go down.

What a lovely meeting they must have had in there, just the two of them! Caroline's sweet face looking up from her black dress—how it must have affected him. I know she cried a lot because I heard her; her eyes will be red later, and no wonder, poor thing, even if she's undoubtedly happy. I can picture what she's telling him as I write this—her worries that something might have stopped him from coming after all—gentle, teasing complaints about his long wait; and stuff like that. His two suitcases are currently making their way across the landing to his room. I wonder if I should go downstairs.

A little later.-I have seen him! It was not at all in the way that I intended to encounter him, and I am vexed. Just after his portmanteaus were brought up I went out from my room to descend, when, at the moment of stepping towards the first stair, my eyes were caught by an object in the hall below, and I paused for an instant, till I saw that it was a bundle of canvas and sticks, composing a sketching tent and easel. At the same nick of time the drawing-room door opened and the affianced pair came out. They were saying they would go into the garden; and he waited a moment while she put on her hat. My idea was to let them pass on without seeing me, since they seemed not to want my company, but I had got too far on the landing to retreat; he looked up, and stood staring at me-engrossed to a dream-like fixity. Thereupon I, too, instead of advancing as I ought to have done, stood moonstruck and awkward, and before I could gather my weak senses sufficiently to descend, she had called him, and they went out by the garden door together. I then thought of following them, but have changed my mind, and come here to jot down these few lines. It is all I am fit for . . .

A little later. - I saw him! It was definitely not how I intended to run into him, and I'm annoyed. Just after his luggage was brought up, I stepped out of my room to head downstairs when, at the moment I was about to take my first step down, something caught my eye in the hall below, so I paused for a moment. I realized it was a bundle of canvas and sticks, a sketching tent and easel. At the same time, the drawing-room door opened and the engaged couple stepped out. They were saying they were going to the garden, and he waited a moment while she put on her hat. My plan was to let them pass without noticing me since they seemed to not want my company, but I had gone too far on the landing to turn back; he looked up and stared at me, lost in a kind of dreamy trance. Instead of moving forward as I should have, I stood there awkwardly, and before I could collect my thoughts enough to go downstairs, she called him, and they left through the garden door together. I thought about following them, but I've changed my mind and come here to write down these few lines. It's all I'm good for...

He is even more handsome than I expected. I was right in feeling he must have an attraction beyond that of form: it appeared even in that momentary glance. How happy Caroline ought to be. But I must, of course, go down to be ready with tea in the drawing-room by the time they come indoors.

He’s even more attractive than I thought he’d be. I was correct in sensing that he must have a charm that goes beyond just looks: it showed even in that brief glance. Caroline should be really happy. But I have to head downstairs to prepare tea in the living room before they come inside.

11 p.m.-I have made the acquaintance of M. de la Feste; and I seem to be another woman from the effect of it. I cannot describe why this should be so, but conversation with him seems to expand the view, and open the heart, and raise one as upon stilts to wider prospects. He has a good intellectual forehead, perfect eyebrows, dark hair and eyes, an animated manner, and a persuasive voice. His voice is soft in quality-too soft for a man, perhaps; and yet on second thoughts I would not have it less so. We have been talking of his art: I had no notion that art demanded such sacrifices or such tender devotion; or that there were two roads for choice within its precincts, the road of vulgar money-making, and the road of high aims and consequent inappreciation for many long years by the public. That he has adopted the latter need not be said to those who understand him. It is a blessing for Caroline that she has been chosen by such a man, and she ought not to lament at postponements and delays, since they have arisen unavoidably. Whether he finds hers a sufficiently rich nature, intellectually and emotionally, for his own, I know not, but he seems occasionally to be disappointed at her simple views of things. Does he really feel such love for her at this moment as he no doubt believes himself to be feeling, and as he no doubt hopes to feel for the remainder of his life towards her?

11 p.m. - I’ve met M. de la Feste, and it feels like I’m a different woman because of it. I can’t explain why, but talking to him seems to broaden my perspective, open my heart, and elevate me to see wider horizons. He has an intelligent forehead, perfect eyebrows, dark hair and eyes, a lively manner, and a persuasive voice. His voice is soft—maybe too soft for a man—but on second thought, I wouldn’t want it any different. We’ve been discussing his art: I had no idea that art required such sacrifices or such deep devotion; or that there were two paths to choose from within its realm, one of crass money-making and the other of lofty ambitions, often leading to a long period of lack of appreciation from the public. It goes without saying that he has chosen the latter path for those who truly understand him. It’s a blessing for Caroline that she’s been chosen by such a man, and she shouldn’t lament the delays and setbacks, as they have come about inevitably. Whether he thinks she has a rich enough intellectual and emotional nature to match his own, I don’t know, but he does seem to be disappointed with her straightforward views at times. Does he actually feel for her right now the love he believes he feels and hopes to feel for the rest of his life?

It was a curious thing he told me when we were left for a few minutes alone; that Caroline had alluded so slightly to me in her conversation and letters that he had not realized my presence in the house here at all. But, of course, it was only natural that she should write and talk most about herself. I suppose it was on account of the fact of his being taken in some measure unawares, that I caught him on two or three occasions regarding me fixedly in a way that disquieted me somewhat, having been lately in so little society; till my glance aroused him from his reverie, and he looked elsewhere in some confusion. It was fortunate that he did so, and thus failed to notice my own. It shows that he, too, is not particularly a society person.

It was an interesting thing he told me when we were alone for a few minutes; that Caroline had mentioned me so little in her conversations and letters that he hadn’t even realized I was in the house. But, of course, it made sense that she would write and talk mostly about herself. I guess it was because he was a bit caught off guard that I noticed him looking at me intently a couple of times, which made me a little uneasy since I had been around so few people lately, until my gaze brought him out of his thoughts and he looked away, a bit flustered. It was lucky he did that, or he would have seen my own gaze. It shows that he isn’t really someone who socializes much either.

May 10.-Have had another interesting conversation with M. de la Feste on schools of landscape painting in the drawing-room after dinner this evening-my father having fallen asleep, and left nobody but Caroline and myself for Charles to talk to. I did not mean to say so much to him, and had taken a volume of Modern Painters from the bookcase to occupy myself with, while leaving the two lovers to themselves; but he would include me in his audience, and I was obliged to lay the book aside. However, I insisted on keeping Caroline in the conversation, though her views on pictorial art were only too charmingly crude and primitive.

May 10. - I had another interesting conversation with M. de la Feste about landscape painting in the drawing room after dinner this evening. My father had fallen asleep, leaving just Caroline and me for Charles to talk to. I didn't plan to say much to him and had grabbed a volume of Modern Painters from the bookshelf to keep myself busy while letting the two lovers have their moment. However, he wanted me to be part of the conversation, so I had to put the book down. Still, I made sure to include Caroline in the discussion, even though her opinions on art were charmingly simple and naive.

To-morrow, if fine, we are all three going to Wherryborne Wood, where Charles will give us practical illustrations of the principles of coloring that he has enumerated to-night. I am determined not to occupy his attention to the exclusion of Caroline, and my plan is that when we are in the dense part of the wood I will lag behind, and slip away, and leave them to return by themselves. I suppose the reason of his attentiveness to me lies in his simply wishing to win the good opinion of one who is so closely united to Caroline, and so likely to influence her good opinion of him.

Tomorrow, if the weather is nice, all three of us are going to Wherryborne Wood, where Charles will show us practical examples of the coloring principles he mentioned tonight. I’m determined not to take his attention away from Caroline, so my plan is to hang back in the denser part of the wood, slip away, and let them head back on their own. I guess the reason he's being so attentive to me is that he wants to earn the approval of someone closely connected to Caroline, who could influence her opinion of him.

May 11. Late.-I cannot sleep, and in desperation have lit my candle and taken up my pen. My restlessness is occasioned by what has occurred to- day, which at first I did not mean to write down, or trust to any heart but my own. We went to Wherryborne Wood-Caroline, Charles and I, as we had intended-and walked all three along the green track through the midst, Charles in the middle between Caroline and myself. Presently I found that, as usual, he and I were the only talkers, Caroline amusing herself by observing birds and squirrels as she walked docilely alongside her betrothed. Having noticed this I dropped behind at the first opportunity and slipped among the trees, in a direction in which I knew I should find another path that would take me home. Upon this track I by and by emerged, and walked along it in silent thought till, at a bend, I suddenly encountered M. de la Feste standing stock still and smiling thoughtfully at me.

May 11. Late. - I can’t sleep, and in a moment of desperation, I’ve lit my candle and picked up my pen. I can’t settle down because of what happened today, which I originally didn’t plan to write down or share with anyone but myself. We went to Wherryborne Wood—Caroline, Charles, and I—as we had planned, and we walked together along the green path in the middle, with Charles between Caroline and me. Before long, I noticed that, as usual, only he and I were talking, while Caroline occupied herself looking at birds and squirrels as she walked quietly beside her fiancé. Realizing this, I fell behind at the first chance I got and slipped into the trees, heading toward another path that I knew would take me home. Eventually, I came out onto that path and walked along it in silence until, at a bend, I suddenly saw M. de la Feste standing still and smiling thoughtfully at me.

'Where is Caroline?' said I.

"Where's Caroline?" I asked.

'Only a little way off,' says he. 'When we missed you from behind us we thought you might have mistaken the direction we had followed, so she has gone one way to find you and I have come this way.'

'Just a short distance away,' he says. 'When we realized you were no longer behind us, we thought you might have taken a wrong turn, so she went one way to look for you and I came this way.'

We then went back to find Caroline, but could not discover her anywhere, and the upshot was that he and I were wandering about the woods alone for more than an hour. On reaching home we found she had given us up after searching a little while, and arrived there some time before. I should not be so disturbed by the incident if I had not perceived that, during her absence from us, he did not make any earnest effort to rediscover her; and in answer to my repeated expressions of wonder as to whither she could have wandered he only said, 'Oh, she's quite safe; she told me she knew the way home from any part of this wood. Let us go on with our talk. I assure you I value this privilege of being with one I so much admire more than you imagine;' and other things of that kind. I was so foolish as to show a little perturbation-I cannot tell why I did not control myself; and I think he noticed that I was not cool. Caroline has, with her simple good faith, thought nothing of the occurrence; yet altogether I am not satisfied.

We went back to look for Caroline, but we couldn’t find her anywhere, and the result was that he and I were wandering around the woods alone for over an hour. When we got home, we learned she had given up searching for us after a little while and had gotten back there some time before us. I wouldn’t be so upset about what happened if I hadn’t noticed that, during her absence, he didn’t make any serious effort to find her. In response to my repeated questions about where she could have gone, he just said, “Oh, she’s totally fine; she told me she knew the way home from any part of this woods. Let’s keep talking. I assure you I appreciate this chance to be with someone I admire more than you think,” and other similar things. I was foolish enough to show a little anxiety—I don’t know why I couldn’t keep it together; and I think he saw that I wasn't composed. Caroline, with her simple trust, thought nothing of the whole situation; yet I still feel uneasy about it.

CHAPTER V.-HER SITUATION IS A TRYING ONE

May 15.-The more I think of it day after day, the more convinced I am that my suspicions are true. He is too interested in me-well, in plain words, loves me; or, not to degrade that phrase, has a wild passion for me; and his affection for Caroline is that towards a sister only. That is the distressing truth; how it has come about I cannot tell, and it wears upon me.

May 15. - The more I think about it day after day, the more convinced I am that my suspicions are true. He is too interested in me—well, to put it simply, he loves me; or, to avoid cheapening that phrase, he has a wild passion for me; and his feelings for Caroline are just like those of a brother. That is the painful truth; how it came to this, I can't say, and it burdens me.

A hundred little circumstances have revealed this to me, and the longer I dwell upon it the more agitating does the consideration become. Heaven only can help me out of the terrible difficulty in which this places me. I have done nothing to encourage him to be faithless to her. I have studiously kept out of his way; have persistently refused to be a third in their interviews. Yet all to no purpose. Some fatality has seemed to rule, ever since he came to the house, that this disastrous inversion of things should arise. If I had only foreseen the possibility of it before he arrived, how gladly would I have departed on some visit or other to the meanest friend to hinder such an apparent treachery. But I blindly welcomed him-indeed, made myself particularly agreeable to him for her sake.

A hundred little things have shown me this, and the more I think about it, the more unsettling it becomes. Only heaven can help me out of this terrible situation I’m in. I haven’t done anything to make him disloyal to her. I have intentionally stayed out of his way and have consistently refused to be a third wheel in their meetings. Yet, it’s all been for nothing. Some kind of fate has seemed to take charge since he arrived, leading to this disastrous turn of events. If I had only anticipated this could happen before he got here, how eagerly I would have gone on some visit to the least significant friend to prevent such a betrayal. But I welcomed him without thinking—actually, I made an effort to be particularly friendly with him for her sake.

There is no possibility of my suspicions being wrong; not until they have reached absolute certainty have I dared even to admit the truth to myself. His conduct to-day would have proved them true had I entertained no previous apprehensions. Some photographs of myself came for me by post, and they were handed round at the breakfast table and criticised. I put them temporarily on a side table, and did not remember them until an hour afterwards when I was in my own room. On going to fetch them I discovered him standing at the table with his back towards the door bending over the photographs, one of which he raised to his lips.

There’s no way my suspicions can be wrong; I’ve only just begun to accept the truth myself once I reached complete certainty. His behavior today would have confirmed my suspicions if I hadn’t already had doubts. Some photos of me arrived in the mail, and they were passed around and commented on at the breakfast table. I temporarily set them on a side table and didn’t think about them until an hour later when I was in my own room. When I went to get them, I found him standing at the table with his back to the door, leaning over the photos, one of which he lifted to his lips.

The witnessing this act so frightened me that I crept away to escape observation. It was the climax to a series of slight and significant actions all tending to the same conclusion. The question for me now is, what am I to do? To go away is what first occurs to me, but what reason can I give Caroline and my father for such a step; besides, it might precipitate some sort of catastrophe by driving Charles to desperation. For the present, therefore, I have decided that I can only wait, though his contiguity is strangely disturbing to me now, and I hardly retain strength of mind to encounter him. How will the distressing complication end?

The witness of this act scared me so much that I sneaked away to avoid being seen. It was the peak of a series of both small and significant actions all leading to the same conclusion. Now, the question for me is, what should I do? Leaving is the first thought that comes to mind, but what reason can I give Caroline and my dad for doing that? Plus, it could lead to some kind of disaster by pushing Charles to despair. For now, I’ve decided that I can only wait, even though his presence is really unsettling to me right now, and I barely have the mental strength to face him. How will this troubling situation end?

May 19.-And so it has come! My mere avoidance of him has precipitated the worst issue-a declaration. I had occasion to go into the kitchen garden to gather some of the double ragged-robins which grew in a corner there. Almost as soon as I had entered I heard footsteps without. The door opened and shut, and I turned to behold him just inside it. As the garden is closed by four walls and the gardener was absent, the spot ensured absolute privacy. He came along the path by the asparagus-bed, and overtook me.

May 19.-And so it has happened! My simple attempt to avoid him has led to the worst outcome—a confession. I went into the kitchen garden to pick some of the double ragged-robins that were growing in a corner. Almost as soon as I entered, I heard footsteps outside. The door opened and closed, and I turned to see him standing just inside. Since the garden is surrounded by four walls and the gardener wasn't there, the place was completely private. He walked along the path by the asparagus bed and caught up with me.

'You know why I come, Alicia?' said he, in a tremulous voice.

'Do you know why I'm here, Alicia?' he said, his voice shaking.

I said nothing, and hung my head, for by his tone I did know.

I said nothing and lowered my head because I understood by his tone.

'Yes,' he went on, 'it is you I love; my sentiment towards your sister is one of affection too, but protective, tutelary affection-no more. Say what you will I cannot help it. I mistook my feeling for her, and I know how much I am to blame for my want of self-knowledge. I have fought against this discovery night and day; but it cannot be concealed. Why did I ever see you, since I could not see you till I had committed myself? At the moment my eyes beheld you on that day of my arrival, I said, "This is the woman for whom my manhood has waited." Ever since an unaccountable fascination has riveted my heart to you. Answer one word!'

'Yes,' he continued, 'I love you; my feelings for your sister are more about care and protection, nothing more. No matter what you say, I can't change it. I mistook my feelings for her, and I realize how much I lack self-awareness. I've fought against this realization day and night; but it can't be hidden. Why did I even look at you, knowing it would lead me to this point? The moment I saw you on the day I arrived, I thought, "This is the woman I've been waiting for." Ever since then, I can't shake this strange pull towards you. Just answer me one thing!'

'O, M. de la Feste!' I burst out. What I said more I cannot remember, but I suppose that the misery I was in showed pretty plainly, for he said, 'Something must be done to let her know; perhaps I have mistaken her affection, too; but all depends upon what you feel.'

'O, M. de la Feste!' I exclaimed. I can't remember what else I said, but I guess my distress was pretty obvious, because he responded, 'We need to do something to let her know; maybe I misread her feelings as well; but it all depends on what you feel.'

'I cannot tell what I feel,' said I, 'except that this seems terrible treachery; and every moment that I stay with you here makes it worse! . . . Try to keep faith with her-her young heart is tender; believe me there is no mistake in the quality of her love for you. Would there were! This would kill her if she knew it!'

"I can't describe what I feel," I said, "except that this feels like terrible betrayal; and every moment I spend here with you makes it worse!... Try to stay true to her—her young heart is fragile; trust me, there's no doubt about the depth of her love for you. I wish there were! This would destroy her if she found out!"

He sighed heavily. 'She ought never to be my wife,' he said. 'Leaving my own happiness out of the question, it would be a cruelty to her to unite her to me.'

He sighed deeply. "She should never be my wife," he said. "Setting my own happiness aside, it would be cruel to her to tie her to me."

I said I could not hear such words from him, and begged him in tears to go away; he obeyed, and I heard the garden door shut behind him. What is to be the end of the announcement, and the fate of Caroline?

I said I couldn't hear him say those things, and I begged him in tears to leave; he complied, and I heard the garden door close behind him. What will be the outcome of the announcement, and what will happen to Caroline?

May 20.-I put a good deal on paper yesterday, and yet not all. I was, in truth, hoping against hope, against conviction, against too conscious self-judgment. I scarcely dare own the truth now, yet it relieves my aching heart to set it down. Yes, I love him-that is the dreadful fact, and I can no longer parry, evade, or deny it to myself though to the rest of the world it can never be owned. I love Caroline's betrothed, and he loves me. It is no yesterday's passion, cultivated by our converse; it came at first sight, independently of my will; and my talk with him yesterday made rather against it than for it, but, alas, did not quench it. God forgive us both for this terrible treachery.

May 20.-I wrote quite a bit yesterday, but not everything. Honestly, I was hoping against hope, against what I know, and against my own judgment. I barely dare admit the truth now, but it eases my aching heart to put it down. Yes, I love him—that’s the painful reality, and I can no longer avoid or deny it to myself, even though I can never confess it to the rest of the world. I love Caroline's fiancé, and he loves me. This isn't some fleeting passion that grew from our conversations; it hit me at first sight, completely against my will. Our talk yesterday only made things harder, not easier, but sadly, it didn't extinguish my feelings. God forgive us both for this awful betrayal.

May 25.-All is vague; our courses shapeless. He comes and goes, being occupied, ostensibly at least, with sketching in his tent in the wood. Whether he and she see each other privately I cannot tell, but I rather think they do not; that she sadly awaits him, and he does not appear. Not a sign from him that my repulse has done him any good, or that he will endeavour to keep faith with her. O, if I only had the compulsion of a god, and the self-sacrifice of a martyr!

May 25.-Everything feels uncertain; our plans are unclear. He comes and goes, seemingly busy sketching in his tent in the woods. I can't say for sure if he and she meet in private, but I have a feeling they don't; she waits for him sadly, and he doesn’t show up. There's no indication from him that my rejection has affected him, or that he will try to stay faithful to her. Oh, if only I had the power of a god and the selflessness of a martyr!

May 31.-It has all ended-or rather this act of the sad drama has ended-in nothing. He has left us. No day for the fulfilment of the engagement with Caroline is named, my father not being the man to press any one on such a matter, or, indeed, to interfere in any way. We two girls are, in fact, quite defenceless in a case of this kind; lovers may come when they choose, and desert when they choose; poor father is too urbane to utter a word of remonstrance or inquiry. Moreover, as the approved of my dead mother, M. de la Feste has a sort of autocratic power with my father, who holds it unkind to her memory to have an opinion about him. I, feeling it my duty, asked M. de la Feste at the last moment about the engagement, in a voice I could not keep firm.

May 31.-It has all come to an end—or rather this part of the sad story has ended—in nothing. He has left us. No date for the engagement with Caroline has been set, as my father isn’t the type to push anyone on such matters or to interfere in any way. Us two girls are, in fact, completely powerless in this situation; suitors can come and go as they please, and poor father is too polite to say anything to protest or ask questions. Besides, since he was approved by my deceased mother, M. de la Feste has a kind of controlling influence over my father, who feels it would be unkind to her memory to have an opinion about him. Feeling it was my responsibility, I asked M. de la Feste at the last moment about the engagement, in a voice I couldn’t keep steady.

'Since the death of your mother all has been indefinite-all!' he said gloomily. That was the whole. Possibly, Wherryborne Rectory may see him no more.

'Since your mother's death, everything has been unclear—all of it!' he said gloomily. That was all there was. It's possible that Wherryborne Rectory may never see him again.

June 7 .-M. de la Feste has written-one letter to her, one to me. Hers could not have been very warm, for she did not brighten on reading it. Mine was an ordinary note of friendship, filling an ordinary sheet of paper, which I handed over to Caroline when I had finished looking it through. But there was a scrap of paper in the bottom of the envelope, which I dared not show any one. This scrap is his real letter: I scanned it alone in my room, trembling, hot and cold by turns. He tells me he is very wretched; that he deplores what has happened, but was helpless. Why did I let him see me, if only to make him faithless. Alas, alas!

June 7 .- M. de la Feste has sent one letter to her and one to me. Hers couldn't have been very warm because she didn't seem happy after reading it. Mine was a typical friendly note on a regular sheet of paper, which I gave to Caroline after I finished reading it. But there was a scrap of paper at the bottom of the envelope that I was too afraid to show anyone. This scrap contains his real letter: I read it alone in my room, shaking and feeling hot and cold at the same time. He tells me he is very unhappy; that he regrets what happened but felt powerless. Why did I let him see me, only to make him unfaithful? Alas, alas!

June 21 .-My dear Caroline has lost appetite, spirits, health. Hope deferred maketh the heart sick. His letters to her grow colder-if indeed he has written more than one. He has refrained from writing again to me-he knows it is no use. Altogether the situation that he and she and I are in is melancholy in the extreme. Why are human hearts so perverse?

June 21 .-My dear Caroline has lost her appetite, her energy, and her health. Unfulfilled hope makes the heart sick. His letters to her are becoming colder—if he’s even written more than one. He hasn’t bothered to write to me again—he knows it’s pointless. Overall, the situation that he, she, and I are in is incredibly bleak. Why are human hearts so twisted?

CHAPTER VI.-HER INGENUITY INSTIGATES HER

September 19.-Three months of anxious care-till at length I have taken the extreme step of writing to him. Our chief distress has been caused by the state of poor Caroline, who, after sinking by degrees into such extreme weakness as to make it doubtful if she can ever recover full vigour, has to-day been taken much worse. Her position is very critical. The doctor says plainly that she is dying of a broken heart-and that even the removal of the cause may not now restore her. Ought I to have written to Charles sooner? But how could I when she forbade me? It was her pride only which instigated her, and I should not have obeyed.

September 19.-Three months of worrying care—until finally, I’ve made the difficult decision to write to him. Our main source of distress has been poor Caroline, who has gradually become so weak that it seems unlikely she’ll ever fully recover. Today, she has taken a turn for the worse. Her situation is very critical. The doctor clearly says she’s dying of a broken heart—and that even if we remove the cause, it might not bring her back. Should I have written to Charles earlier? But how could I when she told me not to? It was only her pride that pushed her to that decision, and I shouldn’t have followed it.

Sept. 26.-Charles has arrived and has seen her. He is shocked, conscience-stricken, remorseful. I have told him that he can do no good beyond cheering her by his presence. I do not know what he thinks of proposing to her if she gets better, but he says little to her at present: indeed he dares not: his words agitate her dangerously.

Sept. 26.-Charles has arrived and seen her. He is shocked, feeling guilty and remorseful. I’ve told him that the only good he can do is to cheer her up with his presence. I’m not sure what he thinks about proposing to her if she gets better, but he doesn’t say much to her right now: in fact, he doesn’t dare to; his words make her anxious.

Sept. 28.-After a struggle between duty and selfishness, such as I pray to Heaven I may never have to undergo again, I have asked him for pity's sake to make her his wife, here and now, as she lies. I said to him that the poor child would not trouble him long; and such a solemnization would soothe her last hours as nothing else could do. He said that he would willingly do so, and had thought of it himself; but for one forbidding reason: in the event of her death as his wife he can never marry me, her sister, according to our laws. I started at his words. He went on: 'On the other hand, if I were sure that immediate marriage with me would save her life, I would not refuse, for possibly I might after a while, and out of sight of you, make myself fairly content with one of so sweet a disposition as hers; but if, as is probable, neither my marrying her nor any other act can avail to save her life, by so doing I lose both her and you.' I could not answer him.

Sept. 28.-After a struggle between duty and selfishness, which I hope I never have to face again, I asked him, out of pity, to marry her right here and now, while she lies there. I told him that the poor girl wouldn’t trouble him for long, and that such a wedding would comfort her in her last moments more than anything else could. He said he would gladly do it and had considered it himself; but there was one major reason holding him back: if she died as his wife, he could never marry me, her sister, according to our laws. I was taken aback by his words. He continued: 'On the other hand, if I was sure that marrying me immediately would save her life, I wouldn’t hesitate; after a while, and away from you, I could probably make myself quite happy with someone as sweet as her. But if, as seems likely, neither marrying her nor anything else can save her life, then by doing that, I would lose both her and you.' I couldn’t respond to him.

Sept. 29.-He continued firm in his reasons for refusal till this morning, and then I became possessed with an idea, which I at once propounded to him. It was that he should at least consent to a form of marriage with Caroline, in consideration of her love; a form which need not be a legal union, but one which would satisfy her sick and enfeebled soul. Such things have been done, and the sentiment of feeling herself his would inexpressibly comfort her mind, I am sure. Then, if she is taken from us, I should not have lost the power of becoming his lawful wife at some future day, if it indeed should be deemed expedient; if, on the other hand, she lives, he can on her recovery inform her of the incompleteness of their marriage contract, the ceremony can be repeated, and I can, and I am sure willingly would, avoid troubling them with my presence till grey hairs and wrinkles make his unfortunate passion for me a thing of the past. I put all this before him; but he demurred.

Sept. 29.-He stood firm in his reasons for refusal until this morning, and then I got an idea that I immediately suggested to him. It was that he should at least agree to a form of marriage with Caroline, considering her love; a form that doesn’t have to be a legal union, but one that would satisfy her sick and fragile spirit. Such things have happened before, and the feeling of being his would greatly comfort her, I’m sure. Then, if she’s taken from us, I wouldn’t have lost the chance to become his legal wife at some future point, if it’s deemed necessary; if, on the other hand, she lives, he can tell her about the incomplete nature of their marriage contract once she recovers, the ceremony can be repeated, and I can, and I’m sure would happily, avoid bothering them with my presence until gray hair and wrinkles make his unfortunate feelings for me a thing of the past. I laid all this out for him, but he hesitated.

Sept. 30.-I have urged him again. He says he will consider. It is no time to mince matters, and as a further inducement I have offered to enter into a solemn engagement to marry him myself a year after her death.

Sept. 30.-I have pressured him again. He says he will think about it. It's not the time to be diplomatic, and as an added incentive, I have promised to commit to marrying him myself a year after her death.

Sept. 30. Later.-An agitating interview. He says he will agree to whatever I propose, the three possibilities and our contingent acts being recorded as follows: First, in the event of dear Caroline being taken from us, I marry him on the expiration of a year: Second, in the forlorn chance of her recovery I take upon myself the responsibility of explaining to Caroline the true nature of the ceremony he has gone through with her, that it was done at my suggestion to make her happy at once, before a special licence could be obtained, and that a public ceremony at church is awaiting her: Third, in the unlikely event of her cooling, and refusing to repeat the ceremony with him, I leave England, join him abroad, and there wed him, agreeing not to live in England again till Caroline has either married another or regards her attachment to Charles as a bygone matter. I have thought over these conditions, and have agreed to them all as they stand.

Sept. 30. Later.-An intense conversation. He says he’ll agree to whatever I suggest, with the three possibilities and our potential actions outlined as follows: First, if dear Caroline is taken from us, I’ll marry him after a year; Second, if there's a slim chance of her recovering, I’ll take on the responsibility of explaining to Caroline the true nature of the ceremony he had with her—that it was done at my suggestion to make her happy right away, before we could get a special license, and that a public ceremony at a church is waiting for her; Third, in the unlikely event that she loses interest and refuses to do the ceremony with him again, I’ll leave England, join him overseas, and marry him there, agreeing not to return to England until Caroline either marries someone else or sees her feelings for Charles as a thing of the past. I’ve thought over these conditions and have agreed to all of them as they are.

11 p.m.-I do not much like this scheme, after all. For one thing, I have just sounded my father on it before parting with him for the night, my impression having been that he would see no objection. But he says he could on no account countenance any such unreal proceeding; however good our intentions, and even though the poor girl were dying, it would not be right. So I sadly seek my pillow.

11 p.m. - I'm really not a fan of this plan after all. For one thing, I just asked my dad about it before saying goodnight, thinking he wouldn’t mind. But he said he absolutely cannot support something so unrealistic; no matter how good our intentions are, and even if the poor girl were dying, it wouldn't be right. So I sadly head to bed.

October 1.-I am sure my father is wrong in his view. Why is it not right, if it would be balm to Caroline's wounded soul, and if a real ceremony is absolutely refused by Charles-moreover is hardly practicable in the difficulty of getting a special licence, if he were agreed? My father does not know, or will not believe, that Caroline's attachment has been the cause of her hopeless condition. But that it is so, and that the form of words would give her inexpressible happiness, I know well; for I whispered tentatively in her ear on such marriages, and the effect was great. Henceforth my father cannot be taken into confidence on the subject of Caroline. He does not understand her.

October 1.-I’m sure my dad is mistaken in his opinion. Why isn’t it okay if it would bring comfort to Caroline’s hurt feelings, especially since Charles is completely against a real ceremony and it would be nearly impossible to get a special license if he were on board? My dad doesn’t realize, or doesn’t want to accept, that Caroline’s feelings are what led to her hopeless state. But I know that's the case, and that just saying the words would make her incredibly happy; I tested this by softly mentioning those types of marriages to her, and it had a huge impact. From now on, I can’t share my thoughts about Caroline with my dad. He just doesn’t get her.

12 o'clock noon.-I have taken advantage of my father's absence to-day to confide my secret notion to a thoughtful young man, who called here this morning to speak to my father. He is the Mr. Theophilus Higham, of whom I have already had occasion to speak-a Scripture reader in the next town, and is soon going to be ordained. I told him the pitiable case, and my remedy. He says ardently that he will assist me-would do anything for me (he is, in truth, an admirer of mine); he sees no wrong in such an act of charity. He is coming again to the house this afternoon before my father returns, to carry out the idea. I have spoken to Charles, who promises to be ready. I must now break the news to Caroline.

12 o'clock noon. - I took advantage of my father's absence today to share my secret idea with a thoughtful young man who stopped by this morning to talk to my dad. His name is Mr. Theophilus Higham, the Scripture reader from the next town, and he's about to be ordained. I told him about the sad situation and my solution. He enthusiastically said he would help me and would do anything for me (he’s actually a bit of a fan). He doesn’t see any problem with such a charitable act. He’s coming back to the house this afternoon before my dad returns to go ahead with the plan. I’ve spoken to Charles, who promises to be ready. I now need to tell Caroline.

11 o'clock p.m.-I have been in too much excitement till now to set down the result. We have accomplished our plan; and though I feel like a guilty sinner, I am glad. My father, of course, is not to be informed as yet. Caroline has had a seraphic expression upon her wasted, transparent face ever since. I should hardly be surprised if it really saved her life even now, and rendered a legitimate union necessary between them. In that case my father can be informed of the whole proceeding, and in the face of such wonderful success cannot disapprove. Meanwhile poor Charles has not lost the possibility of taking unworthy me to fill her place should she-. But I cannot contemplate that alternative unmoved, and will not write it. Charles left for the South of Europe immediately after the ceremony. He was in a high-strung, throbbing, almost wild state of mind at first, but grew calmer under my exhortations. I had to pay the penalty of receiving a farewell kiss from him, which I much regret, considering its meaning; but he took me so unexpectedly, and in a moment was gone.

11 o'clock p.m. - I've been too excited until now to write down what happened. We achieved our plan, and even though I feel guilty, I’m relieved. My father isn’t to be told yet. Caroline has had a blissful look on her worn, translucent face ever since. I wouldn’t be surprised if it actually saved her life now and made a proper marriage between them necessary. If that happens, my father can be told everything, and he can't disapprove in light of such amazing success. Meanwhile, poor Charles still has the chance to take unworthy me to replace her if she— But I can't think about that possibility without getting upset, so I won’t write it down. Charles left for Southern Europe right after the ceremony. At first, he was in a high-strung, intense, almost wild state of mind, but calmed down after I talked to him. I had to face the consequence of getting a goodbye kiss from him, which I regret given its meaning; but he caught me off guard, and in a moment he was gone.

Oct. 6.-She certainly is better, and even when she found that Charles had been suddenly obliged to leave, she received the news quite cheerfully. The doctor says that her apparent improvement may be delusive; but I think our impressing upon her the necessity of keeping what has occurred a secret from papa, and everybody, helps to give her a zest for life.

Oct. 6.-She definitely seems better, and even when she learned that Charles had to leave unexpectedly, she took the news pretty well. The doctor says that her visible improvement might be misleading; but I believe that stressing the importance of keeping what happened a secret from Dad and everyone else helps to give her a spark for life.

Oct. 8.-She is still mending. I am glad to have saved her-my only sister-if I have done so; though I shall now never become Charles's wife.

Oct. 8.-She is still recovering. I'm relieved to have saved her—my only sister—if I truly have; though I will never be Charles's wife now.

CHAPTER VII.-A SURPRISE AWAITS HER

Feb. 5.-Writing has been absolutely impossible for a long while; but I now reach a stage at which it seems possible to jot down a line. Caroline's recovery, extending over four months, has been very engrossing; at first slow, latterly rapid. But a fearful complication of affairs attends it!

Feb. 5.-Writing has been completely impossible for a while now; but I’ve finally reached a point where I can manage to write a few lines. Caroline's recovery, which has taken over four months, has been very consuming; it started slow but has picked up speed lately. However, there’s a terrible complication of issues surrounding it!

O what a tangled web we weave When first we practise to deceive!

Oh, what a complicated mess we create When we first try to deceive!

Charles has written reproachfully to me from Venice, where he is. He says how can he fulfil in the real what he has enacted in the counterfeit, while he still loves me? Yet how, on the other hand, can he leave it unfulfilled? All this time I have not told her, and up to this minute she believes that he has indeed taken her for better, for worse, till death them do part. It is a harassing position for me, and all three. In the awful approach of death, one's judgment loses its balance, and we do anything to meet the exigencies of the moment, with a single eye to the one who excites our sympathy, and from whom we seem on the brink of being separated for ever.

Charles has written to me from Venice, where he currently is, expressing regret. He asks how he can make real what he has pretended while still loving me. Yet, on the other hand, how can he leave it incomplete? All this time, I haven't told her, and until now, she believes that he has truly committed to her for better or worse, until death do them part. It’s a troubling situation for all three of us. When faced with the grim reality of death, our judgment can become unsteady, and we often do anything to handle the situation, focusing solely on the person who stirs our sympathy, from whom it feels like we are about to be forever separated.

Had he really married her at that time all would be settled now. But he took too much thought; she might have died, and then he had his reason. If indeed it had turned out so, I should now be perhaps a sad woman; but not a tempest-tossed one . . . The possibility of his claiming me after all is what lies at the root of my agitation. Everything hangs by a thread. Suppose I tell her the marriage was a mockery; suppose she is indignant with me and with him for the deception-and then? Otherwise, suppose she is not indignant but forgives all; he is bound to marry her; and honour constrains me to urge him thereto, in spite of what he protests, and to smooth the way to this issue by my method of informing her. I have meant to tell her the last month-ever since she has been strong enough to bear such tidings; but I have been without the power-the moral force. Surely I must write, and get him to come and assist me.

If he had actually married her back then, everything would be settled now. But he overthought it; she might have died, and then he would have had his excuse. If that had happened, I might now be a sad woman, but not a troubled one... The chance that he might still want me is what makes me so anxious. Everything is hanging by a thread. What if I tell her the marriage was a joke? What if she gets mad at me and him for lying—and then what? On the other hand, what if she isn’t angry and just forgives everything? He has to marry her, and my sense of honor makes me push him to do that, despite what he says, and I need to pave the way for that by telling her. I’ve meant to tell her for the last month—ever since she was strong enough to handle news like this; but I just didn’t have the strength—the moral strength. I really need to write and get him to come help me.

March 14.-She continually wonders why he does not come, the five months of his enforced absence having expired; and still more she wonders why he does not write oftener. His last letter was cold, she says, and she fears he regrets his marriage, which he may only have celebrated with her for pity's sake, thinking she was sure to die. It makes one's heart bleed to hear her hovering thus so near the truth, and yet never discerning its actual shape.

March 14.-She keeps wondering why he hasn’t come, even though five months of his enforced absence are over; and she’s even more puzzled about why he doesn’t write more often. She says his last letter was cold, and she worries that he regrets their marriage, which he might have only gone through with out of pity, thinking she was definitely going to die. It’s heartbreaking to hear her so close to the truth, yet never truly seeing it for what it is.

A minor trouble besets me, too, in the person of the young Scripture reader, whose conscience pricks him for the part he played. Surely I am punished, if ever woman were, for a too ingenious perversion of her better judgment!

A small problem also affects me, in the form of the young Scripture reader, whose conscience bothers him for the role he played. Surely I am suffering, if any woman ever has, for a clever twist of my better judgment!

April 2.-She is practically well. The faint pink revives in her cheek, though it is not quite so full as heretofore. But she still wonders what she can have done to offend 'her dear husband,' and I have been obliged to tell the smallest part of the truth-an unimportant fragment of the whole, in fact, I said that I feared for the moment he might regret the precipitancy of the act, which her illness caused, his affairs not having been quite sufficiently advanced for marriage just then, though he will doubtless come to her as soon as he has a home ready. Meanwhile I have written to him, peremptorily, to come and relieve me in this awful dilemma. He will find no note of love in that.

April 2.-She is almost better now. The faint pink is returning to her cheeks, although it's not as vibrant as it was before. But she still wonders what she could have done to upset 'her dear husband,' and I had to share just a tiny bit of the truth—an insignificant piece of the whole. In fact, I mentioned that I was worried he might regret acting so quickly because of her illness, as his situation hadn’t really progressed enough for marriage at that time. Still, he will likely come to her as soon as he’s got a home ready. In the meantime, I’ve written to him urgently, asking him to come and help me out of this terrible situation. He won’t find any sweet notes in that message.

April 10.-To my alarm the letter I lately addressed to him at Venice, where he is staying, as well as the last one she sent him, have received no reply. She thinks he is ill. I do not quite think that, but I wish we could hear from him. Perhaps the peremptoriness of my words had offended him; it grieves me to think it possible. I offend him! But too much of this. I must tell her the truth, or she may in her ignorance commit herself to some course or other that may be ruinously compromising. She said plaintively just now that if he could see her, and know how occupied with him and him alone is her every waking hour, she is sure he would forgive her the wicked presumption of becoming his wife. Very sweet all that, and touching. I could not conceal my tears.

April 10. - To my surprise, the letter I recently sent him in Venice, where he’s staying, along with the last one she sent him, hasn’t received a response. She thinks he’s unwell. I’m not completely convinced of that, but I really wish we could hear from him. Maybe the firmness of my words upset him; it hurts to think that could be true. I could upset him! But enough of that. I need to tell her the truth, or she might, in her ignorance, make a decision that could lead to serious trouble. She said just now, in a sad tone, that if he could see her and know how much she’s thinking about him all the time, she’s sure he would forgive her for the boldness of wanting to be his wife. It’s all very sweet and moving. I couldn’t hold back my tears.

April 15.-The house is in confusion; my father is angry and distressed, and I am distracted. Caroline has disappeared-gone away secretly. I cannot help thinking that I know where she is gone to. How guilty I seem, and how innocent she! O that I had told her before now!

April 15.-The house is a mess; my dad is upset and stressed, and I'm overwhelmed. Caroline has vanished—she left without telling anyone. I can't shake the feeling that I know where she's gone. I feel so guilty, and she seems so innocent! I just wish I had told her sooner!

1 o'clock.-No trace of her as yet. We find also that the little waiting-maid we have here in training has disappeared with Caroline, and there is not much doubt that Caroline, fearing to travel alone, has induced this girl to go with her as companion. I am almost sure she has started in desperation to find him, and that Venice is her goal. Why should she run away, if not to join her husband, as she thinks him? Now that I consider, there have been indications of this wish in her for days, as in birds of passage there lurk signs of their incipient intention; and yet I did not think she would have taken such an extreme step, unaided, and without consulting me. I can only jot down the bare facts-I have no time for reflections. But fancy Caroline travelling across the continent of Europe with a chit of a girl, who will be more of a charge than an assistance! They will be a mark for every marauder who encounters them.

1 o'clock.-No sign of her yet. We also notice that the young maid we have in training has gone missing with Caroline, and it's pretty clear that Caroline, afraid to travel alone, convinced her to come along as a companion. I'm almost certain she's left in desperation to find him, and that Venice is her destination. Why else would she run away if not to join her husband, as she believes him to be? Now that I think about it, she has shown signs of this desire for days, just like migratory birds give hints of their upcoming journey; yet I didn't think she would take such a drastic step without help or without discussing it with me. I can only note the facts—there’s no time for reflection. But just imagine Caroline traveling across the continent of Europe with a young girl, who will be more of a burden than a help! They’ll be an easy target for any troublemaker who crosses their path.

Evening: 8 o'clock.-Yes, it is as I surmised. She has gone to join him. A note posted by her in Budmouth Regis at daybreak has reached me this afternoon-thanks to the fortunate chance of one of the servants calling for letters in town to-day, or I should not have got it until to-morrow. She merely asserts her determination of going to him, and has started privately, that nothing may hinder her; stating nothing about her route. That such a gentle thing should suddenly become so calmly resolute quite surprises me. Alas, he may have left Venice-she may not find him for weeks-may not at all.

Evening: 8 o'clock. - Yes, just as I suspected. She has gone to meet him. A note she posted in Budmouth Regis at dawn reached me this afternoon—thanks to the luck of one of the servants picking up letters in town today, or I wouldn’t have received it until tomorrow. She simply states her decision to go to him and has left secretly, so nothing would stop her; she doesn’t mention her route. It really surprises me that such a gentle person could suddenly become so determined. Unfortunately, he may have left Venice—she might not find him for weeks—or possibly not at all.

My father, on learning the facts, bade me at once have everything ready by nine this evening, in time to drive to the train that meets the night steam-boat. This I have done, and there being an hour to spare before we start, I relieve the suspense of waiting by taking up my pen. He says overtake her we must, and calls Charles the hardest of names. He believes, of course, that she is merely an infatuated girl rushing off to meet her lover; and how can the wretched I tell him that she is more, and in a sense better than that-yet not sufficiently more and better to make this flight to Charles anything but a still greater danger to her than a mere lover's impulse. We shall go by way of Paris, and we think we may overtake her there. I hear my father walking restlessly up and down the hall, and can write no more.

My father, upon finding out the details, told me to get everything ready by nine this evening so we can drive to catch the train for the night steamboat. I’ve done that, and since we have an hour to kill before we leave, I’m easing my anxiety while I take up my pen. He insists we must catch up to her and calls Charles all sorts of names. He thinks, of course, that she’s just a lovesick girl running off to meet her boyfriend; but how can I tell him that she is more than that, and in some ways, better—but not enough to make this escape to Charles anything but an even bigger risk for her than just a simple romantic urge. We plan to go through Paris, and we think we might catch her there. I can hear my father pacing back and forth in the hall, and I can’t write anymore.

CHAPTER VIII.-SHE TRAVELS IN PURSUIT

April 16. Evening, Paris, Hotel —-.-There is no overtaking her at this place; but she has been here, as I thought, no other hotel in Paris being known to her. We go on to-morrow morning.

April 16. Evening, Paris, Hotel —-.- I can't surpass her at this place; but she’s been here, like I figured, since no other hotel in Paris is familiar to her. We're leaving tomorrow morning.

April 18. Venice.-A morning of adventures and emotions which leave me sick and weary, and yet unable to sleep, though I have lain down on the sofa of my room for more than an hour in the attempt. I therefore make up my diary to date in a hurried fashion, for the sake of the riddance it affords to ideas which otherwise remain suspended hotly in the brain.

April 18. Venice.-A morning full of adventures and emotions that leave me feeling sick and tired, yet unable to sleep, even though I’ve been lying on the sofa in my room for over an hour trying to. So, I’m quickly catching up on my diary to clear my mind of thoughts that are just stuck and restless.

We arrived here this morning in broad sunlight, which lit up the sea- girt buildings as we approached so that they seemed like a city of cork floating raft-like on the smooth, blue deep. But I only glanced from the carriage window at the lovely scene, and we were soon across the intervening water and inside the railway station. When we got to the front steps the row of black gondolas and the shouts of the gondoliers so bewildered my father that he was understood to require two gondolas instead of one with two oars, and so I found him in one and myself in another. We got this righted after a while, and were rowed at once to the hotel on the Riva degli Schiavoni where M. de la Feste had been staying when we last heard from him, the way being down the Grand Canal for some distance, under the Rialto, and then by narrow canals which eventually brought us under the Bridge of Sighs-harmonious to our moods!-and out again into open water. The scene was purity itself as to colour, but it was cruel that I should behold it for the first time under such circumstances.

We arrived here this morning in bright sunlight, which illuminated the buildings surrounded by water as we got closer, making them look like a city of cork floating on the smooth, blue sea. But I only took a quick glance from the carriage window at the beautiful view, and we soon crossed the water and entered the train station. When we reached the front steps, the row of black gondolas and the shouts of the gondoliers confused my father so much that he ended up requesting two gondolas instead of one with two oars, so I found myself in one gondola and him in another. We sorted that out after a while and were quickly rowed to the hotel on the Riva degli Schiavoni, where M. de la Feste had been staying the last time we heard from him. The route took us down the Grand Canal for a while, under the Rialto, and then through narrow canals that eventually led us under the Bridge of Sighs—perfectly matching our mood!—and back out into open water. The scene was pure in color, but it felt harsh to see it for the first time under such circumstances.

As soon as I entered the hotel, which is an old-fashioned place, like most places here, where people are taken en pension as well as the ordinary way, I rushed to the framed list of visitors hanging in the hall, and in a moment I saw Charles's name upon it among the rest. But she was our chief thought. I turned to the hall porter, and-knowing that she would have travelled as 'Madame de la Feste'-I asked for her under that name, without my father hearing. (He, poor soul, was making confused inquiries outside the door about 'an English lady,' as if there were not a score of English ladies at hand.)

As soon as I walked into the hotel, which felt pretty outdated, like most places around here, where people can stay both as guests or in a boarding style, I hurried over to the framed list of visitors on the wall. In no time, I spotted Charles's name among the others. But she was our main concern. I turned to the hall porter, knowing she would have traveled as 'Madame de la Feste,' and I asked for her under that name, making sure my father didn’t hear. (He, poor guy, was outside the door, confusedly asking about 'an English lady,' as if there weren’t plenty of English ladies around.)

'She has just come,' said the porter. 'Madame came by the very early train this morning, when Monsieur was asleep, and she requested us not to disturb him. She is now in her room.'

'She just arrived,' said the porter. 'Madame came by the first train this morning, while Monsieur was still sleeping, and she asked us not to wake him. She is now in her room.'

Whether Caroline had seen us from the window, or overheard me, I do not know, but at that moment I heard footsteps on the bare marble stairs, and she appeared in person descending.

Whether Caroline had spotted us from the window or had overheard me, I don't know, but at that moment, I heard footsteps on the bare marble stairs, and she appeared in person, coming down.

'Caroline!' I exclaimed, 'why have you done this?' and rushed up to her.

'Caroline!' I shouted, 'why did you do this?' and hurried over to her.

She did not answer; but looked down to hide her emotion, which she conquered after the lapse of a few seconds, putting on a practical tone that belied her.

She didn't respond; instead, she looked down to hide her feelings, which she managed to suppress after a few seconds, adopting a practical tone that contradicted her true emotions.

'I am just going to my husband,' she said. 'I have not yet seen him. I have not been here long.' She condescended to give no further reason for her movements, and made as if to move on. I implored her to come into a private room where I could speak to her in confidence, but she objected. However, the dining-room, close at hand, was quite empty at this hour, and I got her inside and closed the door. I do not know how I began my explanation, or how I ended it, but I told her briefly and brokenly enough that the marriage was not real.

"I’m just going to see my husband," she said. "I haven’t seen him yet. I haven’t been here long." She didn’t offer any more explanation for her actions and started to move on. I begged her to come into a private room so I could talk to her in confidence, but she refused. However, the dining room was nearby and completely empty at this hour, so I got her inside and closed the door. I don’t remember exactly how I started my explanation or how I finished it, but I told her, briefly and awkwardly, that the marriage wasn’t real.

'Not real?' she said vacantly.

"Not real?" she said, blankly.

'It is not,' said I. 'You will find that it is all as I say.'

'It’s not,' I said. 'You’ll see that everything is just as I said.'

She could not believe my meaning even then. 'Not his wife?' she cried. 'It is impossible. What am I, then?'

She still couldn't grasp what I meant. "Not his wife?" she exclaimed. "That's impossible. So what am I, then?"

I added more details, and reiterated the reason for my conduct as well as I could; but Heaven knows how very difficult I found it to feel a jot more justification for it in my own mind than she did in hers.

I added more details and explained the reason for my actions as clearly as I could; but honestly, it was really hard for me to feel any more justified in my own mind than she did in hers.

The revulsion of feeling, as soon as she really comprehended all, was most distressing. After her grief had in some measure spent itself she turned against both him and me.

The feeling of disgust, as soon as she fully understood everything, was really upsetting. After her sadness had somewhat faded, she turned against both him and me.

'Why should have I been deceived like this?' she demanded, with a bitter haughtiness of which I had not deemed such a tractable creature capable. 'Do you suppose that anything could justify such an imposition? What, O what a snare you have spread for me!'

'Why should I have been deceived like this?' she demanded, with a bitter arrogance I hadn’t thought such an easygoing person capable of. 'Do you think anything could justify such a trick? What, oh what a trap you’ve set for me!'

I murmured, 'Your life seemed to require it,' but she did not hear me. She sank down in a chair, covered her face, and then my father came in. 'O, here you are!' he said. 'I could not find you. And Caroline!'

I whispered, 'Your life seemed to need it,' but she didn’t hear me. She sat down in a chair, covered her face, and then my dad walked in. 'Oh, there you are!' he said. 'I couldn't find you. And Caroline!'

'And were you, papa, a party to this strange deed of kindness?'

'And were you, Dad, involved in this strange act of kindness?'

'To what?' said he.

"To what?" he asked.

Then out it all came, and for the first time he was made acquainted with the fact that the scheme for soothing her illness, which I had sounded him upon, had been really carried out. In a moment he sided with Caroline. My repeated assurance that my motive was good availed less than nothing. In a minute or two Caroline arose and went abruptly out of the room, and my father followed her, leaving me alone to my reflections.

Then it all came out, and for the first time, he realized that the plan to help her with her illness, which I had discussed with him, had actually been put into action. In an instant, he took Caroline's side. My repeated assurances that my intentions were good didn’t mean a thing. A minute or two later, Caroline stood up and left the room suddenly, and my father followed her, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I was so bent upon finding Charles immediately that I did not notice whither they went. The servants told me that M. de la Feste was just outside smoking, and one of them went to look for him, I following; but before we had gone many steps he came out of the hotel behind me. I expected him to be amazed; but he showed no surprise at seeing me, though he showed another kind of feeling to an extent which dismayed me. I may have revealed something similar; but I struggled hard against all emotion, and as soon as I could I told him she had come. He simply said 'Yes' in a low voice.

I was so focused on finding Charles right away that I didn’t pay attention to where they went. The servants told me that M. de la Feste was just outside smoking, and one of them went to find him, and I followed; but before we'd taken many steps, he came out of the hotel behind me. I expected him to be shocked, but he didn’t seem surprised to see me, although he did show a different type of feeling that worried me. I might have shown something similar, but I fought hard against any emotion, and as soon as I could, I told him she had come. He simply replied, 'Yes,' in a low voice.

'You know it, Charles?' said I.

'Do you know it, Charles?' I asked.

'I have just learnt it,' he said.

'I just learned it,' he said.

'O, Charles,' I went on, 'having delayed completing your marriage with her till now, I fear-it has become a serious position for us. Why did you not reply to our letters?'

'O, Charles,' I continued, 'having put off finishing your marriage with her until now, I'm afraid it has become a serious situation for us. Why didn't you respond to our letters?'

'I was purposing to reply in person: I did not know how to address her on the point-how to address you. But what has become of her?'

'I was planning to reply in person: I didn't know how to bring it up with her—how to talk to you about it. But what happened to her?'

'She has gone off with my father,' said I; 'indignant with you, and scorning me.'

'She left with my dad,' I said; 'mad at you and looking down on me.'

He was silent: and I suggested that we should follow them, pointing out the direction which I fancied their gondola had taken. As the one we got into was doubly manned we soon came in view of their two figures ahead of us, while they were not likely to observe us, our boat having the 'felze' on, while theirs was uncovered. They shot into a narrow canal just beyond the Giardino Reale, and by the time we were floating up between its slimy walls we saw them getting out of their gondola at the steps which lead up near the end of the Via 22 Marzo. When we reached the same spot they were walking up and down the Via in consultation. Getting out he stood on the lower steps watching them. I watched him. He seemed to fall into a reverie.

He was quiet, so I suggested we follow them, indicating the direction where I thought their gondola had gone. Since the one we got into had two rowers, we soon spotted their figures ahead of us. They probably wouldn't notice us because our boat had the 'felze' cover while theirs was open. They turned into a narrow canal just past the Giardino Reale, and by the time we were floating between its slimy walls, we saw them get out of their gondola at the steps leading up near the end of the Via 22 Marzo. When we reached the same spot, they were walking back and forth on the street, discussing something. He got out and stood on the lower steps, watching them. I kept an eye on him, and he seemed to drift into a daydream.

'Will you not go and speak to her?' said I at length.

"Are you not going to go talk to her?" I finally said.

He assented, and went forward. Still he did not hasten to join them, but, screened by a projecting window, observed their musing converse. At last he looked back at me; whereupon I pointed forward, and he in obedience stepped out, and met them face to face. Caroline flushed hot, bowed haughtily to him, turned away, and taking my father's arm violently, led him off before he had had time to use his own judgment. They disappeared into a narrow calle, or alley, leading to the back of the buildings on the Grand Canal.

He agreed and moved ahead. Still, he didn't rush to join them. Instead, hidden behind a jutting window, he watched their thoughtful conversation. Finally, he glanced back at me, so I pointed forward, and he stepped out as instructed to meet them directly. Caroline blushed angrily, gave him a haughty nod, turned away, and grabbed my father's arm forcefully, pulling him away before he could make his own decision. They went into a narrow alley that led to the back of the buildings by the Grand Canal.

M. de la Feste came slowly back; as he stepped in beside me I realized my position so vividly that my heart might almost have been heard to beat. The third condition had arisen-the least expected by either of us. She had refused him; he was free to claim me.

M. de la Feste walked back slowly; as he settled in next to me, I became acutely aware of my situation, my heart almost pounding in my chest. The third condition had emerged—the one neither of us expected. She had turned him down; he was now free to pursue me.

We returned in the boat together. He seemed quite absorbed till we had turned the angle into the Grand Canal, when he broke the silence. 'She spoke very bitterly to you in the salle-a-manger,' he said. 'I do not think she was quite warranted in speaking so to you, who had nursed her so tenderly.'

We rode back in the boat together. He seemed really lost in thought until we turned the corner into the Grand Canal, when he finally spoke up. "She was really harsh with you in the dining room," he said. "I don’t think she had the right to speak to you like that, especially considering how lovingly you took care of her."

'O, but I think she was,' I answered. 'It was there I told her what had been done; she did not know till then.'

"Oh, but I think she was," I replied. "That's when I told her what had happened; she didn't know until then."

'She was very dignified-very striking,' he murmured. 'You were more.'

'She had a lot of dignity—really stood out,' he whispered. 'You stood out even more.'

'But how do you know what passed between us,' said I. He then told me that he had seen and heard all. The dining-room was divided by folding- doors from an inner portion, and he had been sitting in the latter part when we entered the outer, so that our words were distinctly audible.

'But how do you know what happened between us?' I asked. He then told me that he had seen and heard everything. The dining room was divided by folding doors from an inner section, and he had been sitting in the latter part when we entered the outer area, so our words were clearly audible.

'But, dear Alicia,' he went on, 'I was more impressed by the affection of your apology to her than by anything else. And do you know that now the conditions have arisen which give me liberty to consider you my affianced?' I had been expecting this, but yet was not prepared. I stammered out that we would not discuss it then.

'But, dear Alicia,' he continued, 'I was more touched by how much you cared in your apology to her than anything else. And do you realize that now the circumstances have changed so I can think of you as my fiancée?' I had been anticipating this, but I still wasn't ready. I stammered that we shouldn't talk about it right now.

'Why not?' said he. 'Do you know that we may marry here and now? She has cast off both you and me.'

'Why not?' he said. 'Do you realize that we can get married right here and now? She has let go of both you and me.'

'It cannot be,' said I, firmly. 'She has not been fairly asked to be your wife in fact-to repeat the service lawfully; and until that has been done it would be grievous sin in me to accept you.'

'It can't be,' I said firmly. 'She hasn't been properly asked to be your wife in a real sense—to repeat the ceremony legally; and until that happens, it would be a terrible sin for me to accept you.'

I had not noticed where the gondoliers were rowing us. I suppose he had given them some direction unheard by me, for as I resigned myself in despairing indolence to the motion of the gondola, I perceived that it was taking us up the Canal, and, turning into a side opening near the Palazzo Grimani, drew up at some steps near the end of a large church.

I hadn't realized where the gondoliers were taking us. I guess he had told them where to go, even though I couldn't hear it. As I settled into a state of hopeless laziness while the gondola moved, I saw that we were heading up the Canal. We turned into a side opening near the Palazzo Grimani and stopped at some steps close to the end of a big church.

'Where are we?' said I.

'Where are we?' I asked.

'It is the Church of the Frari,' he replied. 'We might be married there. At any rate, let us go inside, and grow calm, and decide what to do.'

'It's the Church of the Frari,' he replied. 'We could get married there. Anyway, let's go inside, relax, and figure out what to do.'

When we had entered I found that whether a place to marry in or not, it was one to depress. The word which Venice speaks most constantly-decay-was in a sense accentuated here. The whole large fabric itself seemed sinking into an earth which was not solid enough to bear it. Cobwebbed cracks zigzagged the walls, and similar webs clouded the window-panes. A sickly-sweet smell pervaded the aisles. After walking about with him a little while in embarrassing silences, divided only by his cursory explanations of the monuments and other objects, and almost fearing he might produce a marriage licence, I went to a door in the south transept which opened into the sacristy.

When we walked in, I realized that whether it was a good place to get married or not, it definitely had a depressing vibe. The word that Venice is always associated with—decay—was even more pronounced here. The entire structure seemed to be sinking into ground that wasn’t solid enough to support it. Spiderweb-like cracks crisscrossed the walls, and similar webs clouded the windows. A sickly-sweet smell lingered in the aisles. After wandering around with him in awkward silence, broken only by his quick explanations of the monuments and other items, and almost dreading that he might pull out a marriage license, I headed to a door in the south transept that led into the sacristy.

I glanced through it, towards the small altar at the upper end. The place was empty save of one figure; and she was kneeling here in front of the beautiful altarpiece by Bellini. Beautiful though it was she seemed not to see it. She was weeping and praying as though her heart was broken. She was my sister Caroline. I beckoned to Charles, and he came to my side, and looked through the door with me.

I peeked inside, towards the small altar at the far end. The place was empty except for one person; she was kneeling in front of the stunning altarpiece by Bellini. As beautiful as it was, she seemed oblivious to it. She was crying and praying as if her heart was shattered. She was my sister Caroline. I signaled to Charles, and he joined me, looking through the door with me.

'Speak to her,' said I. 'She will forgive you.'

"Talk to her," I said. "She'll forgive you."

I gently pushed him through the doorway, and went back into the transept, down the nave, and onward to the west door. There I saw my father, to whom I spoke. He answered severely that, having first obtained comfortable quarters in a pension on the Grand Canal, he had gone back to the hotel on the Riva degli Schiavoni to find me; but that I was not there. He was now waiting for Caroline, to accompany her back to the pension, at which she had requested to be left to herself as much as possible till she could regain some composure.

I gently pushed him through the doorway and headed back into the transept, down the nave, and towards the west door. There, I saw my father, and I spoke to him. He replied sternly that after settling into a nice place at a pension on the Grand Canal, he had gone back to the hotel on the Riva degli Schiavoni to look for me, but I wasn’t there. He was now waiting for Caroline to take her back to the pension, where she had asked to be left alone as much as possible until she could regain some composure.

I told him that it was useless to dwell on what was past, that I no doubt had erred, that the remedy lay in the future and their marriage. In this he quite agreed with me, and on my informing him that M. de la Feste was at that moment with Caroline in the sacristy, he assented to my proposal that we should leave them to themselves, and return together to await them at the pension, where he had also engaged a room for me. This we did, and going up to the chamber he had chosen for me, which overlooked the Canal, I leant from the window to watch for the gondola that should contain Charles and my sister.

I told him it was pointless to focus on the past, that I definitely had made mistakes, and that the solution was in the future and their marriage. He completely agreed, and when I mentioned that M. de la Feste was currently with Caroline in the sacristy, he agreed to my suggestion that we leave them alone and head back to the pension together, where he'd also booked a room for me. So we did that, and when we got to the room he chose for me, which had a view of the Canal, I leaned out the window to look for the gondola with Charles and my sister.

They were not long in coming. I recognized them by the colour of her sunshade as soon as they turned the bend on my right hand. They were side by side of necessity, but there was no conversation between them, and I thought that she looked flushed and he pale. When they were rowed in to the steps of our house he handed her up. I fancied she might have refused his assistance, but she did not. Soon I heard her pass my door, and wishing to know the result of their interview I went downstairs, seeing that the gondola had not put off with him. He was turning from the door, but not towards the water, intending apparently to walk home by way of the calle which led into the Via 22 Marzo.

They didn't take long to arrive. I recognized them by the color of her sunshade as soon as they rounded the bend on my right. They were walking side by side out of necessity, but there was no conversation between them, and I thought she looked flushed while he appeared pale. When they were rowed to the steps of our house, he helped her out. I thought she might refuse his help, but she didn’t. Soon I heard her walk past my door, and wanting to know how their meeting went, I went downstairs, noticing that the gondola hadn’t left with him. He was turning away from the door, but not toward the water, apparently planning to walk home via the calle that led into Via 22 Marzo.

'Has she forgiven you?' said I.

'Has she forgiven you?' I asked.

'I have not asked her,' he said.

'I haven't asked her,' he said.

'But you are bound to do so,' I told him.

'But you have to do that,' I told him.

He paused, and then said, 'Alicia, let us understand each other. Do you mean to tell me, once for all, that if your sister is willing to become my wife you absolutely make way for her, and will not entertain any thought of what I suggested to you any more?'

He paused and then said, "Alicia, let's be clear with each other. Are you telling me, once and for all, that if your sister is willing to marry me, you'll completely step aside for her and won't consider anything I suggested to you anymore?"

'I do tell you so,' said I with dry lips. 'You belong to her-how can I do otherwise?'

'I’m telling you,' I said with dry lips. 'You belong to her—how can I do anything else?'

'Yes; it is so; it is purely a question of honour,' he returned. 'Very well then, honour shall be my word, and not my love. I will put the question to her frankly; if she says yes, the marriage shall be. But not here. It shall be at your own house in England.'

'Yes, that's right; it's really just a matter of honor,' he replied. 'Alright then, honor will be my priority, not my love. I'll ask her directly; if she agrees, then we’ll get married. But not here. It will be at your place in England.'

'When?' said I.

"When?" I asked.

'I will accompany her there,' he replied, 'and it shall be within a week of her return. I have nothing to gain by delay. But I will not answer for the consequences.'

'I will go with her there,' he replied, 'and it will be within a week of her return. I have nothing to gain by waiting. But I can't guarantee the outcome.'

'What do you mean?' said I. He made no reply, went away, and I came back to my room.

'What do you mean?' I asked. He didn't respond, left, and I returned to my room.

CHAPTER IX.-SHE WITNESSES THE END

April 20. Milan, 10.30 p.m.-We are thus far on our way homeward. I, being decidedly de trop, travel apart from the rest as much as I can. Having dined at the hotel here, I went out by myself; regardless of the proprieties, for I could not stay in. I walked at a leisurely pace along the Via Allesandro Manzoni till my eye was caught by the grand Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, and I entered under the high glass arcades till I reached the central octagon, where I sat down on one of a group of chairs placed there. Becoming accustomed to the stream of promenaders, I soon observed, seated on the chairs opposite, Caroline and Charles. This was the first occasion on which I had seen them en tete-a-tete since my conversation with him. She soon caught sight of me; averted her eyes; then, apparently abandoning herself to an impulse, she jumped up from her seat and came across to me. We had not spoken to each other since the meeting in Venice.

April 20. Milan, 10:30 p.m. - We're on our way home now. Since I definitely feel out of place, I try to stay away from the others as much as possible. After having dinner at the hotel, I went out by myself, ignoring the social norms because I couldn't just stay inside. I strolled casually along Via Allesandro Manzoni until I was drawn in by the stunning Galleria Vittorio Emanuele and walked under the tall glass archways until I reached the central octagon, where I sat down on one of the chairs set up there. As I got used to the flow of people walking by, I soon noticed Caroline and Charles sitting on the chairs opposite me. This was the first time I had seen them alone together since my talk with him. She quickly noticed me, looked away, and then, seemingly acting on a sudden impulse, she jumped up from her seat and came over to me. We hadn't spoken since our meeting in Venice.

'Alicia,' she said, sitting down by my side, 'Charles asks me to forgive you, and I do forgive you.'

'Alicia,' she said, sitting down next to me, 'Charles wants me to forgive you, and I do forgive you.'

I pressed her hand, with tears in my eyes, and said, 'And do you forgive him?'

I held her hand tightly, tears in my eyes, and asked, 'Do you forgive him?'

'Yes,' said she, shyly.

"Yeah," she said, shyly.

'And what's the result?' said I.

'So what's the outcome?' I asked.

'We are to be married directly we reach home.'

'We will get married as soon as we get home.'

This was almost the whole of our conversation; she walked home with me, Charles following a little way behind, though she kept turning her head, as if anxious that he should overtake us. 'Honour and not love' seemed to ring in my ears. So matters stand. Caroline is again happy.

This was pretty much the entire conversation; she walked home with me, Charles trailing a bit behind, even though she kept glancing back, as if worried that he should catch up with us. 'Honor and not love' echoed in my ears. That's how things are. Caroline is happy again.

April 25.-We have reached home, Charles with us. Events are now moving in silent speed, almost with velocity, indeed; and I sometimes feel oppressed by the strange and preternatural ease which seems to accompany their flow. Charles is staying at the neighbouring town; he is only waiting for the marriage licence; when obtained he is to come here, be quietly married to her, and carry her off. It is rather resignation than content which sits on his face; but he has not spoken a word more to me on the burning subject, or deviated one hair's breadth from the course he laid down. They may be happy in time to come: I hope so. But I cannot shake off depression.

April 25.-We’ve made it home, and Charles is with us. Things are moving fast now, almost too fast; sometimes I feel overwhelmed by the strange and unnatural ease that seems to come with it all. Charles is staying in the nearby town; he's just waiting for the marriage license. Once he gets it, he’ll come here, marry her quietly, and take her away. His face shows more resignation than happiness, but he hasn’t said another word to me about the sensitive issue, nor has he deviated from the plan he set out. They may find happiness eventually: I hope so. But I can’t shake off this feeling of sadness.

May 6.-Eve of the wedding. Caroline is serenely happy, though not blithe. But there is nothing to excite anxiety about her. I wish I could say the same of him. He comes and goes like a ghost, and yet nobody seems to observe this strangeness in his mien.

May 6.-Eve of the wedding. Caroline is calmly happy, though not overly cheerful. But there’s nothing to worry about regarding her. I wish I could say the same about him. He appears and disappears like a ghost, yet no one seems to notice this oddness in his demeanor.

I could not help being here for the ceremony; but my absence would have resulted in less disquiet on his part, I believe. However, I may be wrong in attributing causes: my father simply says that Charles and Caroline have as good a chance of being happy as other people. Well, to-morrow settles all.

I couldn't resist being here for the ceremony, but I think my absence would have caused him less worry. Still, I might be mistaken about the reasons: my dad just says that Charles and Caroline have as good a chance of being happy as anyone else. Well, tomorrow will decide everything.

May 7.-They are married: we have just returned from church. Charles looked so pale this morning that my father asked him if he was ill. He said, 'No: only a slight headache;' and we started for the church.

May 7.-They are married: we just got back from church. Charles looked so pale this morning that my dad asked him if he was okay. He said, 'No: just a tiny headache;' and we left for the church.

There was no hitch or hindrance; and the thing is done.

There were no problems or obstacles, and it's all taken care of.

4 p.m.-They ought to have set out on their journey by this time; but there is an unaccountable delay. Charles went out half-an-hour ago, and has not yet returned. Caroline is waiting in the hall; but I am dreadfully afraid they will miss the train. I suppose the trifling hindrance is of no account; and yet I am full of misgivings . . .

4 p.m. - They should have started their journey by now, but there’s an inexplicable delay. Charles left half an hour ago and still hasn’t come back. Caroline is waiting in the hall, but I’m really worried they’re going to miss the train. I guess the minor hold-up doesn’t mean much, yet I can’t shake these uneasy feelings...

Sept. 14.-Four months have passed; only four months! It seems like years. Can it be that only seventeen weeks ago I set on this paper the fact of their marriage? I am now an aged woman by comparison!

Sept. 14.-Four months have passed; just four months! It feels like years. Can it really be that only seventeen weeks ago I wrote down their marriage on this paper? I feel like an old woman by comparison!

On that never to be forgotten day we waited and waited, and Charles did not return. At six o'clock, when poor little Caroline had gone back to her room in a state of suspense impossible to describe, a man who worked in the water-meadows came to the house and asked for my father. He had an interview with him in the study. My father then rang his bell, and sent for me. I went down; and I then learnt the fatal news. Charles was no more. The waterman had been going to shut down the hatches of a weir in the meads when he saw a hat on the edge of the pool below, floating round and round in the eddy, and looking into the pool saw something strange at the bottom. He knew what it meant, and lowering the hatches so that the water was still, could distinctly see the body. It is needless to write particulars that were in the newspapers at the time. Charles was brought to the house, but he was dead.

On that unforgettable day, we waited and waited, but Charles didn’t come back. At six o'clock, when poor little Caroline had returned to her room in a state of suspense that’s hard to describe, a man who worked in the water meadows came to the house asking for my father. He had a meeting with him in the study. My father then rang the bell and called for me. I went down, and that’s when I learned the heartbreaking news. Charles was gone. The waterman had been about to shut down the hatches of a weir in the meadows when he noticed a hat floating on the edge of the pool, circling in the current. Looking into the pool, he saw something strange at the bottom. He knew what it meant, and after lowering the hatches to calm the water, he could clearly see the body. There’s no need to write the details that were in the newspapers at the time. Charles was brought to the house, but he was dead.

We all feared for Caroline; and she suffered much; but strange to say, her suffering was purely of the nature of deep grief which found relief in sobbing and tears. It came out at the inquest that Charles had been accustomed to cross the meads to give an occasional half-crown to an old man who lived on the opposite hill, who had once been a landscape painter in an humble way till he lost his eyesight; and it was assumed that he had gone thither for the same purpose to-day, and to bid him farewell. On this information the coroner's jury found that his death had been caused by misadventure; and everybody believes to this hour that he was drowned while crossing the weir to relieve the old man. Except one: she believes in no accident. After the stunning effect of the first news, I thought it strange that he should have chosen to go on such an errand at the last moment, and to go personally, when there was so little time to spare, since any gift could have been so easily sent by another hand. Further reflection has convinced me that this step out of life was as much a part of the day's plan as was the wedding in the church hard by. They were the two halves of his complete intention when he gave me on the Grand Canal that assurance which I shall never forget: 'Very well, then; honour shall be my word, not love. If she says "Yes," the marriage shall be.'

We all worried about Caroline, and she went through a lot; but oddly enough, her pain was really just deep sadness that came out in sobs and tears. At the inquest, it came out that Charles regularly crossed the fields to give an occasional half-crown to an old man living on the opposite hill, who had once been a modest landscape painter until he lost his eyesight; and it was assumed he had gone there today for the same reason, to say goodbye. Based on this information, the coroner's jury concluded that his death was caused by misadventure, and everyone still believes he drowned while crossing the weir to help the old man. Except for one person: she doesn’t believe it was an accident. After the shock of the initial news wore off, I found it strange that he would choose to make such a visit at the last minute, especially since he could have easily had someone else deliver the gift. Further thinking has led me to believe that this step away from life was just as much a part of the day's plan as the wedding in the nearby church. They were the two halves of his complete intention when he assured me on the Grand Canal with words I’ll never forget: "Very well, then; honour shall be my word, not love. If she says 'Yes,' the marriage shall be."

I do not know why I should have made this entry at this particular time; but it has occurred to me to do it-to complete, in a measure, that part of my desultory chronicle which relates to the love-story of my sister and Charles. She lives on meekly in her grief; and will probably outlive it; while I-but never mind me.

I don’t know why I decided to write this entry right now; but I felt like doing it—to somewhat wrap up that part of my scattered story that’s about my sister and Charles’ romance. She quietly endures her sadness; and she’ll probably outlast it; while I—but let’s not focus on me.

CHAPTER X.-SHE ADDS A NOTE LONG AFTER

Five-years later.-I have lighted upon this old diary, which it has interested me to look over, containing, as it does, records of the time when life shone more warmly in my eye than it does now. I am impelled to add one sentence to round off its record of the past. About a year ago my sister Caroline, after a persistent wooing, accepted the hand and heart of Theophilus Higham, once the blushing young Scripture reader who assisted at the substitute for a marriage I planned, and now the fully- ordained curate of the next parish. His penitence for the part he played ended in love. We have all now made atonement for our sins against her: may she be deceived no more.

Five years later—I've come across this old diary, which I found interesting to read, as it holds memories of a time when life felt brighter to me than it does now. I feel compelled to add a sentence to complete its record of the past. About a year ago, my sister Caroline, after much persistence, accepted the proposal of Theophilus Higham, who was once the shy young Scripture reader assisting in the makeshift marriage I arranged, and now is the fully ordained curate of the neighboring parish. His remorse for his previous role turned into love. We’ve all made amends for our wrongs against her: may she never be misled again.

1887.

THE GRAVE BY THE HANDPOST

I never pass through Chalk-Newton without turning to regard the neighbouring upland, at a point where a lane crosses the lone straight highway dividing this from the next parish; a sight which does not fail to recall the event that once happened there; and, though it may seem superfluous, at this date, to disinter more memories of village history, the whispers of that spot may claim to be preserved.

I never go through Chalk-Newton without looking back at the nearby hill where a lane crosses the lonely straight road separating this area from the next parish; a view that always brings to mind an event that once took place there. Even though it might seem unnecessary to dig up more memories of local history, the echoes of that place deserve to be remembered.

It was on a dark, yet mild and exceptionally dry evening at Christmas- time (according to the testimony of William Dewy of Mellstock, Michael Mail, and others), that the choir of Chalk-Newton-a large parish situate about half-way between the towns of Ivel and Casterbridge, and now a railway station-left their homes just before midnight to repeat their annual harmonies under the windows of the local population. The band of instrumentalists and singers was one of the largest in the county; and, unlike the smaller and finer Mellstock string-band, which eschewed all but the catgut, it included brass and reed performers at full Sunday services, and reached all across the west gallery.

It was a dark, mild, and unusually dry Christmas Eve (according to William Dewy of Mellstock, Michael Mail, and others) when the choir from Chalk-Newton—a large parish located about halfway between the towns of Ivel and Casterbridge, now a railway station—left their homes just before midnight to sing their annual carols under the windows of the local residents. The group of musicians and singers was one of the largest in the county; unlike the smaller, more refined Mellstock string band, which played only string instruments, this choir included brass and reed players alongside their full Sunday services and extended all across the west gallery.

On this night there were two or three violins, two 'cellos, a tenor viol, double bass, hautboy, clarionets, serpent, and seven singers. It was, however, not the choir's labours, but what its members chanced to witness, that particularly marked the occasion.

On this night, there were two or three violins, two cellos, a tenor viol, double bass, oboe, clarinets, serpent, and seven singers. However, it wasn't the choir's performance that stood out, but rather what its members happened to see that truly defined the event.

They had pursued their rounds for many years without meeting with any incident of an unusual kind, but to-night, according to the assertions of several, there prevailed, to begin with, an exceptionally solemn and thoughtful mood among two or three of the oldest in the band, as if they were thinking they might be joined by the phantoms of dead friends who had been of their number in earlier years, and now were mute in the churchyard under flattening mounds-friends who had shown greater zest for melody in their time than was shown in this; or that some past voice of a semi-transparent figure might quaver from some bedroom-window its acknowledgment of their nocturnal greeting, instead of a familiar living neighbour. Whether this were fact or fancy, the younger members of the choir met together with their customary thoughtlessness and buoyancy. When they had gathered by the stone stump of the cross in the middle of the village, near the White Horse Inn, which they made their starting point, some one observed that they were full early, that it was not yet twelve o'clock. The local waits of those days mostly refrained from sounding a note before Christmas morning had astronomically arrived, and not caring to return to their beer, they decided to begin with some outlying cottages in Sidlinch Lane, where the people had no clocks, and would not know whether it were night or morning. In that direction they accordingly went; and as they ascended to higher ground their attention was attracted by a light beyond the houses, quite at the top of the lane.

They had gone about their rounds for many years without experiencing anything unusual, but tonight, according to several people, there was an especially serious and reflective atmosphere among a couple of the oldest members of the group, as if they were contemplating the possibility of being joined by the spirits of deceased friends who had once been part of their crew, now lying silent in the graveyard under the earth—friends who had shown more enthusiasm for music in their time than was evident tonight; or that some past voice of a ghostly figure might echo from some bedroom window, acknowledging their nighttime greeting instead of a familiar living neighbor. Whether this was reality or imagination, the younger members of the choir gathered together with their usual carefree attitude and energy. When they assembled around the stone stump of the cross in the middle of the village, near the White Horse Inn, which served as their meeting point, someone remarked that they were really early, as it wasn't yet midnight. The local singers of that time typically held off on playing any music until Christmas morning actually arrived, and not wanting to head back for their drinks, they decided to start with some remote cottages on Sidlinch Lane, where the residents didn’t have clocks and wouldn’t know if it was night or morning. They set off in that direction, and as they climbed to higher ground, a light caught their attention beyond the houses, all the way at the top of the lane.

The road from Chalk-Newton to Broad Sidlinch is about two miles long and in the middle of its course, where it passes over the ridge dividing the two villages, it crosses at right angles, as has been stated, the lonely monotonous old highway known as Long Ash Lane, which runs, straight as a surveyor's line, many miles north and south of this spot, on the foundation of a Roman road, and has often been mentioned in these narratives. Though now quite deserted and grass-grown, at the beginning of the century it was well kept and frequented by traffic. The glimmering light appeared to come from the precise point where the roads intersected.

The road from Chalk-Newton to Broad Sidlinch is about two miles long, and in the middle of its course, where it goes over the ridge separating the two villages, it crosses at a right angle, as mentioned, the lonely, dull old highway known as Long Ash Lane. This road runs, straight as a ruler, many miles north and south of this spot, built on the foundation of a Roman road, and it's been frequently referenced in these stories. Although it’s now totally deserted and covered in grass, at the start of the century it was well-maintained and regularly used by vehicles. The shimmering light seemed to come from the exact spot where the roads intersected.

'I think I know what that mid mean!' one of the group remarked.

'I think I know what that means!' one of the group remarked.

They stood a few moments, discussing the probability of the light having origin in an event of which rumours had reached them, and resolved to go up the hill.

They stood for a few moments, talking about the chance that the light came from an event they had heard rumors about, and decided to head up the hill.

Approaching the high land their conjectures were strengthened. Long Ash Lane cut athwart them, right and left; and they saw that at the junction of the four ways, under the hand-post, a grave was dug, into which, as the choir drew nigh, a corpse had just been thrown by the four Sidlinch men employed for the purpose. The cart and horse which had brought the body thither stood silently by.

Approaching the elevated land, their guesses became more certain. Long Ash Lane ran across them, both right and left; and they noticed that at the intersection of the four roads, beneath the signpost, a grave had been dug, into which, as the choir got closer, a body had just been placed by the four Sidlinch men assigned for the task. The cart and horse that had brought the body there stood quietly nearby.

The singers and musicians from Chalk-Newton halted, and looked on while the gravediggers shovelled in and trod down the earth, till, the hole being filled, the latter threw their spades into the cart, and prepared to depart.

The singers and musicians from Chalk-Newton stopped and watched as the gravediggers shoveled dirt into the hole and packed it down. Once the hole was filled, the gravediggers tossed their shovels into the cart and got ready to leave.

'Who mid ye be a-burying there?' asked Lot Swanhills in a raised voice. 'Not the sergeant?'

'Who are you burying there?' asked Lot Swanhills in a raised voice. 'Not the sergeant?'

The Sidlinch men had been so deeply engrossed in their task that they had not noticed the lanterns of the Chalk-Newton choir till now.

The Sidlinch men had been so focused on their work that they hadn't noticed the lanterns of the Chalk-Newton choir until now.

'What-be you the Newton carol-singers?' returned the representatives of Sidlinch.

'Who are the Newton carol-singers?' replied the representatives of Sidlinch.

'Ay, sure. Can it be that it is old Sergeant Holway you've a-buried there?'

'Ay, sure. Could it be that it's old Sergeant Holway you've buried there?'

''Tis so. You've heard about it, then?'

"Yes, that's right. You've heard about it, then?"

The choir knew no particulars-only that he had shot himself in his apple-closet on the previous Sunday. 'Nobody seem'th to know what 'a did it for, 'a b'lieve? Leastwise, we don't know at Chalk-Newton,' continued Lot.

The choir knew no details—only that he had shot himself in his closet on the previous Sunday. "Nobody seems to know why he did it, right? At least, we don’t know at Chalk-Newton," Lot continued.

'O yes. It all came out at the inquest.'

The singers drew close, and the Sidlinch men, pausing to rest after their labours, told the story. 'It was all owing to that son of his, poor old man. It broke his heart.'

The singers gathered around, and the Sidlinch guys, taking a break after their work, shared the story. 'It was all because of that son of his, poor old man. It shattered his heart.'

'But the son is a soldier, surely; now with his regiment in the East Indies?'

'But the son is a soldier, right? He's with his regiment in the East Indies now?'

'Ay. And it have been rough with the army over there lately. 'Twas a pity his father persuaded him to go. But Luke shouldn't have twyted the sergeant o't, since 'a did it for the best.'

'Ay. And it's been tough for the army over there lately. It was a shame his father talked him into going. But Luke shouldn't have mentioned it to the sergeant, since he did it for the best.'

The circumstances, in brief, were these: The sergeant who had come to this lamentable end, father of the young soldier who had gone with his regiment to the East, had been singularly comfortable in his military experiences, these having ended long before the outbreak of the great war with France. On his discharge, after duly serving his time, he had returned to his native village, and married, and taken kindly to domestic life. But the war in which England next involved herself had cost him many frettings that age and infirmity prevented him from being ever again an active unit of the army. When his only son grew to young manhood, and the question arose of his going out in life, the lad expressed his wish to be a mechanic. But his father advised enthusiastically for the army.

The situation was this: The sergeant who met this unfortunate end was the father of the young soldier who had gone with his regiment to the East. He had been quite comfortable during his military experiences, which ended long before the start of the major war with France. After completing his service, he returned to his hometown, got married, and embraced domestic life. However, the next war that England got involved in brought him many worries, and age and his poor health prevented him from ever being an active member of the army again. When his only son reached young adulthood and the question of his future came up, the young man said he wanted to be a mechanic. But his father eagerly encouraged him to join the army instead.

'Trade is coming to nothing in these days,' he said. 'And if the war with the French lasts, as it will, trade will be still worse. The army, Luke-that's the thing for 'ee. 'Twas the making of me, and 'twill be the making of you. I hadn't half such a chance as you'll have in these splendid hotter times.'

'Business is really struggling these days,' he said. 'And if the war with the French drags on, which it will, business will get even worse. The army, Luke—that's the path for you. It made me who I am, and it will do the same for you. I didn’t have nearly the opportunities you’ll have in these exciting times ahead.'

Luke demurred, for he was a home-keeping, peace-loving youth. But, putting respectful trust in his father's judgment, he at length gave way, and enlisted in the —-d Foot. In the course of a few weeks he was sent out to India to his regiment, which had distinguished itself in the East under General Wellesley.

Luke hesitated because he was a homebody who valued peace. However, trusting his father's judgment, he eventually relented and joined the —-d Foot. A few weeks later, he was sent out to India with his regiment, which had made a name for itself in the East under General Wellesley.

But Luke was unlucky. News came home indirectly that he lay sick out there; and then on one recent day when his father was out walking, the old man had received tidings that a letter awaited him at Casterbridge. The sergeant sent a special messenger the whole nine miles, and the letter was paid for and brought home; but though, as he had guessed, it came from Luke, its contents were of an unexpected tenor.

But Luke was unfortunate. Word came back indirectly that he was sick out there; and then one recent day while his father was out walking, the old man got news that a letter was waiting for him in Casterbridge. The sergeant sent a special messenger the whole nine miles, and the letter was paid for and brought home; but although, as he had guessed, it was from Luke, its contents were surprising.

The letter had been written during a time of deep depression. Luke said that his life was a burden and a slavery, and bitterly reproached his father for advising him to embark on a career for which he felt unsuited. He found himself suffering fatigues and illnesses without gaining glory, and engaged in a cause which he did not understand or appreciate. If it had not been for his father's bad advice he, Luke, would now have been working comfortably at a trade in the village that he had never wished to leave.

The letter was written during a period of deep depression. Luke expressed that his life felt like a burden and a trap, and he harshly criticized his father for pushing him to pursue a career he felt wasn't right for him. He felt exhausted and unwell without achieving any recognition and was involved in a cause he didn't understand or value. If it weren't for his father's poor guidance, he, Luke, would have been content working in the village trade he never wanted to leave.

After reading the letter the sergeant advanced a few steps till he was quite out of sight of everybody, and then sat down on the bank by the wayside.

After reading the letter, the sergeant moved a few steps until he was out of sight of everyone, and then sat down on the bank by the side of the road.

When he arose half-an-hour later he looked withered and broken, and from that day his natural spirits left him. Wounded to the quick by his son's sarcastic stings, he indulged in liquor more and more frequently. His wife had died some years before this date, and the sergeant lived alone in the house which had been hers. One morning in the December under notice the report of a gun had been heard on his premises, and on entering the neighbours found him in a dying state. He had shot himself with an old firelock that he used for scaring birds; and from what he had said the day before, and the arrangements he had made for his decease, there was no doubt that his end had been deliberately planned, as a consequence of the despondency into which he had been thrown by his son's letter. The coroner's jury returned a verdict of felo de se.

When he got up half an hour later, he looked shriveled and broken, and from that day on, his natural spirit was gone. Hurt deeply by his son's sarcastic remarks, he turned to alcohol more and more often. His wife had passed away several years earlier, and the sergeant lived alone in the house that had belonged to her. One morning in December, a gunshot was heard from his property, and when neighbors went to check, they found him in a dying state. He had shot himself with an old gun that he used to scare birds; based on what he had said the day before and the arrangements he had made for his death, it was clear that he had deliberately planned this, driven by the despair caused by his son's letter. The coroner's jury returned a verdict of felo de se.

'Here's his son's letter,' said one of the Sidlinch men. ''Twas found in his father's pocket. You can see by the state o't how many times he read it over. Howsomever, the Lord's will be done, since it must, whether or no.'

'Here's his son's letter,' said one of the Sidlinch men. 'It was found in his father's pocket. You can tell by its condition how many times he read it over. Anyway, the Lord's will be done, since it has to be, whether we like it or not.'

The grave was filled up and levelled, no mound being shaped over it. The Sidlinch men then bade the Chalk-Newton choir good-night, and departed with the cart in which they had brought the sergeant's body to the hill. When their tread had died away from the ear, and the wind swept over the isolated grave with its customary siffle of indifference, Lot Swanhills turned and spoke to old Richard Toller, the hautboy player.

The grave was filled in and leveled off, with no mound formed above it. The Sidlinch men then said goodnight to the Chalk-Newton choir and left with the cart that had carried the sergeant's body to the hill. Once their footsteps faded away and the wind blew over the lonely grave with its usual sigh of indifference, Lot Swanhills turned and spoke to old Richard Toller, the oboe player.

''Tis hard upon a man, and he a wold sojer, to serve en so, Richard. Not that the sergeant was ever in a battle bigger than would go into a half-acre paddock, that's true. Still, his soul ought to hae as good a chance as another man's, all the same, hey?'

''It's tough on a guy, especially a veteran soldier, to serve like that, Richard. Not that the sergeant has ever been in a battle bigger than what could fit in a half-acre field, that's true. Still, his soul deserves just as good a chance as anyone else's, right?''

Richard replied that he was quite of the same opinion. 'What d'ye say to lifting up a carrel over his grave, as 'tis Christmas, and no hurry to begin down in parish, and 'twouldn't take up ten minutes, and not a soul up here to say us nay, or know anything about it?'

Richard said he completely agreed. "What do you think about putting up a little shelter over his grave since it’s Christmas, and there’s no rush to start anything in the parish? It wouldn’t take more than ten minutes, and there’s nobody around here to object or even know about it."

Lot nodded assent. 'The man ought to hae his chances,' he repeated.

Lot nodded in agreement. "He should get his chances," he repeated.

'Ye may as well spet upon his grave, for all the good we shall do en by what we lift up, now he's got so far,' said Notton, the clarionet man and professed sceptic of the choir. 'But I'm agreed if the rest be.'

'You might as well spit on his grave, because whatever we do now that he’s gotten this far won’t make any difference,' said Notton, the clarinet player and self-proclaimed skeptic of the choir. 'But I’m in if everyone else is.'

They thereupon placed themselves in a semicircle by the newly stirred earth, and roused the dull air with the well-known Number Sixteen of their collection, which Lot gave out as being the one he thought best suited to the occasion and the mood

They then positioned themselves in a semicircle around the freshly turned earth and filled the still air with the familiar Number Sixteen from their collection, which Lot announced as the one he believed was best suited for the occasion and the mood.

He comes' the pri'-soners to' re-lease', In Sa'-tan's bon'-dage held'.

He comes to free the prisoners, held in Satan's bondage.

'Jown it-we've never played to a dead man afore,' said Ezra Cattstock, when, having concluded the last verse, they stood reflecting for a breath or two. 'But it do seem more merciful than to go away and leave en, as they t'other fellers have done.'

'John it—we've never played for a dead man before,' said Ezra Cattstock, when, having finished the last verse, they stood reflecting for a moment. 'But it does seem more compassionate than to just walk away and leave him, like the other guys have done.'

'Now backalong to Newton, and by the time we get overright the pa'son's 'twill be half after twelve,' said the leader.

'Now back to Newton, and by the time we get to the parson's place, it will be half past twelve,' said the leader.

They had not, however, done more than gather up their instruments when the wind brought to their notice the noise of a vehicle rapidly driven up the same lane from Sidlinch which the gravediggers had lately retraced. To avoid being run over when moving on, they waited till the benighted traveller, whoever he might be, should pass them where they stood in the wider area of the Cross.

They hadn't done much more than pick up their tools when the wind alerted them to the sound of a vehicle speeding down the same lane from Sidlinch that the gravediggers had just walked back. To avoid getting run over while they moved, they paused until the unfortunate traveler, whoever he was, passed by them in the open space of the Cross.

In half a minute the light of the lanterns fell upon a hired fly, drawn by a steaming and jaded horse. It reached the hand-post, when a voice from the inside cried, 'Stop here!' The driver pulled rein. The carriage door was opened from within, and there leapt out a private soldier in the uniform of some line regiment. He looked around, and was apparently surprised to see the musicians standing there.

In thirty seconds, the lanterns lit up a hired cab pulled by a tired, sweaty horse. It arrived at the post, when a voice from inside shouted, 'Stop here!' The driver reined in. The carriage door swung open from the inside, and a private soldier in the uniform of a line regiment jumped out. He looked around and seemed surprised to see the musicians standing there.

'Have you buried a man here?' he asked.

'Have you buried someone here?' he asked.

'No. We bain't Sidlinch folk, thank God; we be Newton choir. Though a man is just buried here, that's true; and we've raised a carrel over the poor mortal's natomy. What-do my eyes see before me young Luke Holway, that went wi' his regiment to the East Indies, or do I see his spirit straight from the battlefield? Be you the son that wrote the letter-'

'No. We aren’t from Sidlinch, thank God; we’re from the Newton choir. It’s true that a man was just buried here, and we’ve put up a memorial for the poor soul. What do my eyes see in front of me? Is that young Luke Holway, who went with his regiment to the East Indies, or do I see his spirit straight from the battlefield? Are you the son that wrote the letter-'

'Don't-don't ask me. The funeral is over, then?'

'Don't—don't ask me. Is the funeral over, then?'

'There wer no funeral, in a Christen manner of speaking. But's buried, sure enough. You must have met the men going back in the empty cart.'

'There was no funeral, in a Christian sense. But he's buried, for sure. You must have seen the men coming back in the empty cart.'

'Like a dog in a ditch, and all through me!'

He remained silent, looking at the grave, and they could not help pitying him. 'My friends,' he said, 'I understand better now. You have, I suppose, in neighbourly charity, sung peace to his soul? I thank you, from my heart, for your kind pity. Yes; I am Sergeant Holway's miserable son-I'm the son who has brought about his father's death, as truly as if I had done it with my own hand!'

He stayed quiet, staring at the grave, and they couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. "My friends," he said, "I understand things more clearly now. You've probably sung for his peace out of neighborly kindness? I really appreciate your sympathy. Yes, I am Sergeant Holway's unfortunate son—I'm the son who caused his father's death, just as if I had done it myself!"

'No, no. Don't ye take on so, young man. He'd been naturally low for a good while, off and on, so we hear.'

'No, no. Don’t be so upset, young man. He’s been feeling down for a while now, on and off, from what we hear.'

'We were out in the East when I wrote to him. Everything had seemed to go wrong with me. Just after my letter had gone we were ordered home. That's how it is you see me here. As soon as we got into barracks at Casterbridge I heard o' this . . . Damn me! I'll dare to follow my father, and make away with myself, too. It is the only thing left to do!'

'We were out East when I wrote to him. Everything seemed to go wrong for me. Right after I sent my letter, we were ordered back home. That's how you see me here. As soon as we got to the barracks in Casterbridge, I heard about this . . . Damn it! I'm going to follow my father and end it all, too. It's the only thing left for me to do!'

'Don't ye be rash, Luke Holway, I say again; but try to make amends by your future life. And maybe your father will smile a smile down from heaven upon 'ee for 't.'

'Don't be reckless, Luke Holway, I’m telling you again; instead, try to make things right with your future actions. And maybe your father will look down from heaven and smile at you for it.'

He shook his head. 'I don't know about that!' he answered bitterly.

He shook his head. "I don't know about that!" he replied bitterly.

'Try and be worthy of your father at his best. 'Tis not too late.'

'Try to be worthy of your father at his best. It’s not too late.'

'D'ye think not? I fancy it is! . . . Well, I'll turn it over. Thank you for your good counsel. I'll live for one thing, at any rate. I'll move father's body to a decent Christian churchyard, if I do it with my own hands. I can't save his life, but I can give him an honourable grave. He shan't lie in this accursed place!'

"Don't you think so? I think it is! ... Well, I'll consider it. Thanks for your advice. At least I'll have one purpose. I'll move my father's body to a proper Christian cemetery, even if I have to do it myself. I can't bring him back to life, but I can give him a dignified resting place. He won't be left in this cursed spot!"

'Ay, as our pa'son says, 'tis a barbarous custom they keep up at Sidlinch, and ought to be done away wi'. The man a' old soldier, too. You see, our pa'son is not like yours at Sidlinch.'

'Aye, as our pastor says, it’s a barbaric tradition they hold onto at Sidlinch, and it should be gotten rid of. The man is an old soldier, too. You see, our pastor isn’t like yours at Sidlinch.'

'He says it is barbarous, does he? So it is!' cried the soldier. 'Now hearken, my friends.' Then he proceeded to inquire if they would increase his indebtedness to them by undertaking the removal, privately, of the body of the suicide to the churchyard, not of Sidlinch, a parish he now hated, but of Chalk-Newton. He would give them all he possessed to do it.

'He calls it barbaric, does he? So it is!' shouted the soldier. 'Now listen, my friends.' He then asked if they would take on the task, secretly, of moving the body of the suicide to the churchyard, not in Sidlinch, a parish he now despised, but in Chalk-Newton. He would give them everything he had to make it happen.

Lot asked Ezra Cattstock what he thought of it.

Lot asked Ezra Cattstock what he thought about it.

Cattstock, the 'cello player, who was also the sexton, demurred, and advised the young soldier to sound the rector about it first. 'Mid be he would object, and yet 'a mid'nt. The pa'son o' Sidlinch is a hard man, I own ye, and 'a said if folk will kill theirselves in hot blood they must take the consequences. But ours don't think like that at all, and might allow it.'

Cattstock, the 'cello player who was also the sexton, hesitated and suggested that the young soldier check with the rector first. "He might object, but then again, he might not. The pastor of Sidlinch is a tough guy, I’ll admit, and he said that if people choose to end their lives in a fit of passion, they have to deal with the consequences. But ours doesn't think that way at all and might be okay with it."

'What's his name?'

'What’s his name?'

'The honourable and reverent Mr. Oldham, brother to Lord Wessex. But you needn't be afeard o' en on that account. He'll talk to 'ee like a common man, if so be you haven't had enough drink to gie 'ee bad breath.'

'The honorable and respected Mr. Oldham, brother to Lord Wessex. But you don't need to be afraid of him for that reason. He'll talk to you like an ordinary guy, as long as you haven’t had enough to drink to give you bad breath.'

'O, the same as formerly. I'll ask him. Thank you. And that duty done-'

'O, just like before. I'll ask him. Thank you. And that task is complete-'

'What then?'

'What now?'

'There's war in Spain. I hear our next move is there. I'll try to show myself to be what my father wished me. I don't suppose I shall-but I'll try in my feeble way. That much I swear-here over his body. So help me God.'

'There's a war in Spain. I hear our next move is there. I'll try to be the person my father wanted me to be. I don’t think I’ll succeed, but I’ll make an effort in my own small way. That much I promise—right here over his body. So help me God.'

Luke smacked his palm against the white hand-post with such force that it shook. 'Yes, there's war in Spain; and another chance for me to be worthy of father.'

Luke slapped his hand against the white post hard enough that it trembled. 'Yeah, there's a war in Spain; and another opportunity for me to prove myself to Dad.'

So the matter ended that night. That the private acted in one thing as he had vowed to do soon became apparent, for during the Christmas week the rector came into the churchyard when Cattstock was there, and asked him to find a spot that would be suitable for the purpose of such an interment, adding that he had slightly known the late sergeant, and was not aware of any law which forbade him to assent to the removal, the letter of the rule having been observed. But as he did not wish to seem moved by opposition to his neighbour at Sidlinch, he had stipulated that the act of charity should be carried out at night, and as privately as possible, and that the grave should be in an obscure part of the enclosure. 'You had better see the young man about it at once,' added the rector.

So the matter was settled that night. It quickly became clear that the private was following through on his vow, because during Christmas week, the rector came into the churchyard while Cattstock was there and asked him to find a spot suitable for the burial. He added that he had known the late sergeant a bit and wasn’t aware of any law that prevented him from agreeing to the removal, as the guidelines had been followed. However, to avoid appearing to oppose his neighbor at Sidlinch, he requested that the act of kindness be done at night and as privately as possible, with the grave placed in a hidden part of the area. "You should talk to the young man about it right away," the rector added.

But before Ezra had done anything Luke came down to his house. His furlough had been cut short, owing to new developments of the war in the Peninsula, and being obliged to go back to his regiment immediately, he was compelled to leave the exhumation and reinterment to his friends. Everything was paid for, and he implored them all to see it carried out forthwith.

But before Ezra could do anything, Luke came down to his house. His leave had been shortened because of new developments in the war in the Peninsula, and since he had to return to his regiment right away, he had to ask his friends to handle the exhumation and reinterment. Everything was paid for, and he urged them all to make sure it happened immediately.

With this the soldier left. The next day Ezra, on thinking the matter over, again went across to the rectory, struck with sudden misgiving. He had remembered that the sergeant had been buried without a coffin, and he was not sure that a stake had not been driven through him. The business would be more troublesome than they had at first supposed.

With that, the soldier left. The next day, Ezra, pondering the situation, went back to the rectory, feeling a sudden sense of unease. He remembered that the sergeant had been buried without a coffin, and he wasn't sure if a stake had been driven through him. The matter would be more complicated than they had originally thought.

'Yes, indeed!' murmured the rector. 'I am afraid it is not feasible after all.'

'Yes, definitely!' the rector whispered. 'I’m afraid it’s not possible after all.'

The next event was the arrival of a headstone by carrier from the nearest town; to be left at Mr. Ezra Cattstock's; all expenses paid. The sexton and the carrier deposited the stone in the former's outhouse; and Ezra, left alone, put on his spectacles and read the brief and simple inscription:-

The next event was the delivery of a headstone by carrier from the nearest town, which was to be left at Mr. Ezra Cattstock's, with all expenses covered. The sexton and the carrier placed the stone in the sexton's outhouse, and Ezra, now alone, put on his glasses and read the short and straightforward inscription:

HERE LYETH THE BODY OF SAMUEL HOLWAY, LATE SERGEANT IN HIS MAJESTY'S —- D REGIMENT OF FOOT, WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE DECEMBER THE 20TH, 180-. ERECTED BY L. H. 'I AM NOT WORTHY TO BE CALLED THY SON.'

HERE LIES THE BODY OF SAMUEL HOLWAY, FORMER SERGEANT IN HIS MAJESTY'S —- D REGIMENT OF FOOT, WHO PASSED AWAY DECEMBER 20TH, 180-. ERECTED BY L. H. 'I AM NOT WORTHY TO BE CALLED YOUR SON.'

Ezra again called at the riverside rectory. 'The stone is come, sir. But I'm afeard we can't do it nohow.'

Ezra went back to the rectory by the river. "The stone has arrived, sir. But I'm afraid we can't manage it at all."

'I should like to oblige him,' said the gentlemanly old incumbent. 'And I would forego all fees willingly. Still, if you and the others don't think you can carry it out, I am in doubt what to say.'

"I’d like to help him," said the polite old pastor. "And I'd gladly give up all my fees. But if you and the others don’t think you can handle it, I’m unsure what to say."

Well, sir; I've made inquiry of a Sidlinch woman as to his burial, and what I thought seems true. They buried en wi' a new six-foot hurdle- saul drough's body, from the sheep-pen up in North Ewelease though they won't own to it now. And the question is, Is the moving worth while, considering the awkwardness?'

Well, sir, I asked a woman from Sidlinch about his burial, and what I suspected turns out to be true. They buried him with a new six-foot sheep hurdle that came from the pen up in North Ewelease, although they won't admit it now. The question is, is it worth the trouble to move him, considering the awkwardness?

'Have you heard anything more of the young man?'

'Have you heard anything else about the young man?'

Ezra had only heard that he had embarked that week for Spain with the rest of the regiment. 'And if he's as desperate as 'a seemed, we shall never see him here in England again.'

Ezra only heard that he had left that week for Spain with the rest of the regiment. 'And if he’s as reckless as he seemed, we’ll never see him here in England again.'

'It is an awkward case,' said the rector.

'It’s a tricky situation,' said the rector.

Ezra talked it over with the choir; one of whom suggested that the stone might be erected at the crossroads. This was regarded as impracticable. Another said that it might be set up in the churchyard without removing the body; but this was seen to be dishonest. So nothing was done.

Ezra discussed it with the choir; one member suggested that the stone could be placed at the crossroads. This was considered impractical. Another person proposed that it might be put up in the churchyard without moving the body, but that was deemed dishonest. So nothing happened.

The headstone remained in Ezra's outhouse till, growing tired of seeing it there, he put it away among the bushes at the bottom of his garden. The subject was sometimes revived among them, but it always ended with: 'Considering how 'a was buried, we can hardly make a job o't.'

The headstone stayed in Ezra's outhouse until he got tired of looking at it and moved it to the bushes at the bottom of his garden. The topic would occasionally come up among them, but it always ended with: 'Given how he was buried, we can't really do anything about it.'

There was always the consciousness that Luke would never come back, an impression strengthened by the disasters which were rumoured to have befallen the army in Spain. This tended to make their inertness permanent. The headstone grew green as it lay on its back under Ezra's bushes; then a tree by the river was blown down, and, falling across the stone, cracked it in three pieces. Ultimately the pieces became buried in the leaves and mould.

There was always a sense that Luke would never return, a feeling reinforced by the rumors of the army's misfortunes in Spain. This made their paralysis feel permanent. The headstone turned green while lying on its back under Ezra's bushes; then a tree by the river was uprooted and fell across the stone, breaking it into three pieces. Eventually, the pieces got covered by leaves and mold.

Luke had not been born a Chalk-Newton man, and he had no relations left in Sidlinch, so that no tidings of him reached either village throughout the war. But after Waterloo and the fall of Napoleon there arrived at Sidlinch one day an English sergeant-major covered with stripes and, as it turned out, rich in glory. Foreign service had so totally changed Luke Holway that it was not until he told his name that the inhabitants recognized him as the sergeant's only son.

Luke hadn't been born a Chalk-Newton man, and he had no family left in Sidlinch, so no news of him reached either village during the war. But after Waterloo and Napoleon's defeat, one day an English sergeant-major, covered in stripes and clearly wealthy in glory, arrived in Sidlinch. Foreign service had changed Luke Holway so much that the locals didn't recognize him until he stated his name, revealing himself as the sergeant's only son.

He had served with unswerving effectiveness through the Peninsular campaigns under Wellington; had fought at Busaco, Fuentes d'Onore, Ciudad Rodrigo, Badajoz, Salamanca, Vittoria, Quatre Bras, and Waterloo; and had now returned to enjoy a more than earned pension and repose in his native district.

He had served with unwavering effectiveness during the Peninsular campaigns under Wellington; had fought at Busaco, Fuentes d'Onore, Ciudad Rodrigo, Badajoz, Salamanca, Vittoria, Quatre Bras, and Waterloo; and had now returned to enjoy a well-deserved pension and rest in his hometown.

He hardly stayed in Sidlinch longer than to take a meal on his arrival. The same evening he started on foot over the hill to Chalk-Newton, passing the hand-post, and saying as he glanced at the spot, 'Thank God: he's not there!' Nightfall was approaching when he reached the latter village; but he made straight for the churchyard. On his entering it there remained light enough to discern the headstones by, and these he narrowly scanned. But though he searched the front part by the road, and the back part by the river, what he sought he could not find-the grave of Sergeant Holway, and a memorial bearing the inscription: 'I AM NOT WORTHY TO BE CALLED THY SON.'

He barely stayed in Sidlinch long enough to have a meal when he arrived. That same evening, he walked over the hill to Chalk-Newton, passing the handpost and thinking as he looked at the spot, 'Thank God: he's not there!' It was getting dark when he reached the village, but he headed straight for the churchyard. When he entered, there was still enough light to see the headstones, which he examined closely. However, even though he searched the front part by the road and the back part by the river, he couldn't find what he was looking for—the grave of Sergeant Holway, and a memorial with the inscription: 'I AM NOT WORTHY TO BE CALLED THY SON.'

He left the churchyard and made inquiries. The honourable and reverend old rector was dead, and so were many of the choir; but by degrees the sergeant-major learnt that his father still lay at the cross-roads in Long Ash Lane.

He left the churchyard and asked around. The respected and elderly rector had passed away, along with many of the choir members; but gradually, the sergeant-major found out that his father was still at rest at the cross-roads in Long Ash Lane.

Luke pursued his way moodily homewards, to do which, in the natural course, he would be compelled to repass the spot, there being no other road between the two villages. But he could not now go by that place, vociferous with reproaches in his father's tones; and he got over the hedge and wandered deviously through the ploughed fields to avoid the scene. Through many a fight and fatigue Luke had been sustained by the thought that he was restoring the family honour and making noble amends. Yet his father lay still in degradation. It was rather a sentiment than a fact that his father's body had been made to suffer for his own misdeeds; but to his super-sensitiveness it seemed that his efforts to retrieve his character and to propitiate the shade of the insulted one had ended in failure.

Luke trudged home, feeling down. To get there, he had to go past the spot where his father's angry words echoed in his mind; there was no other road between the two villages. But he couldn't bear to pass that place, so he climbed over the hedge and wandered through the plowed fields to avoid it. After enduring many fights and hardships, Luke had been motivated by the idea that he was restoring his family's honor and making up for past wrongs. Yet his father still lay in disgrace. It was more of a feeling than a reality that his father's suffering was due to his own mistakes; but for Luke, who was overly sensitive, it felt like his attempts to redeem himself and honor the memory of the wronged had ultimately failed.

He endeavoured, however, to shake off his lethargy, and, not liking the associations of Sidlinch, hired a small cottage at Chalk-Newton which had long been empty. Here he lived alone, becoming quite a hermit, and allowing no woman to enter the house.

He tried to shake off his laziness and, not enjoying the associations of Sidlinch, rented a small cottage in Chalk-Newton that had been empty for a long time. He lived there alone, becoming quite a hermit, and let no woman enter the house.

The Christmas after taking up his abode herein he was sitting in the chimney corner by himself, when he heard faint notes in the distance, and soon a melody burst forth immediately outside his own window, it came from the carol-singers, as usual; and though many of the old hands, Ezra and Lot included, had gone to their rest, the same old carols were still played out of the same old books. There resounded through the sergeant-major's window-shutters the familiar lines that the deceased choir had rendered over his father's grave:-

The Christmas after moving in, he was sitting alone in the corner by the fireplace when he heard faint sounds in the distance. Soon, a melody erupted right outside his own window; it was the carol singers, as usual. Even though many of the veterans, including Ezra and Lot, had passed on, the same old carols were still being sung from the same old books. The familiar lines that the now-deceased choir had sung over his father's grave echoed through the sergeant-major's window shutters:

He comes' the pri'-soners to' re-lease', In Sa'-tan's bon'-dage held'.

He comes to release the prisoners, held in Satan's bondage.

When they had finished they went on to another house, leaving him to silence and loneliness as before.

When they were done, they moved on to another house, leaving him in silence and loneliness just like before.

The candle wanted snuffing, but he did not snuff it, and he sat on till it had burnt down into the socket and made waves of shadow on the ceiling.

The candle needed to be snuffed, but he didn't snuff it, and he just sat there until it burned down into the socket and cast waves of shadow on the ceiling.

The Christmas cheerfulness of next morning was broken at breakfast-time by tragic intelligence which went down the village like wind. Sergeant- Major Holway had been found shot through the head by his own hand at the cross-roads in Long Ash Lane where his father lay buried.

The Christmas cheer of the next morning was shattered at breakfast by tragic news that spread through the village like wildfire. Sergeant-Major Holway had been found shot in the head by his own hand at the crossroads in Long Ash Lane, where his father was buried.

On the table in the cottage he had left a piece of paper, on which he had written his wish that he might be buried at the Cross beside his father. But the paper was accidentally swept to the floor, and overlooked till after his funeral, which took place in the ordinary way in the churchyard.

On the table in the cottage, he had left a piece of paper where he had written his wish to be buried at the Cross next to his father. But the paper got accidentally knocked to the floor and was missed until after his funeral, which was held as usual in the churchyard.

Christmas 1897.

ENTER A DRAGOON

I lately had a melancholy experience (said the gentleman who is answerable for the truth of this story). It was that of going over a doomed house with whose outside aspect I had long been familiar-a house, that is, which by reason of age and dilapidation was to be pulled down during the following week. Some of the thatch, brown and rotten as the gills of old mushrooms, had, indeed, been removed before I walked over the building. Seeing that it was only a very small house-which is usually called a 'cottage-residence'-situated in a remote hamlet, and that it was not more than a hundred years old, if so much, I was led to think in my progress through the hollow rooms, with their cracked walls and sloping floors, what an exceptional number of abrupt family incidents had taken place therein-to reckon only those which had come to my own knowledge. And no doubt there were many more of which I had never heard.

I recently had a bittersweet experience (said the gentleman responsible for the truth of this story). It was visiting a house that was about to be demolished, one that I had been familiar with for a long time from its exterior—a house that, due to its age and disrepair, was set to be torn down the following week. Some of the thatch, brown and rotting like old mushrooms, had already been taken off before I walked through the building. Since it was a very small house—commonly called a 'cottage'—located in a remote village, and not more than a hundred years old, if that, I found myself reflecting during my walk through the empty rooms with their cracked walls and sloping floors on the many intense family moments that must have happened there—just the ones I knew about, for sure. And undoubtedly, there were many more that I had never heard of.

It stood at the top of a garden stretching down to the lane or street that ran through a hermit-group of dwellings in Mellstock parish. From a green gate at the lower entrance, over which the thorn hedge had been shaped to an arch by constant clippings, a gravel path ascended between the box edges of once trim raspberry, strawberry, and vegetable plots, towards the front door. This was in colour an ancient and bleached green that could be rubbed off with the finger, and it bore a small long-featured brass knocker covered with verdigris in its crevices. For some years before this eve of demolition the homestead had degenerated, and been divided into two tenements to serve as cottages for farm labourers; but in its prime it had indisputable claim to be considered neat, pretty, and genteel.

It stood at the top of a garden that sloped down to the lane or street running through a small collection of homes in Mellstock parish. From a green gate at the lower entrance, shaped into an arch by the constant trimming of the thorn hedge, a gravel path climbed between the box-edged borders of once well-kept raspberry, strawberry, and vegetable gardens, leading to the front door. This door was an old, faded green that could be rubbed off with a finger, and it had a small, elongated brass knocker, which was covered with green corrosion in its crevices. For several years before this evening of demolition, the property had deteriorated and been split into two units to serve as cottages for farm workers; but at its peak, it rightfully could be seen as neat, charming, and respectable.

The variety of incidents above alluded to was mainly owing to the nature of the tenure, whereby the place had been occupied by families not quite of the kind customary in such spots-people whose circumstances, position, or antecedents were more or less of a critical happy-go-lucky cast. And of these residents the family whose term comprised the story I wish to relate was that of Mr. Jacob Paddock the market-gardener, who dwelt there for some years with his wife and grown-up daughter. I

The variety of incidents mentioned above was mainly due to the type of ownership, as the place had been occupied by families that weren't exactly the usual ones in such areas—people whose situations, status, or backgrounds were somewhat unpredictable and carefree. Among these residents, the family at the center of the story I want to share is that of Mr. Jacob Paddock, the market gardener, who lived there for several years with his wife and adult daughter.

An evident commotion was agitating the premises, which jerked busy sounds across the front plot, resembling those of a disturbed hive. If a member of the household appeared at the door it was with a countenance of abstraction and concern.

An obvious turmoil was stirring the place, sending busy sounds across the front yard, similar to a disturbed beehive. Whenever a member of the household showed up at the door, they had an expression of distraction and worry.

Evening began to bend over the scene; and the other inhabitants of the hamlet came out to draw water, their common well being in the public road opposite the garden and house of the Paddocks. Having wound up their bucketsfull respectively they lingered, and spoke significantly together. From their words any casual listener might have gathered information of what had occurred.

Evening started to settle over the scene, and the other residents of the hamlet came out to get water, their shared well being on the public road across from the Paddocks' garden and house. After pulling up their buckets, they hung around and talked meaningfully to one another. From their conversation, any casual listener could pick up details about what had happened.

The woodman who lived nearest the site of the story told most of the tale. Selina, the daughter of the Paddocks opposite, had been surprised that afternoon by receiving a letter from her once intended husband, then a corporal, but now a sergeant-major of dragoons, whom she had hitherto supposed to be one of the slain in the Battle of the Alma two or three years before.

The woodman who lived closest to where the story takes place shared most of it. Selina, the daughter of the Paddocks across the way, was surprised that afternoon to receive a letter from her former fiancé, who was a corporal but was now a sergeant-major of dragoons. Until then, she had thought he was among those killed in the Battle of the Alma two or three years earlier.

'She picked up wi'en against her father's wish, as we know, and before he got his stripes,' their informant continued. 'Not but that the man was as hearty a feller as you'd meet this side o' London. But Jacob, you see, wished her to do better, and one can understand it. However, she was determined to stick to him at that time; and for what happened she was not much to blame, so near as they were to matrimony when the war broke out and spoiled all.'

'She got involved with him against her father's wishes, as we know, and before he got his stripes,' their informant continued. 'Not that the guy wasn't a great fellow, one of the best you'd meet this side of London. But Jacob, you see, wanted her to aim higher, and you can understand that. Still, she was set on staying with him at that time; and for what happened, she wasn't really to blame, especially since they were so close to getting married when the war broke out and ruined everything.'

'Even the very pig had been killed for the wedding,' said a woman, 'and the barrel o' beer ordered in. O, the man meant honourable enough. But to be off in two days to fight in a foreign country-'twas natural of her father to say they should wait till he got back.'

'Even the pig was killed for the wedding,' said a woman, 'and the barrel of beer was ordered in. Oh, the man had good intentions. But to leave in two days to fight in a foreign country—it was only natural for her father to want them to wait until he came back.'

'And he never came,' murmured one in the shade.

'The war ended but her man never turned up again. She was not sure he was killed, but was too proud, or too timid, to go and hunt for him.'

'The war ended, but her man never came back. She wasn't sure if he was killed, but she was too proud or too afraid to go and look for him.'

'One reason why her father forgave her when he found out how matters stood was, as he said plain at the time, that he liked the man, and could see that he meant to act straight. So the old folks made the best of what they couldn't mend, and kept her there with 'em, when some wouldn't. Time has proved seemingly that he did mean to act straight, now that he has writ to her that he's coming. She'd have stuck to him all through the time, 'tis my belief; if t'other hadn't come along.'

'One reason her father forgave her when he found out what was going on was, as he said clearly at the time, that he liked the guy and could see that he intended to do the right thing. So the older folks made the best of what they couldn't fix and kept her with them, unlike some who wouldn’t. Time has shown, it seems, that he really did intend to act right, now that he’s written to her saying he’s coming. I believe she would have stayed with him the whole time if the other guy hadn't come along.'

'At the time of the courtship,' resumed the woodman, 'the regiment was quartered in Casterbridge Barracks, and he and she got acquainted by his calling to buy a penn'orth of rathe-ripes off that tree yonder in her father's orchard-though 'twas said he seed her over hedge as well as the apples. He declared 'twas a kind of apple he much fancied; and he called for a penn'orth every day till the tree was cleared. It ended in his calling for her.'

'During the courtship,' the woodman continued, 'the regiment was stationed at Casterbridge Barracks, and he and she met when he asked to buy a small amount of early-ripening apples from that tree over in her father's orchard—though it was rumored he spotted her over the hedge even more than the apples. He claimed it was a type of apple he really liked; and he came by to buy some every day until the tree was bare. In the end, it led to him asking her out.'

''Twas a thousand pities they didn't jine up at once and ha' done wi' it.

It's a real shame they didn't come together right away and just get it over with.

'Well; better late than never, if so be he'll have her now. But, Lord, she'd that faith in 'en that she'd no more belief that he was alive, when a' didn't come, than that the undermost man in our churchyard was alive. She'd never have thought of another but for that-O no!'

'Well, better late than never; if that's the case, he’ll have her now. But, honestly, she believed in him so much that she had no more faith he was alive when he didn’t show up than the least likely person in our graveyard being alive. She wouldn’t have thought of anyone else if it weren't for that—oh no!'

''Tis awkward, altogether, for her now.'

It's pretty awkward for her now.

'Still she hadn't married wi' the new man. Though to be sure she would have committed it next week, even the licence being got, they say, for she'd have no banns this time, the first being so unfortunate.'

'Still, she hadn't married the new guy. Though it's said she would have gone through with it next week, even with the license being obtained, since she wouldn't have any banns this time, the first one being so unfortunate.'

'Perhaps the sergeant-major will think he's released, and go as he came.'

'Maybe the sergeant-major will think he’s free to go and leave just like he arrived.'

'O, not as I reckon. Soldiers bain't particular, and she's a tidy piece o' furniture still. What will happen is that she'll have her soldier, and break off with the master-wheelwright, licence or no-daze me if she won't.'

'O, not how I see it. Soldiers aren't picky, and she's still a nice bit of furniture. What will happen is that she'll end up with her soldier and break things off with the master-wheelwright, license or not, believe me.'

In the progress of these desultory conjectures the form of another neighbour arose in the gloom. She nodded to the people at the well, who replied 'G'd night, Mrs. Stone,' as she passed through Mr. Paddock's gate towards his door. She was an intimate friend of the latter's household, and the group followed her with their eyes up the path and past the windows, which were now lighted up by candles inside. II

In the course of these random guesses, another neighbor appeared in the dim light. She nodded to the people at the well, who replied, "Good night, Mrs. Stone," as she walked through Mr. Paddock's gate toward his door. She was a close friend of his family, and the group watched her as she made her way up the path and past the windows, now glowing with candlelight inside. II

Mrs. Stone paused at the door, knocked, and was admitted by Selina's mother, who took her visitor at once into the parlour on the left hand, where a table was partly spread for supper. On the 'beaufet' against the wall stood probably the only object which would have attracted the eye of a local stranger in an otherwise ordinarily furnished room, a great plum-cake guarded as if it were a curiosity by a glass shade of the kind seen in museums-square, with a wooden back like those enclosing stuffed specimens of rare feather or fur. This was the mummy of the cake intended in earlier days for the wedding-feast of Selina and the soldier, which had been religiously and lovingly preserved by the former as a testimony to her intentional respectability in spite of an untoward subsequent circumstance, which will be mentioned. This relic was now as dry as a brick, and seemed to belong to a pre-existent civilization. Till quite recently, Selina had been in the habit of pausing before it daily, and recalling the accident whose consequences had thrown a shadow over her life ever since-that of which the water-drawers had spoken-the sudden news one morning that the Route had come for the —-th Dragoons, two days only being the interval before departure; the hurried consultation as to what should be done, the second time of asking being past but not the third; and the decision that it would be unwise to solemnize matrimony in such haphazard circumstances, even if it were possible, which was doubtful.

Mrs. Stone paused at the door, knocked, and was welcomed in by Selina's mother, who led her immediately into the living room on the left, where a table was partially set for dinner. On the sideboard against the wall sat probably the only item that would catch a stranger's eye in an otherwise typically furnished room: a large plum cake protected under a glass dome like those seen in museums, with a wooden base resembling those that hold stuffed specimens of rare feathers or furs. This was the cake intended for the wedding feast of Selina and the soldier, which had been lovingly preserved by Selina as proof of her good intentions, despite a later unfortunate circumstance that will be discussed. This relic was now as dry as a brick and seemed to belong to a lost civilization. Until recently, Selina had made a habit of stopping in front of it daily, recalling the incident that had cast a shadow over her life ever since—what the water-drawers had talked about—the sudden news one morning that the Route had come for the —-th Dragoons, with only two days left before departure; the hurried discussion about what needed to be done, the second request having passed but not the third; and the decision that it would be unwise to rush into marriage under such chaotic circumstances, even if it were possible, which was doubtful.

Before the fire the young woman in question was now seated on a low stool, in the stillness of reverie, and a toddling boy played about the floor around her.

Before the fire, the young woman was sitting on a low stool, lost in thought, while a little boy played on the floor around her.

'Ah, Mrs. Stone!' said Selina, rising slowly. 'How kind of you to come in. You'll bide to supper? Mother has told you the strange news, of course?'

'Oh, Mrs. Stone!' said Selina, getting up slowly. 'How nice of you to drop by. Will you stay for supper? Mom has told you the odd news, right?'

'No. But I heard it outside, that is, that you'd had a letter from Mr. Clark-Sergeant-Major Clark, as they say he is now-and that he's coming to make it up with 'ee.'

'No. But I heard it outside, that is, that you'd received a letter from Mr. Clark—Sergeant-Major Clark, as they say he is now—and that he's coming to make amends with you.'

'Yes; coming to-night-all the way from the north of England where he's quartered. I don't know whether I'm happy or-frightened at it. Of course I always believed that if he was alive he'd come and keep his solemn vow to me. But when it is printed that a man is killed-what can you think?'

'Yes; he's coming tonight—all the way from the north of England where he's stationed. I don't know if I'm happy or scared about it. Of course, I always believed that if he was alive, he'd come and fulfill his solemn promise to me. But when it’s reported that a man is killed—what can you think?'

'It was printed?'

'Was it printed?'

'Why, yes. After the Battle of the Alma the book of the names of the killed and wounded was nailed up against Casterbridge Town Hall door. 'Twas on a Saturday, and I walked there o' purpose to read and see for myself; for I'd heard that his name was down. There was a crowd of people round the book, looking for the names of relations; and I can mind that when they saw me they made way for me-knowing that we'd been just going to be married-and that, as you may say, I belonged to him. Well, I reached up my arm, and turned over the farrels of the book, and under the "killed" I read his surname, but instead of "John" they'd printed "James," and I thought 'twas a mistake, and that it must be he. Who could have guessed there were two nearly of one name in one regiment.'

'Yes. After the Battle of the Alma, the list of those killed and wounded was posted on the door of Casterbridge Town Hall. It was a Saturday, and I made a special trip there to read it for myself because I'd heard his name might be on it. There was a crowd of people gathered around the list, searching for the names of their loved ones; and I remember when they saw me, they parted to let me through, knowing that we were just about to be married—and that, in a way, I was connected to him. Well, I reached up and flipped through the pages of the book, and under the "killed" section, I saw his last name, but instead of "John," they had printed "James," and I thought it was a mistake, that it had to be him. Who would have guessed there were two people with such similar names in the same regiment?'

'Well-he's coming to finish the wedding of 'ee as may be said; so never mind, my dear. All's well that ends well.'

'Well, he's coming to wrap up the wedding, as they say; so don't worry, my dear. Everything will turn out fine in the end.'

'That's what he seems to say. But then he has not heard yet about Mr. Miller; and that's what rather terrifies me. Luckily my marriage with him next week was to have been by licence, and not banns, as in John's case; and it was not so well known on that account. Still, I don't know what to think.'

'That's what he seems to be saying. But he hasn't heard about Mr. Miller yet, and that honestly freaks me out. Luckily, my marriage to him next week was going to be by license and not by banns, like John's; so it was less well-known for that reason. Still, I just don’t know what to think.'

'Everything seems to come just 'twixt cup and lip with 'ee, don't it now, Miss Paddock. Two weddings broke off-'tis odd! How came you to accept Mr. Miller, my dear?'

'Everything seems to happen right when you think everything's set, doesn’t it, Miss Paddock? Two weddings fell apart—how strange! What made you decide to go with Mr. Miller, my dear?'

'He's been so good and faithful! Not minding about the child at all; for he knew the rights of the story. He's dearly fond o' Johnny, you know-just as if 'twere his own-isn't he, my duck? Do Mr. Miller love you or don't he?'

'He's been so good and faithful! Not worrying about the kid at all; because he understood the importance of the story. He really cares about Johnny, you know—just as if he were his own, right, sweetheart? Does Mr. Miller love you or not?'

'Iss! An' I love Mr. Miller,' said the toddler.

'Iss! And I love Mr. Miller,' said the toddler.

'Well, you see, Mrs. Stone, he said he'd make me a comfortable home; and thinking 'twould be a good thing for Johnny, Mr. Miller being so much better off than me, I agreed at last, just as a widow might-which is what I have always felt myself; ever since I saw what I thought was John's name printed there. I hope John will forgive me!'

'Well, you see, Mrs. Stone, he said he’d create a comfortable home for me; and thinking it would be a good opportunity for Johnny, since Mr. Miller is so much better off than I am, I finally agreed, just like a widow might—which is how I’ve always felt since I saw what I thought was John's name printed there. I hope John will forgive me!'

'So he will forgive 'ee, since 'twas no manner of wrong to him. He ought to have sent 'ee a line, saying 'twas another man.'

'So he will forgive you, since it wasn’t really wrong to him. He should have sent you a note, saying it was another guy.'

Selina's mother entered. 'We've not known of this an hour, Mrs. Stone,' she said. 'The letter was brought up from Lower Mellstock Post-office by one of the school children, only this afternoon. Mr. Miller was coming here this very night to settle about the wedding doings. Hark! Is that your father? Or is it Mr. Miller already come?'

Selina's mother walked in. "We only found out about this an hour ago, Mrs. Stone," she said. "The letter was delivered from Lower Mellstock Post Office by one of the school kids just this afternoon. Mr. Miller was on his way here tonight to finalize the wedding plans. Wait! Is that your dad? Or is it Mr. Miller already here?"

The footsteps entered the porch; there was a brushing on the mat, and the door of the room sprung back to disclose a rubicund man about thirty years of age, of thriving master-mechanic appearance and obviously comfortable temper. On seeing the child, and before taking any notice whatever of the elders, the comer made a noise like the crowing of a cock and flapped his arms as if they were wings, a method of entry which had the unqualified admiration of Johnny.

The footsteps came onto the porch; there was a brushing sound on the mat, and the door swung open to reveal a rosy-cheeked man around thirty, looking fit and clearly in a good mood. Upon seeing the child and without acknowledging the adults at all, the newcomer made a noise like a rooster crowing and flapped his arms like they were wings, a way of entering that earned him Johnny's full admiration.

'Yes-it is he,' said Selina constrainedly advancing.

'Yes, it’s him,' said Selina, stepping forward awkwardly.

'What-were you all talking about me, my dear?' said the genial young man when he had finished his crowing and resumed human manners. 'Why what's the matter,' he went on. 'You look struck all of a heap.' Mr. Miller spread an aspect of concern over his own face, and drew a chair up to the fire.

'What were you all saying about me, my dear?' asked the friendly young man after he finished celebrating and got back to being himself. 'What’s going on?' he continued. 'You look completely taken aback.' Mr. Miller put on a worried expression and pulled a chair closer to the fire.

'O mother, would you tell Mr. Miller, if he don't know?'

'O mom, could you tell Mr. Miller if he doesn't know?'

'Mister Miller! and going to be married in six days!' he interposed.

'Mister Miller! We're going to be married in six days!' he interrupted.

'Ah-he don't know it yet!' murmured Mrs. Paddock.

'Oh, he doesn't know it yet!' murmured Mrs. Paddock.

'Know what?'

'You know what?'

'Well-John Clark-now Sergeant-Major Clark-wasn't shot at Alma after all. 'Twas another of almost the same name.'

'Well, John Clark—now Sergeant-Major Clark—wasn't shot at Alma after all. It was another guy with almost the same name.'

'Now that's interesting! There were several cases like that.'

'Now that's interesting! There were a few cases like that.'

'And he's home again; and he's coming here to-night to see her.'

'And he's home again; and he's coming here tonight to see her.'

'Whatever shall I say, that he may not be offended with what I've done?' interposed Selina.

'What should I say so he won't be upset about what I've done?' interjected Selina.

'But why should it matter if he be?'

'But why should it matter if he is?'

'O! I must agree to be his wife if he forgives me-of course I must.'

'O! I have to agree to be his wife if he forgives me—of course I have to.'

'Must! But why not say nay, Selina, even if he do forgive 'ee?'

'Must! But why not say no, Selina, even if he does forgive you?'

'O no! How can I without being wicked? You were very very kind, Mr. Miller, to ask me to have you; no other man would have done it after what had happened; and I agreed, even though I did not feel half so warm as I ought. Yet it was entirely owing to my believing him in the grave, as I knew that if he were not he would carry out his promise; and this shows that I was right in trusting him.'

'O no! How can I do that without being cruel? You were really kind, Mr. Miller, to ask me to be with you; no one else would have done that after what happened. I agreed, even though I didn’t feel nearly as enthusiastic as I should. But it was totally because I believed he was dead, knowing that if he weren’t, he would keep his promise; and this shows that I was right to trust him.'

'Yes . . . He must be a goodish sort of fellow,' said Mr. Miller, for a moment so impressed with the excellently faithful conduct of the sergeant-major of dragoons that he disregarded its effect upon his own position. He sighed slowly and added, 'Well, Selina, 'tis for you to say. I love you, and I love the boy; and there's my chimney-corner and sticks o' furniture ready for 'ee both.'

'Yeah... He seems like a decent guy,' Mr. Miller said, momentarily taken aback by how well the sergeant-major of dragoons had conducted himself, forgetting how it would impact his own situation. He sighed slowly and added, 'Well, Selina, it's up to you. I love you and I love the boy; and here’s my cozy spot and furniture ready for both of you.'

'Yes, I know! But I mustn't hear it any more now,' murmured Selina quickly. 'John will be here soon. I hope he'll see how it all was when I tell him. If so be I could have written it to him it would have been better.'

'Yes, I know! But I can't hear it anymore right now,' Selina murmured quickly. 'John will be here soon. I hope he’ll understand how everything happened when I tell him. It would have been better if I could have just written it to him.'

'You think he doesn't know a single word about our having been on the brink o't. But perhaps it's the other way-he's heard of it and that may have brought him.

'You think he doesn't know anything about us being on the edge of it. But maybe it's the other way around—he's heard about it, and that might be why he came.'

'Ah-perhaps he has!' she said brightening. 'And already forgives me.'

'Oh, maybe he has!' she said, her face lighting up. 'And he already forgives me.'

'If not, speak out straight and fair, and tell him exactly how it fell out. If he's a man he'll see it.'

'If not, just speak clearly and honestly, and tell him exactly what happened. If he's a real man, he'll understand.'

'O he's a man true enough. But I really do think I shan't have to tell him at all, since you've put it to me that way!'

'O he's a man, that's for sure. But I honestly don't think I'll need to tell him at all, now that you've put it like that!'

As it was now Johnny's bedtime he was carried upstairs, and when Selina came down again her mother observed with some anxiety, 'I fancy Mr. Clark must be here soon if he's coming; and that being so, perhaps Mr. Miller wouldn't mind-wishing us good-night! since you are so determined to stick to your sergeant-major.' A little bitterness bubbled amid the closing words. 'It would be less awkward, Mr. Miller not being here-if he will allow me to say it.'

As it was now Johnny's bedtime, he was carried upstairs, and when Selina came down again, her mother observed with some worry, "I think Mr. Clark must be here soon if he's coming; and that being the case, maybe Mr. Miller wouldn't mind saying good-night! since you are so set on sticking with your sergeant-major." A bit of bitterness slipped through her final words. "It would be less awkward if Mr. Miller wasn't here—if he doesn't mind me saying that."

'To be sure; to be sure,' the master-wheelwright exclaimed with instant conviction, rising alertly from his chair. 'Lord bless my soul,' he said, taking up his hat and stick, 'and we to have been married in six days! But Selina-you're right. You do belong to the child's father since he's alive. I'll try to make the best of it.'

'Of course, of course,' the master-wheelwright said with immediate certainty, getting up quickly from his chair. 'Goodness gracious,' he continued, grabbing his hat and stick, 'and we're supposed to be married in six days! But Selina—you’re right. You do belong to the child's father since he’s alive. I’ll try to make the best of it.'

Before the generous Miller had got further there came a knock to the door accompanied by the noise of wheels.

Before the kind Miller had gone any further, there was a knock at the door followed by the sound of wheels.

'I thought I heard something driving up!' said Mrs Paddock.

'I thought I heard something coming up the driveway!' said Mrs. Paddock.

They heard Mr. Paddock, who had been smoking in the room opposite, rise and go to the door, and in a moment a voice familiar enough to Selina was audibly saying, 'At last I am here again-not without many interruptions! How is it with 'ee, Mr. Paddock? And how is she? Thought never to see me again, I suppose?'

They heard Mr. Paddock, who had been smoking in the room next door, get up and head to the door, and in a moment, a voice that was familiar enough to Selina said out loud, 'Finally, I'm back again—not without a lot of interruptions! How are you, Mr. Paddock? And how is she? Bet you thought you'd never see me again, right?'

A step with a cCHANGElink of spurs in it struck upon the entry floor.

A step with a row of spurs on it hit the entry floor.

'Danged if I bain't catched!' murmured Mr. Miller, forgetting company- speech. 'Never mind-I may as well meet him here as elsewhere; and I should like to see the chap, and make friends with en, as he seems one o' the right sort.' He returned to the fireplace just as the sergeant- major was ushered in. III

'Darn if I haven't been caught!' Mr. Miller murmured, dropping his formal speech. 'Never mind—I might as well meet him here as anywhere else; and I’d like to see the guy and make friends with him, since he seems like one of the good ones.' He went back to the fireplace just as the sergeant-major was brought in. III

He was a good specimen of the long-service soldier of those days; a not unhandsome man, with a certain undemonstrative dignity, which some might have said to be partly owing to the stiffness of his uniform about his neck, the high stock being still worn. He was much stouter than when Selina had parted from him. Although she had not meant to be demonstrative she ran across to him directly she saw him, and he held her in his arms and kissed her.

He was a good example of a long-serving soldier from that time; a fairly attractive man, with a certain quiet dignity that some might say was partly due to the stiffness of his uniform around his neck, as the high stock was still in style. He was much heavier than when Selina last saw him. Although she hadn’t intended to be overly emotional, she rushed over to him as soon as she spotted him, and he embraced her and kissed her.

Then in much agitation she whispered something to him, at which he seemed to be much surprised.

Then, feeling really intense, she whispered something to him, which clearly surprised him.

'He's just put to bed,' she continued. 'You can go up and see him. I knew you'd come if you were alive! But I had quite gi'd you up for dead. You've been home in England ever since the war ended?'

'He's just been put to bed,' she continued. 'You can go up and see him. I knew you'd come if you were okay! But I had pretty much given you up for dead. You've been back in England ever since the war ended?'

'Yes, dear.'

'Sure, darling.'

'Why didn't you come sooner?'

'Why didn't you come earlier?'

'That's just what I ask myself! Why was I such a sappy as not to hurry here the first day I set foot on shore! Well, who'd have thought it-you are as pretty as ever!'

'That's exactly what I keep asking myself! Why was I such a fool for not rushing here the first day I arrived on land! Well, who would have believed it—you look as beautiful as ever!'

He relinquished her to peep upstairs a little way, where, by looking through the ballusters, he could see Johnny's cot just within an open door. On his stepping down again Mr. Miller was preparing to depart.

He let her go to peek upstairs a bit, where, by looking through the balusters, he could see Johnny's crib just inside an open door. When he stepped down again, Mr. Miller was getting ready to leave.

'Now, what's this? I am sorry to see anybody going the moment I've come,' expostulated the sergeant-major. 'I thought we might make an evening of it. There's a nine gallon cask o' "Phoenix" beer outside in the trap, and a ham, and half a rawmil' cheese; for I thought you might be short o' forage in a lonely place like this; and it struck me we might like to ask in a neighbour or two. But perhaps it would be taking a liberty?'

'Now, what’s going on? I’m sorry to see anyone leaving just as I’ve arrived,' the sergeant-major protested. 'I thought we could enjoy the evening together. There’s a nine-gallon cask of "Phoenix" beer outside in the wagon, along with a ham and half a wheel of cheese; I figured you might be low on supplies in such a remote place, and it occurred to me that we might invite a neighbor or two over. But maybe that would be overstepping?'

'O no, not at all,' said Mr. Paddock, who was now in the room, in a judicial measured manner. 'Very thoughtful of 'ee, only 'twas not necessary, for we had just laid in an extry stock of eatables and drinkables in preparation for the coming event.'

"Oh no, not at all," said Mr. Paddock, who was now in the room, in a calm and measured way. "Very thoughtful of you, but it wasn't necessary because we had just stocked up on extra food and drinks in preparation for the upcoming event."

''Twas very kind, upon my heart,' said the soldier, 'to think me worth such a jocund preparation, since you could only have got my letter this morning.'

"It was very kind of you, on my heart," said the soldier, "to think I was worth such a cheerful preparation, since you could only have received my letter this morning."

Selina gazed at her father to stop him, and exchanged embarrassed glances with Miller. Contrary to her hopes Sergeant-Major Clark plainly did not know that the preparations referred to were for something quite other than his own visit.

Selina looked at her father to signal him to stop, and shared awkward glances with Miller. Contrary to her hopes, Sergeant-Major Clark clearly had no idea that the preparations mentioned were for something completely different from his visit.

The movement of the horse outside, and the impatient tapping of a whip- handle upon the vehicle reminded them that Clark's driver was still in waiting. The provisions were brought into the house, and the cart dismissed. Miller, with very little pressure indeed, accepted an invitation to supper, and a few neighbours were induced to come in to make up a cheerful party.

The horse moving outside and the impatient tapping of a whip handle against the vehicle reminded them that Clark's driver was still waiting. They brought the supplies into the house and sent off the cart. Miller, with hardly any persuasion, accepted an invitation to dinner, and a few neighbors were persuaded to come in to create a lively gathering.

During the laying of the meal, and throughout its continuance, Selina, who sat beside her first intended husband, tried frequently to break the news to him of her engagement to the other-now terminated so suddenly, and so happily for her heart, and her sense of womanly virtue. But the talk ran entirely upon the late war; and though fortified by half a horn of the strong ale brought by the sergeant-major she decided that she might have a better opportunity when supper was over of revealing the situation to him in private.

During the meal and beyond, Selina, sitting next to her first fiancé, often attempted to tell him about her engagement to someone else—now abruptly ended, and so joyfully for her heart and sense of womanly virtue. However, the conversation focused solely on the recent war, and even after having some strong ale provided by the sergeant-major, she figured she might have a better chance to discuss things privately after supper.

Having supped, Clark leaned back at ease in his chair and looked around. 'We used sometimes to have a dance in that other room after supper, Selina dear, I recollect. We used to clear out all the furniture into this room before beginning. Have you kept up such goings on?'

Having finished dinner, Clark leaned back comfortably in his chair and looked around. 'We used to have a dance in that other room after dinner, Selina dear, I remember. We would clear out all the furniture into this room before starting. Have you kept up that tradition?'

'No, not at all!' said his sweetheart, sadly.

'No, not at all!' his sweetheart replied, looking sad.

'We were not unlikely to revive it in a few days,' said Mr. Paddock. 'But, howsomever, there's seemingly many a slip, as the saying is.'

'We were probably going to bring it back in a few days,' said Mr. Paddock. 'But, anyway, there's often many unexpected things that can happen, as the saying goes.'

'Yes, I'll tell John all about that by and by!' interposed Selina; at which, perceiving that the secret which he did not like keeping was to be kept even yet, her father held his tongue with some show of testiness.

'Yes, I'll tell John all about that later!' jumped in Selina; at which, realizing that the secret he didn’t want to keep was still going to be kept, her father stayed quiet with a bit of irritation.

The subject of a dance having been broached, to put the thought in practice was the feeling of all. Soon after the tables and chairs were borne from the opposite room to this by zealous hands, and two of the villagers sent home for a fiddle and tambourine, when the majority began to tread a measure well known in that secluded vale. Selina naturally danced with the sergeant-major, not altogether to her father's satisfaction, and to the real uneasiness of her mother, both of whom would have preferred a postponement of festivities till the rashly anticipated relationship between their daughter and Clark in the past had been made fact by the church's ordinances. They did not, however, express a positive objection, Mr. Paddock remembering, with self- reproach, that it was owing to his original strongly expressed disapproval of Selina's being a soldier's wife that the wedding had been delayed, and finally hindered-with worse consequences than were expected; and ever since the misadventure brought about by his government he had allowed events to steer their own courses.

The topic of dancing came up, and everyone was eager to give it a try. Soon, the tables and chairs were moved from the other room by eager hands, and two villagers went home to get a fiddle and tambourine, while most of the others started to dance to a familiar tune in that quiet valley. Selina naturally danced with the sergeant-major, which didn’t fully please her father and made her mother quite uneasy. Both of them would have preferred to wait until the hopeful relationship between their daughter and Clark was formalized by the church. However, they didn’t say anything outright against it. Mr. Paddock remembered, with regret, that his strong disapproval of Selina marrying a soldier had caused the wedding to be postponed and ultimately prevented, leading to worse outcomes than he had anticipated. Ever since that unfortunate situation was created by his decision, he had allowed events to unfold as they would.

'My tails will surely catch in your spurs, John!' murmured the daughter of the house, as she whirled around upon his arm with the rapt soul and look of a somnambulist. 'I didn't know we should dance, or I would have put on my other frock.'

'My tails will definitely get caught in your spurs, John!' murmured the daughter of the house, as she spun around on his arm with the entranced expression of a sleepwalker. 'I didn’t know we were going to dance, or I would have worn my other dress.'

'I'll take care, my love. We've danced here before. Do you think your father objects to me now? I've risen in rank. I fancy he's still a little against me.'

"I'll be careful, my love. We've danced here before. Do you think your father still has a problem with me? I've moved up in status. I have a feeling he's still not completely on my side."

'He has repented, times enough.'

'He has repented often enough.'

'And so have I! If I had married you then 'twould have saved many a misfortune. I have sometimes thought it might have been possible to rush the ceremony through somehow before I left; though we were only in the second asking, were we? And even if I had come back straight here when we returned from the Crimea, and married you then, how much happier I should have been!'

'And so have I! If I had married you back then, it would have saved us from a lot of trouble. I’ve sometimes thought that maybe we could have hurried the wedding before I left; though we were only in the second round of asking, weren't we? And even if I had come straight back here after we returned from the Crimea and married you then, I would have been so much happier!'

'Dear John, to say that! Why didn't you?'

'Dear John, why didn't you say that!'

'O-dilatoriness and want of thought, and a fear of facing your father after so long. I was in hospital a great while, you know. But how familiar the place seems again! What's that I saw on the beaufet in the other room? It never used to be there. A sort of withered corpse of a cake-not an old bride-cake surely?'

'O-delays and lack of thought, plus the fear of facing your father after such a long time. I was in the hospital for a long while, you know. But how familiar this place feels again! What's that I saw on the sideboard in the other room? It wasn’t there before. A kind of dried-up cake—surely not an old wedding cake?'

'Yes, John, ours. 'Tis the very one that was made for our wedding three years ago.'

'Yes, John, it's ours. It's the exact one that was made for our wedding three years ago.'

'Sakes alive! Why, time shuts up together, and all between then and now seems not to have been! What became of that wedding-gown that they were making in this room, I remember-a bluish, whitish, frothy thing?'

'Sakes alive! Time seems to close in, and everything between then and now feels like it never happened! What happened to that wedding gown they were making in this room? I remember it—a bluish, whitish, frothy thing?'

'I have that too.'

"I have it too."

'Really! . . . Why, Selina-'

'Yes!'

'Absolutely!'

'Why not put it on now?'

"Why not wear it now?"

'Wouldn't it seem-. And yet, O how I should like to! It would remind them all, if we told them what it was, how we really meant to be married on that bygone day!' Her eyes were again laden with wet.

'Wouldn't it seem-. And yet, oh how I would love to! It would remind them all, if we told them what it was, how we truly intended to get married on that long-ago day!' Her eyes were once again filled with tears.

'Yes . . . The pity that we didn't-the pity!' Moody mournfulness seemed to hold silent awhile one not naturally taciturn. 'Well-will you?' he said.

'Yes . . . It’s a shame that we didn’t—the shame!' A gloomy sadness seemed to linger quietly with someone who isn’t usually quiet. 'So, will you?' he asked.

'I will-the next dance, if mother don't mind.'

'I will - the next dance, if mom doesn't mind.'

Accordingly, just before the next figure was formed, Selina disappeared, and speedily came downstairs in a creased and box-worn, but still airy and pretty, muslin gown, which was indeed the very one that had been meant to grace her as a bride three years before.

Accordingly, just before the next figure was formed, Selina disappeared, and quickly came downstairs in a wrinkled and worn box, but still light and pretty, muslin dress, which was actually the same one that was intended for her as a bride three years ago.

'It is dreadfully old-fashioned,' she apologized.

'It's really outdated,' she apologized.

'Not at all. What a grand thought of mine! Now, let's to't again.'

'Not at all. What a great idea I have! Now, let's get to it again.'

She explained to some of them, as he led her to the second dance, what the frock had been meant for, and that she had put it on at his request. And again athwart and around the room they went.

She explained to some of them, as he led her to the second dance, what the dress had been meant for, and that she had put it on at his request. And again across and around the room they went.

'You seem the bride!' he said.

'You look like the bride!' he said.

'But I couldn't wear this gown to be married in now!' she replied, ecstatically, 'or I shouldn't have put it on and made it dusty. It is really too old-fashioned, and so folded and fretted out, you can't think. That was with my taking it out so many times to look at. I have never put it on-never-till now!'

'But I can't wear this gown to get married in now!' she replied excitedly, 'or I wouldn't have put it on and gotten it dusty. It’s really too old-fashioned, and it’s so crumpled and worn out, you wouldn't believe it. That’s from taking it out so many times to look at it. I've never worn it—never—until now!'

'Selina, I am thinking of giving up the army. Will you emigrate with me to New Zealand? I've an uncle out there doing well, and he'd soon help me to making a larger income. The English army is glorious, but it ain't altogether enriching.'

'Selina, I'm thinking about leaving the army. Will you move with me to New Zealand? I have an uncle out there who is doing well, and he could help me earn a better income. The British army is great, but it's not exactly rewarding.'

'Of course, anywhere that you decide upon. Is it healthy there for Johnny?'

'Of course, anywhere you choose. Is it a healthy place for Johnny?'

'A lovely climate. And I shall never be happy in England . . . Aha!' he concluded again, with a bitterness of unexpected strength, 'would to Heaven I had come straight back here!'

'A beautiful climate. And I will never be happy in England . . . Aha!' he concluded once more, with a bitterness that was surprisingly strong, 'I wish to Heaven I had come straight back here!'

As the dance brought round one neighbour after another the re-united pair were thrown into juxtaposition with Bob Heartall among the rest who had been called in; one whose chronic expression was that he carried inside him a joke on the point of bursting with its own vastness. He took occasion now to let out a little of its quality, shaking his head at Selina as he addressed her in an undertone-

As the dance brought in one neighbor after another, the reunited couple found themselves next to Bob Heartall, along with the others who had been invited. Bob always seemed to have the look of someone carrying a joke inside, ready to burst from its own enormity. He took the opportunity now to share a bit of it, shaking his head at Selina as he spoke to her in a low voice—

'This is a bit of a topper to the bridegroom, ho ho! 'Twill teach en the liberty you'll expect when you've married en!'

'This is a little surprise for the groom, ha ha! It will show you the freedom you can expect once you're married!'

'What does he mean by a "topper,"' the sergeant-major asked, who, not being of local extraction, despised the venerable local language, and also seemed to suppose 'bridegroom' to be an anticipatory name for himself. 'I only hope I shall never be worse treated than you've treated me to-night!'

"What does he mean by 'topper'?" the sergeant-major asked, who, not being from the area, looked down on the old local dialect and also seemed to think 'bridegroom' was a name meant for him in the future. "I just hope I’ll never be treated worse than how you’ve treated me tonight!"

Selina looked frightened. 'He didn't mean you, dear,' she said as they moved on. 'We thought perhaps you knew what had happened, owing to your coming just at this time. Had you-heard anything about-what I intended?'

Selina looked scared. 'He didn't mean you, dear,' she said as they walked on. 'We thought maybe you knew what had happened, since you arrived just at this time. Had you heard anything about what I was planning?'

'Not a breath-how should I-away up in Yorkshire? It was by the merest accident that I came just at this date to make peace with you for my delay.'

'Not a breath—how should I—up in Yorkshire? It was by pure chance that I happened to come here at this time to apologize for my delay.'

'I was engaged to be married to Mr. Bartholomew Miller. That's what it is! I would have let 'ee know by letter, but there was no time, only hearing from 'ee this afternoon . . . You won't desert me for it, will you, John? Because, as you know, I quite supposed you dead, and-and-' Her eyes were full of tears of trepidation, and he might have felt a sob heaving within her. IV

'I was engaged to be married to Mr. Bartholomew Miller. That's the deal! I would have let you know by letter, but there wasn't enough time, only hearing from you this afternoon . . . You won't abandon me for it, will you, John? Because, as you know, I really thought you were dead, and—and—' Her eyes were filled with tears of anxiety, and he might have sensed a sob building up inside her. IV

The soldier was silent during two or three double bars of the tune. 'When were you to have been married to the said Mr. Bartholomew Miller?' he inquired.

The soldier was quiet for two or three double bars of the song. 'When were you supposed to marry Mr. Bartholomew Miller?' he asked.

'Quite soon.'

'Soon.'

'How soon?'

'When will it happen?'

'Next week-O yes-just the same as it was with you and me. There's a strange fate of interruption hanging over me, I sometimes think! He had bought the licence, which I preferred so that it mightn't be like-ours. But it made no difference to the fate of it.'

'Next week—oh yes—just like it was with you and me. I feel like there's this weird fate of interruption looming over me! He bought the license, which I preferred so it wouldn’t be similar to ours. But it didn't change the outcome.'

'Had bought the licence! The devil!'

'Had bought the license! The devil!'

'Don't be angry, dear John. I didn't know!'

'Don't be mad, dear John. I had no idea!'

'No, no, I'm not angry.'

'No, I'm not angry.'

'It was so kind of him, considering!'

'That was really nice of him, right?'

'Yes . . . I see, of course, how natural your action was-never thinking of seeing me any more! Is it the Mr. Miller who is in this dance?'

'Yes . . . I get it, of course, how natural your decision was—never considering the possibility of seeing me again! Is it Mr. Miller who's in this dance?'

'Yes.'

Yes.

Clark glanced round upon Bartholomew and was silent again, for some little while, and she stole a look at him, to find that he seemed changed. 'John, you look ill!' she almost sobbed. ''Tisn't me, is it?'

Clark looked over at Bartholomew and fell silent again for a moment, stealing a glance at him, only to realize he seemed different. 'John, you look sick!' she almost cried. 'Is it me that's causing this?'

'O dear, no. Though I hadn't, somehow, expected it. I can't find fault with you for a moment-and I don't . . . This is a deuce of a long dance, don't you think? We've been at it twenty minutes if a second, and the figure doesn't allow one much rest. I'm quite out of breath.'

'O dear, no. Even though I didn’t really see it coming. I can't criticize you at all—and I don’t . . . This is a really long dance, don’t you think? We’ve been at it for twenty minutes at least, and the routine doesn’t give us much time to rest. I’m completely out of breath.'

'They like them so dreadfully long here. Shall we drop out? Or I'll stop the fiddler.'

'They really like them long here. Should we leave? Or should I tell the fiddler to stop?'

'O no, no, I think I can finish. But although I look healthy enough I have never been so strong as I formerly was, since that long illness I had in the hospital at Scutari.'

'O no, no, I think I can finish. But even though I look healthy enough, I haven't been as strong as I used to be since that long illness I had in the hospital at Scutari.'

'And I knew nothing about it!'

'You couldn't, dear, as I didn't write. What a fool I have been altogether!' He gave a twitch, as of one in pain. 'I won't dance again when this one is over. The fact is I have travelled a long way to-day, and it seems to have knocked me up a bit.'

'You couldn't, dear, since I didn't write. What a fool I've been altogether!' He winced, as if in pain. 'I won't dance again after this one is done. The truth is I've traveled a long way today, and it seems to have worn me out a bit.'

There could be no doubt that the sergeant-major was unwell, and Selina made herself miserable by still believing that her story was the cause of his ailment. Suddenly he said in a changed voice, and she perceived that he was paler than ever: 'I must sit down.'

There was no doubt that the sergeant-major was not feeling well, and Selina made herself unhappy by still thinking that her story was the reason for his condition. Suddenly, he said in a different tone, and she noticed that he was paler than before: 'I need to sit down.'

Letting go her waist he went quickly to the other room. She followed, and found him in the nearest chair, his face bent down upon his hands and arms, which were resting on the table.

Letting go of her waist, he quickly went to the other room. She followed and found him in the nearest chair, his face resting on his hands and arms, which were on the table.

'What's the matter?' said her father, who sat there dozing by the fire.

'What's wrong?' her father said, half-asleep by the fire.

'John isn't well . . . We are going to New Zealand when we are married, father. A lovely country! John, would you like something to drink?'

'John isn't feeling well... We're going to New Zealand when we get married, Dad. It's such a beautiful country! John, would you like something to drink?'

'A drop o' that Schiedam of old Owlett's, that's under stairs, perhaps,' suggested her father. 'Not that nowadays 'tis much better than licensed liquor.'

'A drop of that Schiedam of old Owlett's, that's downstairs, maybe,' suggested her father. 'Not that these days it's much better than the licensed stuff.'

'John,' she said, putting her face close to his and pressing his arm. 'Will you have a drop of spirits or something?'

'John,' she said, leaning in close and squeezing his arm. 'Do you want a drink or something?'

He did not reply, and Selina observed that his ear and the side of his face were quite white. Convinced that his illness was serious, a growing dismay seized hold of her. The dance ended; her mother came in, and learning what had happened, looked narrowly at the sergeant-major.

He didn't answer, and Selina noticed that his ear and the side of his face were very pale. Convinced that his illness was serious, a rising sense of worry took hold of her. The dance finished; her mother walked in, and after finding out what had happened, she looked closely at the sergeant-major.

'We must not let him lie like that, lift him up,' she said. 'Let him rest in the window-bench on some cushions.'

'We can't let him lie there like that, pick him up,' she said. 'Let him rest on the window seat with some cushions.'

They unfolded his arms and hands as they lay clasped upon the table, and on lifting his head found his features to bear the very impress of death itself. Bartholomew Miller, who had now come in, assisted Mr. Paddock to make a comfortable couch in the window-seat, where they stretched out Clark upon his back.

They uncrossed his arms and hands, which were resting on the table, and when they lifted his head, they saw that his face looked completely lifeless. Bartholomew Miller, who had just entered, helped Mr. Paddock create a comfortable bed in the window seat where they laid Clark down on his back.

Still he seemed unconscious. 'We must get a doctor,' said Selina. 'O, my dear John, how is it you be taken like this?'

Still, he seemed unaware. "We need to get a doctor," Selina said. "Oh, my dear John, how did this happen to you?"

'My impression is that he's dead!' murmured Mr. Paddock. 'He don't breathe enough to move a tomtit's feather.'

"My impression is that he's dead!" whispered Mr. Paddock. "He doesn't breathe enough to move a feather from a tit."

There were plenty to volunteer to go for a doctor, but as it would be at least an hour before he could get there the case seemed somewhat hopeless. The dancing-party ended as unceremoniously as it had begun; but the guests lingered round the premises till the doctor should arrive. When he did come the sergeant-major's extremities were already cold, and there was no doubt that death had overtaken him almost at the moment that he had sat down.

Many people offered to go get a doctor, but since it would take at least an hour for him to arrive, the situation felt pretty hopeless. The dance party ended just as abruptly as it started, but the guests stayed around the place until the doctor showed up. When he finally arrived, the sergeant-major's limbs were already cold, and it was clear that he had died almost right after sitting down.

The medical practitioner quite refused to accept the unhappy Selina's theory that her revelation had in any way induced Clark's sudden collapse. Both he and the coroner afterwards, who found the immediate cause to be heart-failure, held that such a supposition was unwarranted by facts. They asserted that a long day's journey, a hurried drive, and then an exhausting dance, were sufficient for such a result upon a heart enfeebled by fatty degeneration after the privations of a Crimean winter and other trying experiences, the coincidence of the sad event with any disclosure of hers being a pure accident.

The doctor completely dismissed Selina's claim that her revelation had anything to do with Clark's sudden collapse. Both he and the coroner later concluded that the immediate cause was heart failure and believed that such an idea was not supported by the evidence. They stated that a long day of travel, a rushed drive, and then an exhausting dance were enough to lead to such an outcome for a heart weakened by fatty degeneration after the hardships of a Crimean winter and other difficult experiences, and that the timing of the unfortunate event with her disclosure was just a coincidence.

This conclusion, however, did not dislodge Selina's opinion that the shock of her statement had been the immediate stroke which had felled a constitution so undermined. V

This conclusion, however, did not change Selina's belief that the shock of her statement was the immediate blow that brought down a constitution so weakened. V

At this date the Casterbridge Barracks were cavalry quarters, their adaptation to artillery having been effected some years later. It had been owing to the fact that the —-th Dragoons, in which John Clark had served, happened to be lying there that Selina made his acquaintance. At the time of his death the barracks were occupied by the Scots Greys, but when the pathetic circumstances of the sergeant-major's end became known in the town the officers of the Greys offered the services of their fine reed and brass band, that he might have a funeral marked by due military honours. His body was accordingly removed to the barracks, and carried thence to the churchyard in the Durnover quarter on the following afternoon, one of the Greys' most ancient and docile chargers being blacked up to represent Clark's horse on the occasion.

At this time, the Casterbridge Barracks served as cavalry quarters, having later been adapted for artillery use. Selina met John Clark because the —-th Dragoons, in which he had served, were stationed there. When he died, the barracks were occupied by the Scots Greys, but when the sad news of the sergeant-major's death spread through the town, the officers of the Greys offered to have their excellent reed and brass band play at his funeral to honor him appropriately. His body was then taken to the barracks and transported to the churchyard in the Durnover area the next afternoon, with one of the Greys' oldest and gentlest horses painted black to stand in for Clark's horse during the ceremony.

Everybody pitied Selina, whose story was well known. She followed the corpse as the only mourner, Clark having been without relations in this part of the country, and a communication with his regiment having brought none from a distance. She sat in a little shabby brown-black mourning carriage, squeezing herself up in a corner to be as much as possible out of sight during the slow and dramatic march through the town to the tune from Saul. When the interment had taken place, the volleys been fired, and the return journey begun, it was with something like a shock that she found the military escort to be moving at a quick march to the lively strains of 'Off she goes!' as if all care for the sergeant-major was expected to be ended with the late discharge of the carbines. It was, by chance, the very tune to which they had been footing when he died, and unable to bear its notes, she hastily told her driver to drop behind. The band and military party diminished up the High Street, and Selina turned over Swan bridge and homeward to Mellstock.

Everybody felt sorry for Selina, whose story was well known. She followed the coffin as the only mourner, since Clark had no relatives in this area, and a message to his regiment hadn’t brought anyone from afar. She sat in a small, worn brown-black mourning carriage, squeezing herself into a corner to stay as hidden as possible during the slow and dramatic march through town to the tune from Saul. Once the burial had taken place, the gun salutes had been fired, and the return journey started, she was somewhat shocked to find the military escort moving at a quick march to the lively tune of 'Off she goes!' as if all concern for the sergeant-major was expected to end with the last shots of the carbines. Ironically, it was the exact tune they had been playing when he died, and unable to withstand its sound, she quickly told her driver to fall back. The band and military party faded up the High Street, and Selina turned over Swan bridge heading home to Mellstock.

Then recommenced for her a life whose incidents were precisely of a suit with those which had preceded the soldier's return; but how different in her appreciation of them! Her narrow miss of the recovered respectability they had hoped for from that tardy event worked upon her parents as an irritant, and after the first week or two of her mourning her life with them grew almost insupportable. She had impulsively taken to herself the weeds of a widow, for such she seemed to herself to be, and clothed little Johnny in sables likewise. This assumption of a moral relationship to the deceased, which she asserted to be only not a legal one by two most unexpected accidents, led the old people to indulge in sarcasm at her expense whenever they beheld her attire, though all the while it cost them more pain to utter than it gave her to hear it. Having become accustomed by her residence at home to the business carried on by her father, she surprised them one day by going off with the child to Chalk-Newton, in the direction of the town of Ivell, and opening a miniature fruit and vegetable shop, attending Ivell market with her produce. Her business grew somewhat larger, and it was soon sufficient to enable her to support herself and the boy in comfort. She called herself 'Mrs. John Clark' from the day of leaving home, and painted the name on her signboard-no man forbidding her.

Then her life started up again, filled with events that were just like those that happened before the soldier returned; but her view of them was so different! Her close call with the respectability they had hoped for from that late event frustrated her parents, and after the first week or two of her mourning, living with them became nearly unbearable. She had impulsively adopted the clothing of a widow because she saw herself that way, and dressed little Johnny in dark clothes too. This claim of a moral relationship to the deceased, which she insisted was only not a legal one due to two unexpected circumstances, led her parents to make sarcastic remarks about her attire whenever they saw her, although it caused them more pain to say it than it did her to hear it. After becoming familiar with her father's business from living at home, she surprised them one day by taking the child to Chalk-Newton, in the direction of Ivell, and starting a small fruit and vegetable shop, selling her produce at the Ivell market. Her business grew a bit larger, and it quickly became enough to support herself and the boy comfortably. She called herself 'Mrs. John Clark' from the day she left home and painted the name on her signboard—no man objecting to her.

By degrees the pain of her state was forgotten in her new circumstances, and getting to be generally accepted as the widow of a sergeant-major of dragoons-an assumption which her modest and mournful demeanour seemed to substantiate-her life became a placid one, her mind being nourished by the melancholy luxury of dreaming what might have been her future in New Zealand with John, if he had only lived to take her there. Her only travels now were a journey to Ivell on market-days, and once a fortnight to the churchyard in which Clark lay, there to tend, with Johnny's assistance, as widows are wont to do, the flowers she had planted upon his grave.

Gradually, the pain of her situation faded in her new life, and she became generally accepted as the widow of a sergeant-major of dragoons—an idea that her modest and sorrowful demeanor seemed to confirm. Her life became calm, with her thoughts fueled by the bittersweet luxury of imagining what her future in New Zealand with John could have been if he had lived to take her there. Her only travels now were a trip to Ivell on market days and once every two weeks to the churchyard where Clark was buried, where she would tend to the flowers she had planted on his grave, assisted by Johnny, as widows typically do.

On a day about eighteen months after his unexpected decease, Selina was surprised in her lodging over her little shop by a visit from Bartholomew Miller. He had called on her once or twice before, on which occasions he had used without a word of comment the name by which she was known.

On a day about eighteen months after his unexpected death, Selina was surprised in her apartment above her little shop by a visit from Bartholomew Miller. He had stopped by once or twice before, and on those occasions, he had referred to her by the name everyone knew her by without making any comments.

'I've come this time,' he said, 'less because I was in this direction than to ask you, Mrs. Clark, what you mid well guess. I've come o' purpose, in short.'

"I've come this time," he said, "not so much because I was heading this way, but to ask you, Mrs. Clark, what you can probably guess. I came here on purpose, in short."

She smiled.

''Tis to ask me again to marry you?'

''Is this you asking me again to marry you?''

'Yes, of course. You see, his coming back for 'ee proved what I always believed of 'ee, though others didn't. There's nobody but would be glad to welcome you to our parish again, now you've showed your independence and acted up to your trust in his promise. Well, my dear, will you come?'

'Yes, of course. You see, his return for you proved what I always believed about you, even though others didn’t. There’s nobody who wouldn’t be happy to welcome you back to our parish now that you’ve shown your independence and fulfilled your trust in his promise. So, my dear, will you come?'

'I'd rather bide as Mrs. Clark, I think,' she answered. 'I am not ashamed of my position at all; for I am John's widow in the eyes of Heaven.'

"I think I'd prefer to stay as Mrs. Clark," she replied. "I'm not ashamed of my situation at all; I am John's widow in the eyes of God."

'I quite agree-that's why I've come. Still, you won't like to be always straining at this shop-keeping and market-standing; and 'twould be better for Johnny if you had nothing to do but tend him.'

'I completely agree—that's why I'm here. Still, you won't want to be constantly stuck with this store and market business; it would be better for Johnny if you had just him to take care of.'

He here touched the only weak spot in Selina's resistance to his proposal-the good of the boy. To promote that there were other men she might have married offhand without loving them if they had asked her to; but though she had known the worthy speaker from her youth, she could not for the moment fancy herself happy as Mrs. Miller.

He just hit the only weak point in Selina's resistance to his proposal—the well-being of the boy. To support that, there were other men she might have married without loving them if they had asked her to; but even though she had known the respectable speaker since she was young, she couldn't imagine herself feeling happy as Mrs. Miller at that moment.

He paused awhile. 'I ought to tell 'ee, Mrs. Clark,' he said by and by, 'that marrying is getting to be a pressing question with me. Not on my own account at all. The truth is, that mother is growing old, and I am away from home a good deal, so that it is almost necessary there should be another person in the house with her besides me. That's the practical consideration which forces me to think of taking a wife, apart from my wish to take you; and you know there's nobody in the world I care for so much.'

He paused for a moment. "I should tell you, Mrs. Clark," he said eventually, "that getting married is becoming an important issue for me. Not for my own sake, really. The truth is, my mother is getting older, and I'm away from home quite a bit, so it seems necessary to have someone else in the house with her besides me. That’s the practical reason that makes me consider marrying, aside from my desire to marry you; and you know there's no one in the world I care about more."

She said something about there being far better women than she, and other natural commonplaces; but assured him she was most grateful to him for feeling what he felt, as indeed she sincerely was. However, Selina would not consent to be the useful third person in his comfortable home-at any rate just then. He went away, after taking tea with her, without discerning much hope for him in her good-bye. VI

She mentioned that there are much better women than her and shared some typical comments, but she made it clear that she was really thankful for his feelings, which she truly was. Still, Selina wasn’t ready to be the helpful third person in his cozy home—not at that moment, anyway. He left after having tea with her, not feeling very hopeful after her goodbye. VI

After that evening she saw and heard nothing of him for a great while. Her fortnightly journeys to the sergeant-major's grave were continued, whenever weather did not hinder them; and Mr. Miller must have known, she thought, of this custom of hers. But though the churchyard was not nearly so far from his homestead as was her shop at Chalk-Newton, he never appeared in the accidental way that lovers use.

After that night, she didn't see or hear from him for a long time. She kept making her biweekly trips to the sergeant-major's grave whenever the weather allowed; she figured Mr. Miller must have known about this routine of hers. But even though the churchyard was much closer to his home than her shop at Chalk-Newton, he never showed up in the casual way that lovers do.

An explanation was forthcoming in the shape of a letter from her mother, who casually mentioned that Mr. Bartholomew Miller had gone away to the other side of Shottsford-Forum to be married to a thriving dairyman's daughter that he knew there. His chief motive, it was reported, had been less one of love than a wish to provide a companion for his aged mother.

An explanation came in the form of a letter from her mother, who casually mentioned that Mr. Bartholomew Miller had gone off to the other side of Shottsford-Forum to marry the daughter of a successful dairyman he knew there. It was said that his main reason was less about love and more about wanting to give his elderly mother a companion.

Selina was practical enough to know that she had lost a good and possibly the only opportunity of settling in life after what had happened, and for a moment she regretted her independence. But she became calm on reflection, and to fortify herself in her course started that afternoon to tend the sergeant-major's grave, in which she took the same sober pleasure as at first.

Selina was realistic enough to realize that she had missed a great, possibly her only chance to settle down after everything that had happened, and for a moment, she wished she hadn't been so independent. But after thinking it over, she became calm, and to strengthen her resolve, she started that afternoon to take care of the sergeant-major's grave, finding the same quiet pleasure in it as she had at first.

On reaching the churchyard and turning the corner towards the spot as usual, she was surprised to perceive another woman, also apparently a respectable widow, and with a tiny boy by her side, bending over Clark's turf, and spudding up with the point of her umbrella some ivy-roots that Selina had reverently planted there to form an evergreen mantle over the mound.

On arriving at the churchyard and turning the corner to the usual spot, she was surprised to see another woman, who also seemed like a respectable widow, with a small boy beside her, bending over Clark's grave and using the tip of her umbrella to dig up some ivy roots that Selina had carefully planted there to create an evergreen cover over the mound.

'What are you digging up my ivy for!' cried Selina, rushing forward so excitedly that Johnny tumbled over a grave with the force of the tug she gave his hand in her sudden start.

'What are you digging up my ivy for!' Selina exclaimed, rushing forward so excitedly that Johnny stumbled over a grave from the force of the pull she gave his hand in her sudden movement.

'Your ivy?' said the respectable woman.

"Your ivy?" said the respectable woman.

'Why yes! I planted it there-on my husband's grave.'

'Of course! I planted it there—on my husband's grave.'

'Your husband's!'

'Your partner's!'

'Yes. The late Sergeant-Major Clark. Anyhow, as good as my husband, for he was just going to be.'

'Yes. The late Sergeant-Major Clark. Anyway, he was just as good as my husband, because he was about to be.'

'Indeed. But who may be my husband, if not he? I am the only Mrs. John Clark, widow of the late Sergeant-Major of Dragoons, and this is his only son and heir.'

'Absolutely. But who else could be my husband if not him? I am the only Mrs. John Clark, widow of the late Sergeant-Major of Dragoons, and he is the only son and heir.'

'How can that be?' faltered Selina, her throat seeming to stick together as she just began to perceive its possibility. 'He had been-going to marry me twice-and we were going to New Zealand.'

'How can that be?' Selina stammered, her throat feeling tight as she started to grasp the reality of the situation. 'He had proposed to marry me twice, and we were set to go to New Zealand.'

'Ah!-I remember about you,' returned the legitimate widow calmly and not unkindly. 'You must be Selina; he spoke of you now and then, and said that his relations with you would always be a weight on his conscience. Well; the history of my life with him is soon told. When he came back from the Crimea he became acquainted with me at my home in the north, and we were married within a month of first knowing each other. Unfortunately, after living together a few months, we could not agree; and after a particularly sharp quarrel, in which, perhaps, I was most in the wrong-as I don't mind owning here by his graveside-he went away from me, declaring he would buy his discharge and emigrate to New Zealand, and never come back to me any more. The next thing I heard was that he had died suddenly at Mellstock at some low carouse; and as he had left me in such anger to live no more with me, I wouldn't come down to his funeral, or do anything in relation to him. 'Twas temper, I know, but that was the fact. Even if we had parted friends it would have been a serious expense to travel three hundred miles to get there, for one who wasn't left so very well off . . . I am sorry I pulled up your ivy- roots; but that common sort of ivy is considered a weed in my part of the country.'

'Oh! I remember you,' the legitimate widow said calmly and without malice. 'You must be Selina; he mentioned you once in a while and said that his relationship with you would always weigh on his conscience. Anyway, the story of my life with him is quick to share. When he returned from the Crimea, we met at my home up north, and we were married within a month of knowing each other. Unfortunately, after living together for a few months, we couldn't agree; and after a particularly heated argument—where I might have been mostly in the wrong, as I admit here by his graveside—he left me, saying he would buy his discharge and emigrate to New Zealand, never to return. The next thing I heard was that he died suddenly in Mellstock after a drunken binge; and since he had left me in such anger, I didn’t attend his funeral or do anything related to him. I know it was out of spite, but that’s the truth. Even if we had parted on good terms, it would have been a significant expense to travel three hundred miles, especially since I wasn't in the best financial situation... I'm sorry I pulled up your ivy roots, but that type of ivy is considered a weed where I live.'

December 1899.

A TRYST AT AN ANCIENT EARTH WORK

At one's every step forward it rises higher against the south sky, with an obtrusive personality that compels the senses to regard it and consider. The eyes may bend in another direction, but never without the consciousness of its heavy, high-shouldered presence at its point of vantage. Across the intervening levels the gale races in a straight line from the fort, as if breathed out of it hitherward. With the shifting of the clouds the faces of the steeps vary in colour and in shade, broad lights appearing where mist and vagueness had prevailed, dissolving in their turn into melancholy gray, which spreads over and eclipses the luminous bluffs. In this so-thought immutable spectacle all is change.

With each step forward, it rises higher against the southern sky, boasting a bold presence that demands attention and reflection. You might look elsewhere, but you can’t ignore its heavy, towering figure looming in your line of sight. The wind rushes in a straight path from the fort, as if it's being pushed out directly from it. As the clouds shift, the slopes change in color and shade, with bright patches appearing where there was once mist and obscurity, only to fade into a somber gray that blankets and dims the bright cliffs. In this seemingly unchanging scene, everything is in flux.

Out of the invisible marine region on the other side birds soar suddenly into the air, and hang over the summits of the heights with the indifference of long familiarity. Their forms are white against the tawny concave of cloud, and the curves they exhibit in their floating signify that they are sea-gulls which have journeyed inland from expected stress of weather. As the birds rise behind the fort, so do the clouds rise behind the birds, almost as it seems, stroking with their bagging bosoms the uppermost flyers.

Out of the unseen ocean area on the other side, birds suddenly take flight and hover above the peaks with the nonchalance of long familiarity. Their shapes are white against the brownish curve of the clouds, and the way they glide indicates they are seagulls that have traveled inland to escape bad weather. As the birds rise behind the fort, the clouds also rise behind them, almost as if they are gently brushing the highest flyers with their heavy, soft bodies.

The profile of the whole stupendous ruin, as seen at a distance of a mile eastward, is cleanly cut as that of a marble inlay. It is varied with protuberances, which from hereabouts have the animal aspect of warts, wens, knuckles, and hips. It may indeed be likened to an enormous many-limbed organism of an antediluvian time-partaking of the cephalopod in shape-lying lifeless, and covered with a thin green cloth, which hides its substance, while revealing its contour. This dull green mantle of herbage stretches down towards the levels, where the ploughs have essayed for centuries to creep up near and yet nearer to the base of the castle, but have always stopped short before reaching it. The furrows of these environing attempts show themselves distinctly, bending to the incline as they trench upon it; mounting in steeper curves, till the steepness baffles them, and their parallel threads show like the striae of waves pausing on the curl. The peculiar place of which these are some of the features is 'Mai-Dun,' 'The Castle of the Great Hill,' said to be the Dunium of Ptolemy, the capital of the Durotriges, which eventually came into Roman occupation, and was finally deserted on their withdrawal from the island.

The whole impressive ruin, as seen from a mile east, looks as sharp as a marble inlay. It's marked by bumps that here resemble warts, lumps, knuckles, and hips. It could really be compared to a giant, multi-limbed creature from ancient times—similar in shape to a cephalopod—lying lifeless and covered by a thin green layer that hides its form while showing its outline. This dull green covering of vegetation stretches down to the lower levels, where farmers have tried for centuries to approach the base of the castle but have always stopped just short of it. The plowed furrows from these efforts are clearly visible, bending with the slope as they dig into it; they rise in steeper curves until the incline defeats them, and their parallel lines look like the ripples of waves pausing on the crest. The unique site, which includes some of these features, is 'Mai-Dun,' 'The Castle of the Great Hill,' believed to be the Dunium mentioned by Ptolemy, the capital of the Durotriges, which ultimately fell under Roman control and was eventually abandoned when they left the island.

The evening is followed by a night on which an invisible moon bestows a subdued, yet pervasive light-without radiance, as without blackness. From the spot whereon I am ensconced in a cottage, a mile away, the fort has now ceased to be visible; yet, as by day, to anybody whose thoughts have been engaged with it and its barbarous grandeurs of past time the form asserts its existence behind the night gauzes as persistently as if it had a voice. Moreover, the south-west wind continues to feed the intervening arable flats with vapours brought directly from its sides.

The evening gives way to a night when an unseen moon offers a soft, yet all-encompassing light—neither bright nor completely dark. From where I’m settled in a cottage a mile away, the fort is now out of sight; however, for anyone whose mind has been occupied with its brutal grandeur from the past, its shape remains present behind the night’s veil as if it could speak. Additionally, the south-west wind keeps bringing moisture from its direction to the surrounding farmland.

The midnight hour for which there has been occasion to wait at length arrives, and I journey towards the stronghold in obedience to a request urged earlier in the day. It concerns an appointment, which I rather regret my decision to keep now that night is come. The route thither is hedgeless and treeless-I need not add deserted. The moonlight is sufficient to disclose the pale riband-like surface of the way as it trails along between the expanses of darker fallow. Though the road passes near the fortress it does not conduct directly to its fronts. As the place is without an inhabitant, so it is without a trackway. So presently leaving the macadamized road to pursue its course elsewhither, I step off upon the fallow, and plod stumblingly across it. The castle looms out off the shade by degrees, like a thing waking up and asking what I want there. It is now so enlarged by nearness that its whole shape cannot be taken in at one view. The ploughed ground ends as the rise sharpens, the sloping basement of grass begins, and I climb upward to invade Mai-Dun.

The long-awaited midnight hour finally arrives, and I head toward the stronghold to fulfill a request made earlier in the day. I’m starting to regret my decision to go now that night has fallen. The path to get there is wide open—no hedges or trees, and it's completely deserted. The moonlight is enough to reveal the pale, ribbon-like surface of the road as it winds between the darker fields. Although the road is close to the fortress, it doesn’t lead directly to its entrance. Since the place is uninhabited, it lacks any clear path. So, leaving the paved road to follow a different course, I step onto the field and stumble across it. The castle gradually emerges from the shadows, like it's waking up and wondering why I'm there. It’s now so close that I can’t take in its entire shape at once. The plowed ground ends as the slope sharpens, the grassy base begins, and I climb up to approach Mai-Dun.

Impressive by day as this largest Ancient-British work in the kingdom undoubtedly is, its impressiveness is increased now. After standing still and spending a few minutes in adding its age to its size, and its size to its solitude, it becomes appallingly mournful in its growing closeness. A squally wind blows in the face with an impact which proclaims that the vapours of the air sail low to-night. The slope that I so laboriously clamber up the wind skips sportively down. Its track can be discerned even in this light by the undulations of the withered grass-bents-the only produce of this upland summit except moss. Four minutes of ascent, and a vantage-ground of some sort is gained. It is only the crest of the outer rampart. Immediately within this a chasm gapes; its bottom is imperceptible, but the counterscarp slopes not too steeply to admit of a sliding descent if cautiously performed. The shady bottom, dank and chilly, is thus gained, and reveals itself as a kind of winding lane, wide enough for a waggon to pass along, floored with rank herbage, and trending away, right and left, into obscurity, between the concentric walls of earth. The towering closeness of these on each hand, their impenetrability, and their ponderousness, are felt as a physical pressure. The way is now up the second of them, which stands steeper and higher than the first. To turn aside, as did Christian's companion, from such a Hill Difficulty, is the more natural tendency; but the way to the interior is upward. There is, of course, an entrance to the fortress; but that lies far off on the other side. It might possibly have been the wiser course to seek for easier ingress there.

Impressive by day as this largest ancient British structure in the kingdom undoubtedly is, its impressiveness increases now. After standing still and taking a few minutes to add its age to its size, and its size to its solitude, it becomes incredibly mournful in its growing closeness. A squally wind blows against me with a force that signals the air is heavy tonight. The slope that I struggle to climb is playfully swept down by the wind. Its path can still be seen in this light by the undulations of the withered grass—the only plants on this high ground apart from moss. After four minutes of climbing, I find some sort of viewpoint. It’s just the top of the outer rampart. Right beyond this, a chasm gapes; its bottom is invisible, but the slope is not too steep, allowing for a careful slide down. I reach the shady bottom, damp and chilly, which opens up like a winding lane, wide enough for a wagon to pass through, covered with thick vegetation, and extending into darkness on both sides between the concentric earthen walls. The towering closeness of these walls on either side, their impenetrability, and their heaviness feel like a physical weight. Now the path leads up the second wall, which is steeper and higher than the first. The natural urge is to turn aside, as Christian's companion did, from such a Hill Difficulty; but the way to the interior goes upward. There is, of course, an entrance to the fortress, but that's far off on the other side. It might have been smarter to look for an easier way in over there.

However, being here, I ascend the second acclivity. The grass stems-the grey beard of the hill-sway in a mass close to my stooping face. The dead heads of these various grasses-fescues, fox-tails, and ryes-bob and twitch as if pulled by a string underground. From a few thistles a whistling proceeds; and even the moss speaks, in its humble way, under the stress of the blast.

However, being here, I climb the second slope. The grass blades—the grey beard of the hill—sway closely around my bent face. The dead heads of various grasses—fescues, foxtails, and ryes—bob and twitch as if being tugged by an invisible string underground. A whistling comes from a few thistles, and even the moss speaks, in its quiet way, under the pressure of the wind.

That the summit of the second line of defence has been gained is suddenly made known by a contrasting wind from a new quarter, coming over with the curve of a cascade. These novel gusts raise a sound from the whole camp or castle, playing upon it bodily as upon a harp. It is with some difficulty that a foothold can be preserved under their sweep. Looking aloft for a moment I perceive that the sky is much more overcast than it has been hitherto, and in a few instants a dead lull in what is now a gale ensues with almost preternatural abruptness. I take advantage of this to sidle down the second counterscarp, but by the time the ditch is reached the lull reveals itself to be but the precursor of a storm. It begins with a heave of the whole atmosphere, like the sigh of a weary strong man on turning to re-commence unusual exertion, just as I stand here in the second fosse. That which now radiates from the sky upon the scene is not so much light as vaporous phosphorescence.

The fact that we've reached the top of the second line of defense is suddenly revealed by a different wind blowing in from a new direction, coming in like a waterfall. These fresh gusts create a sound that resonates through the entire camp or castle, playing on it like a harp. It's hard to keep my footing as they're sweeping through. Glancing up for a moment, I notice that the sky is much cloudier than it has been before, and suddenly there’s a stillness in what has now turned into a storm, arriving with almost eerie suddenness. I take this opportunity to sneak down the second embankment, but by the time I reach the ditch, the stillness becomes clear as just the calm before the storm. It starts with a shift in the whole atmosphere, like the sigh of a tired strong man getting ready to start working hard again, just as I’m standing here in the second trench. What now spreads from the sky over the scene isn't really light but a misty glow.

The wind, quickening, abandons the natural direction it has pursued on the open upland, and takes the course of the gorge's length, rushing along therein helter-skelter, and carrying thick rain upon its back. The rain is followed by hailstones which fly through the defile in battalions-rolling, hopping, ricochetting, snapping, clattering down the shelving banks in an undefinable haze of confusion. The earthen sides of the fosse seem to quiver under the drenching onset, though it is practically no more to them than the blows of Thor upon the giant of Jotun-land. It is impossible to proceed further till the storm somewhat abates, and I draw up behind a spur of the inner scarp, where possibly a barricade stood two thousand years ago; and thus await events.

The wind picks up speed, leaving behind the usual path it followed on the open hill and rushing along the length of the gorge, careening wildly while carrying heavy rain with it. The rain is soon joined by hailstones that fly through the narrow passage in groups—rolling, bouncing, rebounding, and clattering down the sloped banks in a chaotic mix. The earthen walls of the ditch seem to shudder under the relentless downpour, though it amounts to little more than Thor's strikes on the giant from Jotunheim. I can’t move forward until the storm eases a bit, so I take cover behind a projection of the inner cliff, where perhaps a barrier stood two thousand years ago, and wait for things to calm down.

The roar of the storm can be heard travelling the complete circuit of the castle-a measured mile-coming round at intervals like a circumambulating column of infantry. Doubtless such a column has passed this way in its time, but the only columns which enter in these latter days are the columns of sheep and oxen that are sometimes seen here now; while the only semblance of heroic voices heard are the utterances of such, and of the many winds which make their passage through the ravines.

The roar of the storm can be heard all around the castle—a measured mile—coming back at intervals like a marching column of soldiers. It’s likely that such a column has passed this way in the past, but the only groups that come through these days are the flocks of sheep and herds of cattle that are sometimes seen here now; while the only hint of heroic voices comes from them and the many winds that pass through the ravines.

The expected lightning radiates round, and a rumbling as from its subterranean vaults-if there are any-fills the castle. The lightning repeats itself, and, coming after the aforesaid thoughts of martial men, it bears a fanciful resemblance to swords moving in combat. It has the very brassy hue of the ancient weapons that here were used. The so sudden entry upon the scene of this metallic flame is as the entry of a presiding exhibitor who unrolls the maps, uncurtains the pictures, unlocks the cabinets, and effects a transformation by merely exposing the materials of his science, unintelligibly cloaked till then. The abrupt configuration of the bluffs and mounds is now for the first time clearly revealed-mounds whereon, doubtless, spears and shields have frequently lain while their owners loosened their sandals and yawned and stretched their arms in the sun. For the first time, too, a glimpse is obtainable of the true entrance used by its occupants of old, some way ahead.

The expected lightning flashes around, and a rumbling like it’s coming from underground fills the castle. The lightning keeps happening, and after the previous thoughts of warriors, it oddly resembles swords clashing in battle. It has the same metallic color as the ancient weapons that were used here. The sudden appearance of this metallic light is like a host revealing maps, pulling back curtains on images, unlocking cabinets, and transforming the scene just by showing the materials of his craft, which were hidden until now. The sudden shape of the hills and mounds is now clearly visible for the first time—mounds where spears and shields have often rested while their owners relaxed and stretched in the sun. For the first time, we can also see the main entrance that the old occupants used, some distance ahead.

There, where all passage has seemed to be inviolably barred by an almost vertical facade, the ramparts are found to overlap each other like loosely clasped fingers, between which a zigzag path may be followed-a cunning construction that puzzles the uninformed eye. But its cunning, even where not obscured by dilapidation, is now wasted on the solitary forms of a few wild badgers, rabbits, and hares. Men must have often gone out by those gates in the morning to battle with the Roman legions under Vespasian; some to return no more, others to come back at evening, bringing with them the noise of their heroic deeds. But not a page, not a stone, has preserved their fame.

There, where access seemed completely blocked by a nearly vertical wall, the ramparts are found to overlap like loosely clasped fingers, creating a winding path that can be followed—a clever design that confuses the untrained eye. But its cleverness, even when not hidden by decay, is now wasted on a few solitary badgers, rabbits, and hares. Men must have frequently passed through those gates in the morning to fight against the Roman legions under Vespasian; some never returned, while others came back in the evening, bringing the echoes of their heroic deeds. Yet, not a page, not a stone, has kept their memory alive.

Acoustic perceptions multiply to-night. We can almost hear the stream of years that have borne those deeds away from us. Strange articulations seem to float on the air from that point, the gateway, where the animation in past times must frequently have concentrated itself at hours of coming and going, and general excitement. There arises an ineradicable fancy that they are human voices; if so, they must be the lingering air-borne vibrations of conversations uttered at least fifteen hundred years ago. The attention is attracted from mere nebulous imaginings about yonder spot by a real moving of something close at hand.

Acoustic perceptions multiply tonight. We can almost hear the stream of years that have carried those actions away from us. Strange sounds seem to float in the air from that point, the gateway, where the energy from the past must often have gathered during times of arrivals and departures, filled with excitement. There’s an undeniable feeling that these are human voices; if they are, they must be the lingering sounds of conversations spoken at least fifteen hundred years ago. Our focus shifts from vague fantasies about that place to something real moving nearby.

I recognize by the now moderate flashes of lightning, which are sheet- like and nearly continuous, that it is the gradual elevation of a small mound of earth. At first no larger than a man's fist it reaches the dimensions of a hat, then sinks a little and is still. It is but the heaving of a mole who chooses such weather as this to work in from some instinct that there will be nobody abroad to molest him. As the fine earth lifts and lifts and falls loosely aside fragments of burnt clay roll out of it-clay that once formed part of cups or other vessels used by the inhabitants of the fortress.

I can see from the now moderate flashes of lightning, which are broad and almost continuous, that it’s the slow rise of a small mound of dirt. At first, it’s no bigger than a man's fist, then it grows to the size of a hat before sinking slightly and remaining still. It’s just the movement of a mole that chooses this kind of weather to work in, probably because it senses there won’t be anyone around to disturb it. As the fine earth lifts and lifts and falls loosely away, pieces of burnt clay spill out—clay that used to be part of cups or other containers used by the people who lived in the fortress.

The violence of the storm has been counterbalanced by its transitoriness. From being immersed in well-nigh solid media of cloud and hail shot with lightning, I find myself uncovered of the humid investiture and left bare to the mild gaze of the moon, which sparkles now on every wet grass-blade and frond of moss.

The storm's intensity has been balanced out by how fleeting it is. After being surrounded by thick clouds and hail, lit up by lightning, I now find myself without the heavy moisture and exposed to the gentle light of the moon, which now sparkles on every wet blade of grass and patch of moss.

But I am not yet inside the fort, and the delayed ascent of the third and last escarpment is now made. It is steeper than either. The first was a surface to walk up, the second to stagger up, the third can only be ascended on the hands and toes. On the summit obtrudes the first evidence which has been met with in these precincts that the time is really the nineteenth century; it is in the form of a white notice-board on a post, and the wording can just be discerned by the rays of the setting moon:

But I’m not in the fort yet, and I’ve just climbed the third and final escarpment, which is even steeper than the others. The first was easy to walk up, the second was difficult to climb, but the third can only be tackled on my hands and toes. At the top, I see the first sign that we’re really in the nineteenth century; it’s a white notice board on a post, and the words are barely visible in the light of the setting moon:

CAUTION.-Any Person found removing Relics, Skeletons, Stones, Pottery, Tiles, or other Material from this Earthwork, or cutting up the Ground, will be Prosecuted as the Law directs.

CAUTION.-Anyone caught taking Relics, Skeletons, Stones, Pottery, Tiles, or any other material from this Earthwork, or damaging the Ground, will be prosecuted according to the law.

Here one observes a difference underfoot from what has gone before: scraps of Roman tile and stone chippings protrude through the grass in meagre quantity, but sufficient to suggest that masonry stood on the spot. Before the eye stretches under the moonlight the interior of the fort. So open and so large is it as to be practically an upland plateau, and yet its area lies wholly within the walls of what may be designated as one building. It is a long-violated retreat; all its corner-stones, plinths, and architraves were carried away to build neighbouring villages even before mediaeval or modern history began. Many a block which once may have helped to form a bastion here rests now in broken and diminished shape as part of the chimney-corner of some shepherd's cottage within the distant horizon, and the corner-stones of this heathen altar may form the base-course of some adjoining village church.

Here, you can notice a change beneath your feet compared to what was there before: bits of Roman tile and stone fragments stick out through the grass in small amounts, but enough to indicate that there was once masonry here. In the moonlight, the interior of the fort spreads out before you. It’s so open and large that it practically resembles an upland plateau, yet its entire area is contained within the walls of what can be considered a single building. It's a place that has been disturbed for a long time; all its cornerstones, bases, and architraves were taken away to construct nearby villages even before medieval or modern history began. Many a block that once contributed to a bastion here now lies in broken, smaller pieces as part of the chimney in some shepherd's cottage on the distant horizon, and the cornerstones of this pagan altar might be the foundation of a village church nearby.

Yet the very bareness of these inner courts and wards, their condition of mere pasturage, protects what remains of them as no defences could do. Nothing is left visible that the hands can seize on or the weather overturn, and a permanence of general outline at least results, which no other condition could ensure.

Yet the starkness of these inner courts and areas, their state of just being grazing land, protects what’s left of them better than any defenses could. There’s nothing visible that can be grabbed or affected by the weather, and at least a lasting general shape remains, which no other situation could guarantee.

The position of the castle on this isolated hill bespeaks deliberate and strategic choice exercised by some remote mind capable of prospective reasoning to a far extent. The natural configuration of the surrounding country and its bearing upon such a stronghold were obviously long considered and viewed mentally before its extensive design was carried into execution. Who was the man that said, 'Let it be built here!'-not on that hill yonder, or on that ridge behind, but on this best spot of all? Whether he were some great one of the Belgae, or of the Durotriges, or the travelling engineer of Britain's united tribes, must for ever remain time's secret; his form cannot be realized, nor his countenance, nor the tongue that he spoke, when he set down his foot with a thud and said, 'Let it be here!'

The castle's location on this isolated hill shows a careful and strategic decision made by someone with the foresight to think far ahead. The natural layout of the surrounding area and its impact on this stronghold were clearly taken into account and mentally assessed long before the grand design was put into action. Who was the person that declared, 'Let it be built here!'—not on that hill over there or on that ridge behind, but in this perfect spot? Whether he was a prominent leader of the Belgae, the Durotriges, or an engineer traveling with Britain’s united tribes remains a secret of time; we can't visualize his figure, his face, or the language he spoke when he stomped his foot and said, 'Let it be here!'

Within the innermost enclosure, though it is so wide that at a superficial glance the beholder has only a sense of standing on a breezy down, the solitude is rendered yet more solitary by the knowledge that between the benighted sojourner herein and all kindred humanity are those three concentric walls of earth which no being would think of scaling on such a night as this, even were he to hear the most pathetic cries issuing hence that could be uttered by a spectre-chased soul. I reach a central mound or platform-the crown and axis of the whole structure. The view from here by day must be of almost limitless extent. On this raised floor, dais, or rostrum, harps have probably twanged more or less tuneful notes in celebration of daring, strength, or cruelty; of worship, superstition, love, birth, and death; of simple loving-kindness perhaps never. Many a time must the king or leader have directed his keen eyes hence across the open lands towards the ancient road, the Icening Way, still visible in the distance, on the watch for armed companies approaching either to succour or to attack.

Within the innermost enclosure, which is so vast that at first glance it feels like standing on a breezy hill, the solitude feels even more isolating because there are three concentric walls of earth between the stranded traveler and all of humanity. No one would think of climbing over those walls on a night like this, even if they heard the most heart-wrenching cries that a haunted soul could call out. I reach a central mound or platform—the peak and center of the entire structure. The view from here during the day must be almost limitless. On this raised floor, stage, or platform, harps have probably strummed more or less melodious notes celebrating bravery, strength, or cruelty; worship, superstition, love, birth, and death; but probably never simple acts of kindness. Many times, the king or leader must have directed his sharp gaze from here across the open lands toward the ancient road, the Icening Way, still visible in the distance, watching for armed groups either coming to help or to do battle.

I am startled by a voice pronouncing my name. Past and present have become so confusedly mingled under the associations of the spot that for a time it has escaped my memory that this mound was the place agreed on for the aforesaid appointment. I turn and behold my friend. He stands with a dark lantern in his hand and a spade and light pickaxe over his shoulder. He expresses both delight and surprise that I have come. I tell him I had set out before the bad weather began.

I’m startled by a voice calling my name. The past and present have become so mixed up with the memories of this place that, for a while, I completely forgot that this mound was where we agreed to meet. I turn around and see my friend. He’s holding a dark lantern in one hand, with a shovel and a light pickaxe over his shoulder. He shows both joy and surprise that I’ve arrived. I tell him I started my journey before the bad weather hit.

He, to whom neither weather, darkness, nor difficulty seems to have any relation or significance, so entirely is his soul wrapped up in his own deep intentions, asks me to take the lantern and accompany him. I take it and walk by his side. He is a man about sixty, small in figure, with grey old-fashioned whiskers cut to the shape of a pair of crumb-brushes. He is entirely in black broadcloth-or rather, at present, black and brown, for he is bespattered with mud from his heels to the crown of his low hat. He has no consciousness of this-no sense of anything but his purpose, his ardour for which causes his eyes to shine like those of a lynx, and gives his motions, all the elasticity of an athlete's.

He, who seems completely unaffected by the weather, darkness, or any obstacles, so absorbed is he in his own deep intentions, asks me to take the lantern and walk with him. I pick it up and walk beside him. He’s a man around sixty, small in stature, with grey old-fashioned sideburns shaped like a pair of crumb-brushes. He’s dressed entirely in black wool—or rather, currently black and brown, since he’s splattered with mud from his heels to the top of his low hat. He has no awareness of this—no sense of anything except his goal, his passion for which makes his eyes shine like those of a lynx, and gives his movements the energy of an athlete.

'Nobody to interrupt us at this time of night!' he chuckles with fierce enjoyment.

'No one to interrupt us at this time of night!' he laughs with fierce enjoyment.

We retreat a little way and find a sort of angle, an elevation in the sod, a suggested squareness amid the mass of irregularities around. Here, he tells me, if anywhere, the king's house stood. Three months of measurement and calculation have confirmed him in this conclusion.

We step back a bit and discover a kind of corner, a raised spot in the ground, a hint of a square shape among all the unevenness surrounding it. Here, he tells me, if anywhere, the king's house used to be. Three months of measuring and calculations have convinced him of this.

He requests me now to open the lantern, which I do, and the light streams out upon the wet sod. At last divining his proceedings I say that I had no idea, in keeping the tryst, that he was going to do more at such an unusual time than meet me for a meditative ramble through the stronghold. I ask him why, having a practicable object, he should have minded interruptions and not have chosen the day? He informs me, quietly pointing to his spade, that it was because his purpose is to dig, then signifying with a grim nod the gaunt notice-post against the sky beyond. I inquire why, as a professed and well-known antiquary with capital letters at the tail of his name, he did not obtain the necessary authority, considering the stringent penalties for this sort of thing; and he chuckles fiercely again with suppressed delight, and says, 'Because they wouldn't have given it!'

He now asks me to open the lantern, which I do, and the light streams out onto the wet ground. Finally figuring out what he’s up to, I say that I had no idea, in keeping our meeting, that he was going to do anything more at such an odd time than take a thoughtful walk through the stronghold. I ask him why, with a clear goal in mind, he wouldn’t have just chosen a regular day and avoided interruptions. He calmly points to his spade and tells me it’s because his plan is to dig, then gives a grim nod towards the tall notice-post against the sky nearby. I ask why, as a well-known antiquarian with capital letters at the end of his name, he didn’t get the required permission, considering the strict penalties for this sort of thing; he chuckles fiercely again, suppressing his delight, and says, "Because they wouldn’t have given it!"

He at once begins cutting up the sod, and, as he takes the pickaxe to follow on with, assures me that, penalty or no penalty, honest men or marauders, he is sure of one thing, that we shall not be disturbed at our work till after dawn.

He immediately starts digging up the ground, and as he grabs the pickaxe to continue, he assures me that whether there’s a penalty or not, honest folks or bandits, he knows for sure that we won’t be interrupted during our work until after dawn.

I remember to have heard of men who, in their enthusiasm for some special science, art, or hobby, have quite lost the moral sense which would restrain them from indulging it illegitimately; and I conjecture that here, at last, is an instance of such an one. He probably guesses the way my thoughts travel, for he stands up and solemnly asserts that he has a distinctly justifiable intention in this matter; namely, to uncover, to search, to verify a theory or displace it, and to cover up again. He means to take away nothing-not a grain of sand. In this he says he sees no such monstrous sin. I inquire if this is really a promise to me? He repeats that it is a promise, and resumes digging. My contribution to the labour is that of directing the light constantly upon the hole. When he has reached something more than a foot deep he digs more cautiously, saying that, be it much or little there, it will not lie far below the surface; such things never are deep. A few minutes later the point of the pickaxe clicks upon a stony substance. He draws the implement out as feelingly as if it had entered a man's body. Taking up the spade he shovels with care, and a surface, level as an altar, is presently disclosed. His eyes flash anew; he pulls handfuls of grass and mops the surface clean, finally rubbing it with his handkerchief. Grasping the lantern from my hand he holds it close to the ground, when the rays reveal a complete mosaic-a pavement of minute tesserae of many colours, of intricate pattern, a work of much art, of much time, and of much industry. He exclaims in a shout that he knew it always-that it is not a Celtic stronghold exclusively, but also a Roman; the former people having probably contributed little more than the original framework which the latter took and adapted till it became the present imposing structure.

I remember hearing about men who, in their excitement for a particular science, art, or hobby, completely lose the moral compass that would stop them from indulging in it the wrong way; and I guess this is an example of such a person. He probably anticipates where my thoughts are going, because he stands up and seriously claims that he has a completely justifiable reason for this; specifically, to uncover, search for, verify, or replace a theory, and then cover it up again. He insists that he won’t take anything—not even a grain of sand. He believes there’s no terrible sin in that. I ask him if this is really a promise to me. He confirms it is a promise and continues digging. My role in this effort is just to keep light on the hole. Once he digs down a foot, he works more carefully, mentioning that whatever is there won’t be deep; such things are never far below the surface. A few minutes later, the point of the pickaxe hits something hard. He pulls it out gently, as if it had pierced a person. Picking up the spade, he digs carefully, and soon reveals a flat surface, smooth as an altar. His eyes light up again; he pulls up handfuls of grass and cleans the surface, finally rubbing it with his handkerchief. Grabbing the lantern from me, he holds it close to the ground, and the light shows a complete mosaic—a pavement of tiny, colorful tiles, with a complex pattern, a work of significant artistry, time, and effort. He exclaims loudly that he always knew it—that it’s not just a Celtic stronghold, but also Roman; the Celts likely only added the original structure, which the Romans adapted until it became this impressive site.

I ask, What if it is Roman?

I ask, What if it's Roman?

A great deal, according to him. That it proves all the world to be wrong in this great argument, and himself alone to be right! Can I wait while he digs further?

A lot, according to him. That it shows everyone in the world to be wrong in this big debate, and he alone is right! Can I wait while he keeps digging?

I agree-reluctantly; but he does not notice my reluctance. At an adjoining spot he begins flourishing the tools anew with the skill of a navvy, this venerable scholar with letters after his name. Sometimes he falls on his knees, burrowing with his hands in the manner of a hare, and where his old-fashioned broadcloth touches the sides of the hole it gets plastered with the damp earth. He continually murmurs to himself how important, how very important, this discovery is! He draws out an object; we wash it in the same primitive way by rubbing it with the wet grass, and it proves to be a semi-transparent bottle of iridescent beauty, the sight of which draws groans of luxurious sensibility from the digger. Further and further search brings out a piece of a weapon. It is strange indeed that by merely peeling off a wrapper of modern accumulations we have lowered ourselves into an ancient world. Finally a skeleton is uncovered, fairly perfect. He lays it out on the grass, bone to its bone.

I agree—reluctantly; but he doesn’t notice my hesitation. In a nearby spot, he starts showing off his tools again with the skill of a construction worker, this esteemed scholar with letters after his name. Sometimes he drops to his knees, digging with his hands like a rabbit, and where his old-fashioned suit brushes against the edges of the hole, it gets covered in damp dirt. He keeps mumbling to himself how significant, how incredibly significant, this discovery is! He pulls out an object; we clean it in the same basic way by rubbing it with wet grass, and it turns out to be a semi-transparent bottle with an iridescent shine, which elicits sighs of indulgent appreciation from the digger. As we dig further, we uncover part of a weapon. It’s quite strange that by simply peeling away layers of modern debris, we’ve sunk into an ancient world. Finally, a skeleton is revealed, nearly intact. He lays it out on the grass, bone to bone.

My friend says the man must have fallen fighting here, as this is no place of burial. He turns again to the trench, scrapes, feels, till from a corner he draws out a heavy lump-a small image four or five inches high. We clean it as before. It is a statuette, apparently of gold, or, more probably, of bronze-gilt-a figure of Mercury, obviously, its head being surmounted with the petasus or winged hat, the usual accessory of that deity. Further inspection reveals the workmanship to be of good finish and detail, and, preserved by the limy earth, to be as fresh in every line as on the day it left the hands of its artificer.

My friend says the man must have fallen fighting right here because this isn’t a burial site. He turns back to the trench, scrapes, feels around, and pulls out a heavy lump from a corner—a small figure about four or five inches tall. We clean it like before. It’s a statuette, likely made of gold or, more probably, bronze with gold plating—a figure of Mercury, obviously, its head topped with the petasus or winged hat, which is the usual accessory for that god. A closer look reveals that the craftsmanship is of good quality and detail, and, thanks to the limey earth, it looks as fresh in every line as it did when it first left the hands of its creator.

We seem to be standing in the Roman Forum and not on a hill in Wessex. Intent upon this truly valuable relic of the old empire of which even this remote spot was a component part, we do not notice what is going on in the present world till reminded of it by the sudden renewal of the storm. Looking up I perceive that the wide extinguisher of cloud has again settled down upon the fortress-town, as if resting upon the edge of the inner rampart, and shutting out the moon. I turn my back to the tempest, still directing the light across the hole. My companion digs on unconcernedly; he is living two thousand years ago, and despises things of the moment as dreams. But at last he is fairly beaten, and standing up beside me looks round on what he has done. The rays of the lantern pass over the trench to the tall skeleton stretched upon the grass on the other side. The beating rain has washed the bones clean and smooth, and the forehead, cheek-bones, and two-and-thirty teeth of the skull glisten in the candle-shine as they lie.

We seem to be standing in the Roman Forum and not on a hill in Wessex. Intent on this truly valuable relic of the old empire, of which even this remote spot was a part, we don’t notice what’s happening in the present world until the storm suddenly kicks back in. Looking up, I see that the heavy blanket of clouds has settled over the fortress-town again, as if resting on the edge of the inner rampart and blocking out the moon. I turn my back to the storm, still directing the light across the hole. My companion digs on without a care; he is living two thousand years ago and dismisses current events as dreams. But eventually, he’s worn out and stands up next to me, surveying what he’s done. The lantern’s rays shine over the trench to the tall skeleton stretched out on the grass on the other side. The pounding rain has washed the bones clean, and the forehead, cheekbones, and thirty-two teeth of the skull glisten in the candlelight as they lie.

This storm, like the first, is of the nature of a squall, and it ends as abruptly as the other. We dig no further. My friend says that it is enough-he has proved his point. He turns to replace the bones in the trench and covers them. But they fall to pieces under his touch: the air has disintegrated them, and he can only sweep in the fragments. The next act of his plan is more than difficult, but is carried out. The treasures are inhumed again in their respective holes: they are not ours. Each deposition seems to cost him a twinge; and at one moment I fancied I saw him slip his hand into his coat pocket.

This storm, like the first one, is a squall and ends just as suddenly as the other. We don’t dig any deeper. My friend says that it’s enough—he's made his point. He turns to put the bones back in the trench and covers them up. But they crumble under his touch: the air has broken them down, and he can only sweep up the pieces. The next step in his plan is more than challenging, but it gets done. The treasures are buried again in their respective spots: they aren’t ours. Each burial seems to cost him a little pain; and for a moment, I thought I saw him slip his hand into his coat pocket.

'We must re-bury them all,' say I.

'We need to re-bury them all,' I say.

'O yes,' he answers with integrity. 'I was wiping my hand.'

'O yes,' he replies honestly. 'I was wiping my hand.'

The beauties of the tesselated floor of the governor's house are once again consigned to darkness; the trench is filled up; the sod laid smoothly down; he wipes the perspiration from his forehead with the same handkerchief he had used to mop the skeleton and tesserae clean; and we make for the eastern gate of the fortress.

The beauty of the patterned floor in the governor's house is once again covered up; the trench is filled in; the grass is laid down neatly; he wipes the sweat from his forehead with the same handkerchief he used to clean the bones and tiles; and we head for the eastern gate of the fortress.

Dawn bursts upon us suddenly as we reach the opening. It comes by the lifting and thinning of the clouds that way till we are bathed in a pink light. The direction of his homeward journey is not the same as mine, and we part under the outer slope.

Dawn suddenly breaks as we reach the opening. It arrives with the lifting and thinning of the clouds, bathing us in a pink light. The direction of his journey home is different from mine, and we say our goodbyes under the outer slope.

Walking along quickly to restore warmth I muse upon my eccentric friend, and cannot help asking myself this question: Did he really replace the gilded image of the god Mercurius with the rest of the treasures? He seemed to do so; and yet I could not testify to the fact. Probably, however, he was as good as his word.

Walking quickly to warm up, I think about my quirky friend and can't help but ask myself this question: Did he actually swap out the golden statue of the god Mercury along with the other treasures? He appeared to do it, but I can't really say for sure. Still, I guess he was probably true to his word.

* * *

It was thus I spoke to myself, and so the adventure ended. But one thing remains to be told, and that is concerned with seven years after. Among the effects of my friend, at that time just deceased, was found, carefully preserved, a gilt statuette representing Mercury, labelled 'Debased Roman.' No record was attached to explain how it came into his possession. The figure was bequeathed to the Casterbridge Museum.

It was like this that I talked to myself, and that’s how the adventure wrapped up. But there’s one last thing to mention, which is about seven years later. Among my deceased friend's belongings, a carefully kept gilt statuette of Mercury was found, labeled 'Debased Roman.' There was no note explaining how he got it. The statue was donated to the Casterbridge Museum.

Detroit Post,

Detroit News,

March 1885.

WHAT THE SHEPHERD SAW

A TALE OF FOUR MOONLIGHT NIGHTS

The genial Justice of the Peace-now, alas, no more-who made himself responsible for the facts of this story, used to begin in the good old- fashioned way with a bright moonlight night and a mysterious figure, an excellent stroke for an opening, even to this day, if well followed up.

The friendly Justice of the Peace—now, sadly, no longer with us—who took it upon himself to be accountable for the details of this story, would start in the classic manner with a bright moonlit night and a mysterious figure, a great way to open, even today, if executed well.

The Christmas moon (he would say) was showing her cold face to the upland, the upland reflecting the radiance in frost-sparkles so minute as only to be discernible by an eye near at hand. This eye, he said, was the eye of a shepherd lad, young for his occupation, who stood within a wheeled hut of the kind commonly in use among sheep-keepers during the early lambing season, and was abstractedly looking through the loophole at the scene without.

The Christmas moon (he would say) was displaying her cold face to the high ground, the high ground reflecting the glow in tiny frost-sparkles that could only be seen by an eye nearby. This eye, he said, belonged to a young shepherd boy, still young for his job, who stood inside a wheeled hut typically used by shepherds during the early lambing season, and was absentmindedly gazing through the opening at the scene outside.

The spot was called Lambing Corner, and it was a sheltered portion of that wide expanse of rough pastureland known as the Marlbury Downs, which you directly traverse when following the turnpike-road across Mid- Wessex from London, through Aldbrickham, in the direction of Bath and Bristol. Here, where the hut stood, the land was high and dry, open, except to the north, and commanding an undulating view for miles. On the north side grew a tall belt of coarse furze, with enormous stalks, a clump of the same standing detached in front of the general mass. The clump was hollow, and the interior had been ingeniously taken advantage of as a position for the before-mentioned hut, which was thus completely screened from winds, and almost invisible, except through the narrow approach. But the furze twigs had been cut away from the two little windows of the hut, that the occupier might keep his eye on his sheep.

The place was called Lambing Corner, and it was a sheltered area of that vast stretch of rough pastureland known as the Marlbury Downs, which you travel directly when following the main road across Mid-Wessex from London, through Aldbrickham, toward Bath and Bristol. Here, where the hut stood, the land was elevated and dry, open except to the north, and offered a rolling view for miles. On the north side, there was a tall thicket of coarse furze, with huge stalks, and a cluster of the same kind standing apart from the main mass. The cluster was hollow, and the inside had been cleverly used as a spot for the aforementioned hut, which was thus completely sheltered from the winds and almost hidden, except through the narrow entrance. But the furze branches had been trimmed away from the two small windows of the hut so the occupant could keep an eye on his sheep.

In the rear, the shelter afforded by the belt of furze bushes was artificially improved by an inclosure of upright stakes, interwoven with boughs of the same prickly vegetation, and within the inclosure lay a renowned Marlbury-Down breeding flock of eight hundred ewes.

In the back, the shelter provided by the row of furze bushes was enhanced by a fence made of upright stakes, woven together with branches of the same prickly plants, and inside the fence was a famous Marlbury-Down breeding flock of eight hundred ewes.

To the south, in the direction of the young shepherd's idle gaze, there rose one conspicuous object above the uniform moonlit plateau, and only one. It was a Druidical trilithon, consisting of three oblong stones in the form of a doorway, two on end, and one across as a lintel. Each stone had been worn, scratched, washed, nibbled, split, and otherwise attacked by ten thousand different weathers; but now the blocks looked shapely and little the worse for wear, so beautifully were they silvered over by the light of the moon. The ruin was locally called the Devil's Door.

To the south, in the direction of the young shepherd's wandering gaze, there rose one striking object above the flat moonlit landscape, and only one. It was a Druidic trilithon, made up of three rectangular stones arranged like a doorway, with two standing upright and one across as a lintel. Each stone had been worn, scratched, washed, gnawed, cracked, and otherwise weathered by countless storms; but now the stones appeared elegant and hardly worse for wear, so beautifully were they illuminated by the moonlight. The ruin was commonly referred to as the Devil's Door.

An old shepherd presently entered the hut from the direction of the ewes, and looked around in the gloom. 'Be ye sleepy?' he asked in cross accents of the boy.

An old shepherd just walked into the hut from where the sheep were and looked around in the dim light. "Are you sleepy?" he asked the boy in a grumpy tone.

The lad replied rather timidly in the negative.

The boy replied a bit shyly that he didn't want to.

'Then,' said the shepherd, 'I'll get me home-along, and rest for a few hours. There's nothing to be done here now as I can see. The ewes can want no more tending till daybreak-'tis beyond the bounds of reason that they can. But as the order is that one of us must bide, I'll leave 'ee, d'ye hear. You can sleep by day, and I can't. And you can be down to my house in ten minutes if anything should happen. I can't afford 'ee candle; but, as 'tis Christmas week, and the time that folks have hollerdays, you can enjoy yerself by falling asleep a bit in the chair instead of biding awake all the time. But mind, not longer at once than while the shade of the Devil's Door moves a couple of spans, for you must keep an eye upon the ewes.'

'Then,' said the shepherd, 'I'll head home and rest for a few hours. There's nothing that needs to be done here now, as far as I can see. The ewes don’t need any more care until dawn—it’s unreasonable to think they would. But since one of us has to stay, I'll leave you, okay? You can sleep during the day, but I can't. And you can be at my place in ten minutes if anything happens. I can’t give you a candle; but since it’s Christmas week and everyone is on holiday, you can enjoy yourself by dozing off a bit in the chair instead of staying awake the whole time. But remember, not longer than it takes for the shadow of the Devil's Door to move a couple of spans, because you need to keep an eye on the ewes.'

The boy made no definite reply, and the old man, stirring the fire in the stove with his crook-stem, closed the door upon his companion and vanished.

The boy didn't give a clear answer, and the old man, poking the fire in the stove with his stick, shut the door on his companion and disappeared.

As this had been more or less the course of events every night since the season's lambing had set in, the boy was not at all surprised at the charge, and amused himself for some time by lighting straws at the stove. He then went out to the ewes and new-born lambs, re-entered, sat down, and finally fell asleep. This was his customary manner of performing his watch, for though special permission for naps had this week been accorded, he had, as a matter of fact, done the same thing on every preceding night, sleeping often till awakened by a smack on the shoulder at three or four in the morning from the crook-stem of the old man.

As this had pretty much been the same routine every night since lambing started, the boy wasn't surprised by the order and entertained himself for a while by lighting straws at the stove. He then went outside to check on the ewes and newborn lambs, came back in, sat down, and eventually fell asleep. This was how he usually did his watch, because even though he had been given special permission to nap this week, he had actually done the same thing on every previous night, often sleeping until he was jolted awake by a smack on the shoulder at three or four in the morning from the old man's crook.

It might have been about eleven o'clock when he awoke. He was so surprised at awaking without, apparently, being called or struck, that on second thoughts he assumed that somebody must have called him in spite of appearances, and looked out of the hut window towards the sheep. They all lay as quiet as when he had visited them, very little bleating being audible, and no human soul disturbing the scene. He next looked from the opposite window, and here the case was different. The frost-facets glistened under the moon as before; an occasional furze bush showed as a dark spot on the same; and in the foreground stood the ghostly form of the trilithon. But in front of the trilithon stood a man.

It was around eleven o'clock when he woke up. He was so surprised to wake up without anyone apparently calling him or waking him up that, upon further reflection, he thought someone must have called him despite how it seemed. He looked out the hut window toward the sheep. They were all lying quietly, just like when he had checked on them before, with very little bleating to be heard, and no one else around. He then peered out of the other window, and this view was different. The icy surfaces sparkled under the moon like before; an occasional gorse bush appeared as a dark spot against the snow, and in the foreground stood the eerie shape of the trilithon. But in front of the trilithon stood a man.

That he was not the shepherd or any one of the farm labourers was apparent in a moment's observation,-his dress being a dark suit, and his figure of slender build and graceful carriage. He walked backwards and forwards in front of the trilithon.

That he wasn't the shepherd or any of the farm workers was clear after just a moment's observation—he was wearing a dark suit, and his slender build and graceful posture stood out. He paced back and forth in front of the trilithon.

The shepherd lad had hardly done speculating on the strangeness of the unknown's presence here at such an hour, when he saw a second figure crossing the open sward towards the locality of the trilithon and furze- clump that screened the hut. This second personage was a woman; and immediately on sight of her the male stranger hastened forward, meeting her just in front of the hut window. Before she seemed to be aware of his intention he clasped her in his arms.

The shepherd boy had barely finished wondering about the oddness of the stranger being there at such a late hour when he saw a second figure crossing the open field toward the area of the stone structure and the bush that hid the hut. This second person was a woman; and as soon as the man saw her, he quickly moved forward, meeting her right in front of the hut window. Before she seemed to realize what he was about to do, he pulled her into his arms.

The lady released herself and drew back with some dignity.

The lady let go and stepped back with a sense of dignity.

'You have come, Harriet-bless you for it!' he exclaimed, fervently.

'You’re here, Harriet—thank you for coming!' he exclaimed, passionately.

'But not for this,' she answered, in offended accents. And then, more good-naturedly, 'I have come, Fred, because you entreated me so! What can have been the object of your writing such a letter? I feared I might be doing you grievous ill by staying away. How did you come here?'

'But not for this,' she replied, sounding offended. Then, in a more friendly tone, 'I came, Fred, because you begged me to! What was the point of your writing such a letter? I was worried I might be causing you serious harm by not coming. How did you end up here?'

'I walked all the way from my father's.'

'I walked all the way from my dad's.'

'Well, what is it? How have you lived since we last met?'

'So, what's up? How have you been since we last saw each other?'

'But roughly; you might have known that without asking. I have seen many lands and many faces since I last walked these downs, but I have only thought of you.'

'But honestly, you probably could have guessed that without me saying anything. I've traveled to many places and met many people since I last walked these hills, but I've only thought about you.'

'Is it only to tell me this that you have summoned me so strangely?'

'Is this the only reason you called me here so oddly?'

A passing breeze blew away the murmur of the reply and several succeeding sentences, till the man's voice again became audible in the words, 'Harriet-truth between us two! I have heard that the Duke does not treat you too well.'

A passing breeze carried away the soft reply and several following sentences until the man's voice became clear again with the words, 'Harriet—let's be honest with each other! I've heard that the Duke doesn't treat you very well.'

'He is warm-tempered, but he is a good husband.'

'He has a warm temper, but he's a good husband.'

'He speaks roughly to you, and sometimes even threatens to lock you out of doors.'

'He talks to you harshly and sometimes even threatens to shut you out.'

'Only once, Fred! On my honour, only once. The Duke is a fairly good husband, I repeat. But you deserve punishment for this night's trick of drawing me out. What does it mean?'

'Only once, Fred! I swear, only once. The Duke is a pretty good husband, I’ll say it again. But you deserve to be punished for tonight’s trick of luring me out. What’s the deal with that?'

'Harriet, dearest, is this fair or honest? Is it not notorious that your life with him is a sad one-that, in spite of the sweetness of your temper, the sourness of his embitters your days. I have come to know if I can help you. You are a Duchess, and I am Fred Ogbourne; but it is not impossible that I may be able to help you . . . By God! the sweetness of that tongue ought to keep him civil, especially when there is added to it the sweetness of that face!'

'Harriet, my dear, is this fair or honest? Isn’t it well-known that your life with him is a difficult one—that, despite your kind nature, his bitterness makes your days hard? I’ve come to see if I can help you. You’re a Duchess, and I’m Fred Ogbourne; but it’s not impossible that I might be able to assist you... By God! that sweet way you speak should keep him in line, especially paired with that lovely face!'

'Captain Ogbourne!' she exclaimed, with an emphasis of playful fear. 'How can such a comrade of my youth behave to me as you do? Don't speak so, and stare at me so! Is this really all you have to say? I see I ought not to have come. 'Twas thoughtlessly done.'

'Captain Ogbourne!' she exclaimed, with a hint of playful fear. 'How can a friend from my childhood treat me like this? Don't say that, and stop looking at me like that! Is this really all you have to say? I can see I shouldn't have come. That was thoughtless of me.'

Another breeze broke the thread of discourse for a time.

Another breeze interrupted the conversation for a while.

'Very well. I perceive you are dead and lost to me,' he could next be heard to say, '"Captain Ogbourne" proves that. As I once loved you I love you now, Harriet, without one jot of abatement; but you are not the woman you were-you once were honest towards me; and now you conceal your heart in made-up speeches. Let it be: I can never see you again.'

'Fine. I can see you're gone and lost to me,' he could next be heard to say, '"Captain Ogbourne" shows that. As I once loved you, I love you now, Harriet, without any decrease; but you're not the woman you used to be—you were once honest with me; now you hide your feelings behind phony words. It is what it is: I can never see you again.'

'You need not say that in such a tragedy tone, you silly. You may see me in an ordinary way-why should you not? But, of course, not in such a way as this. I should not have come now, if it had not happened that the Duke is away from home, so that there is nobody to check my erratic impulses.'

'You don’t have to say that so dramatically, you silly. You can see me in a normal way—why wouldn’t you? But, of course, not like this. I wouldn’t have come now if the Duke hadn’t been away, so there’s no one to hold back my wild impulses.'

'When does he return?'

"When's he coming back?"

'The day after to-morrow, or the day after that.'

'The day after tomorrow, or the day after that.'

'Then meet me again to-morrow night.'

'Then meet me again tomorrow night.'

'No, Fred, I cannot.'

'No, Fred, I can't.'

'If you cannot to-morrow night, you can the night after; one of the two before he comes please bestow on me. Now, your hand upon it! To-morrow or next night you will see me to bid me farewell!' He seized the Duchess's hand.

'If you can't do it tomorrow night, you can the night after; just make sure I get one of those two nights before he arrives. Now, promise me! Tomorrow or the next night, you will see me to say goodbye!' He took the Duchess's hand.

'No, but Fred-let go my hand! What do you mean by holding me so? If it be love to forget all respect to a woman's present position in thinking of her past, then yours may be so, Frederick. It is not kind and gentle of you to induce me to come to this place for pity of you, and then to hold me tight here.'

'No, but Fred—let go of my hand! What do you mean by holding me like this? If it’s love to forget all respect for a woman’s current situation while thinking about her past, then I guess that’s what yours is, Frederick. It's not kind or gentle of you to bring me to this place out of pity for you and then hold me so tightly here.'

'But see me once more! I have come two thousand miles to ask it.'

'But please, see me one more time! I've traveled two thousand miles to ask you.'

'O, I must not! There will be slanders-Heaven knows what! I cannot meet you. For the sake of old times don't ask it.'

'O, I really can’t! There will be rumors—God knows what! I can’t see you. For the sake of our past, please don’t ask me to.'

'Then own two things to me; that you did love me once, and that your husband is unkind to you often enough now to make you think of the time when you cared for me.'

'Then admit two things to me; that you did love me once, and that your husband treats you poorly often enough now to make you think of the time when you cared for me.'

'Yes-I own them both,' she answered faintly. 'But owning such as that tells against me; and I swear the inference is not true.'

'Yes—I own both of them,' she replied quietly. 'But owning something like that is used against me, and I swear the implication is not true.'

'Don't say that; for you have come-let me think the reason of your coming what I like to think it. It can do you no harm. Come once more!'

'Don't say that; you've come here—let me consider why you're here in a way I prefer. It won't hurt you. Come again!'

He still held her hand and waist. 'Very well, then,' she said. 'Thus far you shall persuade me. I will meet you to-morrow night or the night after. Now, let me go.'

He still held her hand and waist. 'Alright, then,' she said. 'You’ve convinced me up to this point. I’ll meet you tomorrow night or the night after. Now, let me go.'

He released her, and they parted. The Duchess ran rapidly down the hill towards the outlying mansion of Shakeforest Towers, and when he had watched her out of sight, he turned and strode off in the opposite direction. All then was silent and empty as before.

He let her go, and they separated. The Duchess hurried down the hill toward the distant mansion of Shakeforest Towers, and after he watched her disappear, he turned and walked in the opposite direction. Everything was silent and empty once again.

Yet it was only for a moment. When they had quite departed, another shape appeared upon the scene. He came from behind the trilithon. He was a man of stouter build than the first, and wore the boots and spurs of a horseman. Two things were at once obvious from this phenomenon: that he had watched the interview between the Captain and the Duchess; and that, though he probably had seen every movement of the couple, including the embrace, he had been too remote to hear the reluctant words of the lady's conversation-or, indeed, any words at all-so that the meeting must have exhibited itself to his eye as the assignation of a pair of well-agreed lovers. But it was necessary that several years should elapse before the shepherd-boy was old enough to reason out this.

Yet it was just for a moment. After they had completely left, another figure showed up. He came from behind the trilithon. He was a stockier man than the first and wore the boots and spurs of a rider. Two things were immediately clear from this situation: that he had been watching the interaction between the Captain and the Duchess; and that, although he likely observed every movement of the couple, including their embrace, he was too far away to hear the lady's hesitant words—or any words at all—so the meeting must have appeared to him as a secret rendezvous between two smitten lovers. However, it would take several years before the shepherd-boy would be old enough to make sense of this.

The third individual stood still for a moment, as if deep in meditation. He crossed over to where the lady and gentleman had stood, and looked at the ground; then he too turned and went away in a third direction, as widely divergent as possible from those taken by the two interlocutors. His course was towards the highway; and a few minutes afterwards the trot of a horse might have been heard upon its frosty surface, lessening till it died away upon the ear.

The third person paused for a moment, as if lost in thought. He walked over to where the lady and gentleman had been standing and looked at the ground. Then he turned and headed off in a different direction, as far from the paths taken by the other two as possible. He made his way toward the highway, and a few minutes later, the sound of a horse trotting on the frosty surface could be heard, fading away until it was no longer audible.

The boy remained in the hut, confronting the trilithon as if he expected yet more actors on the scene, but nobody else appeared. How long he stood with his little face against the loophole he hardly knew; but he was rudely awakened from his reverie by a punch in his back, and in the feel of it he familiarly recognized the stem of the old shepherd's crook.

The boy stayed in the hut, facing the trilithon as if he was waiting for more people to show up, but no one else came. He wasn't sure how long he had his little face pressed against the opening, but he was jolted out of his thoughts by a poke in his back, and he instantly recognized the familiar feel of the old shepherd's crook.

'Blame thy young eyes and limbs, Bill Mills-now you have let the fire out, and you know I want it kept in! I thought something would go wrong with 'ee up here, and I couldn't bide in bed no more than thistledown on the wind, that I could not! Well, what's happened, fie upon 'ee?'

'Blame your young eyes and limbs, Bill Mills—now you've let the fire go out, and you know I want it to stay lit! I figured something would go wrong with you up here, and I couldn't stay in bed any longer than thistledown in the wind, I couldn't! Well, what happened, shame on you?'

'Nothing.'

'Ewes all as I left 'em?'

'Ewes just like I left them?'

'Yes.'

Yes.

'Any lambs want bringing in?'

'Any lambs need to come in?'

'No.'

The shepherd relit the fire, and went out among the sheep with a lantern, for the moon was getting low. Soon he came in again.

The shepherd reignited the fire and went out with a lantern among the sheep, as the moon was setting. He returned inside soon after.

'Blame it all-thou'st say that nothing have happened; when one ewe have twinned and is like to go off, and another is dying for want of half an eye of looking to! I told 'ee, Bill Mills, if anything went wrong to come down and call me; and this is how you have done it.'

'Blame it all—you'd say that nothing has happened; when one ewe has just given birth and is about to die, and another is dying because no one bothered to look after it! I told you, Bill Mills, if something went wrong, come down and let me know; and this is how you've handled it.'

'You said I could go to sleep for a hollerday, and I did.'

'You said I could take a nap for a holiday, and I did.'

'Don't you speak to your betters like that, young man, or you'll come to the gallows-tree! You didn't sleep all the time, or you wouldn't have been peeping out of that there hole! Now you can go home, and be up here again by breakfast-time. I be an old man, and there's old men that deserve well of the world; but no I-must rest how I can!'

'Don't talk to your betters like that, young man, or you'll end up at the gallows! You weren't asleep the whole time, or you wouldn't have been peeking out of that hole! Now you can go home and be back here by breakfast. I'm an old man, and there are old men who deserve respect; but I must rest whenever I can!'

The elder shepherd then lay down inside the hut, and the boy went down the hill to the hamlet where he dwelt. SECOND NIGHT

The older shepherd then lay down inside the hut, and the boy went down the hill to the village where he lived. SECOND NIGHT

When the next night drew on the actions of the boy were almost enough to show that he was thinking of the meeting he had witnessed, and of the promise wrung from the lady that she would come there again. As far as the sheep-tending arrangements were concerned, to-night was but a repetition of the foregoing one. Between ten and eleven o'clock the old shepherd withdrew as usual for what sleep at home he might chance to get without interruption, making up the other necessary hours of rest at some time during the day; the boy was left alone.

When the next night came, the boy’s actions almost made it clear that he was thinking about the meeting he had seen and the promise he had gotten from the lady to come back. As far as the sheep-tending arrangements were concerned, tonight was just like the previous night. Between ten and eleven o'clock, the old shepherd left as usual to get whatever sleep he could at home without being disturbed, catching up on the rest he needed at some point during the day; the boy was left alone.

The frost was the same as on the night before, except perhaps that it was a little more severe. The moon shone as usual, except that it was three-quarters of an hour later in its course; and the boy's condition was much the same, except that he felt no sleepiness whatever. He felt, too, rather afraid; but upon the whole he preferred witnessing an assignation of strangers to running the risk of being discovered absent by the old shepherd.

The frost was just like the night before, maybe a bit harsher. The moon was shining as usual, only it was about three-quarters of an hour later in the sky; and the boy's condition was pretty much the same, though he didn’t feel sleepy at all. He also felt a bit scared; but overall, he preferred watching a meeting between strangers to the chance of getting caught missing by the old shepherd.

It was before the distant clock of Shakeforest Towers had struck eleven that he observed the opening of the second act of this midnight drama. It consisted in the appearance of neither lover nor Duchess, but of the third figure-the stout man, booted and spurred-who came up from the easterly direction in which he had retreated the night before. He walked once round the trilithon, and next advanced towards the clump concealing the hut, the moonlight shining full upon his face and revealing him to be the Duke. Fear seized upon the shepherd-boy: the Duke was Jove himself to the rural population, whom to offend was starvation, homelessness, and death, and whom to look at was to be mentally scathed and dumbfoundered. He closed the stove, so that not a spark of light appeared, and hastily buried himself in the straw that lay in a corner.

It was before the distant clock at Shakeforest Towers struck eleven that he witnessed the start of the second act of this late-night drama. Instead of a lover or the Duchess, the third figure appeared—a stout man, booted and spurred—who approached from the east where he had retreated the night before. He walked around the trilithon once and then moved toward the thicket that hid the hut, the moonlight shining directly on his face and revealing him to be the Duke. Fear gripped the shepherd-boy: the Duke was like a god to the rural folks, whose anger meant starvation, homelessness, and death, and just seeing him left people mentally stunned and speechless. He closed the stove so no light showed and quickly buried himself in the straw in the corner.

The Duke came close to the clump of furze and stood by the spot where his wife and the Captain had held their dialogue; he examined the furze as if searching for a hiding-place, and in doing so discovered the hut. The latter he walked round and then looked inside; finding it to all seeming empty, he entered, closing the door behind him and taking his place at the little circular window against which the boy's face had been pressed just before.

The Duke approached the patch of gorse and stood where his wife and the Captain had talked; he inspected the gorse as if looking for a hiding spot, and in doing so, he found the hut. He walked around it and then peered inside; since it appeared to be empty, he stepped in, shut the door behind him, and positioned himself at the small circular window where the boy's face had been pressed just moments earlier.

The Duke had not adopted his measures too rapidly, if his object were concealment. Almost as soon as he had stationed himself there eleven o'clock struck, and the slender young man who had previously graced the scene promptly reappeared from the north quarter of the down. The spot of assignation having, by the accident of his running forward on the foregoing night, removed itself from the Devil's Door to the clump of furze, he instinctively came thither, and waited for the Duchess where he had met her before.

The Duke hadn't acted too quickly, if his goal was to stay hidden. Almost as soon as he took his position, the clock struck eleven, and the slender young man who had been there before reappeared from the north side of the hill. Since the meeting place had changed from the Devil's Door to a thicket of furze due to his running forward the night before, he instinctively went to that spot and waited for the Duchess like he had before.

But a fearful surprise was in store for him to-night, as well as for the trembling juvenile. At his appearance the Duke breathed more and more quickly, his breathings being distinctly audible to the crouching boy. The young man had hardly paused when the alert nobleman softly opened the door of the hut, and, stepping round the furze, came full upon Captain Fred.

But a shocking surprise awaited him tonight, just as it did for the scared young boy. When the Duke showed up, he started breathing faster, and the boy could hear him clearly. The young man had barely stopped when the watchful nobleman quietly opened the door of the hut and, stepping around the bushes, came face to face with Captain Fred.

'You have dishonoured her, and you shall die the death you deserve!' came to the shepherd's ears, in a harsh, hollow whisper through the boarding of the hut.

'You have dishonored her, and you will face the punishment you deserve!' reached the shepherd's ears, in a harsh, empty whisper through the walls of the hut.

The apathetic and taciturn boy was excited enough to run the risk of rising and looking from the window, but he could see nothing for the intervening furze boughs, both the men having gone round to the side. What took place in the few following moments he never exactly knew. He discerned portion of a shadow in quick muscular movement; then there was the fall of something on the grass; then there was stillness.

The indifferent and quiet boy felt motivated enough to take the chance of getting up and looking out the window, but he couldn't see anything because of the branches in the way, since both men had moved to the side. What happened in the next few moments remained unclear to him. He caught a glimpse of a shadow moving quickly; then he heard something fall on the grass; and then there was silence.

Two or three minutes later the Duke became visible round the corner of the hut, dragging by the collar the now inert body of the second man. The Duke dragged him across the open space towards the trilithon. Behind this ruin was a hollow, irregular spot, overgrown with furze and stunted thorns, and riddled by the old holes of badgers, its former inhabitants, who had now died out or departed. The Duke vanished into this depression with his burden, reappearing after the lapse of a few seconds. When he came forth he dragged nothing behind him.

Two or three minutes later, the Duke appeared around the corner of the hut, pulling by the collar the now unconscious body of the second man. The Duke hauled him across the open area toward the trilithon. Behind this ruin was a hollow, uneven spot, covered with gorse and stunted thorns, and filled with the old burrows of badgers, its former inhabitants, who had either died out or moved on. The Duke disappeared into this dip with his load, coming back out after a few seconds. When he emerged, he was no longer dragging anything behind him.

He returned to the side of the hut, cleansed something on the grass, and again put himself on the watch, though not as before, inside the hut, but without, on the shady side. 'Now for the second!' he said.

He went back to the side of the hut, cleaned something off the grass, and then kept watch again, but this time not inside the hut like before; he stood outside in the shade. “Now for the second!” he said.

It was plain, even to the unsophisticated boy, that he now awaited the other person of the appointment-his wife, the Duchess-for what purpose it was terrible to think. He seemed to be a man of such determined temper that he would scarcely hesitate in carrying out a course of revenge to the bitter end. Moreover-though it was what the shepherd did not perceive-this was all the more probable, in that the moody Duke was labouring under the exaggerated impression which the sight of the meeting in dumb show had conveyed.

It was obvious, even to the naive boy, that he was now waiting for the other person in the appointment—his wife, the Duchess—and it was frightening to think about why. He appeared to be a man with such a strong will that he wouldn't think twice about seeing his revenge through to the bitter end. Additionally—though the shepherd didn't realize it—this was even more likely, given that the brooding Duke was affected by the distorted impression the silent meeting had given him.

The jealous watcher waited long, but he waited in vain. From within the hut the boy could hear his occasional exclamations of surprise, as if he were almost disappointed at the failure of his assumption that his guilty Duchess would surely keep the tryst. Sometimes he stepped from the shade of the furze into the moonlight, and held up his watch to learn the time.

The jealous watcher waited a long time, but he waited in vain. From inside the hut, the boy could hear his occasional exclamations of surprise, as if he were almost let down by the fact that his guilty Duchess didn’t show up as he expected. Sometimes, he stepped out from the shade of the bushes into the moonlight and held up his watch to check the time.

About half-past eleven he seemed to give up expecting her. He then went a second time to the hollow behind the trilithon, remaining there nearly a quarter of an hour. From this place he proceeded quickly over a shoulder of the declivity, a little to the left, presently returning on horseback, which proved that his horse had been tethered in some secret place down there. Crossing anew the down between the hut and the trilithon, and scanning the precincts as if finally to assure himself that she had not come, he rode slowly downwards in the direction of Shakeforest Towers.

About half-past eleven, he seemed to give up on waiting for her. He then went back to the hollow behind the trilithon, staying there for nearly fifteen minutes. From this spot, he quickly made his way over a slope to the left and soon returned on horseback, indicating that his horse had been tied up in a hidden spot below. After crossing the area again between the hut and the trilithon, checking the surroundings as if to confirm that she hadn't arrived, he rode slowly down towards Shakeforest Towers.

The juvenile shepherd thought of what lay in the hollow yonder; and no fear of the crook-stem of his superior officer was potent enough to detain him longer on that hill alone. Any live company, even the most terrible, was better than the company of the dead; so, running with the speed of a hare in the direction pursued by the horseman, he overtook the revengeful Duke at the second descent (where the great western road crossed before you came to the old park entrance on that side-now closed up and the lodge cleared away, though at the time it was wondered why, being considered the most convenient gate of all).

The young shepherd thought about what was in the hollow over there, and no fear of his superior's staff was strong enough to keep him on that hill alone any longer. Any living company, even the scariest, was better than being alone with the dead. So, he ran as fast as a hare towards the direction the horseman went and caught up with the vengeful Duke at the second descent (where the main western road crossed before you reached the old park entrance on that side—now closed off and the lodge removed, though at the time people wondered why, since it was considered the most convenient gate of all).

Once within the sound of the horse's footsteps, Bill Mills felt comparatively comfortable; for, though in awe of the Duke because of his position, he had no moral repugnance to his companionship on account of the grisly deed he had committed, considering that powerful nobleman to have a right to do what he chose on his own lands. The Duke rode steadily on beneath his ancestral trees, the hoofs of his horse sending up a smart sound now that he had reached the hard road of the drive, and soon drew near the front door of his house, surmounted by parapets with square-cut battlements that cast a notched shade upon the gravelled terrace. These outlines were quite familiar to little Bill Mills, though nothing within their boundary had ever been seen by him.

Once he could hear the sound of the horse's footsteps, Bill Mills felt a bit more at ease; even though he was intimidated by the Duke because of his status, he didn’t feel any moral discomfort in his company due to the gruesome act he had committed. He thought that the powerful nobleman had the right to do whatever he wanted on his own land. The Duke rode steadily beneath his family’s trees, the hooves of his horse making a sharp sound now that he was on the solid road of the driveway. Soon, he approached the front door of his house, topped with parapets and square-cut battlements that cast a jagged shadow on the gravel terrace. These shapes were quite familiar to little Bill Mills, although he had never seen anything inside their boundaries.

When the rider approached the mansion a small turret door was quickly opened and a woman came out. As soon as she saw the horseman's outlines she ran forward into the moonlight to meet him.

When the rider got closer to the mansion, a small turret door opened swiftly and a woman stepped out. The moment she spotted the silhouette of the horseman, she ran into the moonlight to greet him.

'Ah dear-and are you come?' she said. 'I heard Hero's tread just when you rode over the hill, and I knew it in a moment. I would have come further if I had been aware-'

'Oh dear, have you arrived?' she said. 'I heard Hero's footsteps just as you rode over the hill, and I recognized it right away. I would have come further if I had known-'

'Glad to see me, eh?'

"Happy to see me, huh?"

'How can you ask that?'

'How can you even ask that?'

'Well; it is a lovely night for meetings.'

'Well, it’s a lovely night for meetings.'

'Yes, it is a lovely night.'

'Yes, it is a beautiful night.'

The Duke dismounted and stood by her side. 'Why should you have been listening at this time of night, and yet not expecting me?' he asked.

The Duke got off his horse and stood next to her. 'Why were you listening at this time of night if you weren’t expecting me?' he asked.

'Why, indeed! There is a strange story attached to that, which I must tell you at once. But why did you come a night sooner than you said you would come? I am rather sorry-I really am!' (shaking her head playfully) 'for as a surprise to you I had ordered a bonfire to be built, which was to be lighted on your arrival to-morrow; and now it is wasted. You can see the outline of it just out there.'

'Why, really! There's a strange story behind that, and I need to tell you right away. But why did you come a night earlier than you said you would? I'm actually a bit disappointed—I really am!' (shaking her head playfully) 'Because as a surprise for you, I had arranged for a bonfire to be made, which was supposed to be lit when you arrived tomorrow; and now it's all for nothing. You can see the outline of it just over there.'

The Duke looked across to a spot of rising glade, and saw the faggots in a heap. He then bent his eyes with a bland and puzzled air on the ground, 'What is this strange story you have to tell me that kept you awake?' he murmured.

The Duke looked over to a patch of rising glade and saw a pile of firewood. He then gazed down at the ground with a calm and confused expression, "What is this strange story you have to tell me that kept you awake?" he murmured.

'It is this-and it is really rather serious. My cousin Fred Ogbourne-Captain Ogbourne as he is now-was in his boyhood a great admirer of mine, as I think I have told you, though I was six years his senior. In strict truth, he was absurdly fond of me.'

'This is important—and it’s quite serious. My cousin Fred Ogbourne—Captain Ogbourne, as he is now—was a huge admirer of mine when we were kids, as I believe I mentioned, even though I’m six years older than him. To be honest, he was ridiculously fond of me.'

'You have never told me of that before.'

'You never mentioned that to me before.'

'Then it was your sister I told-yes, it was. Well, you know I have not seen him for many years, and naturally I had quite forgotten his admiration of me in old times. But guess my surprise when the day before yesterday, I received a mysterious note bearing no address, and found on opening it that it came from him. The contents frightened me out of my wits. He had returned from Canada to his father's house, and conjured me by all he could think of to meet him at once. But I think I can repeat the exact words, though I will show it to you when we get indoors.

'Then it was your sister I told—yes, it was. Well, you know I haven’t seen him in years, and naturally I had completely forgotten about how he used to admire me. But you can imagine my surprise when, the day before yesterday, I got a mysterious note with no address. When I opened it, I found out it was from him. The message scared me to death. He had come back from Canada to his father’s house, and he urged me in every way he could think of to meet him right away. But I think I can remember the exact words, and I’ll show it to you when we get inside.'

"MY DEAR COUSIN HARRIET," the note said, "After this long absence you will be surprised at my sudden reappearance, and more by what I am going to ask. But if my life and future are of any concern to you at all, I beg that you will grant my request. What I require of you, is, dear Harriet, that you meet me about eleven to-night by the Druid stones on Marlbury Downs, about a mile or more from your house. I cannot say more, except to entreat you to come. I will explain all when you are there. The one thing is, I want to see you. Come alone. Believe me, I would not ask this if my happiness did not hang upon it-God knows how entirely! I am too agitated to say more-Yours. FRED."

"DEAR COUSIN HARRIET," the note said, "After this long time away, you'll be surprised by my sudden return and even more by what I'm about to ask. But if my life and future matter to you at all, I please ask that you grant my request. What I need from you, dear Harriet, is to meet me tonight around eleven by the Druid stones on Marlbury Downs, which is about a mile or so from your house. I can’t say more, except to urge you to come. I’ll explain everything once you’re there. The main thing is, I want to see you. Please come alone. I promise I wouldn’t ask this if my happiness didn’t depend on it—God knows how much! I’m too anxious to say more—Yours. FRED."

'That was all of it. Now, of course I ought have gone, as it turned out, but that I did not think of then. I remembered his impetuous temper, and feared that something grievous was impending over his head, while he had not a friend in the world to help him, or any one except myself to whom he would care to make his trouble known. So I wrapped myself up and went to Marlbury Downs at the time he had named. Don't you think I was courageous?'

'That was everything. Of course, I should have left, but I didn’t think of that at the time. I remembered his hot temper and worried that something serious was about to happen to him, and he had no one in the world to help him, except me, and I was the only person he might want to share his problems with. So I bundled up and went to Marlbury Downs at the time he had mentioned. Don’t you think I was brave?'

'Very.'

'Definitely.'

'When I got there-but shall we not walk on; it is getting cold?' The Duke, however, did not move. 'When I got there he came, of course, as a full grown man and officer, and not as the lad that I had known him. When I saw him I was sorry I had come. I can hardly tell you how he behaved. What he wanted I don't know even now; it seemed to be no more than the mere meeting with me. He held me by the hand and waist-O so tight-and would not let me go till I had promised to meet him again. His manner was so strange and passionate that I was afraid of him in such a lonely place, and I promised to come. Then I escaped-then I ran home-and that's all. When the time drew on this evening for the appointment-which, of course, I never intended to keep, I felt uneasy, lest when he found I meant to disappoint him he would come on to the house; and that's why I could not sleep. But you are so silent!'

'When I got there—but should we keep walking? It’s getting cold?' The Duke, however, didn’t move. 'When I arrived, he came, of course, as a fully grown man and officer, not as the young boy I had known. When I saw him, I regretted coming. I can hardly explain how he acted. What he wanted, I still don’t know; it seemed to be nothing more than just meeting me. He held me tightly by the hand and waist—oh, so tight—and wouldn’t let go until I promised to see him again. His behavior was so odd and intense that I felt scared of him in such a secluded place, so I promised to come. Then I got away—I ran home—and that’s that. As the time approached this evening for the meeting—which, of course, I never intended to keep—I felt anxious, worrying that when he discovered I planned to disappoint him, he would come to the house; that’s why I couldn’t sleep. But you’re so quiet!'

'I have had a long journey.'

'Then let us get into the house. Why did you come alone and unattended like this?'

'Then let’s go inside the house. Why did you come alone and without anyone with you?'

'It was my humour.'

'It was my sense of humor.'

After a moment's silence, during which they moved on, she said, 'I have thought of something which I hardly like to suggest to you. He said that if I failed to come to-night he would wait again to-morrow night. Now, shall we to-morrow night go to the hill together-just to see if he is there; and if he is, read him a lesson on his foolishness in nourishing this old passion, and sending for me so oddly, instead of coming to the house?'

After a moment of silence, as they continued walking, she said, "I've thought of something that I don’t really want to bring up. He mentioned that if I didn't show up tonight, he would wait again until tomorrow night. So, should we go to the hill together tomorrow night—just to see if he's there? If he is, we can give him a lesson on how silly it is to keep this old crush alive and to reach out to me in such a strange way instead of just coming over to the house?"

'Why should we see if he's there?' said her husband moodily.

"Why should we check if he's there?" her husband said sulkily.

'Because I think we ought to do something in it. Poor Fred! He would listen to you if you reasoned with him, and set our positions in their true light before him. It would be no more than Christian kindness to a man who unquestionably is very miserable from some cause or other. His head seems quite turned.'

'Because I think we should do something about it. Poor Fred! He would listen to you if you talked to him reasonably and showed him our perspectives clearly. It would be nothing more than basic kindness to a man who is obviously very unhappy for some reason. His head seems completely messed up.'

By this time they had reached the door, rung the bell, and waited. All the house seemed to be asleep; but soon a man came to them, the horse was taken away, and the Duke and Duchess went in. THIRD NIGHT

By this time, they had arrived at the door, rang the bell, and waited. The whole house seemed to be asleep; but soon, a man came to them, the horse was taken away, and the Duke and Duchess went inside. THIRD NIGHT

There was no help for it. Bill Mills was obliged to stay on duty, in the old shepherd's absence, this evening as before, or give up his post and living. He thought as bravely as he could of what lay behind the Devil's Door, but with no great success, and was therefore in a measure relieved, even if awe-stricken, when he saw the forms of the Duke and Duchess strolling across the frosted greensward. The Duchess was a few yards in front of her husband and tripped on lightly.

There was no way around it. Bill Mills had to stay on duty this evening, just like before, in the old shepherd's absence, or lose his job and livelihood. He tried to be as brave as possible about what lay beyond the Devil's Door, but he wasn't very successful. So, he felt a bit relieved, even if scared, when he saw the Duke and Duchess walking across the frosted grass. The Duchess was a few steps ahead of her husband and walked lightly.

'I tell you he has not thought it worth while to come again!' the Duke insisted, as he stood still, reluctant to walk further.

'I tell you, he hasn't thought it was worth coming back!' the Duke insisted, standing still, hesitant to walk any farther.

'He is more likely to come and wait all night; and it would be harsh treatment to let him do it a second time.'

'He's more likely to come and wait all night; and it would be cruel to let him do it a second time.'

'He is not here; so turn and come home.'

'He isn't here, so turn around and come home.'

'He seems not to be here, certainly; I wonder if anything has happened to him. If it has, I shall never forgive myself!'

'He definitely doesn’t seem to be here; I’m starting to worry if something’s happened to him. If it has, I’ll never forgive myself!'

The Duke, uneasily, 'O, no. He has some other engagement.'

The Duke, feeling uncomfortable, said, 'Oh, no. He has something else going on.'

'That is very unlikely.'

'That's highly unlikely.'

'Or perhaps he has found the distance too far.'

'Or maybe he feels the distance is just too great.'

'Nor is that probable.'

'That's unlikely too.'

'Then he may have thought better of it.'

'Then he might have thought again.'

'Yes, he may have thought better of it; if, indeed, he is not here all the time-somewhere in the hollow behind the Devil's Door. Let us go and see; it will serve him right to surprise him.'

'Yes, he might have changed his mind; if, in fact, he isn't here all the time—somewhere in the hollow behind the Devil's Door. Let's go check; it’ll be good for him to be caught off guard.'

'O, he's not there.'

'Oh, he's not there.'

'He may be lying very quiet because of you,' she said archly.

"He might be lying super still because of you," she said teasingly.

'O, no-not because of me!'

'Oh, no—not because of me!'

'Come, then. I declare, dearest, you lag like an unwilling schoolboy to-night, and there's no responsiveness in you! You are jealous of that poor lad, and it is quite absurd of you.'

'Come on, then. I must say, my dear, you’re dragging your feet tonight like an unwilling schoolboy, and you’re not responding at all! You’re jealous of that poor guy, and it’s really ridiculous of you.'

'I'll come! I'll come! Say no more, Harriet!' And they crossed over the green.

"I'll be there! I'll be there! No need to say anything else, Harriet!" And they walked across the green.

Wondering what they would do, the young shepherd left the hut, and doubled behind the belt of furze, intending to stand near the trilithon unperceived. But, in crossing the few yards of open ground he was for a moment exposed to view.

Wondering what to do, the young shepherd left the hut and snuck behind the patch of furze, planning to stand by the trilithon without being seen. However, as he crossed the few yards of open ground, he was briefly in view.

'Ah, I see him at last!' said the Duchess.

'Oh, I finally see him!' said the Duchess.

'See him!' said the Duke. 'Where?'

'Look at him!' said the Duke. 'Where?'

'By the Devil's Door; don't you notice a figure there? Ah, my poor lover-cousin, won't you catch it now?' And she laughed half-pityingly. 'But what's the matter?' she asked, turning to her husband.

'By the Devil's Door; don’t you see someone standing there? Ah, my poor lover-cousin, won't you get in trouble now?' And she laughed a little pityingly. 'But what's wrong?' she asked, turning to her husband.

'It is not he!' said the Duke hoarsely. 'It can't be he!'

'It's not him!' the Duke said hoarsely. 'It can't be him!'

'No, it is not he. It is too small for him. It is a boy.'

'No, it's not him. It’s too small for him. It’s a boy.'

'Ah, I thought so! Boy, come here.'

'Ah, I knew it! Hey, come here.'

The youthful shepherd advanced with apprehension.

The young shepherd moved forward with hesitation.

'What are you doing here?'

'Keeping sheep, your Grace.'

"Sheep farming, Your Grace."

'Ah, you know me! Do you keep sheep here every night?'

'Oh, you know me! Do you have sheep here every night?'

'Off and on, my Lord Duke.'

'Every now and then, my Lord Duke.'

'And what have you seen here to-night or last night?' inquired the Duchess. 'Any person waiting or walking about?'

"And what have you seen here tonight or last night?" the Duchess asked. "Anyone waiting or walking around?"

The boy was silent.

The boy was quiet.

'He has seen nothing,' interrupted her husband, his eyes so forbiddingly fixed on the boy that they seemed to shine like points of fire. 'Come, let us go. The air is too keen to stand in long.'

'He hasn't seen anything,' her husband interrupted, his eyes locked on the boy with such intensity that they seemed to glow like sparks. 'Come on, let's go. It's too cold to linger here.'

When they were gone the boy retreated to the hut and sheep, less fearful now than at first-familiarity with the situation having gradually overpowered his thoughts of the buried man. But he was not to be left alone long. When an interval had elapsed of about sufficient length for walking to and from Shakeforest Towers, there appeared from that direction the heavy form of the Duke. He now came alone.

When they left, the boy went back to the hut and the sheep, feeling less scared than before—getting used to the situation had slowly taken over his thoughts about the buried man. But he wouldn’t be alone for long. After a while, just enough time to walk to and from Shakeforest Towers, the Duke appeared from that direction, coming alone.

The nobleman, on his part, seemed to have eyes no less sharp than the boy's, for he instantly recognized the latter among the ewes, and came straight towards him.

The nobleman, for his part, appeared to have eyes just as sharp as the boy's, as he quickly spotted him among the ewes and walked directly toward him.

'Are you the shepherd lad I spoke to a short time ago?'

'Are you the shepherd boy I was talking to a little while ago?'

'I be, my Lord Duke.'

"I'm here, my Lord Duke."

'Now listen to me. Her Grace asked you what you had seen this last night or two up here, and you made no reply. I now ask the same thing, and you need not be afraid to answer. Have you seen anything strange these nights you have been watching here?'

'Now listen to me. Her Grace asked you what you saw the last night or two up here, and you didn't reply. I'm asking you the same thing now, and you don't need to be scared to answer. Have you seen anything strange during the nights you've been watching here?'

'My Lord Duke, I be a poor heedless boy, and what I see I don't bear in mind.'

'My Lord Duke, I am a poor, careless boy, and what I see I don’t remember.'

'I ask you again,' said the Duke, coming nearer, 'have you seen anything strange these nights you have been watching here?'

'I ask you again,' said the Duke, stepping closer, 'have you seen anything unusual during these nights you’ve been watching here?'

'O, my Lord Duke! I be but the under-shepherd boy, and my father he was but your humble Grace's hedger, and my mother only the cinder-woman in the back-yard! I fall asleep when left alone, and I see nothing at all!'

'O, my Lord Duke! I’m just the lowly shepherd boy, and my father was only your humble Grace's hedger, while my mother is just the woman who cleans the ashes in the backyard! I fall asleep when I'm left alone, and I don't see anything at all!'

The Duke grasped the boy by the shoulder, and, directly impending over him, stared down into his face, 'Did you see anything strange done here last night, I say?'

The Duke grabbed the boy by the shoulder and leaned over him, staring down into his face. "Did you see anything weird happen here last night?" he asked.

'O, my Lord Duke, have mercy, and don't stab me!' cried the shepherd, falling on his knees. 'I have never seen you walking here, or riding here, or lying-in-wait for a man, or dragging a heavy load!'

'O, my Lord Duke, please have mercy and don't stab me!' cried the shepherd, falling to his knees. 'I've never seen you walking here, or riding here, or waiting to ambush someone, or carrying a heavy load!'

'H'm!' said his interrogator, grimly, relaxing his hold. 'It is well to know that you have never seen those things. Now, which would you rather-see me do those things now, or keep a secret all your life?'

'H'm!' said his interrogator, grimly, relaxing his grip. 'It's good to know you've never seen those things. Now, which would you prefer—watch me do those things now, or keep it a secret for the rest of your life?'

'Keep a secret, my Lord Duke!'

'Sure you are able?'

'Are you sure you can?'

'O, your Grace, try me!'

"Oh, your Grace, give me a chance!"

'Very well. And now, how do you like sheep-keeping?'

'Okay. So, how do you feel about raising sheep?'

'Not at all. 'Tis lonely work for them that think of spirits, and I'm badly used.'

'Not at all. It's lonely work for those who think about spirits, and I'm being treated poorly.'

'I believe you. You are too young for it. I must do something to make you more comfortable. You shall change this smock-frock for a real cloth jacket, and your thick boots for polished shoes. And you shall be taught what you have never yet heard of; and be put to school, and have bats and balls for the holidays, and be made a man of. But you must never say you have been a shepherd boy, and watched on the hills at night, for shepherd boys are not liked in good company.

'I believe you. You’re too young for this. I need to do something to help you feel more comfortable. You’ll trade this smock for a proper jacket, and your heavy boots for polished shoes. You’ll learn things you’ve never encountered before; you’ll go to school, and you’ll get bats and balls for the holidays, and you’ll become a man. But you must never mention that you were a shepherd boy who watched over the hills at night, because shepherd boys aren’t welcome in good company.'

'Trust me, my Lord Duke.'

'The very moment you forget yourself, and speak of your shepherd days-this year, next year, in school, out of school, or riding in your carriage twenty years hence-at that moment my help will be withdrawn, and smash down you come to shepherding forthwith. You have parents, I think you say?'

'The moment you lose sight of who you are and talk about your days as a shepherd—whether it's this year, next year, during school, after school, or even when you're riding in your carriage twenty years from now—that's when my support will be taken away, and you'll fall right back into shepherding. You have parents, or so I believe you mentioned?'

'A widowed mother only, my Lord Duke.'

'I'll provide for her, and make a comfortable woman of her, until you speak of-what?'

'I'll take care of her and make her comfortable until you mention—what?'

'Of my shepherd days, and what I saw here.'

'During my time as a shepherd and what I experienced here.'

'Good. If you do speak of it?'

'Good. What if you do talk about it?'

'Smash down she comes to widowing forthwith!'

'Down she comes, smashing into widowhood right away!'

'That's well-very well. But it's not enough. Come here.' He took the boy across to the trilithon, and made him kneel down.

'That’s good—really good. But it’s not enough. Come here.' He led the boy over to the trilithon and had him kneel down.

'Now, this was once a holy place,' resumed the Duke. 'An altar stood here, erected to a venerable family of gods, who were known and talked of long before the God we know now. So that an oath sworn here is doubly an oath. Say this after me: "May all the host above-angels and archangels, and principalities and powers-punish me; may I be tormented wherever I am-in the house or in the garden, in the fields or in the roads, in church or in chapel, at home or abroad, on land or at sea; may I be afflicted in eating and in drinking, in growing up and in growing old, in living and dying, inwardly and outwardly, and for always, if I ever speak of my life as a shepherd boy, or of what I have seen done on this Marlbury Down. So be it, and so let it be. Amen and amen." Now kiss the stone.'

'Now, this was once a sacred place,' the Duke continued. 'An altar used to stand here, dedicated to a respected family of gods, who were known and discussed long before the God we recognize today. So, an oath taken here is doubly binding. Repeat after me: "May all the heavenly host—angels and archangels, and principalities and powers—punish me; may I be tormented wherever I go—in the house or in the garden, in the fields or on the roads, in church or in chapel, at home or away, on land or at sea; may I be afflicted in eating and drinking, in growing up and growing old, in living and dying, inwardly and outwardly, for all time, if I ever talk about my life as a shepherd boy, or of what I've seen done on this Marlbury Down. So be it, and so let it be. Amen and amen." Now kiss the stone.'

The trembling boy repeated the words, and kissed the stone, as desired.

The shaking boy repeated the words and kissed the stone, as requested.

The Duke led him off by the hand. That night the junior shepherd slept in Shakeforest Towers, and the next day he was sent away for tuition to a remote village. Thence he went to a preparatory establishment, and in due course to a public school. FOURTH NIGHT

The Duke took him by the hand. That night, the junior shepherd stayed at Shakeforest Towers, and the next day he was sent away to a distant village for schooling. From there, he went to a prep school, and eventually to a public school. FOURTH NIGHT

On a winter evening many years subsequent to the above-mentioned occurrences, the ci-devant shepherd sat in a well-furnished office in the north wing of Shakeforest Towers in the guise of an ordinary educated man of business. He appeared at this time as a person of thirty-eight or forty, though actually he was several years younger. A worn and restless glance of the eye now and then, when he lifted his head to search for some letter or paper which had been mislaid, seemed to denote that his was not a mind so thoroughly at ease as his surroundings might have led an observer to expect.

On a winter evening many years after the events mentioned above, the former shepherd sat in a well-furnished office in the north wing of Shakeforest Towers, pretending to be just an ordinary educated businessman. He looked to be around thirty-eight or forty, although he was actually a few years younger. Every now and then, a worn, restless look would flash in his eyes when he lifted his head to search for a misplaced letter or paper, indicating that his mind wasn't as at ease as his surroundings might suggest.

His pallor, too, was remarkable for a countryman. He was professedly engaged in writing, but he shaped not word. He had sat there only a few minutes, when, laying down his pen and pushing back his chair, he rested a hand uneasily on each of the chair-arms and looked on the floor.

His pale complexion was striking for someone from the countryside. He claimed to be writing, but he didn’t write a single word. He had only been sitting there a few minutes when he put down his pen, pushed back his chair, rested his hands awkwardly on the arms of the chair, and stared at the floor.

Soon he arose and left the room. His course was along a passage which ended in a central octagonal hall; crossing this he knocked at a door. A faint, though deep, voice told him to come in. The room he entered was the library, and it was tenanted by a single person only-his patron the Duke.

Soon he got up and left the room. He walked down a hallway that led to a central octagonal hall; after crossing it, he knocked on a door. A soft, yet deep, voice told him to come in. The room he entered was the library, and it was occupied by just one person—his patron, the Duke.

During this long interval of years the Duke had lost all his heaviness of build. He was, indeed, almost a skeleton; his white hair was thin, and his hands were nearly transparent. 'Oh-Mills?' he murmured. 'Sit down. What is it?'

During this long stretch of years, the Duke had lost all his heaviness. He was almost a skeleton; his white hair was thin, and his hands were nearly transparent. 'Oh-Mills?' he murmured. 'Sit down. What’s up?'

'Nothing new, your Grace. Nobody to speak of has written, and nobody has called.'

'Nothing new, Your Grace. No one noteworthy has written, and no one has called.'

'Ah-what then? You look concerned.'

'Oh, what’s wrong? You seem worried.'

'Old times have come to life, owing to something waking them.'

'The past has come alive, thanks to something that has awakened it.'

'Old times be cursed-which old times are they?'

'Curse those old times- which old times are they?'

'That Christmas week twenty-two years ago, when the late Duchess's cousin Frederick implored her to meet him on Marlbury Downs. I saw the meeting-it was just such a night as this-and I, as you know, saw more. She met him once, but not the second time.'

'That Christmas week twenty-two years ago, when the late Duchess's cousin Frederick asked her to meet him on Marlbury Downs. I witnessed the meeting—it was just like a night like this—and I, as you know, saw more. She met him once, but not the second time.'

'Mills, shall I recall some words to you-the words of an oath taken on that hill by a shepherd-boy?'

'Mills, should I remind you of some words—the words of an oath spoken on that hill by a shepherd boy?'

'It is unnecessary. He has strenuously kept that oath and promise. Since that night no sound of his shepherd life has crossed his lips-even to yourself. But do you wish to hear more, or do you not, your Grace?'

'It’s unnecessary. He has worked hard to keep that oath and promise. Since that night, he hasn’t spoken a word about his shepherd life—not even to you. But do you want to hear more, or not, Your Grace?'

'I wish to hear no more,' said the Duke sullenly.

"I don't want to hear any more," the Duke said grumpily.

'Very well; let it be so. But a time seems coming-may be quite near at hand-when, in spite of my lips, that episode will allow itself to go undivulged no longer.'

'Alright; let it be that way. But a time seems to be approaching—maybe it’s even close—when, despite what I say, that episode won't be able to stay hidden any longer.'

'I wish to hear no more!' repeated the Duke.

'I don't want to hear any more!' repeated the Duke.

'You need be under no fear of treachery from me,' said the steward, somewhat bitterly. 'I am a man to whom you have been kind-no patron could have been kinder. You have clothed and educated me; have installed me here; and I am not unmindful. But what of it-has your Grace gained much by my stanchness? I think not. There was great excitement about Captain Ogbourne's disappearance, but I spoke not a word. And his body has never been found. For twenty-two years I have wondered what you did with him. Now I know. A circumstance that occurred this afternoon recalled the time to me most forcibly. To make it certain to myself that all was not a dream, I went up there with a spade; I searched, and saw enough to know that something decays there in a closed badger's hole.'

"You don’t have to worry about me betraying you," the steward said somewhat bitterly. "I’m a person to whom you’ve been kind—no patron could have been kinder. You’ve provided me with clothes and education; you’ve set me up here, and I haven’t forgotten that. But what does it matter? Has your Grace really gained much from my loyalty? I don’t think so. There was a lot of buzz about Captain Ogbourne’s disappearance, but I didn’t say a word. And his body has never been found. For twenty-two years, I’ve wondered what happened to him. Now I know. Something that happened this afternoon reminded me of that time vividly. To make sure it wasn’t just a dream, I went up there with a shovel; I searched, and I saw enough to know that something is rotting in a closed badger's hole."

'Mills, do you think the Duchess guessed?'

'Mills, do you think the Duchess figured it out?'

'She never did, I am sure, to the day of her death.'

'She never did, I’m sure, up until the day she died.'

'Did you leave all as you found it on the hill?'

'Did you leave everything exactly as you found it on the hill?'

'I did.'

"I did."

'What made you think of going up there this particular afternoon?'

'What made you want to go up there this afternoon?'

'What your Grace says you don't wish to be told.'

'What you’re saying, Your Grace, is that you don’t want to hear it.'

The Duke was silent; and the stillness of the evening was so marked that there reached their ears from the outer air the sound of a tolling bell.

The Duke was quiet, and the calm of the evening was so noticeable that they could hear the sound of a ringing bell from outside.

'What is that bell tolling for?' asked the nobleman.

'What is that bell ringing for?' asked the nobleman.

'For what I came to tell you of, your Grace.'

'For what I came to tell you about, your Grace.'

'You torment me it is your way!' said the Duke querulously. 'Who's dead in the village?'

'You drive me crazy; it's just how you are!' the Duke said irritably. 'Who died in the village?'

'The oldest man-the old shepherd.'

'The oldest man - the old shepherd.'

'Dead at last-how old is he?'

'Dead at last—how old was he?'

'Ninety-four.'

'94.'

'And I am only seventy. I have four-and-twenty years to the good!'

'And I'm only seventy. I have twenty-four years ahead of me!'

'I served under that old man when I kept sheep on Marlbury Downs. And he was on the hill that second night, when I first exchanged words with your Grace. He was on the hill all the time; but I did not know he was there-nor did you.'

'I worked for that old man while I was tending sheep on Marlbury Downs. And he was on the hill that second night when I first talked to Your Grace. He was on the hill the whole time; but I didn’t know he was there—and neither did you.'

'Ah!' said the Duke, starting up. 'Go on-I yield the point-you may tell!'

'Ah!' said the Duke, sitting up. 'Go ahead—I give in—you can tell!'

'I heard this afternoon that he was at the point of death. It was that which set me thinking of that past time-and induced me to search on the hill for what I have told you. Coming back I heard that he wished to see the Vicar to confess to him a secret he had kept for more than twenty years-"out of respect to my Lord the Duke"-something that he had seen committed on Marlbury Downs when returning to the flock on a December night twenty-two years ago. I have thought it over. He had left me in charge that evening; but he was in the habit of coming back suddenly, lest I should have fallen asleep. That night I saw nothing of him, though he had promised to return. He must have returned, and-found reason to keep in hiding. It is all plain. The next thing is that the Vicar went to him two hours ago. Further than that I have not heard.'

'I heard this afternoon that he was near death. That made me think about the past and prompted me to search on the hill for what I’ve told you. On my way back, I heard that he wanted to see the Vicar to confess a secret he had kept for over twenty years—“out of respect to my Lord the Duke”—something he witnessed on Marlbury Downs while returning to the flock on a December night twenty-two years ago. I’ve thought it through. He had left me in charge that evening, but he usually returned unexpectedly to make sure I wasn’t dozing off. That night, I didn’t see him at all, even though he had promised to come back. He must have returned and found a reason to stay hidden. It all adds up. The next thing is that the Vicar went to see him two hours ago. That’s all I’ve heard.'

'It is quite enough. I will see the Vicar at daybreak to-morrow.'

'That's enough. I'll see the Vicar at dawn tomorrow.'

'What to do?'

'What should I do?'

'Stop his tongue for four-and-twenty years-till I am dead at ninety- four, like the shepherd.'

'Stop his mouth for twenty-four years—until I’m dead at ninety-four, like the shepherd.'

'Your Grace-while you impose silence on me, I will not speak, even though nay neck should pay the penalty. I promised to be yours, and I am yours. But is this persistence of any avail?'

'Your Grace—while you force me to be silent, I won’t speak, even if it costs my life. I promised to be yours, and I am yours. But is this insistence worthwhile?'

'I'll stop his tongue, I say!' cried the Duke with some of his old rugged force. 'Now, you go home to bed, Mills, and leave me to manage him.'

"I'll shut him up, I tell you!" shouted the Duke with some of his old intense energy. "Now, you go home to bed, Mills, and let me handle him."

The interview ended, and the steward withdrew. The night, as he had said, was just such an one as the night of twenty-two years before, and the events of the evening destroyed in him all regard for the season as one of cheerfulness and goodwill. He went off to his own house on the further verge of the park, where he led a lonely life, scarcely calling any man friend. At eleven he prepared to retire to bed-but did not retire. He sat down and reflected. Twelve o'clock struck; he looked out at the colourless moon, and, prompted by he knew not what, put on his hat and emerged into the air. Here William Mills strolled on and on, till he reached the top of Marlbury Downs, a spot he had not visited at this hour of the night during the whole score-and-odd years.

The interview wrapped up, and the steward left. The night, just like the night twenty-two years ago, made him lose all sense of the season as a time of happiness and goodwill. He walked back to his house on the far edge of the park, where he lived a solitary life, hardly considering anyone a friend. At eleven, he got ready to go to bed—but didn’t. Instead, he sat down and thought. When midnight struck, he glanced out at the pale moon, and for reasons he couldn’t explain, he put on his hat and stepped outside. William Mills wandered on and on until he reached the top of Marlbury Downs, a place he hadn’t visited at this time of night in over twenty years.

He placed himself, as nearly as he could guess, on the spot where the shepherd's hut had stood. No lambing was in progress there now, and the old shepherd who had used him so roughly had ceased from his labours that very day. But the trilithon stood up white as ever; and, crossing the intervening sward, the steward fancifully placed his mouth against the stone. Restless and self-reproachful as he was, he could not resist a smile as he thought of the terrifying oath of compact, sealed by a kiss upon the stones of a Pagan temple. But he had kept his word, rather as a promise than as a formal vow, with much worldly advantage to himself, though not much happiness; till increase of years had bred reactionary feelings which led him to receive the news of to-night with emotions akin to relief.

He positioned himself, as best as he could figure, at the place where the shepherd's hut used to be. There was no lambing happening there now, and the old shepherd who had treated him so harshly had passed away that very day. But the trilithon stood as white as ever; and, crossing the grassy area in between, the steward playfully placed his mouth against the stone. Restless and full of self-doubt as he was, he couldn't help but smile as he remembered the terrifying oath of loyalty, sealed by a kiss on the stones of a Pagan temple. But he had kept his word more as a promise than a formal vow, gaining much worldly advantage for himself, though not much happiness; until as the years went on, he developed feelings that made him receive the news of tonight with emotions similar to relief.

While leaning against the Devil's Door and thinking on these things, he became conscious that he was not the only inhabitant of the down. A figure in white was moving across his front with long, noiseless strides. Mills stood motionless, and when the form drew quite near he perceived it to be that of the Duke himself in his nightshirt-apparently walking in his sleep. Not to alarm the old man, Mills clung close to the shadow of the stone. The Duke went straight on into the hollow. There he knelt down, and began scratching the earth with his hands like a badger. After a few minutes he arose, sighed heavily, and retraced his steps as he had come.

While leaning against the Devil's Door and pondering these thoughts, he realized he wasn't the only one on the down. A figure in white was moving in front of him with long, silent strides. Mills stood still, and when the figure got closer, he recognized it was the Duke himself in his nightshirt—apparently sleepwalking. Not wanting to startle the old man, Mills kept close to the shadow of the stone. The Duke continued straight into the hollow. There, he knelt down and started digging in the dirt with his hands like a badger. After a few minutes, he stood up, sighed heavily, and walked back the way he had come.

Fearing that he might harm himself, yet unwilling to arouse him, the steward followed noiselessly. The Duke kept on his path unerringly, entered the park, and made for the house, where he let himself in by a window that stood open-the one probably by which he had come out. Mills softly closed the window behind his patron, and then retired homeward to await the revelations of the morning, deeming it unnecessary to alarm the house.

Fearing that he might hurt himself but not wanting to wake him, the steward followed quietly. The Duke continued on his path confidently, entered the park, and headed for the house, where he slipped in through an open window—the one he probably used to come out. Mills quietly closed the window behind him and then went home to wait for the morning’s news, thinking it wasn’t necessary to alarm anyone in the house.

However, he felt uneasy during the remainder of the night, no less on account of the Duke's personal condition than because of that which was imminent next day. Early in the morning he called at Shakeforest Towers. The blinds were down, and there was something singular upon the porter's face when he opened the door. The steward inquired for the Duke.

However, he felt restless for the rest of the night, not only because of the Duke's condition but also because of what was about to happen the next day. Early in the morning, he visited Shakeforest Towers. The blinds were shut, and there was something unusual on the porter's face when he opened the door. The steward asked for the Duke.

The man's voice was subdued as he replied: 'Sir, I am sorry to say that his Grace is dead! He left his room some time in the night, and wandered about nobody knows where. On returning to the upper floor he lost his balance and fell downstairs.'

The man's voice was quiet as he replied: 'Sir, I regret to inform you that his Grace is dead! He left his room sometime during the night and wandered off to an unknown place. Upon returning to the upper floor, he lost his balance and fell down the stairs.'

The steward told the tale of the Down before the Vicar had spoken. Mills had always intended to do so after the death of the Duke. The consequences to himself he underwent cheerfully; but his life was not prolonged. He died, a farmer at the Cape, when still somewhat under forty-nine years of age.

The steward shared the story of the Down before the Vicar had a chance to speak. Mills had always planned to do so after the Duke’s death. He faced the consequences for himself with a good attitude, but his life was not extended. He passed away, a farmer at the Cape, when he was still just under forty-nine years old.

The splendid Marlbury breeding flock is as renowned as ever, and, to the eye, seems the same in every particular that it was in earlier times; but the animals which composed it on the occasion of the events gathered from the Justice are divided by many ovine generations from its members now. Lambing Corner has long since ceased to be used for lambing purposes, though the name still lingers on as the appellation of the spot. This abandonment of site may be partly owing to the removal of the high furze bushes which lent such convenient shelter at that date. Partly, too, it may be due to another circumstance. For it is said by present shepherds in that district that during the nights of Christmas week flitting shapes are seen in the open space around the trilithon, together with the gleam of a weapon, and the shadow of a man dragging a burden into the hollow. But of these things there is no certain testimony.

The impressive Marlbury breeding flock is still well-known, and at first glance, looks much the same as it did in the past; however, the animals making up the flock during the events mentioned by the Justice are separated by many generations from those that are here today. Lambing Corner has long stopped being used for lambing, though the name still remains as a title for the area. This shift could be partly due to the removal of the tall furze bushes that provided such handy shelter back then. It might also be related to another factor. Present-day shepherds in that area say that during Christmas week, strange figures can be seen in the open space around the trilithon, along with the glint of a weapon and the shadow of a man dragging a load into the depression. But there is no solid evidence for these accounts.

Christmas 1881.

A COMMITTEE-MAN OF 'THE TERROR'

We had been talking of the Georgian glories of our old-fashioned watering-place, which now, with its substantial russet-red and dun brick buildings in the style of the year eighteen hundred, looks like one side of a Soho or Bloomsbury Street transported to the shore, and draws a smile from the modern tourist who has no eye for solidity of build. The writer, quite a youth, was present merely as a listener. The conversation proceeded from general subjects to particular, until old Mrs. H—, whose memory was as perfect at eighty as it had ever been in her life, interested us all by the obvious fidelity with which she repeated a story many times related to her by her mother when our aged friend was a girl-a domestic drama much affecting the life of an acquaintance of her said parent, one Mademoiselle V—, a teacher of French. The incidents occurred in the town during the heyday of its fortunes, at the time of our brief peace with France in 1802-3.

We had been chatting about the Georgian charm of our old-fashioned resort, which now, with its solid russet-red and brown brick buildings from the 1800s, looks like one side of a Soho or Bloomsbury Street moved to the coast, and brings a smile to modern tourists who overlook sturdiness. The writer, still quite young, was just there to listen. The conversation shifted from broad topics to more specific ones until old Mrs. H—, whose memory at eighty was as sharp as ever, captivated us all by faithfully recounting a story her mother had told her numerous times when our elderly friend was a girl—a family drama that significantly impacted the life of an acquaintance of her mother, one Mademoiselle V—, a French teacher. The events took place in the town during its peak prosperity, around the time of our brief peace with France in 1802-3.

'I wrote it down in the shape of a story some years ago, just after my mother's death,' said Mrs. H—. 'It is locked up in my desk there now.'

'I wrote it down as a story a few years ago, right after my mother passed away,' said Mrs. H—. 'It's locked away in my desk over there now.'

'Read it!' said we.

"Read it!" we said.

'No,' said she; 'the light is bad, and I can remember it well enough, word for word, flourishes and all.' We could not be choosers in the circumstances, and she began.

'No,' she said; 'the light isn't great, but I remember it perfectly, word for word, decorations and all.' We couldn’t be picky given the situation, so she started.

'There are two in it, of course, the man and the woman, and it was on an evening in September that she first got to know him. There had not been such a grand gathering on the Esplanade all the season. His Majesty King George the Third was present, with all the princesses and royal dukes, while upwards of three hundred of the general nobility and other persons of distinction were also in the town at the time. Carriages and other conveyances were arriving every minute from London and elsewhere; and when among the rest a shabby stage-coach came in by a by-route along the coast from Havenpool, and drew up at a second-rate tavern, it attracted comparatively little notice.

'There are two people in this story, the man and the woman, and it was on a September evening that she first met him. There hadn't been such a grand event on the Esplanade all season. King George III was there, along with all the princesses and royal dukes, while over three hundred members of the nobility and other distinguished individuals were also in town at the time. Carriages and other vehicles were arriving every minute from London and other places; and when a shabby stagecoach came in via a back road along the coast from Havenpool and pulled up at a mediocre tavern, it barely stood out.'

'From this dusty vehicle a man alighted, left his small quantity of luggage temporarily at the office, and walked along the street as if to look for lodgings.

From this dusty vehicle, a man got out, left his small amount of luggage briefly at the office, and walked down the street as if he were looking for a place to stay.

'He was about forty-five-possibly fifty-and wore a long coat of faded superfine cloth, with a heavy collar, and a hunched-up neckcloth. He seemed to desire obscurity.

'He was around forty-five—maybe fifty—and wore a long coat made of worn superfine cloth, with a thick collar, and a scrunched-up necktie. He appeared to want to stay out of the spotlight.

'But the display appeared presently to strike him, and he asked of a rustic he met in the street what was going on; his accent being that of one to whom English pronunciation was difficult.

'But the display seemed to catch his attention, and he asked a local he ran into on the street what was happening; his accent suggesting that English pronunciation was a challenge for him.'

'The countryman looked at him with a slight surprise, and said, "King Jarge is here and his royal Cwort."

The countryman looked at him with a bit of surprise and said, "King George is here and his royal court."

'The stranger inquired if they were going to stay long.

The stranger asked if they were going to stay for a while.

'"Don't know, Sir. Same as they always do, I suppose."

'"I don't know, Sir. Probably the same as they always do, I guess."'

'"How long is that?"

"How long is that?"

'"Till some time in October. They've come here every summer since eighty-nine."

'"Until sometime in October. They've been coming here every summer since 1989."'

'The stranger moved onward down St. Thomas Street, and approached the bridge over the harbour backwater, that then, as now, connected the old town with the more modern portion. The spot was swept with the rays of a low sun, which lit up the harbour lengthwise, and shone under the brim of the man's hat and into his eyes as he looked westward. Against the radiance figures were crossing in the opposite direction to his own; among them this lady of my mother's later acquaintance, Mademoiselle V— . She was the daughter of a good old French family, and at that date a pale woman, twenty-eight or thirty years of age, tall and elegant in figure, but plainly dressed and wearing that evening (she said) a small muslin shawl crossed over the bosom in the fashion of the time, and tied behind.

The stranger continued down St. Thomas Street and approached the bridge over the harbor backwater, which connected the old town with the more modern area, just like it does today. The spot was bathed in the rays of a low sun, lighting up the harbor and shining under the brim of the man's hat and into his eyes as he looked westward. Against the glowing backdrop, figures were crossing in the opposite direction; among them was this lady who later became acquainted with my mother, Mademoiselle V—. She was the daughter of a respectable old French family and, at that time, a pale woman around twenty-eight or thirty years old, tall and elegant in build but simply dressed. That evening, she mentioned she was wearing a small muslin shawl crossed over her chest in the style of the time, tied at the back.

'At sight of his face, which, as she used to tell us, was unusually distinct in the peering sunlight, she could not help giving a little shriek of horror, for a terrible reason connected with her history, and after walking a few steps further, she sank down against the parapet of the bridge in a fainting fit.

'Once she saw his face, which, as she used to tell us, stood out clearly in the bright sunlight, she couldn't help but let out a small shriek of horror for a terrible reason tied to her past. After taking a few more steps, she collapsed against the bridge’s railing in a faint.'

'In his preoccupation the foreign gentleman had hardly noticed her, but her strange collapse immediately attracted his attention. He quickly crossed the carriageway, picked her up, and carried her into the first shop adjoining the bridge, explaining that she was a lady who had been taken ill outside.

'In his distraction, the foreign gentleman barely noticed her, but her sudden collapse quickly caught his attention. He hurried across the street, picked her up, and took her into the first shop next to the bridge, explaining that she was a lady who had fainted outside.'

'She soon revived; but, clearly much puzzled, her helper perceived that she still had a dread of him which was sufficient to hinder her complete recovery of self-command. She spoke in a quick and nervous way to the shopkeeper, asking him to call a coach.

'She soon came back to herself; but, clearly confused, her helper noticed that she still felt afraid of him, which was enough to prevent her from fully regaining her composure. She spoke to the shopkeeper in a hurried and anxious manner, asking him to call a cab.'

'This the shopkeeper did, Mademoiselle V—- and the stranger remaining in constrained silence while he was gone. The coach came up, and giving the man the address, she entered it and drove away.

'The shopkeeper did this, Mademoiselle V—- and the stranger staying in awkward silence while he was gone. The coach arrived, and after giving the man the address, she got in and drove away.'

'"Who is that lady?" said the newly arrived gentleman.

"Who is that woman?" said the man who just arrived.

'"She's of your nation, as I should make bold to suppose," said the shopkeeper. And he told the other that she was Mademoiselle V—, governess at General Newbold's, in the same town.

'"She's from your country, as I’m confident to guess," said the shopkeeper. And he told the other that she was Mademoiselle V—, the governess at General Newbold's, in the same town.

'"You have many foreigners here?" the stranger inquired.

"You have a lot of foreigners here?" the stranger asked.

'"Yes, though mostly Hanoverians. But since the peace they are learning French a good deal in genteel society, and French instructors are rather in demand."

"Yes, mostly Hanoverians. But since the peace, they're learning French quite a bit in upscale society, and French teachers are in high demand."

'"Yes, I teach it," said the visitor. "I am looking for a tutorship in an academy."

'"Yeah, I teach it," said the visitor. "I'm looking for a tutoring position at an academy."'

'The information given by the burgess to the Frenchman seemed to explain to the latter nothing of his countrywoman's conduct-which, indeed, was the case-and he left the shop, taking his course again over the bridge and along the south quay to the Old Rooms Inn, where he engaged a bedchamber.

The information provided by the burgess to the Frenchman didn't clarify anything about his countrywoman's behavior—which was true—and he exited the shop, retracing his steps over the bridge and along the south quay to the Old Rooms Inn, where he booked a room.

'Thoughts of the woman who had betrayed such agitation at sight of him lingered naturally enough with the newcomer. Though, as I stated, not much less than thirty years of age, Mademoiselle V—, one of his own nation, and of highly refined and delicate appearance, had kindled a singular interest in the middle-aged gentleman's breast, and her large dark eyes, as they had opened and shrunk from him, exhibited a pathetic beauty to which hardly any man could have been insensible.

'Thoughts of the woman who had betrayed such turmoil at the sight of him lingered naturally enough with the newcomer. Although, as I mentioned, she was not much less than thirty years old, Mademoiselle V—, one of his fellow countrywomen and of highly refined and delicate appearance, had ignited a unique interest in the middle-aged gentleman's heart, and her large dark eyes, as they opened and shrank from him, displayed a poignant beauty that hardly any man could have ignored.

'The next day, having written some letters, he went out and made known at the office of the town "Guide" and of the newspaper, that a teacher of French and calligraphy had arrived, leaving a card at the bookseller's to the same effect. He then walked on aimlessly, but at length inquired the way to General Newbold's. At the door, without giving his name, he asked to see Mademoiselle V—, and was shown into a little back parlour, where she came to him with a gaze of surprise.

The next day, after writing some letters, he went out and informed the office of the town "Guide" and the newspaper that a teacher of French and calligraphy had arrived, leaving a card at the bookstore to say the same. He then wandered around without a specific destination but eventually asked for directions to General Newbold's. Once at the door, without stating his name, he requested to see Mademoiselle V—, and he was led into a small back room, where she approached him with a look of surprise.

'"My God! Why do you intrude here, Monsieur?" she gasped in French as soon as she saw his face.

"My God! Why are you here, Monsieur?" she gasped in French as soon as she saw his face.

'"You were taken ill yesterday. I helped you. You might have been run over if I had not picked you up. It was an act of simple humanity certainly; but I thought I might come to ask if you had recovered?"

"You got sick yesterday. I helped you. You could have been hit by a car if I hadn't picked you up. It was just a kind thing to do, but I wanted to check if you’re feeling better?"

'She had turned aside, and had scarcely heard a word of his speech. "I hate you, infamous man!" she said. "I cannot bear your helping me. Go away!"

'She had turned away and barely heard a word of what he was saying. "I hate you, terrible man!" she said. "I can’t stand your help. Just leave!"'

'"But you are a stranger to me."

"But you're a stranger to me."

'"I know you too well!"

"I know you so well!"

'"You have the advantage then, Mademoiselle. I am a newcomer here. I never have seen you before to my knowledge; and I certainly do not, could not, hate you."

"You have the upper hand then, Miss. I'm new here. I’ve never seen you before as far as I know, and I definitely don’t, and couldn’t, hate you."

'"Are you not Monsieur B—?"

"Are you not Mr. B—?"

'He flinched. "I am-in Paris," he said. "But here I am Monsieur G—."

He flinched. "I’m in Paris," he said. "But here I am, Mr. G—."

'"That is trivial. You are the man I say you are."

"That's insignificant. You are exactly who I say you are."

'"How did you know my real name, Mademoiselle?"

"How did you know my real name, Miss?"

'"I saw you in years gone by, when you did not see me. You were formerly Member of the Committee of Public Safety, under the Convention."

"I saw you years ago, when you didn't see me. You used to be a Member of the Committee of Public Safety under the Convention."

"I was."

"I am."

'"You guillotined my father, my brother, my uncle-all my family, nearly, and broke my mother's heart. They had done nothing but keep silence. Their sentiments were only guessed. Their headless corpses were thrown indiscriminately into the ditch of the Mousseaux Cemetery, and destroyed with lime."

"You executed my father, my brother, my uncle—my whole family, almost—and shattered my mother's heart. They hadn't done anything but stay quiet. Their feelings were only assumed. Their headless bodies were dumped carelessly into the ditch of the Mousseaux Cemetery and buried with lime."

'He nodded.

He nodded.

'"You left me without a friend, and here I am now, alone in a foreign land."

"You left me without a friend, and now here I am, alone in a strange land."

'"I am sorry for you," said be. "Sorry for the consequence, not for the intent. What I did was a matter of conscience, and, from a point of view indiscernible by you, I did right. I profited not a farthing. But I shall not argue this. You have the satisfaction of seeing me here an exile also, in poverty, betrayed by comrades, as friendless as yourself."

"I'm sorry for you," he said. "Sorry for the outcome, not for the intent. What I did was a matter of conscience, and from a perspective you can't see, I did the right thing. I didn't gain anything from it. But I won't argue about it. You can take comfort in knowing that I'm also here as an exile, in poverty, betrayed by my friends, just as alone as you are."

'"It is no satisfaction to me, Monsieur."

"It doesn't satisfy me, sir."

'"Well, things done cannot be altered. Now the question: are you quite recovered?"

"Well, what's done is done. Now, the question is: are you fully recovered?"

'"Not from dislike and dread of you-otherwise, yes."

'"Not out of dislike and fear of you—otherwise, yes."'

'"Good morning, Mademoiselle."

"Good morning, Miss."

'"Good morning."

"Good morning."

'They did not meet again till one evening at the theatre (which my mother's friend was with great difficulty induced to frequent, to perfect herself in English pronunciation, the idea she entertained at that time being to become a teacher of English in her own country later on). She found him sitting next to her, and it made her pale and restless.

'They didn't see each other again until one evening at the theater (which my mother's friend was reluctantly convinced to attend, to improve her English pronunciation, as she planned to become an English teacher in her own country later on). She found him sitting next to her, and it made her feel pale and uneasy.'

'"You are still afraid of me?"

"Are you still scared of me?"

'"I am. O cannot you understand!"

"I am. Oh, can't you understand?"

'He signified the affirmative.

He signaled yes.

'"I follow the play with difficulty," he said, presently.

"I find it hard to keep up with the play," he said after a moment.

'"So do I-now," said she.

"So do I now," she said.

'He regarded her long, and she was conscious of his look; and while she kept her eyes on the stage they filled with tears. Still she would not move, and the tears ran visibly down her cheek, though the play was a merry one, being no other than Mr. Sheridan's comedy of "The Rivals," with Mr. S. Kemble as Captain Absolute. He saw her distress, and that her mind was elsewhere; and abruptly rising from his seat at candle- snuffing time he left the theatre.

He stared at her for a long time, and she felt his gaze; even though she kept her eyes on the stage, tears filled them. Still, she didn’t move, and the tears streamed down her face, even though the play was a comedy, specifically Mr. Sheridan's "The Rivals," featuring Mr. S. Kemble as Captain Absolute. He noticed her distress and that her thoughts were somewhere else, and suddenly getting up from his seat when the candles were being snuffed out, he left the theater.

'Though he lived in the old town, and she in the new, they frequently saw each other at a distance. One of these occasions was when she was on the north side of the harbour, by the ferry, waiting for the boat to take her across. He was standing by Cove Row, on the quay opposite. Instead of entering the boat when it arrived she stepped back from the quay; but looking to see if he remained she beheld him pointing with his finger to the ferry-boat.

'Even though he lived in the old town and she lived in the new one, they often spotted each other from afar. One time, she was on the north side of the harbor, by the ferry, waiting for the boat to take her across. He was standing by Cove Row, on the quay across from her. When the boat arrived, instead of getting in, she stepped back from the quay; but when she glanced to see if he was still there, she saw him pointing with his finger at the ferry boat.'

'"Enter!" he said, in a voice loud enough to reach her.

"Come in!" he said, in a voice loud enough for her to hear.

'Mademoiselle V—- stood still.

Ms. V—- stood still.

'"Enter!" he said, and, as she did not move, he repeated the word a third time.

"Enter!" he said, and when she didn't move, he said it again for the third time.

'She had really been going to cross, and now approached and stepped down into the boat. Though she did not raise her eyes she knew that he was watching her over. At the landing steps she saw from under the brim of her hat a hand stretched down. The steps were steep and slippery.

'She had really been about to cross, and now she walked up to and stepped into the boat. Even though she didn’t look up, she could feel that he was watching her. At the landing steps, she caught sight of a hand reaching down from beneath the brim of her hat. The steps were steep and slippery.'

'"No, Monsieur," she said. "Unless, indeed, you believe in God, and repent of your evil past!"

"No, sir," she said. "Unless, of course, you believe in God and regret your wrongdoings from the past!"

'"I am sorry you were made to suffer. But I only believe in the god called Reason, and I do not repent. I was the instrument of a national principle. Your friends were not sacrificed for any ends of mine."

"I’m sorry you had to go through that. But I only believe in the god called Reason, and I don’t regret it. I was just following a national principle. Your friends weren’t sacrificed for any purposes of mine."

'She thereupon withheld her hand, and clambered up unassisted. He went on, ascending the Look-out Hill, and disappearing over the brow. Her way was in the same direction, her errand being to bring home the two young girls under her charge, who had gone to the cliff for an airing. When she joined them at the top she saw his solitary figure at the further edge, standing motionless against the sea. All the while that she remained with her pupils he stood without turning, as if looking at the frigates in the roadstead, but more probably in meditation, unconscious where he was. In leaving the spot one of the children threw away half a sponge-biscuit that she had been eating. Passing near it he stooped, picked it up carefully, and put it in his pocket.

'She then pulled back her hand and climbed up by herself. He continued on, heading up Look-out Hill and disappearing over the edge. She was going the same way, her task being to bring back the two young girls she was responsible for, who had gone to the cliff for some fresh air. When she reached the top, she saw his lone figure at the far edge, standing still against the sea. The whole time she was with her students, he remained facing away, as if watching the ships in the harbor, but more likely lost in thought, unaware of his surroundings. As they left, one of the children dropped half of a sponge-biscuit she had been eating. As he walked by it, he bent down, picked it up carefully, and put it in his pocket.'

'Mademoiselle V—- came homeward, asking herself, "Can he be starving?"

'Mademoiselle V—- was on her way home, wondering to herself, "Could he be starving?"'

'From that day he was invisible for so long a time that she thought he had gone away altogether. But one evening a note came to her, and she opened it trembling.

'From that day, he was gone for so long that she thought he had left for good. But one evening, a note arrived for her, and she opened it with trembling hands.'

'"I am here ill," it said, "and, as you know, alone. There are one or two little things I want done, in case my death should occur,-and I should prefer not to ask the people here, if it could be avoided. Have you enough of the gift of charity to come and carry out my wishes before it is too late?"

"I’m sick here," it said, "and, as you know, alone. There are a couple of things I’d like taken care of, in case I die—and I’d rather not ask the people here, if it can be avoided. Do you have enough generosity to come and fulfill my wishes before it’s too late?"

'Now so it was that, since seeing him possess himself of the broken cake, she had insensibly begun to feel something that was more than curiosity, though perhaps less than anxiety, about this fellow- countryman of hers; and it was not in her nervous and sensitive heart to resist his appeal. She found his lodging (to which he had removed from the Old Rooms inn for economy) to be a room over a shop, half-way up the steep and narrow street of the old town, to which the fashionable visitors seldom penetrated. With some misgiving she entered the house, and was admitted to the chamber where he lay.

'So it happened that, since seeing him take the broken cake, she had gradually started to feel something more than curiosity, yet maybe less than anxiety, about this fellow countryman of hers; and it wasn't in her nervous and sensitive heart to resist his appeal. She located his place (where he had moved from the Old Rooms inn to save money) in a room above a shop, halfway up the steep and narrow street of the old town, an area that fashionable visitors rarely ventured into. With some hesitation, she entered the building and was let into the room where he was lying down.'

'"You are too good, too good," he murmured. And presently, "You need not shut the door. You will feel safer, and they will not understand what we say."

"You’re too good, too good," he whispered. And then he added, "You don’t need to shut the door. You’ll feel safer, and they won’t understand what we’re saying."

'"Are you in want, Monsieur? Can I give you-"

"Do you need something, sir? Can I offer you-"

'"No, no. I merely want you to do a trifling thing or two that I have not strength enough to do myself. Nobody in the town but you knows who I really am-unless you have told?"

'"No, no. I just need you to handle a couple of small tasks that I don't have the energy to do myself. No one in town besides you knows who I really am—unless you’ve shared?"'

'"I have not told . . . I thought you might have acted from principle in those sad days, even-"

"I haven't told you... I thought you might have acted out of principle during those tough times, even—"

'"You are kind to concede that much. However, to the present. I was able to destroy my few papers before I became so weak . . . But in the drawer there you will find some pieces of linen clothing-only two or three-marked with initials that may be recognized. Will you rip them out with a penknife?"

"You’re generous to admit that much. But let's get to the point. I managed to destroy my few papers before I got too weak... But in that drawer, you’ll find a few pieces of linen clothing—only two or three—marked with initials that can be recognized. Could you pull them out with a penknife?"

'She searched as bidden, found the garments, cut out the stitches of the lettering, and replaced the linen as before. A promise to post, in the event of his death, a letter he put in her hand, completed all that he required of her.

'She looked for the items as instructed, found the clothes, removed the stitches of the lettering, and put the linen back as it was. A promise to mail a letter he gave her in case of his death fulfilled everything he asked of her.'

'He thanked her. "I think you seem sorry for me," he murmured. "And I am surprised. You are sorry?"

'He thanked her. "I think you feel bad for me," he murmured. "And I'm surprised. Do you feel bad?"'

'She evaded the question. "Do you repent and believe?" she asked.

She dodged the question. "Do you regret it and believe?" she asked.

'"No."

"No."

'Contrary to her expectations and his own he recovered, though very slowly; and her manner grew more distant thenceforward, though his influence upon her was deeper than she knew. Weeks passed away, and the month of May arrived. One day at this time she met him walking slowly along the beach to the northward.

'Contrary to both her expectations and his, he recovered, though very slowly; and from that point on, her demeanor became more distant, even though his impact on her was stronger than she realized. Weeks went by, and May arrived. One day during this time, she saw him walking slowly along the beach to the north.'

'"You know the news?" he said.

"You heard the news?" he said.

'"You mean of the rupture between France and England again?"

"You mean the split between France and England again?"

'"Yes; and the feeling of antagonism is stronger than it was in the last war, owing to Bonaparte's high-handed arrest of the innocent English who were travelling in our country for pleasure. I feel that the war will be long and bitter; and that my wish to live unknown in England will be frustrated. See here."

'"Yes; and the sense of hostility is stronger than it was in the last war, because Bonaparte's aggressive arrest of innocent English travelers in our country has stirred things up. I believe the war will be long and hard, and that my desire to live a quiet life in England will be ruined. Look here."'

'He took from his pocket a piece of the single newspaper which circulated in the county in those days, and she read-

'He pulled out a piece of the only newspaper that circulated in the county back then, and she read-

"The magistrates acting under the Alien Act have been requested to direct a very scrutinizing eye to the Academies in our towns and other places, in which French tutors are employed, and to all of that nationality who profess to be teachers in this country. Many of them are known to be inveterate Enemies and Traitors to the nation among whose people they have found a livelihood and a home."

"The magistrates operating under the Alien Act have been asked to closely monitor the academies in our towns and other places where French tutors are hired, as well as anyone of that nationality who claims to be a teacher in this country. Many of them are known to be persistent enemies and traitors to the nation that has provided them with a livelihood and a home."

'He continued: "I have observed since the declaration of war a marked difference in the conduct of the rougher class of people here towards me. If a great battle were to occur-as it soon will, no doubt-feeling would grow to a pitch that would make it impossible for me, a disguised man of no known occupation, to stay here. With you, whose duties and antecedents are known, it may be less difficult, but still unpleasant. Now I propose this. You have probably seen how my deep sympathy with you has quickened to a warm feeling; and what I say is, will you agree to give me a title to protect you by honouring me with your hand? I am older than you, it is true, but as husband and wife we can leave England together, and make the whole world our country. Though I would propose Quebec, in Canada, as the place which offers the best promise of a home."

He continued: "I've noticed since the war started a definite change in how the rougher folks here treat me. If a big battle happens—as it likely will—the emotions will escalate to a point where I, a disguised man with no clear job, won’t be able to stay here. For you, with your known responsibilities and background, it might be less challenging, but it will still be uncomfortable. So, here's what I suggest. You’ve probably noticed how my deep sympathy for you has turned into something warmer; what I'm asking is, will you agree to give me a title that protects you by marrying me? I know I’m older than you, but as husband and wife, we can leave England together and make the entire world our home. I would recommend Quebec, in Canada, as the place that offers the best chance for a new beginning."

'"My God! You surprise me!" said she.

"My God! You took me by surprise!" she said.

'"But you accept my proposal?"

"But you accept my offer?"

'"No, no!"

"No way!"

'"And yet I think you will, Mademoiselle, some day!"

"And yet I think you will, Mademoiselle, someday!"

'"I think not."

"I don't think so."

'"I won't distress you further now."

"I won't bother you anymore right now."

'"Much thanks . . . I am glad to see you looking better, Monsieur; I mean you are looking better."

"Thanks a lot . . . I'm happy to see you looking better, sir; I mean you really do look better."

'"Ah, yes. I am improving. I walk in the sun every day."

"Ah, yes. I'm getting better. I go for a walk in the sun every day."

'And almost every day she saw him-sometimes nodding stiffly only, sometimes exchanging formal civilities. "You are not gone yet," she said on one of these occasions.

'And almost every day she saw him—sometimes just nodding stiffly, other times exchanging formal pleasantries. "You're not gone yet," she said on one of these occasions.'

'"No. At present I don't think of going without you."

"No. Right now, I don’t plan on going without you."

'"But you find it uncomfortable here?"

"But you think it's uncomfortable here?"

'"Somewhat. So when will you have pity on me?"

'"Sort of. So when will you feel sorry for me?"'

'She shook her head and went on her way. Yet she was a little moved. "He did it on principle," she would murmur. "He had no animosity towards them, and profited nothing!"

'She shook her head and continued on her way. Still, she felt a bit touched. "He did it out of principle," she would say softly. "He had no resentment towards them, and gained nothing!"'

'She wondered how he lived. It was evident that he could not be so poor as she had thought; his pretended poverty might be to escape notice. She could not tell, but she knew that she was dangerously interested in him.

'She wondered how he lived. It was clear that he couldn't be as poor as she had thought; his fake poverty might be a way to avoid drawing attention. She couldn't say for sure, but she knew she was dangerously intrigued by him.'

'And he still mended, till his thin, pale face became more full and firm. As he mended she had to meet that request of his, advanced with even stronger insistency.

'And he kept getting better, until his thin, pale face became rounder and more solid. As he improved, she had to respond to that request of his, which came with even more insistence.'

'The arrival of the King and Court for the season as usual brought matters to a climax for these two lonely exiles and fellow country- people. The King's awkward preference for a part of the coast in such dangerous proximity to France made it necessary that a strict military vigilance should be exercised to guard the royal residents. Half-a- dozen frigates were every night posted in a line across the bay, and two lines of sentinels, one at the water's edge and another behind the Esplanade, occupied the whole sea-front after eight every night. The watering-place was growing an inconvenient residence even for Mademoiselle V—- herself, her friendship for this strange French tutor and writing-master who never had any pupils having been observed by many who slightly knew her. The General's wife, whose dependent she was, repeatedly warned her against the acquaintance; while the Hanoverian and other soldiers of the Foreign Legion, who had discovered the nationality of her friend, were more aggressive than the English military gallants who made it their business to notice her.

The arrival of the King and Court for the season, as always, escalated tensions for these two lonely exiles and fellow countrymen. The King’s awkward choice of a coastal area dangerously close to France required strict military oversight to protect the royal residents. Every night, half a dozen frigates lined the bay, and two rows of sentinels—one at the water's edge and another behind the Esplanade—occupied the entire seafront after eight. The resort was becoming an uncomfortable place to live, even for Mademoiselle V—, as her friendship with this unusual French tutor and writing teacher, who never had any students, raised eyebrows among those who knew her slightly. The General’s wife, whom she depended on, repeatedly cautioned her about this relationship, while the Hanoverian and other soldiers from the Foreign Legion, aware of her friend’s nationality, were more forward than the English soldiers who took an interest in her.

'In this tense state of affairs her answers became more agitated. "O Heaven, how can I marry you!" she would say.

'In this tense situation, her answers became more anxious. "Oh my God, how can I marry you!" she would say.'

'"You will; surely you will!" he answered again. "I don't leave without you. And I shall soon be interrogated before the magistrates if I stay here; probably imprisoned. You will come?"

"You will; of course you will!" he replied again. "I’m not leaving without you. If I stick around here, I’ll be questioned by the magistrates and probably thrown in jail. Are you coming?"

'She felt her defences breaking down. Contrary to all reason and sense of family honour she was, by some abnormal craving, inclining to a tenderness for him that was founded on its opposite. Sometimes her warm sentiments burnt lower than at others, and then the enormity of her conduct showed itself in more staring hues.

'She felt her defenses crumbling. Against all logic and a sense of family pride, she had an unusual urge to feel affection for him that was based on its opposite. At times her warm feelings were less intense, and then the seriousness of her actions became even more obvious.'

'Shortly after this he came with a resigned look on his face. "It is as I expected," he said. "I have received a hint to go. In good sooth, I am no Bonapartist-I am no enemy to England; but the presence of the King made it impossible for a foreigner with no visible occupation, and who may be a spy, to remain at large in the town. The authorities are civil, but firm. They are no more than reasonable. Good. I must go. You must come also."

Shortly after this, he arrived with a resigned expression. "It's just as I suspected," he said. "I've been given a suggestion to leave. Honestly, I'm not a Bonapartist—I don't have anything against England; but with the King here, it's impossible for a foreigner with no apparent job, who might be a spy, to stay freely in the town. The authorities are polite but strict. They're being perfectly reasonable. That's it. I have to go. You need to come too."

'She did not speak. But she nodded assent, her eyes drooping.

She didn't say anything. But she nodded in agreement, her eyes half closed.

'On her way back to the house on the Esplanade she said to herself, "I am glad, I am glad! I could not do otherwise. It is rendering good for evil!" But she knew how she mocked herself in this, and that the moral principle had not operated one jot in her acceptance of him. In truth she had not realized till now the full presence of the emotion which had unconsciously grown up in her for this lonely and severe man, who, in her tradition, was vengeance and irreligion personified. He seemed to absorb her whole nature, and, absorbing, to control it.

On her way back to the house on the Esplanade, she thought to herself, “I’m glad, I’m glad! I couldn’t have done anything else. It’s about doing good in return for evil!” But she knew she was just kidding herself and that her moral values hadn't played any part in her accepting him. In reality, she hadn’t fully realized until now just how deep her feelings had grown for this lonely and stern man, who in her mind represented revenge and irreligion. He seemed to take over her entire being, and in doing so, he seemed to control it.

'A day or two before the one fixed for the wedding there chanced to come to her a letter from the only acquaintance of her own sex and country she possessed in England, one to whom she had sent intelligence of her approaching marriage, without mentioning with whom. This friend's misfortunes had been somewhat similar to her own, which fact had been one cause of their intimacy; her friend's sister, a nun of the Abbey of Montmartre, having perished on the scaffold at the hands of the same Comite de Salut Public which had numbered Mademoiselle V—'s affianced among its members. The writer had felt her position much again of late, since the renewal of the war, she said; and the letter wound up with a fresh denunciation of the authors of their mutual bereavement and subsequent troubles.

'A day or two before the wedding date, she received a letter from the only female acquaintance she had from her own country in England, to whom she had sent news of her upcoming marriage, without revealing who the groom was. This friend's misfortunes had been somewhat like her own, which was one reason for their closeness; her friend's sister, a nun at the Abbey of Montmartre, had been executed by the same Comite de Salut Public that included Mademoiselle V—'s fiancé among its members. The writer mentioned that she had been feeling her situation deeply again lately, especially with the war starting up again; and the letter ended with another strong condemnation of those responsible for their shared losses and ongoing troubles.'

'Coming just then, its contents produced upon Mademoiselle V—- the effect of a pail of water upon a somnambulist. What had she been doing in betrothing herself to this man! Was she not making herself a parricide after the event? At this crisis in her feelings her lover called. He beheld her trembling, and, in reply to his question, she told him of her scruples with impulsive candour.

'Just then, its contents hit Mademoiselle V—- like a bucket of cold water on a sleepwalker. What had she been thinking by promising herself to this man! Was she not making herself guilty of a kind of betrayal after the fact? At this moment of emotional turmoil, her lover called. He saw her trembling, and when he asked what was wrong, she shared her doubts with him openly and impulsively.'

'She had not intended to do this, but his attitude of tender command coerced her into frankness. Thereupon he exhibited an agitation never before apparent in him. He said, "But all that is past. You are the symbol of Charity, and we are pledged to let bygones be."

'She hadn't planned to do this, but his gentle dominance pushed her to be honest. Then he showed a level of restlessness that she had never seen in him before. He said, "But all of that is behind us. You are the embodiment of Charity, and we have promised to move on from the past."'

'His words soothed her for the moment, but she was sadly silent, and he went away.

'His words comforted her for a moment, but she remained sadly silent, and he left.'

'That night she saw (as she firmly believed to the end of her life) a divinely sent vision. A procession of her lost relatives-father, brother, uncle, cousin-seemed to cross her chamber between her bed and the window, and when she endeavoured to trace their features she perceived them to be headless, and that she had recognized them by their familiar clothes only. In the morning she could not shake off the effects of this appearance on her nerves. All that day she saw nothing of her wooer, he being occupied in making arrangements for their departure. It grew towards evening-the marriage eve; but, in spite of his re-assuring visit, her sense of family duty waxed stronger now that she was left alone. Yet, she asked herself, how could she, alone and unprotected, go at this eleventh hour and reassert to an affianced husband that she could not and would not marry him while admitting at the same time that she loved him? The situation dismayed her. She had relinquished her post as governess, and was staying temporarily in a room near the coach-office, where she expected him to call in the morning to carry out the business of their union and departure.

That night, she saw what she firmly believed for the rest of her life was a divine vision. A procession of her deceased relatives—father, brother, uncle, cousin—seemed to pass through her room between her bed and the window, and when she tried to recognize their faces, she realized they were headless, and she identified them solely by their familiar clothes. The next morning, she couldn’t shake off the lasting effects of that experience on her nerves. All day, she didn’t see her fiancé, as he was busy making arrangements for their departure. As evening approached—the night before their wedding—her sense of family duty grew stronger now that she was alone, despite his reassuring visit. Yet, she questioned how she could, alone and defenseless, at this last moment tell her fiancé that she couldn’t and wouldn’t marry him while also admitting that she loved him. The situation overwhelmed her. She had given up her position as a governess and was staying temporarily in a room near the coach office, where she expected him to come in the morning to finalize their plans for marriage and leave.

'Wisely or foolishly, Mademoiselle V—- came to a resolution: that her only safety lay in flight. His contiguity influenced her too sensibly; she could not reason. So packing up her few possessions and placing on the table the small sum she owed, she went out privately, secured a last available seat in the London coach, and, almost before she had fully weighed her action, she was rolling out of the town in the dusk of the September evening.

'Whether it was a smart choice or not, Mademoiselle V—- made a decision: her only way to be safe was to run away. Being so close to him affected her too much; she couldn't think clearly. So she packed her few belongings, left the small amount of money she owed on the table, and slipped out quietly. She managed to get the last available seat on the London coach, and before she had really thought through what she was doing, she was heading out of town in the twilight of a September evening.'

'Having taken this startling step she began to reflect upon her reasons. He had been one of that tragic Committee the sound of whose name was a horror to the civilized world; yet he had been only one of several members, and, it seemed, not the most active. He had marked down names on principle, had felt no personal enmity against his victims, and had enriched himself not a sou out of the office he had held. Nothing could change the past. Meanwhile he loved her, and her heart inclined to as much of him as she could detach from that past. Why not, as he had suggested, bury memories, and inaugurate a new era by this union? In other words, why not indulge her tenderness, since its nullification could do no good.

'After taking this shocking step, she started to think about her reasons. He had been part of that infamous Committee, the mere mention of which terrified the civilized world; yet he was just one of several members, and apparently not the most involved. He had listed names based on principles, felt no personal hatred toward his victims, and had not benefited financially from the position he held. Nothing could change the past. Meanwhile, he loved her, and she felt drawn to as much of him as she could separate from that history. Why not, as he suggested, let go of those memories and start fresh with their union? In other words, why not embrace her feelings, since ignoring them wouldn’t be helpful?

'Thus she held self-communion in her seat in the coach, passing through Casterbridge, and Shottsford, and on to the White Hart at Melchester, at which place the whole fabric of her recent intentions crumbled down. Better be staunch having got so far; let things take their course, and marry boldly the man who had so impressed her. How great he was; how small was she! And she had presumed to judge him! Abandoning her place in the coach with the precipitancy that had characterized her taking it, she waited till the vehicle had driven off, something in the departing shapes of the outside passengers against the starlit sky giving her a start, as she afterwards remembered. Presently the down coach, "The Morning Herald," entered the city, and she hastily obtained a place on the top.

Thus, she reflected quietly in her seat on the coach, passing through Casterbridge and Shottsford, and heading to the White Hart in Melchester, where all her recent plans fell apart. It was better to stay committed now that she had come this far; let things unfold, and boldly marry the man who had made such a strong impression on her. How amazing he was; how insignificant she felt! And she had dared to judge him! Leaving her seat in the coach just as impulsively as she had boarded it, she waited until the carriage drove away, something about the departing silhouettes of the outside passengers against the starry sky startling her, as she would later recall. Soon, the down coach, "The Morning Herald," arrived in the city, and she quickly found a spot on top.

'"I'll be firm-I'll be his-if it cost me my immortal soul!" she said. And with troubled breathings she journeyed back over the road she had just traced.

"I'll be strong—I’ll be his—even if it costs me my eternal soul!" she said. And with heavy breaths, she made her way back over the path she had just traveled.

'She reached our royal watering-place by the time the day broke, and her first aim was to get back to the hired room in which her last few days had been spent. When the landlady appeared at the door in response to Mademoiselle V—'s nervous summons, she explained her sudden departure and return as best she could; and no objection being offered to her re- engagement of the room for one day longer she ascended to the chamber and sat down panting. She was back once more, and her wild tergiversations were a secret from him whom alone they concerned.

She arrived at our royal watering place just as day broke, and her main goal was to return to the rented room where she had spent the last few days. When the landlady answered Mademoiselle V—'s anxious call at the door, she explained her sudden departure and return as best she could; since no objections were raised to her rebooking the room for one more day, she went up to the room and sat down, out of breath. She was back once again, and her chaotic escapades remained a secret from the one person they really mattered to.

'A sealed letter was on the mantelpiece. "Yes, it is directed to you, Mademoiselle," said the woman who had followed her. "But we were wondering what to do with it. A town messenger brought it after you had gone last night."

'A sealed letter was on the mantelpiece. "Yes, it's addressed to you, Mademoiselle," said the woman who had followed her. "But we were unsure what to do with it. A town messenger dropped it off after you left last night."'

'When the landlady had left, Mademoiselle V—- opened the letter and read-

'When the landlady left, Mademoiselle V—- opened the letter and read-

"MY DEAR AND HONOURED FRIEND.-You have been throughout our acquaintance absolutely candid concerning your misgivings. But I have been reserved concerning mine. That is the difference between us. You probably have not guessed that every qualm you have felt on the subject of our marriage has been paralleled in my heart to the full. Thus it happened that your involuntary outburst of remorse yesterday, though mechanically deprecated by me in your presence, was a last item in my own doubts on the wisdom of our union, giving them a force that I could no longer withstand. I came home; and, on reflection, much as I honour and adore you, I decide to set you free.

"MY DEAR AND RESPECTED FRIEND.- Throughout our time together, you have been completely open about your concerns. However, I've held back about mine. That's where we differ. You probably haven't realized that every doubt you've had about our marriage has been mirrored in my heart. So, when you expressed your feelings of regret yesterday, even though I downplayed it in front of you, it reinforced my own uncertainties about the wisdom of our union, making them too strong to ignore. I went home, and after thinking it over, as much as I cherish and love you, I've decided to set you free."

"As one whose life has been devoted, and I may say sacrificed, to the cause of Liberty, I cannot allow your judgment (probably a permanent one) to be fettered beyond release by a feeling which may be transient only.

"As someone whose life has been dedicated, and I can say sacrificed, to the cause of Liberty, I cannot let your judgment (likely a permanent one) be restricted indefinitely by a feeling that may only be temporary."

"It would be no less than excruciating to both that I should announce this decision to you by word of mouth. I have therefore taken the less painful course of writing. Before you receive this I shall have left the town by the evening coach for London, on reaching which city my movements will be revealed to none.

"It would be incredibly painful for both of us if I had to tell you this decision in person. So, I've chosen the less painful option of writing it down. By the time you read this, I will have already left town on the evening coach to London, and once I arrive there, no one will know what I'm up to."

"Regard me, Mademoiselle, as dead, and accept my renewed assurances of respect, remembrance, and affection."

"Consider me dead, Mademoiselle, and accept my renewed pledges of respect, remembrance, and affection."

'When she had recovered from her shock of surprise and grief, she remembered that at the starting of the coach out of Melchester before dawn, the shape of a figure among the outside passengers against the starlit sky had caused her a momentary start, from its resemblance to that of her friend. Knowing nothing of each other's intentions, and screened from each other by the darkness, they had left the town by the same conveyance. "He, the greater, persevered; I, the smaller, returned!" she said.

'Once she got over her shock and sadness, she remembered that when the coach left Melchester before dawn, she had a brief jolt seeing a figure among the outside passengers against the starlit sky because it looked like her friend. Without knowing what the other was planning and hidden from each other by the darkness, they had both left the town in the same vehicle. "He, the greater, persevered; I, the smaller, returned!" she said.'

'Recovering from her stupor, Mademoiselle V—- bethought herself again of her employer, Mrs. Newbold, whom recent events had estranged. To that lady she went with a full heart, and explained everything. Mrs. Newbold kept to herself her opinion of the episode, and reinstalled the deserted bride in her old position as governess to the family.

Recovering from her daze, Mademoiselle V—- thought again of her employer, Mrs. Newbold, from whom recent events had distanced her. She approached that lady with an open heart and explained everything. Mrs. Newbold kept her thoughts on the situation to herself and reinstated the abandoned bride in her previous role as the family's governess.

'A governess she remained to the end of her days. After the final peace with France she became acquainted with my mother, to whom by degrees she imparted these experiences of hers. As her hair grew white, and her features pinched, Mademoiselle V—- would wonder what nook of the world contained her lover, if he lived, and if by any chance she might see him again. But when, some time in the 'twenties, death came to her, at no great age, that outline against the stars of the morning remained as the last glimpse she ever obtained of her family's foe and her once affianced husband.'

'A governess she remained until the end of her life. After the final peace with France, she got to know my mother, to whom she gradually shared her experiences. As her hair turned white and her features became more drawn, Mademoiselle V—- would wonder what part of the world held her lover, if he was still alive, and if she might ever see him again. But when death eventually came to her in the '20s, at a relatively young age, that outline against the morning stars was the last glimpse she ever had of her family's enemy and her former fiancé.'

1895.

MASTER JOHN HORSELEIGH, KNIGHT

In the earliest and mustiest volume of the Havenpool marriage registers (said the thin-faced gentleman) this entry may still be read by any one curious enough to decipher the crabbed handwriting of the date. I took a copy of it when I was last there; and it runs thus (he had opened his pocket-book, and now read aloud the extract; afterwards handing round the book to us, wherein we saw transcribed the following)-

In the oldest and dustiest book of the Havenpool marriage records (said the thin-faced man), this entry can still be seen by anyone curious enough to make out the difficult handwriting of the date. I made a copy of it the last time I was there, and it goes like this (he had opened his wallet and now read the excerpt aloud; then he handed the book around to us, where we saw the following transcribed)-

Mastr John Horseleigh, Knyght, of the p'ysshe of Clyffton was maryd to Edith the wyffe late off John Stocker, m'chawnte of Havenpool the xiiij daje of December be p'vylegge gevyn by our sup'me hedd of the chyrche of Ingelonde Kynge Henry the viii th 1539.

Mastr John Horseleigh, Knight, of the parish of Clifton was married to Edith, the widow of John Stocker, merchant of Havenpool, on December 14, by the privilege granted by our supreme head of the Church of England, King Henry VIII, in 1539.

Now, if you turn to the long and elaborate pedigree of the ancient family of the Horseleighs of Clyfton Horseleigh, you will find no mention whatever of this alliance, notwithstanding the privilege given by the Sovereign and head of the Church; the said Sir John being therein chronicled as marrying, at a date apparently earlier than the above, the daughter and heiress of Richard Phelipson, of Montislope, in Nether Wessex, a lady who outlived him, of which marriage there were issue two daughters and a son, who succeeded him in his estates. How are we to account for these, as it would seem, contemporaneous wives? A strange local tradition only can help us, and this can be briefly told.

Now, if you look at the long and detailed family tree of the ancient Horseleighs of Clyfton Horseleigh, you won’t find any mention of this marriage, despite the privilege granted by the Sovereign and head of the Church. Sir John is recorded as marrying, at a date seemingly earlier than the one mentioned above, the daughter and heiress of Richard Phelipson of Montislope in Nether Wessex, a lady who outlived him. From this marriage, there were two daughters and a son who inherited his estates. How do we explain these seemingly simultaneous wives? Only a strange local tradition can shed light on this, and it can be summarized briefly.

One evening in the autumn of the year 1540 or 1541, a young sailor, whose Christian name was Roger, but whose surname is not known, landed at his native place of Havenpool, on the South Wessex coast, after a voyage in the Newfoundland trade, then newly sprung into existence. He returned in the ship Primrose with a cargo of 'trayne oyle brought home from the New Founde Lande,' to quote from the town records of the date. During his absence of two summers and a winter, which made up the term of a Newfoundland 'spell,' many unlooked-for changes had occurred within the quiet little seaport, some of which closely affected Roger the sailor. At the time of his departure his only sister Edith had become the bride of one Stocker, a respectable townsman, and part owner of the brig in which Roger had sailed; and it was to the house of this couple, his only relatives, that the young man directed his steps. On trying the door in Quay Street he found it locked, and then observed that the windows were boarded up. Inquiring of a bystander, he learnt for the first time of the death of his brother-in-law, though that event had taken place nearly eighteen months before.

One evening in the autumn of 1540 or 1541, a young sailor named Roger, whose last name is unknown, returned to his hometown of Havenpool on the South Wessex coast after a voyage in the newly emerging Newfoundland trade. He came back on the ship Primrose with a load of 'train oil brought home from the New Founde Lande,' according to the town records from that time. During his absence of two summers and a winter, which made up the typical Newfoundland 'spell,' many unexpected changes had taken place in the quiet little seaport, some of which significantly affected Roger. When he left, his only sister Edith had recently married a man named Stocker, a respectable townsman and part owner of the brig where Roger had sailed; so he headed toward their home. After trying the door on Quay Street, he found it locked and noticed that the windows were boarded up. When he asked a bystander, he learned for the first time about the death of his brother-in-law, which had occurred nearly eighteen months earlier.

'And my sister Edith?' asked Roger.

'And what about my sister Edith?' asked Roger.

'She's married again-as they do say, and hath been so these twelve months. I don't vouch for the truth o't, though if she isn't she ought to be.'

'She's married again—as they say, and has been so for the past twelve months. I can't guarantee it's true, but if she isn't, she should be.'

Roger's face grew dark. He was a man with a considerable reserve of strong passion, and he asked his informant what he meant by speaking thus.

Roger's expression turned serious. He was a man with a lot of strong feelings, and he asked his informant what they meant by saying that.

The man explained that shortly after the young woman's bereavement a stranger had come to the port. He had seen her moping on the quay, had been attracted by her youth and loneliness, and in an extraordinarily brief wooing had completely fascinated her-had carried her off, and, as was reported, had married her. Though he had come by water, he was supposed to live no very great distance off by land. They were last heard of at Oozewood, in Upper Wessex, at the house of one Wall, a timber-merchant, where, he believed, she still had a lodging, though her husband, if he were lawfully that much, was but an occasional visitor to the place.

The man explained that shortly after the young woman lost a loved one, a stranger had arrived at the port. He had noticed her sulking on the dock, was drawn to her youth and loneliness, and in an incredibly short time, had completely captivated her—had taken her away, and, as it was said, had married her. Although he traveled by water, he was thought to live not too far away by land. The last they heard of them was in Oozewood, in Upper Wessex, at the home of a timber merchant named Wall, where, he believed, she still had a place to stay, although her husband, if he was legally that, was only an occasional visitor there.

'The stranger?' asked Roger. 'Did you see him? What manner of man was he?'

'The stranger?' asked Roger. 'Did you see him? What kind of guy was he?'

'I liked him not,' said the other. 'He seemed of that kind that hath something to conceal, and as he walked with her he ever and anon turned his head and gazed behind him, as if he much feared an unwelcome pursuer. But, faith,' continued he, 'it may have been the man's anxiety only. Yet did I not like him.'

"I didn’t like him," said the other. "He seemed like the type who has something to hide, and as he walked with her, he kept turning his head and looking back, as if he was really worried about an unwanted follower. But, honestly," he continued, "it could have just been the guy’s nerves. Still, I didn’t like him."

'Was he older than my sister?' Roger asked.

"Is he older than my sister?" Roger asked.

'Ay-much older; from a dozen to a score of years older. A man of some position, maybe, playing an amorous game for the pleasure of the hour. Who knoweth but that he have a wife already? Many have done the thing hereabouts of late.'

'Yeah—much older; anywhere from twelve to twenty years older. A man of some status, perhaps, involved in a flirtation for fun. Who knows, he might already have a wife? Many have done that around here lately.'

Having paid a visit to the graves of his relatives, the sailor next day went along the straight road which, then a lane, now a highway, conducted to the curious little inland town named by the Havenpool man. It is unnecessary to describe Oozewood on the South-Avon. It has a railway at the present day; but thirty years of steam traffic past its precincts have hardly modified its original features. Surrounded by a sort of fresh-water lagoon, dividing it from meadows and coppice, its ancient thatch and timber houses have barely made way even in the front street for the ubiquitous modern brick and slate. It neither increases nor diminishes in size; it is difficult to say what the inhabitants find to do, for, though trades in woodware are still carried on, there cannot be enough of this class of work nowadays to maintain all the householders, the forests around having been so greatly thinned and curtailed. At the time of this tradition the forests were dense, artificers in wood abounded, and the timber trade was brisk. Every house in the town, without exception, was of oak framework, filled in with plaster, and covered with thatch, the chimney being the only brick portion of the structure. Inquiry soon brought Roger the sailor to the door of Wall, the timber-dealer referred to, but it was some time before he was able to gain admission to the lodging of his sister, the people having plainly received directions not to welcome strangers.

After visiting the graves of his relatives, the sailor went the next day along the straight road, which used to be a lane but is now a highway, leading to the quirky little inland town named by the Havenpool man. There's no need to describe Oozewood on the South-Avon. It now has a railway, but thirty years of steam traffic passing by hasn’t changed much about its original look. Surrounded by a fresh-water lagoon that separates it from meadows and woods, its old thatched and timber houses have barely made room even in the front street for the usual modern brick and slate. The town doesn’t grow or shrink; it’s hard to tell what the residents do for a living, as there are still trades in wood products, but these jobs can’t be enough to support all the households nowadays, since the surrounding forests have been so heavily depleted. Back in the time of this story, the forests were thick, woodworkers were plentiful, and the timber trade was thriving. Every house in the town was made of oak frame, filled with plaster, and topped with thatch, with the chimney being the only brick part of the building. Soon enough, Roger the sailor found the door of Wall, the timber dealer mentioned, but it took a while before he was allowed to enter his sister's home, as it was clear the locals had been instructed not to welcome strangers.

She was sitting in an upper room on one of the lath-backed, willow- bottomed 'shepherd's' chairs, made on the spot then as to this day, and as they were probably made there in the days of the Heptarchy. In her lap was an infant, which she had been suckling, though now it had fallen asleep; so had the young mother herself for a few minutes, under the drowsing effects of solitude. Hearing footsteps on the stairs, she awoke, started up with a glad cry, and ran to the door, opening which she met her brother on the threshold.

She was sitting in an upstairs room on one of the lath-backed, willow-bottomed 'shepherd's' chairs, made right there just like today, and probably just like they were made back in the days of the Heptarchy. In her lap was a baby that she had been breastfeeding, but now it had fallen asleep; she had dozed off herself for a few minutes, feeling the sleepy effects of being alone. Hearing footsteps on the stairs, she woke up, jumped up with a happy shout, and ran to the door, where she found her brother standing in the doorway.

'O, this is merry; I didn't expect 'ee!' she said. 'Ah, Roger-I thought it was John.' Her tones fell to disappointment.

'O, this is great! I didn't expect to see you!' she said. 'Ah, Roger—I thought it was John.' Her tone shifted to disappointment.

The sailor kissed her, looked at her sternly for a few moments, and pointing to the infant, said, 'You mean the father of this?'

The sailor kissed her, looked at her seriously for a few moments, and pointing to the baby, said, 'You mean the father of this?'

'Yes, my husband,' said Edith.

"Yeah, my husband," said Edith.

'I hope so,' he answered.

"I hope so," he said.

'Why, Roger, I'm married-of a truth am I!' she cried.

'Why, Roger, I'm married—it's the truth!' she exclaimed.

'Shame upon 'ee, if true! If not true, worse. Master Stocker was an honest man, and ye should have respected his memory longer. Where is thy husband?'

'Shame on you, if it’s true! If it’s not true, that’s even worse. Master Stocker was a decent man, and you should have honored his memory for longer. Where is your husband?'

'He comes often. I thought it was he now. Our marriage has to be kept secret for a while-it was done privily for certain reasons; but we was married at church like honest folk-afore God we were, Roger, six months after poor Stocker's death.'

'He comes by often. I thought it was him just now. Our marriage has to stay a secret for a while—it was done privately for specific reasons; but we got married in church like decent people—before God we did, Roger, six months after poor Stocker's death.'

''Twas too soon,' said Roger.

"It was too soon," said Roger.

'I was living in a house alone; I had nowhere to go to. You were far over sea in the New Found Land, and John took me and brought me here.'

'I was living in a house by myself; I had nowhere to go. You were far across the sea in the New Found Land, and John took me and brought me here.'

'How often doth he come?' says Roger again.

'How often does he come?' Roger asks again.

'Once or twice weekly,' says she.

'Once or twice a week,' she says.

'I wish th' 'dst waited till I returned, dear Edy,' he said. 'It mid be you are a wife-I hope so. But, if so, why this mystery? Why this mean and cramped lodging in this lonely copse-circled town? Of what standing is your husband, and of where?'

'I wish you had waited until I got back, dear Edy,' he said. 'Maybe you are a wife—I hope that’s true. But if so, why all this secrecy? Why this cheap and cramped place in this quiet, forest-surrounded town? What is your husband’s status, and where is he from?'

'He is of gentle breeding-his name is John. I am not free to tell his family-name. He is said to be of London, for safety' sake; but he really lives in the county next adjoining this.'

'He's from a good background—his name is John. I can't share his last name. People say he's from London, for safety reasons; but he actually lives in the neighboring county.'

'Where in the next county?'

'Which county is next?'

'I do not know. He has preferred not to tell me, that I may not have the secret forced from me, to his and my hurt, by bringing the marriage to the ears of his kinsfolk and friends.'

'I don’t know. He has chosen not to tell me, so that I won’t be pressured to reveal the secret, which could hurt both him and me, by mentioning the marriage to his relatives and friends.'

Her brother's face flushed. 'Our people have been honest townsmen, well-reputed for long; why should you readily take such humbling from a sojourner of whom th' 'st know nothing?'

Her brother's face turned red. 'Our people have been honest citizens, respected for a long time; why would you so easily accept such humiliation from a stranger about whom you know nothing?'

They remained in constrained converse till her quick ear caught a sound, for which she might have been waiting-a horse's footfall. 'It is John!' said she. 'This is his night-Saturday.'

They kept their conversation limited until her sharp ears picked up a sound that she might have been anticipating—a horse's hoof. "It's John!" she exclaimed. "This is his night—Saturday."

'Don't be frightened lest he should find me here!' said Roger. 'I am on the point of leaving. I wish not to be a third party. Say nothing at all about my visit, if it will incommode you so to do. I will see thee before I go afloat again.'

'Don't be scared that he'll find me here!' said Roger. 'I'm about to leave. I don't want to be in the way. Don't mention my visit at all if it will cause you any trouble. I'll see you before I head out again.'

Speaking thus he left the room, and descending the staircase let himself out by the front door, thinking he might obtain a glimpse of the approaching horseman. But that traveller had in the meantime gone stealthily round to the back of the homestead, and peering along the pinion-end of the house Roger discerned him unbridling and haltering his horse with his own hands in the shed there.

Speaking like this, he left the room and headed down the stairs, letting himself out through the front door, hoping to catch a glimpse of the approaching horseman. However, that traveler had quietly gone around to the back of the house, and from his vantage point at the end of the house, Roger saw him unbridling and haltering his horse with his own hands in the shed.

Roger retired to the neighbouring inn called the Black Lamb, and meditated. This mysterious method of approach determined him, after all, not to leave the place till he had ascertained more definite facts of his sister's position-whether she were the deluded victim of the stranger or the wife she obviously believed herself to be. Having eaten some supper, he left the inn, it being now about eleven o'clock. He first looked into the shed, and, finding the horse still standing there, waited irresolutely near the door of his sister's lodging. Half an hour elapsed, and, while thinking he would climb into a loft hard by for a night's rest, there seemed to be a movement within the shutters of the sitting-room that his sister occupied. Roger hid himself behind a faggot-stack near the back door, rightly divining that his sister's visitor would emerge by the way he had entered. The door opened, and the candle she held in her hand lighted for a moment the stranger's form, showing it to be that of a tall and handsome personage, about forty years of age, and apparently of a superior position in life. Edith was assisting him to cloak himself, which being done he took leave of her with a kiss and left the house. From the door she watched him bridle and saddle his horse, and having mounted and waved an adieu to her as she stood candle in hand, he turned out of the yard and rode away.

Roger went to the nearby inn called the Black Lamb to think things over. This strange method of approach made him decide not to leave until he found out more concrete details about his sister's situation—whether she was just being fooled by the stranger or if she truly was the wife she believed herself to be. After having some supper, he left the inn around eleven o'clock. He first checked the shed and, seeing the horse still there, waited uncertainly near the door of his sister's place. Half an hour went by, and as he considered climbing into a nearby loft to spend the night, he noticed some movement behind the shutters of the sitting room where his sister was. Roger hid behind a pile of firewood near the back door, correctly guessing that his sister's visitor would leave the same way he came in. The door opened, and the candle the stranger held briefly illuminated his tall and handsome figure, showing him to be around forty years old and likely from a higher social class. Edith was helping him put on his cloak. Once he was ready, he kissed her goodbye and left the house. From the door, she watched him bridle and saddle his horse, and after he mounted and waved goodbye with her holding the candle, he rode out of the yard and away.

The horse which bore him was, or seemed to be, a little lame, and Roger fancied from this that the rider's journey was not likely to be a long one. Being light of foot he followed apace, having no great difficulty on such a still night in keeping within earshot some few miles, the horseman pausing more than once. In this pursuit Roger discovered the rider to choose bridle-tracks and open commons in preference to any high road. The distance soon began to prove a more trying one than he had bargained for; and when out of breath and in some despair of being able to ascertain the man's identity, he perceived an ass standing in the starlight under a hayrick, from which the animal was helping itself to periodic mouthfuls.

The horse carrying him was, or seemed to be, a little lame, and Roger guessed from this that the rider's trip wasn't likely to be a long one. Being quick on his feet, he followed closely, having no trouble on such a quiet night staying within earshot for a few miles, with the horseman stopping more than once. In this pursuit, Roger noticed that the rider preferred bridle paths and open fields over any main roads. The distance soon began to be more challenging than he expected; and when he was out of breath and starting to despair of figuring out the man's identity, he spotted a donkey standing in the starlight under a haystack, from which the animal was intermittently munching.

The story goes that Roger caught the ass, mounted, and again resumed the trail of the unconscious horseman, which feat may have been possible to a nautical young fellow, though one can hardly understand how a sailor would ride such an animal without bridle or saddle, and strange to his hands, unless the creature were extraordinarily docile. This question, however, is immaterial. Suffice it to say that at dawn the following morning Roger beheld his sister's lover or husband entering the gates of a large and well-timbered park on the south-western verge of the White Hart Forest (as it was then called), now known to everybody as the Vale of Blackmoor. Thereupon the sailor discarded his steed, and finding for himself an obscurer entrance to the same park a little further on, he crossed the grass to reconnoitre.

The story goes that Roger caught the donkey, hopped on, and picked up the trail of the unconscious horseman again. This feat might have been doable for a young sailor, but it’s hard to imagine how a sailor would ride such an animal without a bridle or saddle, especially one so unfamiliar to him, unless the creature was super well-behaved. But that's beside the point. The important part is that at dawn the next morning, Roger saw his sister's boyfriend or husband entering the gates of a large, well-wooded park on the southwestern edge of the White Hart Forest (as it was then called), now commonly known as the Vale of Blackmoor. At that point, the sailor ditched his donkey and found a less obvious entrance to the same park a little further ahead, crossing the grass to take a look around.

He presently perceived amid the trees before him a mansion which, new to himself, was one of the best known in the county at that time. Of this fine manorial residence hardly a trace now remains; but a manuscript dated some years later than the events we are regarding describes it in terms from which the imagination may construct a singularly clear and vivid picture. This record presents it as consisting of 'a faire yellow freestone building, partly two and partly three storeys; a faire halle and parlour, both waynscotted; a faire dyning roome and withdrawing roome, and many good lodgings; a kitchen adjoyninge backwarde to one end of the dwelling-house, with a faire passage from it into the halle, parlour, and dyninge roome, and sellars adjoyninge.

He currently noticed a mansion among the trees in front of him, which, although new to him, was one of the best-known in the county at that time. Hardly any trace of this impressive manor remains today; however, a manuscript dated a few years later than the events we're discussing describes it in such a way that the imagination can create a remarkably clear and vivid picture. This account depicts it as 'a fine yellow freestone building, partly two and partly three stories; a beautiful hall and parlor, both paneled; a lovely dining room and drawing room, along with many good lodgings; a kitchen located at the back of one end of the house, with a nice passage leading from it into the hall, parlor, and dining room, and cellars adjoining.'

'In the front of the house a square greene court, and a curious gatehouse with lodgings in it, standing with the front of the house to the south; in a large outer court three stables, a coach-house, a large barne, and a stable for oxen and kyne, and all houses necessary.

'At the front of the house, there’s a square green courtyard and an interesting gatehouse with living quarters, positioned with the front of the house facing south. In a large outer courtyard, there are three stables, a carriage house, a big barn, and a stable for oxen and cattle, along with all the necessary buildings.'

'Without the gatehouse, paled in, a large square greene, in which standeth a faire chappell; of the south-east side of the greene court, towards the river, a large garden.

'Without the gatehouse, there is a large, fenced-in square green, in which stands a beautiful chapel; on the southeast side of the green court, toward the river, there is a large garden.'

'Of the south-west side of the greene court is a large bowling greene, with fower mounted walks about it, all walled about with a batteled wall, and sett with all sorts of fruit; and out of it into the feildes there are large walks under many tall elmes orderly planted.'

'On the southwest side of the green courtyard is a large bowling green, with four raised pathways around it, all enclosed by a battlemented wall, and planted with all kinds of fruit. From there, large paths lead into the fields, lined with many tall elms planted in an organized manner.'

Then follows a description of the orchards and gardens; the servants' offices, brewhouse, bakehouse, dairy, pigeon-houses, and corn-mill; the river and its abundance of fish; the warren, the coppices, the walks; ending thus-

Then follows a description of the orchards and gardens; the servants' quarters, brew house, bakery, dairy, pigeon lofts, and grain mill; the river and its plentiful fish; the rabbit hutch, the small woods, the paths; ending like this-

'And all the country north of the house, open champaign, sandy feildes, very dry and pleasant for all kindes of recreation, huntinge, and hawkinge, and profitble for tillage . . . The house hath a large prospect east, south, and west, over a very large and pleasant vale . . . is seated from the good markett towns of Sherton Abbas three miles, and Ivel a mile, that plentifully yield all manner of provision; and within twelve miles of the south sea.'

'And all the land north of the house is open fields, sandy areas, very dry and nice for all kinds of recreation, hunting, and falconry, and good for farming... The house has a wide view to the east, south, and west, overlooking a very large and lovely valley... It is located three miles from the good market towns of Sherborne and one mile from Ivel, which provide all types of supplies; and it's within twelve miles of the south coast.'

It was on the grass before this seductive and picturesque structure that the sailor stood at gaze under the elms in the dim dawn of Sunday morning, and saw to his surprise his sister's lover and horse vanish within the court of the building.

It was on the grass in front of this charming and scenic building that the sailor stood watching under the elms in the dim light of Sunday morning, and to his surprise, he saw his sister's boyfriend and horse disappear into the courtyard of the structure.

Perplexed and weary, Roger slowly retreated, more than ever convinced that something was wrong in his sister's position. He crossed the bowling green to the avenue of elms, and, bent on further research, was about to climb into one of these, when, looking below, he saw a heap of hay apparently for horses or deer. Into this he crept, and, having eaten a crust of bread which he had hastily thrust into his pocket at the inn, he curled up and fell asleep, the hay forming a comfortable bed, and quite covering him over.

Confused and tired, Roger slowly stepped back, more certain than ever that something was off with his sister's situation. He walked across the bowling green to the line of elm trees and, eager to investigate further, was about to climb into one of them when he noticed a pile of hay that seemed to be for horses or deer. He crawled into it, and after eating a piece of bread that he had quickly stuffed into his pocket at the inn, he curled up and fell asleep, the hay creating a cozy bed and completely covering him.

He slept soundly and long, and was awakened by the sound of a bell. On peering from the hay he found the time had advanced to full day; the sun was shining brightly. The bell was that of the 'faire chappell' on the green outside the gatehouse, and it was calling to matins. Presently the priest crossed the green to a little side-door in the chancel, and then from the gateway of the mansion emerged the household, the tall man whom Roger had seen with his sister on the previous night, on his arm being a portly dame, and, running beside the pair, two little girls and a boy. These all entered the chapel, and the bell having ceased and the environs become clear, the sailor crept out from his hiding.

He slept deeply and for a long time, only to be woken by the sound of a bell. Looking out from the hay, he realized it was already daytime; the sun was shining brightly. The bell was from the 'fair chapel' in the green outside the gatehouse, calling people to morning services. Soon, the priest walked across the green to a small side door in the chancel, and then the household came out from the mansion's gateway. The tall man Roger had seen with his sister the night before was there, with a plump woman on his arm, along with two little girls and a boy running beside them. They all went into the chapel, and after the bell stopped ringing and the area cleared out, the sailor quietly emerged from his hiding spot.

He sauntered towards the chapel, the opening words of the service being audible within. While standing by the porch he saw a belated servitor approaching from the kitchen-court to attend the service also. Roger carelessly accosted him, and asked, as an idle wanderer, the name of the family he had just seen cross over from the mansion.

He walked casually toward the chapel, the opening words of the service audible inside. While standing by the porch, he noticed a late servant coming from the kitchen courtyard to attend the service as well. Roger casually greeted him and, as if just wandering around, asked the name of the family he had just seen cross from the mansion.

'Od zounds! if ye modden be a stranger here in very truth, goodman. That wer Sir John and his dame, and his children Elizabeth, Mary, and John.'

'Goodness! If you really are a stranger here, my friend. That was Sir John with his wife and his children Elizabeth, Mary, and John.'

'I be from foreign parts. Sir John what d'ye call'n?'

'I’m from overseas. Sir John, what do you call him?'

'Master John Horseleigh, Knight, who had a'most as much lond by inheritance of his mother as 'a had by his father, and likewise some by his wife. Why, bain't his arms dree goolden horses' heads, and idden his lady the daughter of Master Richard Phelipson, of Montislope, in Nether Wessex, known to us all?'

'Master John Horseleigh, Knight, who inherited almost as much land from his mother as he did from his father, and also some from his wife. Why, aren't his arms three golden horse heads, and isn't his lady the daughter of Master Richard Phelipson, of Montislope, in Nether Wessex, known to all of us?'

'It mid be so, and yet it mid not. However, th' 'lt miss thy prayers for such an honest knight's welfare, and I have to traipse seaward many miles.'

"It might be so, and yet it might not. However, I won't miss your prayers for such an honest knight's well-being, and I have to walk many miles toward the sea."

He went onward, and as he walked continued saying to himself, 'Now to that poor wronged fool Edy. The fond thing! I thought it; 'twas too quick-she was ever amorous. What's to become of her! God wot! How be I going to face her with the news, and how be I to hold it from her? To bring this disgrace on my father's honoured name, a double-tongued knave!' He turned and shook his fist at the chapel and all in it, and resumed his way.

He walked on, thinking to himself, 'Poor Edy, that wronged fool. The naive thing! I thought about it; it happened too fast—she was always so attracted to me. What’s going to happen to her? God knows! How am I supposed to tell her the news, and how can I keep it from her? To bring this shame upon my father’s respected name, a two-faced jerk!' He turned and shook his fist at the chapel and everyone in it, and continued on his way.

Perhaps it was owing to the perplexity of his mind that, instead of returning by the direct road towards his sister's obscure lodging in the next county, he followed the highway to Casterbridge, some fifteen miles off, where he remained drinking hard all that afternoon and evening, and where he lay that and two or three succeeding nights, wandering thence along the Anglebury road to some village that way, and lying the Friday night after at his native place of Havenpool. The sight of the familiar objects there seems to have stirred him anew to action, and the next morning he was observed pursuing the way to Oozewood that he had followed on the Saturday previous, reckoning, no doubt, that Saturday night would, as before, be a time for finding Sir John with his sister again.

Maybe it was the confusion in his mind that made him, instead of heading straight back to his sister's small place in the next county, take the road to Casterbridge, about fifteen miles away. He spent that whole afternoon and evening drinking heavily there, and then stayed for two or three more nights. He wandered along the Anglebury road to a village in that direction, and spent the following Friday night back in his hometown of Havenpool. Seeing the familiar sights there seemed to motivate him to take action again, and the next morning, he was seen heading toward Oozewood, the same way he had gone the previous Saturday, probably thinking that Saturday night would, once again, be the right time to find Sir John with his sister.

He delayed to reach the place till just before sunset. His sister was walking in the meadows at the foot of the garden, with a nursemaid who carried the baby, and she looked up pensively when he approached. Anxiety as to her position had already told upon her once rosy cheeks and lucid eyes. But concern for herself and child was displaced for the moment by her regard of Roger's worn and haggard face.

He took his time getting to the place until just before sunset. His sister was walking in the fields at the bottom of the garden with a nanny who was carrying the baby, and she looked up thoughtfully when he got near. Worry about her situation had already taken a toll on her once rosy cheeks and clear eyes. But for the moment, her concern for herself and the child was pushed aside by her attention to Roger's tired and drawn face.

'Why-you are sick, Roger-you are tired! Where have you been these many days? Why not keep me company a bit-my husband is much away? And we have hardly spoke at all of dear father and of your voyage to the New Land. Why did you go away so suddenly? There is a spare chamber at my lodging.'

'Why are you sick, Roger? You seem tired! Where have you been all these days? Why not spend some time with me? My husband is away a lot. We haven't really talked at all about dear father or your trip to the New Land. Why did you leave so suddenly? I have a spare room at my place.'

'Come indoors,' he said. 'We'll talk now-talk a good deal. As for him [nodding to the child], better heave him into the river; better for him and you!'

'Come inside,' he said. 'We'll talk now—talk a lot. As for him [nodding to the child], it's better to throw him in the river; it's better for him and for you!'

She forced a laugh, as if she tried to see a good joke in the remark, and they went silently indoors.

She forced a laugh, as if she were trying to find a good joke in the remark, and they went inside in silence.

'A miserable hole!' said Roger, looking round the room.

'A terrible place!' said Roger, looking around the room.

'Nay, but 'tis very pretty!'

'No, but it’s really pretty!'

'Not after what I've seen. Did he marry 'ee at church in orderly fashion?'

'Not after what I've seen. Did he marry you at church in the proper way?'

'He did sure-at our church at Havenpool.'

'He definitely did—at our church in Havenpool.'

'But in a privy way?'

'But in a private way?'

'Ay-because of his friends-it was at night-time.'

'Ay—because of his friends—it was at night.'

'Ede, ye fond one-for all that he's not thy husband! Th' 'rt not his wife; and the child is a bastard. He hath a wife and children of his own rank, and bearing his name; and that's Sir John Horseleigh, of Clyfton Horseleigh, and not plain Jack, as you think him, and your lawful husband. The sacrament of marriage is no safeguard nowadays. The King's new-made headship of the Church hath led men to practise these tricks lightly.'

'Ede, you naive one—for all that he isn't your husband! You’re not his wife; and the child is illegitimate. He has a wife and children of his own status, and they carry his name; that’s Sir John Horseleigh of Clyfton Horseleigh, not just plain Jack, as you believe him to be, and your lawful husband. The sacrament of marriage doesn’t provide any protection these days. The King’s newly established authority over the Church has allowed men to play these tricks carelessly.'

She had turned white. 'That's not true, Roger!' she said. 'You are in liquor, my brother, and you know not what you say! Your seafaring years have taught 'ee bad things!'

She had gone pale. 'That's not true, Roger!' she said. 'You're drunk, my brother, and you don't know what you're saying! Your years at sea have taught you some bad things!'

'Edith-I've seen them; wife and family-all. How canst-'

'Edith—I’ve seen them; wife and family—all. How can you—'

They were sitting in the gathered darkness, and at that moment steps were heard without. 'Go out this way,' she said. 'It is my husband. He must not see thee in this mood. Get away till to-morrow, Roger, as you care for me.'

They were sitting in the gathered darkness, and at that moment, footsteps were heard outside. 'Go out this way,' she said. 'It’s my husband. He can't see you like this. Leave until tomorrow, Roger, if you care about me.'

She pushed her brother through a door leading to the back stairs, and almost as soon as it was closed her visitor entered. Roger, however, did not retreat down the stairs; he stood and looked through the bobbin- hole. If the visitor turned out to be Sir John, he had determined to confront him.

She pushed her brother through a door that led to the back stairs, and almost as soon as it closed, her visitor walked in. Roger, however, didn’t go back down the stairs; he stood there and looked through the peephole. If the visitor turned out to be Sir John, he had decided to face him.

It was the knight. She had struck a light on his entry, and he kissed the child, and took Edith tenderly by the shoulders, looking into her face.

It was the knight. She had lit a candle when he walked in, and he kissed the child, then gently took Edith by the shoulders, looking into her face.

'Something's gone awry wi' my dear!' he said. 'What is it? What's the matter?'

'Something's gone wrong with my dear!' he said. 'What is it? What's the problem?'

'O, Jack!' she cried. 'I have heard such a fearsome rumour-what doth it mean? He who told me is my best friend. He must be deceived! But who deceived him, and why? Jack, I was just told that you had a wife living when you married me, and have her still!'

'O, Jack!' she cried. 'I’ve heard such a terrible rumor - what does it mean? The person who told me is my best friend. They must be mistaken! But who misled them, and why? Jack, I was just told that you already had a wife when you married me, and that you still have her!'

'A wife?-H'm.'

"A wife? Hm."

'Yes, and children. Say no, say no!'

'Yes, and kids. Just say no, just say no!'

'By God! I have no lawful wife but you; and as for children, many or few, they are all bastards, save this one alone!'

'By God! I have no legal wife but you; and as for children, whether there are many or few, they are all illegitimate, except for this one!'

'And that you be Sir John Horseleigh of Clyfton?'

'So, you must be Sir John Horseleigh of Clyfton?'

'I mid be. I have never said so to 'ee.'

'I might be. I have never said that to you.'

'But Sir John is known to have a lady, and issue of her!'

'But Sir John is known to have a lady and children with her!'

The knight looked down. 'How did thy mind get filled with such as this?' he asked.

The knight looked down. "How did your mind get filled with thoughts like this?" he asked.

'One of my kindred came.'

'One of my family came.'

'A traitor! Why should he mar our life? Ah! you said you had a brother at sea-where is he now?'

'A traitor! Why should he ruin our lives? Ah! you said you had a brother at sea—where is he now?'

'Here!' came from close behind him. And flinging open the door, Roger faced the intruder. 'Liar!' he said, 'to call thyself her husband!'

'Here!' came from just behind him. And flinging the door open, Roger faced the intruder. 'Liar!' he said, 'to call yourself her husband!'

Sir John fired up, and made a rush at the sailor, who seized him by the collar, and in the wrestle they both fell, Roger under. But in a few seconds he contrived to extricate his right arm, and drawing from his belt a knife which he wore attached to a cord round his neck he opened it with his teeth, and struck it into the breast of Sir John stretched above him. Edith had during these moments run into the next room to place the child in safety, and when she came back the knight was relaxing his hold on Roger's throat. He rolled over upon his back and groaned.

Sir John got angry and charged at the sailor, who grabbed him by the collar. During the struggle, they both fell, with Roger ending up underneath. But in a few seconds, he managed to free his right arm. He pulled out a knife that was attached to a cord around his neck, opened it with his teeth, and plunged it into Sir John's chest, who lay above him. While this was happening, Edith had rushed into the next room to put the child in a safe place, and when she returned, the knight was loosening his grip on Roger's throat. Roger rolled onto his back and groaned.

The only witness of the scene save the three concerned was the nursemaid, who had brought in the child on its father's arrival. She stated afterwards that nobody suspected Sir John had received his death wound; yet it was so, though he did not die for a long while, meaning thereby an hour or two; that Mistress Edith continually endeavoured to staunch the blood, calling her brother Roger a wretch, and ordering him to get himself gone; on which order he acted, after a gloomy pause, by opening the window, and letting himself down by the sill to the ground.

The only witness to the scene besides the three involved was the nursemaid, who had brought in the child when its father arrived. She later said that nobody suspected Sir John had been mortally wounded; still, it was true, even though he didn’t die for a while—about an hour or two. Mistress Edith kept trying to stop the bleeding, calling her brother Roger a jerk and telling him to leave. After a moment of silence, he followed her order by opening the window and climbing down to the ground.

It was then that Sir John, in difficult accents, made his dying declaration to the nurse and Edith, and, later, the apothecary; which was to this purport, that the Dame Horseleigh who passed as his wife at Clyfton, and who had borne him three children, was in truth and deed, though unconsciously, the wife of another man. Sir John had married her several years before, in the face of the whole county, as the widow of one Decimus Strong, who had disappeared shortly after her union with him, having adventured to the North to join the revolt of the Nobles, and on that revolt being quelled retreated across the sea. Two years ago, having discovered this man to be still living in France, and not wishing to disturb the mind and happiness of her who believed herself his wife, yet wishing for legitimate issue, Sir John had informed the King of the facts, who had encouraged him to wed honestly, though secretly, the young merchant's widow at Havenpool; she being, therefore, his lawful wife, and she only. That to avoid all scandal and hubbub he had purposed to let things remain as they were till fair opportunity should arise of making the true case known with least pain to all parties concerned, but that, having been thus suspected and attacked by his own brother-in-law, his zest for such schemes and for all things had died out in him, and he only wished to commend his soul to God.

It was then that Sir John, with difficulty, made his dying confession to the nurse and Edith, and later the apothecary. He stated that Dame Horseleigh, who was recognized as his wife at Clyfton and who had given him three children, was actually, though unknowingly, married to another man. Sir John had married her several years earlier, in front of the whole county, as the widow of one Decimus Strong, who had vanished shortly after their marriage, having gone North to join the noble revolt, and after the revolt was put down, he retreated overseas. Two years ago, discovering that this man was still alive in France, and not wanting to upset the mind and happiness of the woman who thought she was his wife but still wanting legitimate children, Sir John had informed the King of the situation. The King had encouraged him to marry openly, though discreetly, the young merchant's widow from Havenpool; thus, she was his legitimate wife and no one else. To avoid any scandal, he had planned to keep everything as it was until a good opportunity arose to reveal the truth with minimal pain to everyone involved, but after being suspected and attacked by his own brother-in-law, his desire for such plans and everything else had faded, and he simply wanted to commend his soul to God.

That night, while the owls were hooting from the forest that encircled the sleeping townlet, and the South-Avon was gurgling through the wooden piles of the bridge, Sir John died there in the arms of his wife. She concealed nothing of the cause of her husband's death save the subject of the quarrel, which she felt it would be premature to announce just then, and until proof of her status should be forthcoming. But before a month had passed, it happened, to her inexpressible sorrow, that the child of this clandestine union fell sick and died. From that hour all interest in the name and fame of the Horseleighs forsook the younger of the twain who called themselves wives of Sir John, and, being careless about her own fame, she took no steps to assert her claims, her legal position having, indeed, grown hateful to her in her horror at the tragedy. And Sir William Byrt, the curate who had married her to her husband, being an old man and feeble, was not disinclined to leave the embers unstirred of such a fiery matter as this, and to assist her in letting established things stand. Therefore, Edith retired with the nurse, her only companion and friend, to her native town, where she lived in absolute obscurity till her death in middle age. Her brother was never seen again in England.

That night, while the owls were hooting in the forest surrounding the sleepy little town, and the South-Avon was bubbling through the wooden supports of the bridge, Sir John died in his wife's arms. She kept quiet about the reason for her husband's death, except for the topic of their quarrel, which she felt was too soon to reveal until she had proof of her status. But within a month, to her deep sorrow, the child from this secret union fell ill and died. From that moment on, the younger of the two women who called themselves wives of Sir John lost all interest in the name and reputation of the Horseleighs. Not caring about her own reputation, she did nothing to claim her rights, her legal standing having become loathsome to her due to the tragedy. Sir William Byrt, the elderly curate who had married her to her husband, was feeble and wasn’t keen on stirring up such a heated issue, choosing instead to help her maintain the status quo. So, Edith withdrew with the nurse, her only companion and friend, to her hometown, where she lived in complete obscurity until her death in middle age. Her brother was never seen again in England.

A strangely corroborative sequel to the story remains to be told. Shortly after the death of Sir John Horseleigh, a soldier of fortune returned from the Continent, called on Dame Horseleigh the fictitious, living in widowed state at Clyfton Horseleigh, and, after a singularly brief courtship, married her. The tradition at Havenpool and elsewhere has ever been that this man was already her husband, Decimus Strong, who remarried her for appearance' sake only.

A strangely confirming sequel to the story is yet to be shared. Soon after Sir John Horseleigh passed away, a soldier of fortune who had returned from abroad visited Dame Horseleigh, who was living as a widow at Clyfton Horseleigh. After a surprisingly short courtship, he married her. The legend in Havenpool and beyond has always been that this man was actually her husband, Decimus Strong, who married her again just for appearances.

The illegitimate son of this lady by Sir John succeeded to the estates and honours, and his son after him, there being nobody on the alert to investigate their pretensions. Little difference would it have made to the present generation, however, had there been such a one, for the family in all its branches, lawful and unlawful, has been extinct these many score years, the last representative but one being killed at the siege of Sherton Castle, while attacking in the service of the Parliament, and the other being outlawed later in the same century for a debt of ten pounds, and dying in the county jail. The mansion house and its appurtenances were, as I have previously stated, destroyed, excepting one small wing, which now forms part of a farmhouse, and is visible as you pass along the railway from Casterbridge to Ivel. The outline of the old bowling-green is also distinctly to be seen.

The illegitimate son of this woman by Sir John inherited the estates and honors, and his son followed him, with no one around to question their claims. It wouldn't have changed anything for the current generation if someone had looked into it, though, because the family, both legitimate and illegitimate, has been gone for many years. The last but one member was killed during the siege of Sherton Castle while fighting for the Parliament, and the other was later outlawed in the same century for a ten-pound debt and died in county jail. The mansion and its grounds, as I mentioned before, were destroyed, except for a small wing that now belongs to a farmhouse and is visible when you ride the train from Casterbridge to Ivel. You can also clearly see the outline of the old bowling green.

This, then, is the reason why the only lawful marriage of Sir John, as recorded in the obscure register at Havenpool, does not appear in the pedigree of the house of Horseleigh.

This is why Sir John’s only legal marriage, noted in the obscure register at Havenpool, doesn’t show up in the family tree of the Horseleigh household.

Spring 1893.

THE DUKE'S REAPPEARANCE-A FAMILY TRADITION

According to the kinsman who told me the story, Christopher Swetman's house, on the outskirts of King's-Hintock village, was in those days larger and better kept than when, many years later, it was sold to the lord of the manor adjoining; after having been in the Swetman family, as one may say, since the Conquest.

According to the relative who shared the story with me, Christopher Swetman's house on the edge of King's-Hintock village was back then bigger and better maintained than it was many years later when it was sold to the lord of the nearby manor; it had been in the Swetman family, so to speak, since the Conquest.

Some people would have it to be that the thing happened at the house opposite, belonging to one Childs, with whose family the Swetmans afterwards intermarried. But that it was at the original homestead of the Swetmans can be shown in various ways; chiefly by the unbroken traditions of the family, and indirectly by the evidence of the walls themselves, which are the only ones thereabout with windows mullioned in the Elizabethan manner, and plainly of a date anterior to the event; while those of the other house might well have been erected fifty or eighty years later, and probably were; since the choice of Swetman's house by the fugitive was doubtless dictated by no other circumstance than its then suitable loneliness.

Some people believe that the incident happened at the house across the street, which belonged to someone named Childs, whose family later intermarried with the Swetmans. However, it's clear that it took place at the original Swetman homestead for various reasons. Primarily, this is supported by the unbroken family traditions and indirectly by the evidence of the walls themselves, which are the only ones in the area that have windows in the Elizabethan style and are definitely older than the event. In contrast, the windows of the other house could easily have been built fifty or eighty years later, and probably were. It seems the fugitive chose the Swetman house simply because it was comfortably isolated at that time.

It was a cloudy July morning just before dawn, the hour of two having been struck by Swetman's one-handed clock on the stairs, that is still preserved in the family. Christopher heard the strokes from his chamber, immediately at the top of the staircase, and overlooking the front of the house. He did not wonder that he was sleepless. The rumours and excitements which had latterly stirred the neighbourhood, to the effect that the rightful King of England had landed from Holland, at a port only eighteen miles to the south-west of Swetman's house, were enough to make wakeful and anxious even a contented yeoman like him. Some of the villagers, intoxicated by the news, had thrown down their scythes, and rushed to the ranks of the invader. Christopher Swetman had weighed both sides of the question, and had remained at home.

It was a cloudy July morning just before dawn, with the clock on the stairs striking two, still kept in the family. Christopher heard the chimes from his room, right at the top of the staircase, overlooking the front of the house. He didn’t question why he couldn’t sleep. The rumors and excitement that had recently stirred the neighborhood—about the rightful King of England landing in Holland, at a port just eighteen miles southwest of his home—were enough to keep even a normally content farmer like him awake and anxious. Some villagers, buzzing with the news, had dropped their scythes and rushed to join the invaders. Christopher Swetman had considered both sides of the situation and decided to stay home.

Now as he lay thinking of these and other things he fancied that he could hear the footfall of a man on the road leading up to his house-a byway, which led scarce anywhere else; and therefore a tread was at any time more apt to startle the inmates of the homestead than if it had stood in a thoroughfare. The footfall came opposite the gate, and stopped there. One minute, two minutes passed, and the pedestrian did not proceed. Christopher Swetman got out of bed, and opened the casement. 'Hoi! who's there?' cries he.

Now, as he lay there thinking about this and other things, he imagined he could hear the footsteps of a man on the road leading up to his house—a narrow path that hardly went anywhere else; so a sound like that was more likely to surprise the people in the house than if it had been on a main road. The footsteps reached the gate and then stopped. One minute, two minutes passed, and the person didn’t move on. Christopher Swetman got out of bed and opened the window. "Hey! Who's there?" he shouted.

'A friend,' came from the darkness.

'And what mid ye want at this time o' night?' says Swetman.

'And what do you want at this time of night?' says Swetman.

'Shelter. I've lost my way.'

"Help. I’ve lost my way."

'What's thy name?'

'What's your name?'

There came no answer.

No answer came.

'Be ye one of King Monmouth's men?'

'Are you one of King Monmouth's men?'

'He that asks no questions will hear no lies from me. I am a stranger; and I am spent, and hungered. Can you let me lie with you to-night?'

'Whoever doesn’t ask questions won’t hear any lies from me. I’m a stranger; I’m exhausted and hungry. Can you let me stay with you tonight?'

Swetman was generous to people in trouble, and his house was roomy. 'Wait a bit,' he said, 'and I'll come down and have a look at thee, anyhow.'

Swetman was kind to those in need, and his home was spacious. 'Hold on a second,' he said, 'and I'll come down and check on you, for sure.'

He struck a light, put on his clothes, and descended, taking his horn- lantern from a nail in the passage, and lighting it before opening the door. The rays fell on the form of a tall, dark man in cavalry accoutrements and wearing a sword. He was pale with fatigue and covered with mud, though the weather was dry.

He lit a match, got dressed, and headed down, grabbing his horn lantern from a hook in the hallway and lighting it before opening the door. The light illuminated the figure of a tall, dark man in cavalry gear and wearing a sword. He looked pale from exhaustion and was covered in mud, even though the weather was dry.

'Prithee take no heed of my appearance,' said the stranger. 'But let me in.'

'Please don’t mind my appearance,' said the stranger. 'Just let me in.'

That his visitor was in sore distress admitted of no doubt, and the yeoman's natural humanity assisted the other's sad importunity and gentle voice. Swetman took him in, not without a suspicion that this man represented in some way Monmouth's cause, to which he was not unfriendly in his secret heart. At his earnest request the new-comer was given a suit of the yeoman's old clothes in exchange for his own, which, with his sword, were hidden in a closet in Swetman's chamber; food was then put before him and a lodging provided for him in a room at the back.

There was no doubt that his visitor was in deep distress, and the yeoman's natural compassion echoed the other man's sad plea and gentle voice. Swetman took him in, not without a suspicion that this man was somehow connected to Monmouth's cause, which he secretly sympathized with. At his earnest request, the newcomer was given a set of the yeoman's old clothes in exchange for his own, which, along with his sword, were hidden in a closet in Swetman's room; food was then offered to him, and a place to stay was arranged in a room at the back.

Here he slept till quite late in the morning, which was Sunday, the sixth of July, and when he came down in the garments that he had borrowed he met the household with a melancholy smile. Besides Swetman himself, there were only his two daughters, Grace and Leonard (the latter was, oddly enough, a woman's name here), and both had been enjoined to secrecy. They asked no questions and received no information; though the stranger regarded their fair countenances with an interest almost too deep. Having partaken of their usual breakfast of ham and cider he professed weariness and retired to the chamber whence he had come.

Here he slept in late on Sunday morning, July 6th, and when he came down in the borrowed clothes, he greeted the household with a wistful smile. Besides Swetman, there were only his two daughters, Grace and Leonard (which was, strangely enough, a woman's name here), and both had been instructed to keep quiet about things. They didn't ask any questions and received no explanations; although the stranger looked at their pretty faces with an interest that was almost too intense. After having their usual breakfast of ham and cider, he claimed to be tired and went back to the room he had come from.

In a couple of hours or thereabout he came down again, the two young women having now gone off to morning service. Seeing Christopher bustling about the house without assistance, he asked if he could do anything to aid his host.

In a couple of hours or so, he came down again, and the two young women had now left for morning service. Seeing Christopher busy around the house without any help, he asked if he could do anything to assist his host.

As he seemed anxious to hide all differences and appear as one of themselves, Swetman set him to get vegetables from the garden and fetch water from Buttock's Spring in the dip near the house (though the spring was not called by that name till years after, by the way).

As he appeared eager to blend in and be just like the others, Swetman had him gather vegetables from the garden and bring water from Buttock's Spring in the low area close to the house (even though the spring wasn't named that until years later, by the way).

'And what can I do next?' says the stranger when these services had been performed.

'And what can I do next?' says the stranger after these services were completed.

His meekness and docility struck Christopher much, and won upon him. 'Since you be minded to,' says the latter, 'you can take down the dishes and spread the table for dinner. Take a pewter plate for thyself, but the trenchers will do for we.'

His gentleness and willingness impressed Christopher a lot and won him over. 'Since you want to,' says the latter, 'you can take down the dishes and set the table for dinner. Take a pewter plate for yourself, but the wooden platters will be fine for us.'

But the other would not, and took a trencher likewise, in doing which he spoke of the two girls and remarked how comely they were.

But the other person wouldn’t, and took a plate as well, during which he mentioned the two girls and commented on how attractive they were.

This quietude was put an end to by a stir out of doors, which was sufficient to draw Swetman's attention to it, and he went out. Farm hands who had gone off and joined the Duke on his arrival had begun to come in with news that a midnight battle had been fought on the moors to the north, the Duke's men, who had attacked, being entirely worsted; the Duke himself, with one or two lords and other friends, had fled, no one knew whither.

This calm was interrupted by some activity outside, which caught Swetman's attention, so he went out. Farmhands who had left to join the Duke when he arrived were starting to return with news that a midnight battle had taken place on the moors to the north. The Duke's men, who had attacked, were completely defeated; the Duke himself, along with a couple of lords and other associates, had fled, but no one knew where they had gone.

'There has been a battle,' says Swetman, on coming indoors after these tidings, and looking earnestly at the stranger.

'There has been a fight,' says Swetman, as he comes inside after hearing this news and looks intently at the stranger.

'May the victory be to the rightful in the end, whatever the issue now,' says the other, with a sorrowful sigh.

'May the rightful win in the end, no matter what the issue is now,' says the other, with a sad sigh.

'Dost really know nothing about it?' said Christopher. 'I could have sworn you was one from that very battle!'

'Dost you really know nothing about it?' said Christopher. 'I could have sworn you were from that very battle!'

'I was here before three o' the clock this morning; and these men have only arrived now.'

'I was here before 3 o'clock this morning, and these guys just got here now.'

'True,' said the yeoman. 'But still, I think-'

'True,' said the yeoman. 'But I still think-'

'Do not press your question,' the stranger urged. 'I am in a strait, and can refuse a helper nothing; such inquiry is, therefore, unfair.'

'Don't push your question,' the stranger urged. 'I'm in a tight spot, and I can't turn down any help; so that kind of inquiry is, therefore, unfair.'

'True again,' said Swetman, and held his tongue.

'That's true again,' said Swetman, and kept quiet.

The daughters of the house returned from church, where the service had been hurried by reason of the excitement. To their father's questioning if they had spoken of him who sojourned there they replied that they had said never a word; which, indeed, was true, as events proved.

The daughters of the house came back from church, where the service had been rushed because of the excitement. When their father asked if they had mentioned the one staying there, they replied that they hadn’t said a word; which, as events showed, was true.

He bade them serve the dinner; and, as the visitor had withdrawn since the news of the battle, prepared to take a platter to him upstairs. But he preferred to come down and dine with the family.

He told them to serve dinner, and since the visitor had gone upstairs after hearing about the battle, he got ready to take a plate up to him. But the visitor chose to come down and eat with the family instead.

During the afternoon more fugitives passed through the village, but Christopher Swetman, his visitor, and his family kept indoors. In the evening, however, Swetman came out from his gate, and, harkening in silence to these tidings and more, wondered what might be in store for him for his last night's work.

During the afternoon, more fugitives passed through the village, but Christopher Swetman, his visitor, and his family stayed inside. In the evening, though, Swetman stepped out from his gate and, listening in silence to the news and more, wondered what consequences his actions from the night before might bring him.

He returned homeward by a path across the mead that skirted his own orchard. Passing here, he heard the voice of his daughter Leonard expostulating inside the hedge, her words being: 'Don't ye, sir; don't! I prithee let me go!'

He walked home along a path through the meadow that bordered his orchard. As he passed by, he heard his daughter Leonard's voice calling from inside the hedge, saying, "Please, sir; don't! I really want to go!"

'Why, sweetheart?'

'Why, babe?'

'Because I've a-promised another!'

'Because I've promised someone else!'

Peeping through, as he could not help doing, he saw the girl struggling in the arms of the stranger, who was attempting to kiss her; but finding her resistance to be genuine, and her distress unfeigned, he reluctantly let her go.

Peeking through, which he couldn't help but do, he saw the girl fighting to escape from the stranger, who was trying to kiss her; but when he realized that she was truly resisting and genuinely upset, he hesitantly released her.

Swetman's face grew dark, for his girls were more to him than himself. He hastened on, meditating moodily all the way. He entered the gate, and made straight for the orchard. When he reached it his daughter had disappeared, but the stranger was still standing there.

Swetman's face fell, because his daughters meant more to him than anything else. He hurried on, lost in gloomy thoughts the whole way. He entered the gate and headed straight for the orchard. When he got there, his daughter was gone, but the stranger was still standing there.

'Sir!' said the yeoman, his anger having in no wise abated, 'I've seen what has happened! I have taken 'ee into my house, at some jeopardy to myself; and, whoever you be, the least I expected of 'ee was to treat the maidens with a seemly respect. You have not done it, and I no longer trust you. I am the more watchful over them in that they are motherless; and I must ask 'ee to go after dark this night!'

'Sir!' said the yeoman, still angry, 'I saw what happened! I took you into my house, risking my own safety; and whoever you are, the least I expected from you was to treat the young women with proper respect. You haven't done that, and I no longer trust you. I'm especially protective of them since they're motherless, and I must ask you to leave after dark tonight!'

The stranger seemed dazed at discovering what his impulse had brought down upon his head, and his pale face grew paler. He did not reply for a time. When he did speak his soft voice was thick with feeling.

The stranger looked stunned as he realized what his impulse had caused, and his pale face became even paler. He didn’t respond for a while. When he finally spoke, his gentle voice was heavy with emotion.

'Sir,' says he, 'I own that I am in the wrong, if you take the matter gravely. We do not what we would but what we must. Though I have not injured your daughter as a woman, I have been treacherous to her as a hostess and friend in need. I'll go, as you say; I can do no less. I shall doubtless find a refuge elsewhere.'

'Sir,' he says, 'I admit that I am wrong, if you see it seriously. We don't always do what we want but what we have to. Even though I haven't harmed your daughter as a woman, I've betrayed her as a hostess and a friend in need. I'll leave, as you insist; I can do no less. I'm sure I'll find shelter somewhere else.'

They walked towards the house in silence, where Swetman insisted that his guest should have supper before departing. By the time this was eaten it was dusk and the stranger announced that he was ready.

They walked to the house in silence, where Swetman insisted that his guest have dinner before leaving. By the time they finished eating, it was getting dark, and the stranger said he was ready.

They went upstairs to where the garments and sword lay hidden, till the departing one said that on further thought he would ask another favour: that he should be allowed to retain the clothes he wore, and that his host would keep the others and the sword till he, the speaker, should come or send for them.

They went upstairs to where the clothes and sword were hidden, until the departing person said that upon further reflection, he would like to ask one more favor: he wished to keep the clothes he was wearing, and he asked his host to hold onto the others and the sword until he, the speaker, came back or sent for them.

'As you will,' said Swetman. 'The gain is on my side; for those clouts were but kept to dress a scarecrow next fall.'

'As you wish,' said Swetman. 'The benefit is mine; those rags were just saved to cover a scarecrow next fall.'

'They suit my case,' said the stranger sadly. 'However much they may misfit me, they do not misfit my sorry fortune now!'

'They fit my situation,' said the stranger sadly. 'No matter how poorly they suit me, they perfectly match my unfortunate circumstances now!'

'Nay, then,' said Christopher relenting, 'I was too hasty. Sh'lt bide!'

'Nay, then,' said Christopher, softening, 'I was too quick to judge. She'll stay!'

But the other would not, saying that it was better that things should take their course. Notwithstanding that Swetman importuned him, he only added, 'If I never come again, do with my belongings as you list. In the pocket you will find a gold snuff-box, and in the snuff-box fifty gold pieces.'

But the other refused, saying it was better to let things happen as they should. Even though Swetman urged him, he just added, 'If I never return, do as you wish with my things. In the pocket, you'll find a gold snuffbox, and in the snuffbox, there are fifty gold coins.'

'But keep 'em for thy use, man!' said the yeoman.

'But save them for yourself, man!' said the yeoman.

'No,' says the parting guest; 'they are foreign pieces and would harm me if I were taken. Do as I bid thee. Put away these things again and take especial charge of the sword. It belonged to my father's father and I value it much. But something more common becomes me now.'

'No,' says the departing guest; 'they're foreign items and would bring me trouble if I were captured. Do as I ask. Put these things away again and take extra care of the sword. It belonged to my grandfather and I value it greatly. But something more ordinary suits me now.'

Saying which, he took, as he went downstairs, one of the ash sticks used by Swetman himself for walking with. The yeoman lighted him out to the garden hatch, where he disappeared through Clammers Gate by the road that crosses King's-Hintock Park to Evershead.

Saying that, he grabbed one of the ash walking sticks that Swetman himself used as he went downstairs. The yeoman led him to the garden hatch, where he left through Clammers Gate, heading down the road that goes through King’s Hintock Park to Evershead.

Christopher returned to the upstairs chamber, and sat down on his bed reflecting. Then he examined the things left behind, and surely enough in one of the pockets the gold snuff-box was revealed, containing the fifty gold pieces as stated by the fugitive. The yeoman next looked at the sword which its owner had stated to have belonged to his grandfather. It was two-edged, so that he almost feared to handle it. On the blade was inscribed the words 'ANDREA FERARA,' and among the many fine chasings were a rose and crown, the plume of the Prince of Wales, and two portraits; portraits of a man and a woman, the man's having the face of the first King Charles, and the woman's, apparently, that of his Queen.

Christopher went back to the upstairs room and sat on his bed, lost in thought. Then he checked the things he had left behind, and sure enough, he found the gold snuff box in one of the pockets, which contained the fifty gold coins the fugitive had mentioned. Next, the yeoman looked at the sword that its owner said had belonged to his grandfather. It was double-edged, making him hesitate to handle it. The blade had the words 'ANDREA FERARA' engraved on it, and among the intricate designs were a rose and crown, the plume of the Prince of Wales, and two portraits; one of a man who resembled the first King Charles, and the other of a woman who appeared to be his Queen.

Swetman, much awed and surprised, returned the articles to the closet, and went downstairs pondering. Of his surmise he said nothing to his daughters, merely declaring to them that the gentleman was gone; and never revealing that he had been an eye-witness of the unpleasant scene in the orchard that was the immediate cause of the departure.

Swetman, feeling both amazed and shocked, put the items back in the closet and went downstairs deep in thought. He said nothing to his daughters about his suspicions, simply telling them that the gentleman had left; he never mentioned that he had witnessed the awkward scene in the orchard that had directly led to the man's departure.

Nothing occurred in Hintock during the week that followed, beyond the fitful arrival of more decided tidings concerning the utter defeat of the Duke's army and his own disappearance at an early stage of the battle. Then it was told that Monmouth was taken, not in his own clothes but in the disguise of a countryman. He had been sent to London, and was confined in the Tower.

Nothing happened in Hintock during the following week, except for the sporadic arrival of clearer news about the complete defeat of the Duke's army and his own disappearance early in the battle. Then it was reported that Monmouth was captured, not in his own clothes but disguised as a countryman. He was taken to London and locked up in the Tower.

The possibility that his guest had been no other than the Duke made Swetman unspeakably sorry now; his heart smote him at the thought that, acting so harshly for such a small breach of good faith, he might have been the means of forwarding the unhappy fugitive's capture. On the girls coming up to him he said, 'Get away with ye, wenches: I fear you have been the ruin of an unfortunate man!'

The thought that his guest might have been the Duke left Swetman feeling incredibly sorry; he was plagued by guilt at the idea that, by being so harsh over such a minor breach of trust, he could have played a role in the unfortunate fugitive's capture. When the girls approached him, he said, "Get away from me, you girls: I fear you might have brought ruin to an unfortunate man!"

On the Tuesday night following, when the yeoman was sleeping as usual in his chamber, he was, he said, conscious of the entry of some one. Opening his eyes, he beheld by the light of the moon, which shone upon the front of his house, the figure of a man who seemed to be the stranger moving from the door towards the closet. He was dressed somewhat differently now, but the face was quite that of his late guest in its tragical pensiveness, as was also the tallness of his figure. He neared the closet; and, feeling his visitor to be within his rights, Christopher refrained from stirring. The personage turned his large haggard eyes upon the bed where Swetman lay, and then withdrew from their hiding the articles that belonged to him, again giving a hard gaze at Christopher as he went noiselessly out of the chamber with his properties on his arm. His retreat down the stairs was just audible, and also his departure by the side door, through which entrance or exit was easy to those who knew the place.

On the Tuesday night that followed, while the yeoman was sleeping in his room as usual, he felt someone entering. When he opened his eyes, he saw by the moonlight shining on the front of his house a figure that looked like the stranger moving from the door toward the closet. He was dressed a bit differently now, but the face was unmistakably that of his late guest, filled with tragic melancholy, just as the tallness of his figure was the same. He approached the closet; and sensing that his visitor had every right to be there, Christopher stayed still. The figure turned his large, tired eyes toward the bed where Swetman lay, then took out the belongings that were his, giving Christopher one last hard look before quietly leaving the room with his items in hand. The sound of his footsteps going down the stairs was barely audible, as was his exit through the side door, which was easy for those familiar with the place to use.

Nothing further happened, and towards morning Swetman slept. To avoid all risk he said not a word to the girls of the visit of the night, and certainly not to any one outside the house; for it was dangerous at that time to avow anything.

Nothing else happened, and by morning, Swetman was asleep. To prevent any risk, he kept quiet about the night's visit to the girls and definitely didn’t mention it to anyone outside the house; it was too risky to admit anything at that time.

Among the killed in opposing the recent rising had been a younger brother of the lord of the manor, who lived at King's-Hintock Court hard by. Seeing the latter ride past in mourning clothes next day, Swetman ventured to condole with him.

Among those who were killed in opposing the recent uprising was the younger brother of the lord of the manor, who lived at King's-Hintock Court nearby. The next day, seeing him ride past in mourning clothes, Swetman took the chance to express his condolences.

'He'd no business there!' answered the other. His words and manner showed the bitterness that was mingled with his regret. 'But say no more of him. You know what has happened since, I suppose?'

'He shouldn't have been there!' replied the other. His tone and demeanor revealed the bitterness mixed with his regret. 'But let's not talk about him anymore. You know what’s happened since, right?'

'I know that they say Monmouth is taken, Sir Thomas, but I can't think it true,' answered Swetman.

'I know they say Monmouth has been captured, Sir Thomas, but I can't believe it's true,' replied Swetman.

'O zounds! 'tis true enough,' cried the knight, 'and that's not all. The Duke was executed on Tower Hill two days ago.'

'Oh wow! It's definitely true,' shouted the knight, 'and that's not even everything. The Duke was executed on Tower Hill two days ago.'

'D'ye say it verily?' says Swetman.

"Do you really mean it?" says Swetman.

'And a very hard death he had, worse luck for 'n,' said Sir Thomas. 'Well, 'tis over for him and over for my brother. But not for the rest. There'll be searchings and siftings down here anon; and happy is the man who has had nothing to do with this matter!'

'And he had a really tough death, worse luck for him,' said Sir Thomas. 'Well, it’s over for him and for my brother. But not for the others. There’ll be investigations and scrutiny down here soon; and lucky is the man who has had nothing to do with this situation!'

Now Swetman had hardly heard the latter words, so much was he confounded by the strangeness of the tidings that the Duke had come to his death on the previous Tuesday. For it had been only the night before this present day of Friday that he had seen his former guest, whom he had ceased to doubt could be other than the Duke, come into his chamber and fetch away his accoutrements as he had promised.

Now Swetman had barely heard the last part, as he was so shocked by the strange news that the Duke had died the previous Tuesday. For just the night before this Friday, he had seen his former guest, whom he no longer doubted was the Duke, come into his room and take away his belongings as promised.

'It couldn't have been a vision,' said Christopher to himself when the knight had ridden on. 'But I'll go straight and see if the things be in the closet still; and thus I shall surely learn if 'twere a vision or no.'

'It couldn't have been a vision,' Christopher said to himself after the knight had ridden away. 'But I'm going to go check the closet to see if the things are still there; that way, I’ll definitely find out if it was a vision or not.'

To the closet he went, which he had not looked into since the stranger's departure. And searching behind the articles placed to conceal the things hidden, he found that, as he had never doubted, they were gone.

To the closet he went, which he hadn't checked since the stranger left. And searching behind the items put there to hide the hidden things, he found that, just as he'd always believed, they were gone.

When the rumour spread abroad in the West that the man beheaded in the Tower was not indeed the Duke, but one of his officers taken after the battle, and that the Duke had been assisted to escape out of the country, Swetman found in it an explanation of what so deeply mystified him. That his visitor might have been a friend of the Duke's, whom the Duke had asked to fetch the things in a last request, Swetman would never admit. His belief in the rumour that Monmouth lived, like that of thousands of others, continued to the end of his days.

When the rumor spread in the West that the man beheaded in the Tower wasn't actually the Duke, but one of his officers captured after the battle, and that the Duke had been helped to escape the country, Swetman found this to be the explanation for what had confounded him so much. Swetman would never allow himself to believe that his visitor could have been a friend of the Duke's, sent by the Duke to collect his belongings as a last request. His faith in the rumor that Monmouth was alive, like that of thousands of others, lasted until the end of his life.

Such, briefly, concluded my kinsman, is the tradition which has been handed down in Christopher Swetman's family for the last two hundred years.

Such, briefly, concluded my relative, is the tradition that has been passed down in Christopher Swetman's family for the last two hundred years.

A MERE INTERLUDE

CHAPTER I

The traveller in school-books, who vouched in dryest tones for the fidelity to fact of the following narrative, used to add a ring of truth to it by opening with a nicety of criticism on the heroine's personality. People were wrong, he declared, when they surmised that Baptista Trewthen was a young woman with scarcely emotions or character. There was nothing in her to love, and nothing to hate-so ran the general opinion. That she showed few positive qualities was true. The colours and tones which changing events paint on the faces of active womankind were looked for in vain upon hers. But still waters run deep; and no crisis had come in the years of her early maidenhood to demonstrate what lay hidden within her, like metal in a mine.

The traveler in textbooks, who stated in the driest manner the truthfulness of the following story, would often add an element of authenticity by starting with a sharp critique of the heroine's character. People were mistaken, he claimed, when they assumed that Baptista Trewthen was a young woman lacking emotions or personality. There was nothing about her to love or to hate—this was the common view. It was true that she displayed few strong traits. The colors and shades that changing experiences bring out in active women were absent from her. However, still waters run deep; and no significant event had occurred during her early years to reveal what was hidden inside her, like ore in a mine.

She was the daughter of a small farmer in St. Maria's, one of the Isles of Lyonesse beyond Off-Wessex, who had spent a large sum, as there understood, on her education, by sending her to the mainland for two years. At nineteen she was entered at the Training College for Teachers, and at twenty-one nominated to a school in the country, near Tor-upon-Sea, whither she proceeded after the Christmas examination and holidays.

She was the daughter of a small farmer in St. Maria's, one of the Isles of Lyonesse beyond Off-Wessex, who had invested a significant amount in her education by sending her to the mainland for two years. At nineteen, she enrolled in the Training College for Teachers, and by twenty-one, she was assigned to a school in the countryside near Tor-upon-Sea, where she went after the Christmas exams and holiday break.

The months passed by from winter to spring and summer, and Baptista applied herself to her new duties as best she could, till an uneventful year had elapsed. Then an air of abstraction pervaded her bearing as she walked to and fro, twice a day, and she showed the traits of a person who had something on her mind. A widow, by name Mrs. Wace, in whose house Baptista Trewthen had been provided with a sitting-room and bedroom till the school-house should be built, noticed this change in her youthful tenant's manner, and at last ventured to press her with a few questions.

The months went by from winter to spring and summer, and Baptista did her best to adjust to her new responsibilities until a year went by without much happening. Then, there was a sense of distraction in how she carried herself as she walked back and forth twice a day, and she began to show signs of someone who had something on her mind. A widow named Mrs. Wace, who had given Baptista Trewthen a sitting room and bedroom until the schoolhouse was built, noticed this shift in her young tenant's behavior and finally decided to ask her a few questions.

'It has nothing to do with the place, nor with you,' said Miss Trewthen.

'It has nothing to do with the location, nor with you,' said Miss Trewthen.

'Then it is the salary?'

'So, is it the salary?'

'No, nor the salary.'

'No, not the salary either.'

'Then it is something you have heard from home, my dear.'

'Then it's something you've heard from home, my dear.'

Baptista was silent for a few moments. 'It is Mr. Heddegan,' she murmured. 'Him they used to call David Heddegan before he got his money.'

Baptista was quiet for a moment. 'It's Mr. Heddegan,' she said softly. 'They used to call him David Heddegan before he got rich.'

'And who is the Mr. Heddegan they used to call David?'

'An old bachelor at Giant's Town, St. Maria's, with no relations whatever, who lives about a stone's throw from father's. When I was a child he used to take me on his knee and say he'd marry me some day. Now I am a woman the jest has turned earnest, and he is anxious to do it. And father and mother says I can't do better than have him.'

'There's an old bachelor in Giant's Town, St. Maria's, who has no family at all and lives just a short distance from my father's place. When I was a kid, he would sit me on his knee and joke about marrying me someday. Now that I'm an adult, he's serious about it, and he really wants to go through with it. My parents say I couldn't do better than to marry him.'

'He's well off?'

'Is he wealthy?'

'Yes-he's the richest man we know-as a friend and neighbour.'

'Yeah, he's the richest guy we know—as a friend and neighbor.'

'How much older did you say he was than yourself?'

'How much older did you say he is than you?'

'I didn't say. Twenty years at least.'

'I didn't say. At least twenty years.'

'And an unpleasant man in the bargain perhaps?'

'And a disagreeable man to boot, maybe?'

'No-he's not unpleasant.'

'No, he’s not a jerk.'

'Well, child, all I can say is that I'd resist any such engagement if it's not palatable to 'ee. You are comfortable here, in my little house, I hope. All the parish like 'ee: and I've never been so cheerful, since my poor husband left me to wear his wings, as I've been with 'ee as my lodger.'

'Well, kid, all I can say is that I'd resist any engagement if it doesn't suit you. You feel comfortable here, in my little house, I hope. Everyone in the parish likes you; and I've never been so cheerful, since my poor husband passed away and became an angel, as I have been with you as my lodger.'

The schoolmistress assured her landlady that she could return the sentiment. 'But here comes my perplexity,' she said. 'I don't like keeping school. Ah, you are surprised-you didn't suspect it. That's because I've concealed my feeling. Well, I simply hate school. I don't care for children-they are unpleasant, troublesome little things, whom nothing would delight so much as to hear that you had fallen down dead. Yet I would even put up with them if it was not for the inspector. For three months before his visit I didn't sleep soundly. And the Committee of Council are always changing the Code, so that you don't know what to teach, and what to leave untaught. I think father and mother are right. They say I shall never excel as a schoolmistress if I dislike the work so, and that therefore I ought to get settled by marrying Mr. Heddegan. Between us two, I like him better than school; but I don't like him quite so much as to wish to marry him.'

The schoolmistress assured her landlady that she felt the same way. "But here’s my dilemma," she said. "I really don’t like teaching. Ah, you're surprised—you didn’t see that coming. That’s because I’ve been hiding my feelings. Well, I absolutely hate it. I’m not fond of kids—they're annoying, troublesome little beings who would be thrilled to hear that you've dropped dead. Still, I could even tolerate them if it weren't for the inspector. For three months before his visit, I couldn’t sleep well. And the Committee of Council keeps changing the rules, so you never know what to teach and what to leave out. I think my parents are right. They say I'll never be great at this if I dislike it so much, and that’s why I should settle down by marrying Mr. Heddegan. Between the two of us, I like him more than teaching; but I don’t like him enough to want to marry him."

These conversations, once begun, were continued from day to day; till at length the young girl's elderly friend and landlady threw in her opinion on the side of Miss Trewthen's parents. All things considered, she declared, the uncertainty of the school, the labour, Baptista's natural dislike for teaching, it would be as well to take what fate offered, and make the best of matters by wedding her father's old neighbour and prosperous friend.

These conversations, once they started, continued day after day until finally, the young girl's older friend and landlady shared her opinion in support of Miss Trewthen's parents. All things considered, she said, given the uncertainty of the school, the hard work, and Baptista's natural dislike for teaching, it would be better to accept what fate had in store and make the best of the situation by marrying her father's old neighbor and successful friend.

The Easter holidays came round, and Baptista went to spend them as usual in her native isle, going by train into Off-Wessex and crossing by packet from Pen-zephyr. When she returned in the middle of April her face wore a more settled aspect.

The Easter holidays rolled around, and Baptista went to spend them as she usually did in her hometown, taking the train into Off-Wessex and crossing by ferry from Pen-zephyr. When she returned in mid-April, her face had a calmer expression.

'Well?' said the expectant Mrs. Wace.

'Well?' asked the eager Mrs. Wace.

'I have agreed to have him as my husband,' said Baptista, in an off-hand way. 'Heaven knows if it will be for the best or not. But I have agreed to do it, and so the matter is settled.'

'I’ve agreed to have him as my husband,' said Baptista casually. 'God knows if it will turn out well or not. But I’ve made my decision, so that’s settled.'

Mrs. Wace commended her; but Baptista did not care to dwell on the subject; so that allusion to it was very infrequent between them. Nevertheless, among other things, she repeated to the widow from time to time in monosyllabic remarks that the wedding was really impending; that it was arranged for the summer, and that she had given notice of leaving the school at the August holidays. Later on she announced more specifically that her marriage was to take place immediately after her return home at the beginning of the month aforesaid.

Mrs. Wace praised her; however, Baptista didn't want to spend much time on the topic, so references to it were quite rare between them. Still, she occasionally reminded the widow in short comments that the wedding was really on the way; that it was set for the summer, and that she had informed the school of her departure during the August break. Later, she more specifically stated that her marriage would happen right after she got back home at the beginning of the mentioned month.

She now corresponded regularly with Mr. Heddegan. Her letters from him were seen, at least on the outside, and in part within, by Mrs. Wace. Had she read more of their interiors than the occasional sentences shown her by Baptista she would have perceived that the scratchy, rusty handwriting of Miss Trewthen's betrothed conveyed little more matter than details of their future housekeeping, and his preparations for the same, with innumerable 'my dears' sprinkled in disconnectedly, to show the depth of his affection without the inconveniences of syntax.

She was now in regular contact with Mr. Heddegan. Mrs. Wace saw her letters from him, at least on the outside, and partially on the inside. If she had read more of their contents than the occasional sentences shown to her by Baptista, she would have realized that the messy, shaky handwriting of Miss Trewthen's fiancé revealed little more than plans for their future household and his preparations for it, with countless ‘my dears’ scattered throughout, intended to express the depth of his affection without the hassle of proper sentence structure.

CHAPTER II

It was the end of July-dry, too dry, even for the season, the delicate green herbs and vegetables that grew in this favoured end of the kingdom tasting rather of the watering-pot than of the pure fresh moisture from the skies. Baptista's boxes were packed, and one Saturday morning she departed by a waggonette to the station, and thence by train to Pen- zephyr, from which port she was, as usual, to cross the water immediately to her home, and become Mr. Heddegan's wife on the Wednesday of the week following.

It was the end of July—dry, too dry, even for this time of year. The delicate green herbs and vegetables that grew in this favored part of the kingdom tasted more like the water from a can than the fresh moisture from the sky. Baptista's boxes were packed, and on one Saturday morning, she took a wagon to the station and then a train to Penzephyr, from which port she was, as usual, to cross the water straight to her home and become Mr. Heddegan's wife on the Wednesday of the following week.

She might have returned a week sooner. But though the wedding day had loomed so near, and the banns were out, she delayed her departure till this last moment, saying it was not necessary for her to be at home long beforehand. As Mr. Heddegan was older than herself, she said, she was to be married in her ordinary summer bonnet and grey silk frock, and there were no preparations to make that had not been amply made by her parents and intended husband.

She could have come back a week earlier. But even though the wedding day was so close and the announcements were out, she postponed her departure until the last moment, saying it wasn't necessary for her to be home too early. Since Mr. Heddegan was older than she was, she said she would be getting married in her regular summer hat and gray silk dress, and there was nothing left to prepare that her parents and future husband hadn’t already taken care of.

In due time, after a hot and tedious journey, she reached Pen-zephyr. She here obtained some refreshment, and then went towards the pier, where she learnt to her surprise that the little steamboat plying between the town and the islands had left at eleven o'clock; the usual hour of departure in the afternoon having been forestalled in consequence of the fogs which had for a few days prevailed towards evening, making twilight navigation dangerous.

In time, after a long and exhausting journey, she arrived at Pen-zephyr. She got some refreshments there and then headed toward the pier, where she was surprised to learn that the small steamboat that ran between the town and the islands had left at eleven o'clock. The usual departure time in the afternoon had been moved up due to the fogs that had been making evening navigation risky for the past few days.

This being Saturday, there was now no other boat till Tuesday, and it became obvious that here she would have to remain for the three days, unless her friends should think fit to rig out one of the island' sailing-boats and come to fetch her-a not very likely contingency, the sea distance being nearly forty miles.

This being Saturday, there wouldn't be another boat until Tuesday, and it became clear that she would have to stay here for the next three days, unless her friends decided to prepare one of the island's sailing boats to come get her—a scenario that seemed quite unlikely, as the sea distance was nearly forty miles.

Baptista, however, had been detained in Pen-zephyr on more than one occasion before, either on account of bad weather or some such reason as the present, and she was therefore not in any personal alarm. But, as she was to be married on the following Wednesday, the delay was certainly inconvenient to a more than ordinary degree, since it would leave less than a day's interval between her arrival and the wedding ceremony.

Baptista, however, had been stuck in Pen-zephyr more than once before, either because of bad weather or something similar to the situation now, so she wasn't personally worried. But since she was set to get married the following Wednesday, the delay was definitely more inconvenient than usual, leaving less than a day's gap between her arrival and the wedding.

Apart from this awkwardness she did not much mind the accident. It was indeed curious to see how little she minded. Perhaps it would not be too much to say that, although she was going to do the critical deed of her life quite willingly, she experienced an indefinable relief at the postponement of her meeting with Heddegan. But her manner after making discovery of the hindrance was quiet and subdued, even to passivity itself; as was instanced by her having, at the moment of receiving information that the steamer had sailed, replied 'Oh,' so coolly to the porter with her luggage, that he was almost disappointed at her lack of disappointment.

Aside from feeling a bit awkward, she didn't really mind the accident. It was actually surprising how little it bothered her. It might not be an exaggeration to say that, even though she was about to do the most important thing in her life willingly, she felt a strange sense of relief at having her meeting with Heddegan delayed. However, after learning about the delay, her demeanor was calm and subdued, almost passive; this was evident when, upon hearing that the steamer had left, she simply responded with a casual "Oh" to the porter with her luggage, leaving him almost disappointed by her lack of disappointment.

The question now was, should she return again to Mrs. Wace, in the village of Lower Wessex, or wait in the town at which she had arrived. She would have preferred to go back, but the distance was too great; moreover, having left the place for good, and somewhat dramatically, to become a bride, a return, even for so short a space, would have been a trifle humiliating.

The question now was, should she go back to Mrs. Wace in the village of Lower Wessex, or stay in the town where she had arrived? She would have preferred to return, but the distance was too far; besides, having left the place for good, and quite dramatically, to become a bride, going back, even for a little while, would have been a bit humiliating.

Leaving, then, her boxes at the station, her next anxiety was to secure a respectable, or rather genteel, lodging in the popular seaside resort confronting her. To this end she looked about the town, in which, though she had passed through it half-a-dozen times, she was practically a stranger.

Leaving her bags at the station, her next worry was to find a decent, or rather upscale, place to stay in the popular seaside resort in front of her. To achieve this, she explored the town, where, despite having gone through it several times, she was essentially a stranger.

Baptista found a room to suit her over a fruiterer's shop; where she made herself at home, and set herself in order after her journey. An early cup of tea having revived her spirits she walked out to reconnoitre.

Baptista found a room above a fruit shop; she made herself comfortable and got settled after her journey. After an early cup of tea boosted her spirits, she went out to explore.

Being a schoolmistress she avoided looking at the schools, and having a sort of trade connection with books, she avoided looking at the booksellers; but wearying of the other shops she inspected the churches; not that for her own part she cared much about ecclesiastical edifices; but tourists looked at them, and so would she-a proceeding for which no one would have credited her with any great originality, such, for instance, as that she subsequently showed herself to possess. The churches soon oppressed her. She tried the Museum, but came out because it seemed lonely and tedious.

Being a schoolteacher, she steered clear of the schools, and since she had some sort of connection with books, she avoided the bookstores as well. Tired of the other shops, she decided to check out the churches; not that she was particularly interested in religious buildings, but tourists visited them, so she figured she might as well do the same—a choice that wouldn’t have earned her any accolades for creativity, unlike the originality she would later show. The churches quickly wore her out. She tried going to the Museum but left because it felt lonely and boring.

Yet the town and the walks in this land of strawberries, these headquarters of early English flowers and fruit, were then, as always, attractive. From the more picturesque streets she went to the town gardens, and the Pier, and the Harbour, and looked at the men at work there, loading and unloading as in the time of the Phoenicians.

Yet the town and the paths in this strawberry region, the hub of early English flowers and fruit, were still as appealing as ever. She moved from the more charming streets to the town gardens, the Pier, and the Harbour, watching the men at work there, loading and unloading just like in the days of the Phoenicians.

'Not Baptista? Yes, Baptista it is!'

'Not Baptista? Yes, it's him!'

The words were uttered behind her. Turning round she gave a start, and became confused, even agitated, for a moment. Then she said in her usual undemonstrative manner, 'O-is it really you, Charles?'

The words were spoken behind her. She turned around, startled, and felt a bit confused and even flustered for a moment. Then she replied in her usual reserved way, "Oh, is it really you, Charles?"

Without speaking again at once, and with a half-smile, the new-comer glanced her over. There was much criticism, and some resentment-even temper-in his eye.

Without saying anything else right away, and with a faint smile, the newcomer sized her up. There was a lot of criticism, and some resentment—even anger—in his gaze.

'I am going home,' continued she. 'But I have missed the boat.'

'I’m going home,' she continued. 'But I missed the boat.'

He scarcely seemed to take in the meaning of this explanation, in the intensity of his critical survey. 'Teaching still? What a fine schoolmistress you make, Baptista, I warrant!' he said with a slight flavour of sarcasm, which was not lost upon her.

He barely seemed to understand the meaning of this explanation, so focused was he on his intense analysis. "Still teaching? What a great schoolmistress you are, Baptista, I bet!" he said with a hint of sarcasm, which she definitely noticed.

'I know I am nothing to brag of,' she replied. 'That's why I have given up.'

'I know I'm not anything to boast about,' she replied. 'That's why I've given up.'

'O-given up? You astonish me.'

'Oh, given up? You amaze me.'

'I hate the profession.'

'I dislike the profession.'

'Perhaps that's because I am in it.'

'Maybe that's because I'm a part of it.'

'O no, it isn't. But I am going to enter on another life altogether. I am going to be married next week to Mr. David Heddegan.'

'O no, it isn't. But I am going to start a completely different life. I’m getting married next week to Mr. David Heddegan.'

The young man-fortified as he was by a natural cynical pride and passionateness-winced at this unexpected reply, notwithstanding.

The young man, bolstered by his natural cynicism and passion, flinched at this surprising response, nonetheless.

'Who is Mr. David Heddegan?' he asked, as indifferently as lay in his power.

'Who is Mr. David Heddegan?' he asked, as casually as he could.

She informed him the bearer of the name was a general merchant of Giant's Town, St. Maria's island-her father's nearest neighbour and oldest friend.

She told him that the person with that name was a general merchant from Giant's Town, St. Maria's island—her father's closest neighbor and oldest friend.

'Then we shan't see anything more of you on the mainland?' inquired the schoolmaster.

'So we won't see you again on the mainland?' the schoolmaster asked.

'O, I don't know about that,' said Miss Trewthen.

'O, I don’t know about that,' said Miss Trewthen.

'Here endeth the career of the belle of the boarding-school your father was foolish enough to send you to. A "general merchant's" wife in the Lyonesse Isles. Will you sell pounds of soap and pennyworths of tin tacks, or whole bars of saponaceous matter, and great tenpenny nails?'

'Here ends the story of the beauty of the boarding school your father was silly enough to send you to. A "general merchant's" wife in the Lyonesse Isles. Will you sell pounds of soap and cheap tin tacks, or entire bars of soap and big tenpenny nails?'

'He's not in such a small way as that!' she almost pleaded. 'He owns ships, though they are rather little ones!'

'He's not that insignificant!' she almost pleaded. 'He owns ships, even if they're pretty small!'

'O, well, it is much the same. Come, let us walk on; it is tedious to stand still. I thought you would be a failure in education,' he continued, when she obeyed him and strolled ahead. 'You never showed power that way. You remind me much of some of those women who think they are sure to be great actresses if they go on the stage, because they have a pretty face, and forget that what we require is acting. But you found your mistake, didn't you?'

'O, well, it's pretty much the same. Come on, let's keep walking; it's boring to just stand here. I thought you’d struggle with your education,' he said as she followed him and walked ahead. 'You never really showed any talent for it. You remind me of those women who think they’ll be amazing actresses just because they’re pretty, not realizing that what matters is actual acting. But you figured out your mistake, didn’t you?'

'Don't taunt me, Charles.' It was noticeable that the young schoolmaster's tone caused her no anger or retaliatory passion; far otherwise: there was a tear in her eye. 'How is it you are at Pen- zephyr?' she inquired.

'Don't tease me, Charles.' It was clear that the young teacher's tone didn't make her angry or defensive; quite the opposite: she had a tear in her eye. 'How come you're at Penzephyr?' she asked.

'I don't taunt you. I speak the truth, purely in a friendly way, as I should to any one I wished well. Though for that matter I might have some excuse even for taunting you. Such a terrible hurry as you've been in. I hate a woman who is in such a hurry.'

'I’m not teasing you. I’m just stating the truth, genuinely and in a friendly manner, as I would to anyone I care about. Though honestly, I might have a reason to tease you. You’ve been in such a rush. I can't stand a woman who’s always in a hurry.'

'How do you mean that?'

'What do you mean by that?'

'Why-to be somebody's wife or other-anything's wife rather than nobody's. You couldn't wait for me, O, no. Well, thank God, I'm cured of all that!'

'Why be someone’s wife or anyone’s wife instead of nobody’s? You couldn’t wait for me, oh no. Well, thank God, I’m over all that!'

'How merciless you are!' she said bitterly. 'Wait for you? What does that mean, Charley? You never showed-anything to wait for-anything special towards me.'

'How cruel you are!' she said bitterly. 'Wait for you? What does that even mean, Charley? You never gave me anything to wait for—nothing special at all.'

'O come, Baptista dear; come!'

"O come, dear Baptista; come!"

'What I mean is, nothing definite,' she expostulated. 'I suppose you liked me a little; but it seemed to me to be only a pastime on your part, and that you never meant to make an honourable engagement of it.'

'What I mean is, nothing serious,' she objected. 'I guess you liked me a bit; but it felt to me like it was just a fun distraction for you, and that you never intended to make a genuine commitment.'

'There, that's just it! You girls expect a man to mean business at the first look. No man when he first becomes interested in a woman has any definite scheme of engagement to marry her in his mind, unless he is meaning a vulgar mercenary marriage. However, I did at last mean an honourable engagement, as you call it, come to that.'

'There, that's exactly it! You girls expect a guy to be serious at first glance. No guy, when he first becomes interested in a woman, has a clear plan to propose marriage unless he's thinking about a shallow, money-driven relationship. However, I eventually intended a serious engagement, as you put it, when it comes down to it.'

'But you never said so, and an indefinite courtship soon injures a woman's position and credit, sooner than you think.'

'But you never mentioned it, and an open-ended courtship can quickly damage a woman’s standing and reputation, faster than you might realize.'

'Baptista, I solemnly declare that in six months I should have asked you to marry me.'

'Baptista, I seriously promise that in six months I would have asked you to marry me.'

She walked along in silence, looking on the ground, and appearing very uncomfortable. Presently he said, 'Would you have waited for me if you had known?' To this she whispered in a sorrowful whisper, 'Yes!'

She walked silently, staring at the ground, looking very uncomfortable. Finally, he asked, 'Would you have waited for me if you had known?' She responded in a sad whisper, 'Yes!'

They went still farther in silence-passing along one of the beautiful walks on the outskirts of the town, yet not observant of scene or situation. Her shoulder and his were close together, and he clasped his fingers round the small of her arm-quite lightly, and without any attempt at impetus; yet the act seemed to say, 'Now I hold you, and my will must be yours.'

They continued on in silence, walking along one of the lovely paths on the edge of town, but not really paying attention to their surroundings. Her shoulder was nearly touching his, and he gently wrapped his fingers around the lower part of her arm—lightly, without any force. Still, the gesture felt like it was saying, 'Now I have you, and what I want must be what you want too.'

Recurring to a previous question of hers he said, 'I have merely run down here for a day or two from school near Trufal, before going off to the north for the rest of my holiday. I have seen my relations at Redrutin quite lately, so I am not going there this time. How little I thought of meeting you! How very different the circumstances would have been if, instead of parting again as we must in half-an-hour or so, possibly for ever, you had been now just going off with me, as my wife, on our honeymoon trip. Ha-ha-well-so humorous is life!'

Referring back to a question she asked, he said, 'I just came down here for a day or two from school near Trufal, before heading north for the rest of my break. I saw my relatives in Redrutin not long ago, so I’m not going there this time. I never expected to run into you! It’s so different from how it could have been if, instead of saying goodbye in half an hour or so—possibly forever—you were leaving with me as my wife on our honeymoon trip. Ha-ha—life is so funny!'

She stopped suddenly. 'I must go back now-this is altogether too painful, Charley! It is not at all a kind mood you are in to-day.'

She stopped abruptly. "I need to go back now—this is just too painful, Charley! You're not being very kind today."

'I don't want to pain you-you know I do not,' he said more gently. 'Only it just exasperates me-this you are going to do. I wish you would not.'

"I don't want to hurt you—you know I don't," he said more softly. "It's just that this is really frustrating for me. I wish you wouldn't do it."

'What?'

'What is it?'

'Marry him. There, now I have showed you my true sentiments.'

'Marry him. There, now I've shown you how I really feel.'

'I must do it now,' said she.

'I have to do it now,' she said.

'Why?' he asked, dropping the off-hand masterful tone he had hitherto spoken in, and becoming earnest; still holding her arm, however, as if she were his chattel to be taken up or put down at will. 'It is never too late to break off a marriage that's distasteful to you. Now I'll say one thing; and it is truth: I wish you would marry me instead of him, even now, at the last moment, though you have served me so badly.'

'Why?' he asked, dropping the casual, commanding tone he had been using and becoming serious; still holding her arm, though, as if she were something he could control at will. 'It’s never too late to end a marriage that doesn’t suit you. Now I’ll say one thing; and it’s the truth: I wish you would marry me instead of him, even now, at the last moment, even though you’ve treated me so poorly.'

'O, it is not possible to think of that!' she answered hastily, shaking her head. 'When I get home all will be prepared-it is ready even now-the things for the party, the furniture, Mr. Heddegan's new suit, and everything. I should require the courage of a tropical lion to go home there and say I wouldn't carry out my promise!'

"Oh, I can't even think about that!" she replied quickly, shaking her head. "When I get home, everything will be ready—it's all set even now—the stuff for the party, the furniture, Mr. Heddegan's new suit, and everything. I'd need the courage of a lion in the tropics to go home and say I won't keep my promise!"

'Then go, in Heaven's name! But there would be no necessity for you to go home and face them in that way. If we were to marry, it would have to be at once, instantly; or not at all. I should think your affection not worth the having unless you agreed to come back with me to Trufal this evening, where we could be married by licence on Monday morning. And then no Mr. David Heddegan or anybody else could get you away from me.'

'Then go, for Heaven's sake! But you really don't have to go home and deal with them like that. If we were to get married, it would have to be right away, immediately; or not at all. I wouldn't think your love was worth having unless you agreed to come back with me to Trufal this evening, where we could get married by license on Monday morning. And then no Mr. David Heddegan or anyone else could take you away from me.'

'I must go home by the Tuesday boat,' she faltered. 'What would they think if I did not come?'

'I need to take the Tuesday boat home,' she hesitated. 'What would they think if I didn't show up?'

'You could go home by that boat just the same. All the difference would be that I should go with you. You could leave me on the quay, where I'd have a smoke, while you went and saw your father and mother privately; you could then tell them what you had done, and that I was waiting not far off; that I was a school-master in a fairly good position, and a young man you had known when you were at the Training College. Then I would come boldly forward; and they would see that it could not be altered, and so you wouldn't suffer a lifelong misery by being the wife of a wretched old gaffer you don't like at all. Now, honestly; you do like me best, don't you, Baptista?'

'You could take that boat home just the same. The only difference would be that I’d go with you. You could drop me off on the dock while you went to see your parents privately; then you could tell them what you’ve done, and that I was waiting nearby; that I was a school teacher in a decent position, and a young man you knew while you were at the Training College. Then I would step forward confidently; and they would see that nothing could change, so you wouldn’t have to live in misery as the wife of a miserable old man you don’t like at all. Now, honestly; you like me best, don’t you, Baptista?'

'Yes.'

Yes.

'Then we will do as I say.'

Then we'll do what I say.

She did not pronounce a clear affirmative. But that she consented to the novel proposition at some moment or other of that walk was apparent by what occurred a little later.

She didn't give a clear yes. But it was obvious that she agreed to the unusual proposal at some point during that walk, based on what happened a little later.

CHAPTER III

An enterprise of such pith required, indeed, less talking than consideration. The first thing they did in carrying it out was to return to the railway station, where Baptista took from her luggage a small trunk of immediate necessaries which she would in any case have required after missing the boat. That same afternoon they travelled up the line to Trufal.

An undertaking of this importance needed more thought than chatter. The first step they took to make it happen was to go back to the train station, where Baptista grabbed a small trunk from her luggage filled with essentials she would have needed anyway after missing the boat. That same afternoon, they traveled up the line to Trufal.

Charles Stow (as his name was), despite his disdainful indifference to things, was very careful of appearances, and made the journey independently of her though in the same train. He told her where she could get board and lodgings in the city; and with merely a distant nod to her of a provisional kind, went off to his own quarters, and to see about the licence.

Charles Stow, despite his dismissive attitude towards things, was very mindful of how things looked. He traveled separately from her, even though they were on the same train. He let her know where she could find food and a place to stay in the city. With just a casual nod to her as a temporary acknowledgment, he went off to his own place to take care of the license.

On Sunday she saw him in the morning across the nave of the pro- cathedral. In the afternoon they walked together in the fields, where he told her that the licence would be ready next day, and would be available the day after, when the ceremony could be performed as early after eight o'clock as they should choose.

On Sunday, she saw him in the morning across the main part of the pro-cathedral. In the afternoon, they walked together in the fields, where he told her that the license would be ready the next day and would be available the day after that, when the ceremony could take place as early as eight o'clock, or whenever they wanted.

His courtship, thus renewed after an interval of two years, was as impetuous, violent even, as it was short. The next day came and passed, and the final arrangements were made. Their agreement was to get the ceremony over as soon as they possibly could the next morning, so as to go on to Pen-zephyr at once, and reach that place in time for the boat's departure the same day. It was in obedience to Baptista's earnest request that Stow consented thus to make the whole journey to Lyonesse by land and water at one heat, and not break it at Pen-zephyr; she seemed to be oppressed with a dread of lingering anywhere, this great first act of disobedience to her parents once accomplished, with the weight on her mind that her home had to be convulsed by the disclosure of it. To face her difficulties over the water immediately she had created them was, however, a course more desired by Baptista than by her lover; though for once he gave way.

His courtship, renewed after a two-year gap, was as intense and even frantic as it was brief. The next day came and went, and final plans were made. They agreed to get the ceremony done as quickly as possible the next morning so they could head straight to Pen-zephyr and make it in time for the boat's departure that same day. It was at Baptista's urgent request that Stow agreed to make the entire journey to Lyonesse by land and water without stopping in Pen-zephyr; she seemed burdened by a fear of lingering anywhere after this significant first act of defiance against her parents, knowing that her family would have to deal with the fallout. Facing her challenges across the water as soon as she had created them was more important to Baptista than to her lover, though he reluctantly complied this time.

The next morning was bright and warm as those which had preceded it. By six o'clock it seemed nearly noon, as is often the case in that part of England in the summer season. By nine they were husband and wife. They packed up and departed by the earliest train after the service; and on the way discussed at length what she should say on meeting her parents, Charley dictating the turn of each phrase. In her anxiety they had travelled so early that when they reached Pen-zephyr they found there were nearly two hours on their hands before the steamer's time of sailing.

The next morning was bright and warm like the ones before it. By six o'clock, it felt almost like noon, which is common in that part of England during the summer. By nine, they were officially husband and wife. They packed up and left on the earliest train after the ceremony, and on the way, they talked at length about what she should say when she met her parents, with Charley guiding each phrase. In her anxiety, they had left so early that when they arrived in Pen-zephyr, they found they had nearly two hours to kill before the steamer was scheduled to depart.

Baptista was extremely reluctant to be seen promenading the streets of the watering-place with her husband till, as above stated, the household at Giant's Town should know the unexpected course of events from her own lips; and it was just possible, if not likely, that some Lyonessian might be prowling about there, or even have come across the sea to look for her. To meet any one to whom she was known, and to have to reply to awkward questions about the strange young man at her side before her well-framed announcement had been delivered at proper time and place, was a thing she could not contemplate with equanimity. So, instead of looking at the shops and harbour, they went along the coast a little way.

Baptista was very hesitant to be seen walking through the resort with her husband until, as mentioned earlier, the people in Giant's Town knew about the unexpected turn of events from her own mouth. It was quite possible, if not likely, that someone from Lyoness might be lurking around or even have crossed the sea to search for her. She couldn’t imagine meeting anyone who knew her and having to answer their awkward questions about the strange young man beside her before she had announced everything at the right time and place. So, instead of looking at the shops and the harbor, they strolled along the coast for a bit.

The heat of the morning was by this time intense. They clambered up on some cliffs, and while sitting there, looking around at St. Michael's Mount and other objects, Charles said to her that he thought he would run down to the beach at their feet, and take just one plunge into the sea.

The morning heat was already intense. They climbed up some cliffs, and while sitting there, taking in the view of St. Michael's Mount and other sights, Charles told her that he thought he would dash down to the beach below and take a quick dive into the sea.

Baptista did not much like the idea of being left alone; it was gloomy, she said. But he assured her he would not be gone more than a quarter of an hour at the outside, and she passively assented.

Baptista really didn’t like the idea of being left alone; she thought it was depressing. But he promised her he wouldn’t be gone for more than fifteen minutes at most, and she quietly agreed.

Down he went, disappeared, appeared again, and looked back. Then he again proceeded, and vanished, till, as a small waxen object, she saw him emerge from the nook that had screened him, cross the white fringe of foam, and walk into the undulating mass of blue. Once in the water he seemed less inclined to hurry than before; he remained a long time; and, unable either to appreciate his skill or criticize his want of it at that distance, she withdrew her eyes from the spot, and gazed at the still outline of St. Michael's-now beautifully toned in grey.

Down he went, disappeared, surfaced again, and glanced back. Then he moved on, and vanished, until, like a small waxy object, she saw him come out from the spot that had hidden him, cross the white edge of foam, and walk into the rolling blue waves. Once in the water, he seemed less rushed than before; he stayed for a while; and, unable to judge his skill or his lack of it from that distance, she turned her gaze away from him and looked at the calm shape of St. Michael's—now beautifully shaded in gray.

Her anxiety for the hour of departure, and to cope at once with the approaching incidents that she would have to manipulate as best she could, sent her into a reverie. It was now Tuesday; she would reach home in the evening-a very late time they would say; but, as the delay was a pure accident, they would deem her marriage to Mr. Heddegan to- morrow still practicable. Then Charles would have to be produced from the background. It was a terrible undertaking to think of, and she almost regretted her temerity in wedding so hastily that morning. The rage of her father would be so crushing; the reproaches of her mother so bitter; and perhaps Charles would answer hotly, and perhaps cause estrangement till death. There had obviously been no alarm about her at St. Maria's, or somebody would have sailed across to inquire for her. She had, in a letter written at the beginning of the week, spoken of the hour at which she intended to leave her country schoolhouse; and from this her friends had probably perceived that by such timing she would run a risk of losing the Saturday boat. She had missed it, and as a consequence sat here on the shore as Mrs. Charles Stow.

Her anxiety about the departure time and having to deal with the upcoming events she would have to manage as best as she could sent her into a daydream. It was now Tuesday; she'd get home in the evening—a time they would consider very late—but since the delay was purely accidental, they would still think her marriage to Mr. Heddegan tomorrow was possible. Then Charles would have to be brought into the picture. It was a daunting thought, and she almost regretted her boldness in marrying so quickly that morning. Her father’s anger would be overwhelming; her mother’s reproaches would be extremely harsh; and Charles might react fiercely, potentially causing a rift that could last a lifetime. Clearly, no one had worried about her at St. Maria's, or someone would have rushed over to check on her. In a letter she wrote at the beginning of the week, she mentioned the time she planned to leave her rural schoolhouse, and from that, her friends probably realized that with that timing, she risked missing the Saturday boat. She had missed it, and now here she was on the shore as Mrs. Charles Stow.

This brought her to the present, and she turned from the outline of St. Michael's Mount to look about for her husband's form. He was, as far as she could discover, no longer in the sea. Then he was dressing. By moving a few steps she could see where his clothes lay. But Charles was not beside them.

This brought her back to the present, and she turned from the outline of St. Michael's Mount to look for her husband. As far as she could tell, he was no longer in the sea. Then he must have been getting dressed. By taking a few steps, she could see where his clothes were. But Charles was not there next to them.

Baptista looked back again at the water in bewilderment, as if her senses were the victim of some sleight of hand. Not a speck or spot resembling a man's head or face showed anywhere. By this time she was alarmed, and her alarm intensified when she perceived a little beyond the scene of her husband's bathing a small area of water, the quality of whose surface differed from that of the surrounding expanse as the coarse vegetation of some foul patch in a mead differs from the fine green of the remainder. Elsewhere it looked flexuous, here it looked vermiculated and lumpy, and her marine experiences suggested to her in a moment that two currents met and caused a turmoil at this place.

Baptista looked back at the water again, confused, as if her senses were being tricked. There wasn't a single trace of a man's head or face anywhere. By now, she was worried, and her concern grew when she noticed a small patch of water past where her husband was bathing. The surface there looked different from the surrounding water, much like rough vegetation in a dirty meadow contrasts with the lush green around it. While the water elsewhere appeared smooth, this spot looked uneven and tangled, and her experiences with the sea quickly suggested that two currents were colliding and creating a disturbance in this area.

She descended as hastily as her trembling limbs would allow. The way down was terribly long, and before reaching the heap of clothes it occurred to her that, after all, it would be best to run first for help. Hastening along in a lateral direction she proceeded inland till she met a man, and soon afterwards two others. To them she exclaimed, 'I think a gentleman who was bathing is in some danger. I cannot see him as I could. Will you please run and help him, at once, if you will be so kind?'

She hurried down as quickly as her shaking legs would let her. The path was really long, and before she got to the pile of clothes, she realized it would be better to go get help first. She quickly moved sideways and headed inland until she came across a man, and soon after, two others. She said to them, "I think a guy who was swimming is in some trouble. I can't see him like before. Could you please run and help him right away, if you don’t mind?"

She did not think of turning to show them the exact spot, indicating it vaguely by the direction of her hand, and still going on her way with the idea of gaining more assistance. When she deemed, in her faintness, that she had carried the alarm far enough, she faced about and dragged herself back again. Before reaching the now dreaded spot she met one of the men.

She didn’t think of stopping to show them the exact place, just vaguely pointing in its direction with her hand while continuing on her way, hoping to get more help. When she felt, in her weakness, that she had raised the alarm enough, she turned around and made her way back. Before she got to the now feared spot, she ran into one of the men.

'We can see nothing at all, Miss,' he declared.

'We can't see anything at all, Miss,' he stated.

Having gained the beach, she found the tide in, and no sign of Charley's clothes. The other men whom she had besought to come had disappeared, it must have been in some other direction, for she had not met them going away. They, finding nothing, had probably thought her alarm a mere conjecture, and given up the quest.

Having reached the beach, she noticed the tide was in, and there was no sign of Charley's clothes. The other men she had asked to come were nowhere to be found; they must have gone in a different direction since she hadn’t seen them leave. They probably thought her concern was just a guess and gave up looking when they didn’t find anything.

Baptista sank down upon the stones near at hand. Where Charley had undressed was now sea. There could not be the least doubt that he was drowned, and his body sucked under by the current; while his clothes, lying within high-water mark, had probably been carried away by the rising tide.

Baptista sat down on the nearby stones. Where Charley had undressed was now the sea. There was no doubt that he had drowned, and his body was pulled under by the current, while his clothes, left above the high-water mark, had likely been swept away by the rising tide.

She remained in a stupor for some minutes, till a strange sensation succeeded the aforesaid perceptions, mystifying her intelligence, and leaving her physically almost inert. With his personal disappearance, the last three days of her life with him seemed to be swallowed up, also his image, in her mind's eye, waned curiously, receded far away, grew stranger and stranger, less and less real. Their meeting and marriage had been so sudden, unpremeditated, adventurous, that she could hardly believe that she had played her part in such a reckless drama. Of all the few hours of her life with Charles, the portion that most insisted in coming back to memory was their fortuitous encounter on the previous Saturday, and those bitter reprimands with which he had begun the attack, as it might be called, which had piqued her to an unexpected consummation.

She stayed in a daze for a few minutes until a strange feeling replaced her earlier thoughts, confusing her mind and leaving her almost physically motionless. With his absence, the last three days of her life with him felt like they were erased, and his image in her mind began to fade, becoming more and more distant and unreal. Their meeting and marriage had been so sudden, unplanned, and adventurous that she could hardly believe she had been part of such a reckless story. Of all the few hours she spent with Charles, what kept coming back to her was their chance meeting the previous Saturday and those sharp criticisms that he had started, which had unexpectedly pushed her toward a surprising ending.

A sort of cruelty, an imperiousness, even in his warmth, had characterized Charles Stow. As a lover he had ever been a bit of a tyrant; and it might pretty truly have been said that he had stung her into marriage with him at last. Still more alien from her life did these reflections operate to make him; and then they would be chased away by an interval of passionate weeping and mad regret. Finally, there returned upon the confused mind of the young wife the recollection that she was on her way homeward, and that the packet would sail in three-quarters of an hour.

A kind of cruelty, an arrogance, even in his affection, had defined Charles Stow. As a partner, he had always been a bit of a dictator; it could be said that he had pushed her into marrying him in the end. These thoughts made him feel even more distant from her life, and yet they would be pushed aside by moments of intense crying and wild regret. Eventually, the young wife’s confused mind recalled that she was heading home and that the ship would depart in about forty-five minutes.

Except the parasol in her hand, all she possessed was at the station awaiting her onward journey.

Except for the parasol in her hand, everything she owned was at the station, waiting for her next journey.

She looked in that direction; and, entering one of those undemonstrative phases so common with her, walked quietly on.

She glanced that way and, slipping into one of those quiet moods she often had, walked on peacefully.

At first she made straight for the railway; but suddenly turning she went to a shop and wrote an anonymous line announcing his death by drowning to the only person she had ever heard Charles mention as a relative. Posting this stealthily, and with a fearful look around her, she seemed to acquire a terror of the late events, pursuing her way to the station as if followed by a spectre.

At first, she headed straight for the train station; but suddenly, she turned and went into a shop where she wrote an anonymous note informing the only person she had ever heard Charles mention as a relative about his death by drowning. After posting this sneakily, glancing around her anxiously, she appeared to be overcome with fear from the recent events, making her way to the station as if she were being followed by a ghost.

When she got to the office she asked for the luggage that she had left there on the Saturday as well as the trunk left on the morning just lapsed. All were put in the boat, and she herself followed. Quickly as these things had been done, the whole proceeding, nevertheless, had been almost automatic on Baptista's part, ere she had come to any definite conclusion on her course.

When she arrived at the office, she asked for the luggage she had left there on Saturday, along with the trunk she had dropped off that morning. Everything was loaded onto the boat, and she followed right after. Even though this happened quickly, it felt almost automatic on Baptista's part before she had made any clear decision about her next steps.

Just before the bell rang she heard a conversation on the pier, which removed the last shade of doubt from her mind, if any had existed, that she was Charles Stow's widow. The sentences were but fragmentary, but she could easily piece them out.

Just before the bell rang, she overheard a conversation on the pier that erased any lingering doubt she might have had about being Charles Stow's widow. The sentences were only fragments, but she was able to piece them together easily.

'A man drowned-swam out too far-was a stranger to the place-people in boat-saw him go down-couldn't get there in time.'

'A man drowned—swam out too far—was a stranger to the area—people in a boat—saw him go under—couldn't reach him in time.'

The news was little more definite than this as yet; though it may as well be stated once for all that the statement was true. Charley, with the over-confidence of his nature, had ventured out too far for his strength, and succumbed in the absence of assistance, his lifeless body being at that moment suspended in the transparent mid-depths of the bay. His clothes, however, had merely been gently lifted by the rising tide, and floated into a nook hard by, where they lay out of sight of the passers-by till a day or two after.

The news wasn't much clearer than this yet; however, it's worth mentioning that the statement was true. Charley, with his usual over-confidence, had strayed too far for his own strength and collapsed without any help, his lifeless body suspended in the clear depths of the bay at that moment. His clothes, though, were just gently lifted by the rising tide and floated into a nearby nook, where they remained out of sight of those passing by for a couple of days afterward.

CHAPTER IV

In ten minutes they were steaming out of the harbour for their voyage of four or five hours, at whose ending she would have to tell her strange story.

In ten minutes, they were leaving the harbor for their four to five-hour voyage, at which point she would have to share her unusual story.

As Pen-zephyr and all its environing scenes disappeared behind Mousehole and St. Clement's Isle, Baptista's ephemeral, meteor-like husband impressed her yet more as a fantasy. She was still in such a trance- like state that she had been an hour on the little packet-boat before she became aware of the agitating fact that Mr. Heddegan was on board with her. Involuntarily she slipped from her left hand the symbol of her wifehood.

As Pen-zephyr and all the surrounding scenery faded behind Mousehole and St. Clement's Isle, Baptista's fleeting, meteor-like husband seemed even more like a fantasy. She was in such a daze that she spent an hour on the small boat before she realized, to her shock, that Mr. Heddegan was on board with her. Without thinking, she slipped the symbol of her marriage from her left hand.

'Hee-hee! Well, the truth is, I wouldn't interrupt 'ee. "I reckon she don't see me, or won't see me," I said, "and what's the hurry? She'll see enough o' me soon!" I hope ye be well, mee deer?'

'Hee-hee! Well, the truth is, I wouldn't interrupt you. "I think she doesn't see me, or won't see me," I said, "and what's the rush? She'll see plenty of me soon!" I hope you're doing well, my dear?'

He was a hale, well-conditioned man of about five and fifty, of the complexion common to those whose lives are passed on the bluffs and beaches of an ocean isle. He extended the four quarters of his face in a genial smile, and his hand for a grasp of the same magnitude. She gave her own in surprised docility, and he continued: 'I couldn't help coming across to meet 'ee. What an unfortunate thing you missing the boat and not coming Saturday! They meant to have warned 'ee that the time was changed, but forgot it at the last moment. The truth is that I should have informed 'ee myself; but I was that busy finishing up a job last week, so as to have this week free, that I trusted to your father for attending to these little things. However, so plain and quiet as it is all to be, it really do not matter so much as it might otherwise have done, and I hope ye haven't been greatly put out. Now, if you'd sooner that I should not be seen talking to 'ee-if 'ee feel shy at all before strangers-just say. I'll leave 'ee to yourself till we get home.'

He was a fit, well-built man in his mid-fifties, with the kind of complexion typical of those who spend their lives by the cliffs and beaches of an island. He greeted her with a warm smile and a handshake that was just as friendly. She responded with a surprised but compliant grip, and he continued, "I couldn't help but come over to meet you. It's really unfortunate that you missed the boat and couldn't make it on Saturday! They meant to let you know that the time had changed but forgot at the last minute. Honestly, I should have told you myself, but I was so busy wrapping up a job last week to make sure I had this week free that I relied on your father to handle these little details. Still, since it’s all pretty straightforward and low-key, it doesn’t really matter as much as it could have, and I hope you haven't been too upset about it. Now, if you'd prefer that I don't talk to you in front of others—if you're feeling shy at all—just let me know. I can leave you to yourself until we get home."

'Thank you much. I am indeed a little tired, Mr. Heddegan.'

'Thank you very much. I am definitely a bit tired, Mr. Heddegan.'

He nodded urbane acquiescence, strolled away immediately, and minutely inspected the surface of the funnel, till some female passengers of Giant's Town tittered at what they must have thought a rebuff-for the approaching wedding was known to many on St. Maria's Island, though to nobody elsewhere. Baptista coloured at their satire, and called him back, and forced herself to commune with him in at least a mechanically friendly manner.

He nodded politely, walked away right away, and carefully checked the surface of the funnel until some female passengers from Giant's Town giggled at what they must have assumed was a snub—everyone on St. Maria's Island knew about the upcoming wedding, but nobody else did. Baptista blushed at their teasing and called him back, forcing herself to engage with him in at least a somewhat friendly way.

The opening event had been thus different from her expectation, and she had adumbrated no act to meet it. Taken aback she passively allowed circumstances to pilot her along; and so the voyage was made.

The opening event had been different from what she expected, and she hadn’t prepared for it at all. Caught off guard, she passively let circumstances guide her along; and so the journey unfolded.

It was near dusk when they touched the pier of Giant's Town, where several friends and neighbours stood awaiting them. Her father had a lantern in his hand. Her mother, too, was there, reproachfully glad that the delay had at last ended so simply. Mrs. Trewthen and her daughter went together along the Giant's Walk, or promenade, to the house, rather in advance of her husband and Mr. Heddegan, who talked in loud tones which reached the women over their shoulders.

It was getting dark when they arrived at the pier of Giant's Town, where a few friends and neighbors were waiting for them. Her father held a lantern in his hand. Her mother was there too, somewhat relieved that the delay had finally ended so easily. Mrs. Trewthen and her daughter walked together along the Giant's Walk, or promenade, ahead of her husband and Mr. Heddegan, who were speaking loudly enough for the women to hear them over their shoulders.

Some would have called Mrs. Trewthen a good mother; but though well meaning she was maladroit, and her intentions missed their mark. This might have been partly attributable to the slight deafness from which she suffered. Now, as usual, the chief utterances came from her lips.

Some people would have called Mrs. Trewthen a good mother, but even though she had good intentions, she often got it wrong. This might have been partly due to the slight deafness she had. As was usual, the main expressions came from her mouth.

'Ah, yes, I'm so glad, my child, that you've got over safe. It is all ready, and everything so well arranged, that nothing but misfortune could hinder you settling as, with God's grace, becomes 'ee. Close to your mother's door a'most, 'twill be a great blessing, I'm sure; and I was very glad to find from your letters that you'd held your word sacred. That's right-make your word your bond always. Mrs. Wace seems to be a sensible woman. I hope the Lord will do for her as he's doing for you no long time hence. And how did 'ee get over the terrible journey from Tor-upon-Sea to Pen-zephyr? Once you'd done with the railway, of course, you seemed quite at home. Well, Baptista, conduct yourself seemly, and all will be well.'

'Oh, yes, I'm so glad, my child, that you made it back safely. Everything is ready and arranged so well that only bad luck could stop you from settling in as you should, with God's grace. Being close to your mother's door will be a real blessing, I'm sure; and I was very glad to see from your letters that you kept your promise. That's right—always make your word your bond. Mrs. Wace seems like a sensible woman. I hope the Lord will take care of her like He’s taking care of you soon. And how was the awful journey from Tor-upon-Sea to Pen-zephyr? Once you were done with the train, it seemed like you were right at home. Well, Baptista, behave yourself, and everything will be fine.'

Thus admonished, Baptista entered the house, her father and Mr. Heddegan immediately at her back. Her mother had been so didactic that she had felt herself absolutely unable to broach the subjects in the centre of her mind.

Thus warned, Baptista entered the house, her father and Mr. Heddegan right behind her. Her mother had been so instructive that she felt completely unable to bring up the topics she was really thinking about.

The familiar room, with the dark ceiling, the well-spread table, the old chairs, had never before spoken so eloquently of the times ere she knew or had heard of Charley Stow. She went upstairs to take off her things, her mother remaining below to complete the disposition of the supper, and attend to the preparation of to-morrow's meal, altogether composing such an array of pies, from pies of fish to pies of turnips, as was never heard of outside the Western Duchy. Baptista, once alone, sat down and did nothing; and was called before she had taken off her bonnet.

The familiar room, with its dark ceiling, the nicely set table, and the old chairs, had never before expressed so much about the times before she knew or had heard of Charley Stow. She went upstairs to change out of her clothes, while her mother stayed downstairs to finish up dinner and get ready for the next day's meal, gathering together an assortment of pies, from fish pies to turnip pies, like nothing you’d find outside the Western Duchy. Once alone, Baptista sat down and did nothing; she was called before she even removed her bonnet.

'I'm coming,' she cried, jumping up, and speedily disapparelling herself, brushed her hair with a few touches and went down.

'I'm coming,' she shouted, jumping up and quickly getting dressed, ran her fingers through her hair a couple of times, and went downstairs.

Two or three of Mr. Heddegan's and her father's friends had dropped in, and expressed their sympathy for the delay she had been subjected to. The meal was a most merry one except to Baptista. She had desired privacy, and there was none; and to break the news was already a greater difficulty than it had been at first. Everything around her, animate and inanimate, great and small, insisted that she had come home to be married; and she could not get a chance to say nay.

Two or three of Mr. Heddegan's and her dad's friends had dropped by and showed their sympathy for the delay she had experienced. The meal was really cheerful, except for Baptista. She wanted some privacy, but there was none; and breaking the news was already proving to be harder than it had been at first. Everything around her, both living and non-living, big and small, made it seem like she had come home to get married, and she couldn't find a moment to say no.

One or two people sang songs, as overtures to the melody of the morrow, till at length bedtime came, and they all withdrew, her mother having retired a little earlier. When Baptista found herself again alone in her bedroom the case stood as before: she had come home with much to say, and she had said nothing.

One or two people sang songs as a warm-up for the next day’s melody until bedtime arrived, and they all left, with her mother having gone to bed a bit earlier. When Baptista found herself alone in her bedroom again, the situation was the same: she had come home with a lot to share, and she had said nothing.

It was now growing clear even to herself that Charles being dead, she had not determination sufficient within her to break tidings which, had he been alive, would have imperatively announced themselves. And thus with the stroke of midnight came the turning of the scale; her story should remain untold. It was not that upon the whole she thought it best not to attempt to tell it; but that she could not undertake so explosive a matter. To stop the wedding now would cause a convulsion in Giant's Town little short of volcanic. Weakened, tired, and terrified as she had been by the day's adventures, she could not make herself the author of such a catastrophe. But how refuse Heddegan without telling? It really seemed to her as if her marriage with Mr. Heddegan were about to take place as if nothing had intervened.

It was becoming clear even to her that now that Charles was dead, she didn’t have the strength to share news that, if he were alive, would have needed to be announced. So, as the clock struck midnight, she decided her story would stay untold. It wasn't that she thought it was best not to try and tell it; it was just that she couldn't handle such an explosive situation. Stopping the wedding now would send shockwaves through Giant's Town, almost like a volcano erupting. Weakened, exhausted, and scared by the day's events, she couldn't bring herself to create such a disaster. But how could she turn down Heddegan without explaining? It honestly felt to her as if her marriage to Mr. Heddegan was about to happen as if nothing had happened in between.

Morning came. The events of the previous days were cut off from her present existence by scene and sentiment more completely than ever. Charles Stow had grown to be a special being of whom, owing to his character, she entertained rather fearful than loving memory. Baptista could hear when she awoke that her parents were already moving about downstairs. But she did not rise till her mother's rather rough voice resounded up the staircase as it had done on the preceding evening.

Morning arrived. The events of the past few days felt more distant from her current life than ever before. Charles Stow had become a figure in her mind that inspired more fear than affection due to his nature. Baptista could hear her parents moving around downstairs when she woke up. However, she didn’t get out of bed until she heard her mother's somewhat harsh voice echoing up the staircase, just like the night before.

'Baptista! Come, time to be stirring! The man will be here, by heaven's blessing, in three-quarters of an hour. He has looked in already for a minute or two-and says he's going to the church to see if things be well forward.'

'Baptista! Come on, it's time to get moving! The man will be here, thank goodness, in about forty-five minutes. He already stopped by for a minute or two and said he's going to the church to check if everything is on track.'

Baptista arose, looked out of the window, and took the easy course. When she emerged from the regions above she was arrayed in her new silk frock and best stockings, wearing a linen jacket over the former for breakfasting, and her common slippers over the latter, not to spoil the new ones on the rough precincts of the dwelling.

Baptista got up, looked out the window, and took the easy route. When she came down from upstairs, she was dressed in her new silk dress and best stockings, wearing a linen jacket over the dress for breakfast and her old slippers over the stockings so she wouldn’t ruin the new ones on the rough areas of the house.

It is unnecessary to dwell at any great length on this part of the morning's proceedings. She revealed nothing; and married Heddegan, as she had given her word to do, on that appointed August day.

It’s not necessary to spend a lot of time on this part of the morning’s events. She didn’t reveal anything; and she married Heddegan, just as she promised she would, on that scheduled day in August.

CHAPTER V

Mr. Heddegan forgave the coldness of his bride's manner during and after the wedding ceremony, full well aware that there had been considerable reluctance on her part to acquiesce in this neighbourly arrangement, and, as a philosopher of long standing, holding that whatever Baptista's attitude now, the conditions would probably be much the same six months hence as those which ruled among other married couples.

Mr. Heddegan overlooked the distant attitude of his bride during and after the wedding ceremony, fully aware that she had been quite hesitant to go along with this neighborly arrangement. As a seasoned philosopher, he believed that no matter how Baptista felt now, the situation would likely remain similar six months down the line, just like with other married couples.

An absolutely unexpected shock was given to Baptista's listless mind about an hour after the wedding service. They had nearly finished the mid-day dinner when the now husband said to her father, 'We think of starting about two. And the breeze being so fair we shall bring up inside Pen-zephyr new pier about six at least.'

An absolutely unexpected shock hit Baptista's listless mind about an hour after the wedding ceremony. They had almost finished lunch when the new husband said to her father, 'We plan to set out around two. And with the breeze being so nice, we should arrive at the new pier in Pen-zephyr by at least six.'

'What-are we going to Pen-zephyr?' said Baptista. 'I don't know anything of it.'

'What are we going to Pen-zephyr for?' said Baptista. 'I don't know anything about it.'

'Didn't you tell her?' asked her father of Heddegan.

"Didn't you tell her?" her father asked Heddegan.

It transpired that, owing to the delay in her arrival, this proposal too, among other things, had in the hurry not been mentioned to her, except some time ago as a general suggestion that they would go somewhere. Heddegan had imagined that any trip would be pleasant, and one to the mainland the pleasantest of all.

It turned out that, due to her delayed arrival, this proposal, along with other matters, had not been mentioned to her in the rush, except for a vague suggestion some time ago that they would go somewhere. Heddegan had thought that any trip would be enjoyable, and a trip to the mainland would be the most enjoyable of all.

She looked so distressed at the announcement that her husband willingly offered to give it up, though he had not had a holiday off the island for a whole year. Then she pondered on the inconvenience of staying at Giant's Town, where all the inhabitants were bonded, by the circumstances of their situation, into a sort of family party, which permitted and encouraged on such occasions as these oral criticism that was apt to disturb the equanimity of newly married girls, and would especially worry Baptista in her strange situation. Hence, unexpectedly, she agreed not to disorganize her husband's plans for the wedding jaunt, and it was settled that, as originally intended, they should proceed in a neighbour's sailing boat to the metropolis of the district.

She looked so upset at the announcement that her husband gladly offered to give it up, even though he hadn't had a holiday off the island for a whole year. Then she thought about the hassle of staying in Giant's Town, where all the residents were connected by the circumstances they shared, creating a sort of family atmosphere that allowed for criticism that could really unsettle newly married girls, especially Baptista in her unusual situation. So, unexpectedly, she agreed not to disrupt her husband's plans for the wedding trip, and it was decided that, as originally planned, they would take a neighbor's sailing boat to the main city of the area.

In this way they arrived at Pen-zephyr without difficulty or mishap. Bidding adieu to Jenkin and his man, who had sailed them over, they strolled arm in arm off the pier, Baptista silent, cold, and obedient. Heddegan had arranged to take her as far as Plymouth before their return, but to go no further than where they had landed that day. Their first business was to find an inn; and in this they had unexpected difficulty, since for some reason or other-possibly the fine weather-many of the nearest at hand were full of tourists and commercial travellers. He led her on till he reached a tavern which, though comparatively unpretending, stood in as attractive a spot as any in the town; and this, somewhat to their surprise after their previous experience, they found apparently empty. The considerate old man, thinking that Baptista was educated to artistic notions, though he himself was deficient in them, had decided that it was most desirable to have, on such an occasion as the present, an apartment with 'a good view' (the expression being one he had often heard in use among tourists); and he therefore asked for a favourite room on the first floor, from which a bow-window protruded, for the express purpose of affording such an outlook.

In this way, they arrived at Pen-zephyr without any issues or accidents. Saying goodbye to Jenkin and his crew, who had sailed them across, they strolled off the pier arm in arm, with Baptista remaining quiet, distant, and compliant. Heddegan had planned to take her as far as Plymouth before returning, but not beyond where they had landed that day. Their first task was to find an inn, and they faced unexpected challenges in doing so, as for some reason—possibly the nice weather—many of the nearby places were booked up with tourists and business travelers. He guided her until they reached a tavern that, although quite modest, was in as nice a location as any in the town; surprisingly, they found it seemingly empty. The thoughtful old man, believing Baptista appreciated artistic views—even if he himself did not—had decided it was best to have, for such an occasion, a room with "a good view" (a phrase he had often heard tourists use); so he requested a favored room on the first floor, which had a bow-window that extended out for just that purpose.

The landlady, after some hesitation, said she was sorry that particular apartment was engaged; the next one, however, or any other in the house, was unoccupied.

The landlady, after some hesitation, said she was sorry that specific apartment was taken; however, the next one, or any other in the building, was available.

'The gentleman who has the best one will give it up to-morrow, and then you can change into it,' she added, as Mr. Heddegan hesitated about taking the adjoining and less commanding one.

'The guy who has the best one will hand it over tomorrow, and then you can switch into it,' she added, as Mr. Heddegan hesitated about taking the nearby and less impressive one.

'We shall be gone to-morrow, and shan't want it,' he said.

'We’ll be gone tomorrow and won’t need it,' he said.

Wishing not to lose customers, the landlady earnestly continued that since he was bent on having the best room, perhaps the other gentleman would not object to move at once into the one they despised, since, though nothing could be seen from the window, the room was equally large.

Wishing to keep her customers, the landlady sincerely suggested that since he was determined to have the best room, maybe the other gentleman wouldn’t mind moving immediately into the one they disliked, as, although there was nothing to see from the window, the room was just as spacious.

'Well, if he doesn't care for a view,' said Mr. Heddegan, with the air of a highly artistic man who did.

'Well, if he doesn't care about a view,' said Mr. Heddegan, with the demeanor of someone who clearly did.

'O no-I am sure he doesn't,' she said. 'I can promise that you shall have the room you want. If you would not object to go for a walk for half an hour, I could have it ready, and your things in it, and a nice tea laid in the bow-window by the time you come back?'

'Oh no—I’m sure he doesn’t,' she said. 'I can promise you’ll get the room you want. If you don’t mind going for a walk for half an hour, I can have it ready, your stuff in it, and a nice tea set up in the bow-window by the time you get back?'

This proposal was deemed satisfactory by the fussy old tradesman, and they went out. Baptista nervously conducted him in an opposite direction to her walk of the former day in other company, showing on her wan face, had he observed it, how much she was beginning to regret her sacrificial step for mending matters that morning.

This proposal was considered acceptable by the picky old tradesman, and they left. Baptista anxiously led him in a direction opposite to where she had walked the previous day with someone else, revealing on her pale face—if he had noticed—how much she was starting to regret her selfless decision to fix things that morning.

She took advantage of a moment when her husband's back was turned to inquire casually in a shop if anything had been heard of the gentleman who was sucked down in the eddy while bathing.

She seized a moment when her husband wasn’t looking to casually ask in a shop if anyone had heard anything about the guy who got pulled under in the whirlpool while swimming.

The shopman said, 'Yes, his body has been washed ashore,' and had just handed Baptista a newspaper on which she discerned the heading, 'A Schoolmaster drowned while bathing,' when her husband turned to join her. She might have pursued the subject without raising suspicion; but it was more than flesh and blood could do, and completing a small purchase almost ran out of the shop.

The shopkeeper said, 'Yeah, his body has washed up on the shore,' and had just handed Baptista a newspaper with the headline, 'A Schoolmaster Drowns While Swimming,' when her husband turned to join her. She could have continued the conversation without raising any flags; but it was more than she could handle, and after finishing a small purchase, she nearly ran out of the shop.

'What is your terrible hurry, mee deer?' said Heddegan, hastening after.

'What’s the rush, my dear?' said Heddegan, catching up.

'I don't know-I don't want to stay in shops,' she gasped.

'I don’t know—I don’t want to stay in stores,' she gasped.

'And we won't,' he said. 'They are suffocating this weather. Let's go back and have some tay!'

'And we won't,' he said. 'This weather is unbearable. Let's go back and have some tea!'

They found the much desired apartment awaiting their entry. It was a sort of combination bed and sitting-room, and the table was prettily spread with high tea in the bow-window, a bunch of flowers in the midst, and a best-parlour chair on each side. Here they shared the meal by the ruddy light of the vanishing sun. But though the view had been engaged, regardless of expense, exclusively for Baptista's pleasure, she did not direct any keen attention out of the window. Her gaze as often fell on the floor and walls of the room as elsewhere, and on the table as much as on either, beholding nothing at all.

They found the much-desired apartment waiting for them. It was a combination bedroom and living room, with the table elegantly set for high tea in the bay window, a bouquet of flowers in the center, and a nice chair on each side. They enjoyed the meal by the warm light of the setting sun. However, even though the view had been booked, no expense spared, solely for Baptista's enjoyment, she didn’t pay much attention to what was outside. Her gaze rested as often on the floor and walls of the room as anywhere else, and just as much on the table as on either, seeing nothing at all.

But there was a change. Opposite her seat was the door, upon which her eyes presently became riveted like those of a little bird upon a snake. For, on a peg at the back of the door, there hung a hat; such a hat-surely, from its peculiar make, the actual hat-that had been worn by Charles. Conviction grew to certainty when she saw a railway ticket sticking up from the band. Charles had put the ticket there-she had noticed the act.

But there was a shift. Across from her seat was the door, and her eyes became fixed on it like a small bird staring at a snake. Because, on a hook at the back of the door, there hung a hat; such a hat—definitely, from its unique design, the exact hat—that had belonged to Charles. Her suspicion turned into certainty when she spotted a train ticket sticking out from the band. Charles had placed the ticket there—she had seen him do it.

Her teeth almost chattered; she murmured something incoherent. Her husband jumped up and said, 'You are not well! What is it? What shall I get 'ee?'

Her teeth were nearly chattering; she muttered something unclear. Her husband jumped up and said, "You’re not feeling well! What’s wrong? What should I get you?"

'Smelling salts!' she said, quickly and desperately; 'at that chemist's shop you were in just now.'

'Smelling salts!' she said, quickly and desperately; 'at that pharmacy you were just in.'

He jumped up like the anxious old man that he was, caught up his own hat from a back table, and without observing the other hastened out and downstairs.

He jumped up like the nervous old man he was, grabbed his hat from a back table, and without noticing anyone else, hurried out and downstairs.

Left alone she gazed and gazed at the back of the door, then spasmodically rang the bell. An honest-looking country maid-servant appeared in response.

Left alone, she kept staring at the back of the door, then suddenly rang the bell. A genuine-looking country maid came in response.

'A hat!' murmured Baptista, pointing with her finger. 'It does not belong to us.'

'A hat!' murmured Baptista, pointing with her finger. 'It doesn’t belong to us.'

'O yes, I'll take it away,' said the young woman with some hurry. 'It belongs to the other gentleman.'

'O yes, I'll take it away,' said the young woman quickly. 'It belongs to the other guy.'

She spoke with a certain awkwardness, and took the hat out of the room. Baptista had recovered her outward composure. 'The other gentleman?' she said. 'Where is the other gentleman?'

She spoke a bit awkwardly and took the hat out of the room. Baptista had regained her calm demeanor. "What about the other guy?" she asked. "Where is the other guy?"

'He's in the next room, ma'am. He removed out of this to oblige 'ee.'

'He's in the next room, ma'am. He stepped out of here to help you.'

'How can you say so? I should hear him if he were there,' said Baptista, sufficiently recovered to argue down an apparent untruth.

'How can you say that? I would hear him if he were here,' said Baptista, having recovered enough to challenge an obvious lie.

'He's there,' said the girl, hardily.

"He's there," said the girl confidently.

'Then it is strange that he makes no noise,' said Mrs. Heddegan, convicting the girl of falsity by a look.

'Then it's odd that he's silent,' said Mrs. Heddegan, accusing the girl of lying with a look.

'He makes no noise; but it is not strange,' said the servant.

'He doesn't make any noise; but that's not surprising,' said the servant.

All at once a dread took possession of the bride's heart, like a cold hand laid thereon; for it flashed upon her that there was a possibility of reconciling the girl's statement with her own knowledge of facts.

All of a sudden, a sense of dread filled the bride's heart, like a cold hand resting on it; for it occurred to her that there was a chance of matching the girl's statement with what she knew to be true.

'Why does he make no noise?' she weakly said.

'Why isn't he making any noise?' she said weakly.

The waiting-maid was silent, and looked at her questioner. 'If I tell you, ma'am, you won't tell missis?' she whispered.

The maid stayed quiet and glanced at her questioner. "If I tell you, ma'am, you won't tell the mistress?" she whispered.

Baptista promised.

Baptista made a promise.

'Because he's a-lying dead!' said the girl. 'He's the schoolmaster that was drownded yesterday.'

'Because he's lying there dead!' said the girl. 'He's the schoolmaster who drowned yesterday.'

'O!' said the bride, covering her eyes. 'Then he was in this room till just now?'

'O!' said the bride, covering her eyes. 'So he was in this room until just now?'

'Yes,' said the maid, thinking the young lady's agitation natural enough. 'And I told missis that I thought she oughtn't to have done it, because I don't hold it right to keep visitors so much in the dark where death's concerned; but she said the gentleman didn't die of anything infectious; she was a poor, honest, innkeeper's wife, she says, who had to get her living by making hay while the sun sheened. And owing to the drownded gentleman being brought here, she said, it kept so many people away that we were empty, though all the other houses were full. So when your good man set his mind upon the room, and she would have lost good paying folk if he'd not had it, it wasn't to be supposed, she said, that she'd let anything stand in the way. Ye won't say that I've told ye, please, m'm? All the linen has been changed, and as the inquest won't be till to-morrow, after you are gone, she thought you wouldn't know a word of it, being strangers here.'

'Yes,' said the maid, thinking the young lady's agitation was understandable. 'And I told the missus that I thought she shouldn't have done it, because I don’t think it’s right to keep visitors in the dark about death; but she said the gentleman didn’t die from anything contagious. She was a poor, honest innkeeper's wife, she said, who had to make a living by taking advantage of good weather. And because the drowned gentleman was brought here, she said it kept so many people away that we were empty, while all the other places were full. So when your good man decided on the room, and she would have lost good-paying guests if he didn't take it, she figured there was no way she’d let anything stop her. Please don’t say I told you, okay? All the linens have been changed, and since the inquest isn’t until tomorrow, after you leave, she thought you wouldn’t know anything about it, being strangers here.'

The returning footsteps of her husband broke off further narration. Baptista waved her hand, for she could not speak. The waiting-maid quickly withdrew, and Mr. Heddegan entered with the smelling salts and other nostrums.

The returning footsteps of her husband interrupted the story. Baptista waved her hand, unable to speak. The waiting-maid quickly left, and Mr. Heddegan came in with the smelling salts and various remedies.

'Any better?' he questioned.

"Is it any better?" he asked.

'I don't like the hotel,' she exclaimed, almost simultaneously. 'I can't bear it-it doesn't suit me!'

'I don't like the hotel,' she said, almost at the same time. 'I can't stand it—it just isn't my style!'

'Is that all that's the matter?' he returned pettishly (this being the first time of his showing such a mood). 'Upon my heart and life such trifling is trying to any man's temper, Baptista! Sending me about from here to yond, and then when I come back saying 'ee don't like the place that I have sunk so much money and words to get for 'ee. 'Od dang it all, 'tis enough to-But I won't say any more at present, mee deer, though it is just too much to expect to turn out of the house now. We shan't get another quiet place at this time of the evening-every other inn in the town is bustling with rackety folk of one sort and t'other, while here 'tis as quiet as the grave-the country, I would say. So bide still, d'ye hear, and to-morrow we shall be out of the town altogether-as early as you like.'

'Is that all that's bothering you?' he replied irritably (this being the first time he showed such a mood). 'Honestly, such trivial things can really test any man's patience, Baptista! Sending me back and forth, and then when I finally get here, you say you don't like the place I've spent so much time and money to find for you. Good grief, it's just too much to- But I won't say any more right now, my dear, even though it's a lot to expect to leave the house at this hour. We won't find another quiet place at this time in the evening—every other inn in town is full of noisy people, while here it's as peaceful as could be. So stay put, okay? Tomorrow we’ll be out of town altogether—whenever you want.'

The obstinacy of age had, in short, overmastered its complaisance, and the young woman said no more. The simple course of telling him that in the adjoining room lay a corpse which had lately occupied their own might, it would have seemed, have been an effectual one without further disclosure, but to allude to that subject, however it was disguised, was more than Heddegan's young wife had strength for. Horror broke her down. In the contingency one thing only presented itself to her paralyzed regard-that here she was doomed to abide, in a hideous contiguity to the dead husband and the living, and her conjecture did, in fact, bear itself out. That night she lay between the two men she had married-Heddegan on the one hand, and on the other through the partition against which the bed stood, Charles Stow.

The stubbornness of age had, in short, overpowered its willingness to accommodate, and the young woman said nothing more. Simply telling him that in the next room lay a corpse that had recently been their own might have seemed enough without further elaboration, but bringing up that topic, no matter how it was framed, was more than Heddegan's young wife could handle. Horror overwhelmed her. In that moment, one thought was all she could focus on—she was stuck here, in a grotesque proximity to her dead husband and the living, and her fears turned out to be accurate. That night, she lay between the two men she had married—Heddegan on one side, and on the other, separated by the wall against which the bed stood, Charles Stow.

CHAPTER VI

Kindly time had withdrawn the foregoing event three days from the present of Baptista Heddegan. It was ten o'clock in the morning; she had been ill, not in an ordinary or definite sense, but in a state of cold stupefaction, from which it was difficult to arouse her so much as to say a few sentences. When questioned she had replied that she was pretty well.

Kindly time had pulled the previous event three days back from the present of Baptista Heddegan. It was ten o'clock in the morning; she had been sick, not in a typical way, but in a state of cold numbness, which made it hard to get her to respond even with a few sentences. When asked, she had said that she was doing pretty well.

Their trip, as such, had been something of a failure. They had gone on as far as Falmouth, but here he had given way to her entreaties to return home. This they could not very well do without repassing through Pen-zephyr, at which place they had now again arrived.

Their trip had been kind of a failure. They had made it all the way to Falmouth, but there he had given in to her pleas to go back home. They really couldn't do that without going through Pen-zephyr again, which is where they had just arrived once more.

In the train she had seen a weekly local paper, and read there a paragraph detailing the inquest on Charles. It was added that the funeral was to take place at his native town of Redrutin on Friday.

In the train, she had seen a local weekly paper and read a paragraph about the inquest on Charles. It also mentioned that the funeral would be held in his hometown of Redrutin on Friday.

After reading this she had shown no reluctance to enter the fatal neighbourhood of the tragedy, only stipulating that they should take their rest at a different lodging from the first; and now comparatively braced up and calm-indeed a cooler creature altogether than when last in the town, she said to David that she wanted to walk out for a while, as they had plenty of time on their hands.

After reading this, she didn't hesitate to go into the area where the tragedy happened, only asking that they stay somewhere different from where they stayed before; and now feeling more composed and calm—definitely more collected than when she was last in town—she told David that she wanted to go for a walk for a bit since they had plenty of time.

'To a shop as usual, I suppose, mee deer?'

'To a shop as usual, I guess, my dear?'

'Partly for shopping,' she said. 'And it will be best for you, dear, to stay in after trotting about so much, and have a good rest while I am gone.'

'Partly for shopping,' she said. 'And it would be best for you, dear, to stay in after all that walking, and get some good rest while I'm gone.'

He assented; and Baptista sallied forth. As she had stated, her first visit was made to a shop, a draper's. Without the exercise of much choice she purchased a black bonnet and veil, also a black stuff gown; a black mantle she already wore. These articles were made up into a parcel which, in spite of the saleswoman's offers, her customer said she would take with her. Bearing it on her arm she turned to the railway, and at the station got a ticket for Redrutin.

He agreed, and Baptista stepped out. As she had mentioned, her first stop was a shop, a fabric store. Without much deliberation, she bought a black bonnet and veil, as well as a black dress; she was already wearing a black coat. These items were bundled into a package that, despite the saleswoman’s attempts to persuade her otherwise, she insisted on carrying herself. Balancing it on her arm, she headed to the train station and bought a ticket to Redrutin.

Thus it appeared that, on her recovery from the paralyzed mood of the former day, while she had resolved not to blast utterly the happiness of her present husband by revealing the history of the departed one, she had also determined to indulge a certain odd, inconsequent, feminine sentiment of decency, to the small extent to which it could do no harm to any person. At Redrutin she emerged from the railway carriage in the black attire purchased at the shop, having during the transit made the change in the empty compartment she had chosen. The other clothes were now in the bandbox and parcel. Leaving these at the cloak-room she proceeded onward, and after a wary survey reached the side of a hill whence a view of the burial ground could be obtained.

Thus, it seemed that, as she came out of the paralyzed state she had been in the day before, she had decided not to completely ruin her current husband's happiness by sharing the story of her late husband. At the same time, she had resolved to indulge a peculiar, inconsistent, feminine sense of decency, to the extent that it wouldn’t hurt anyone. At Redrutin, she stepped out of the train in the black outfit she had bought, having made the change during her journey in the empty compartment she had chosen. The other clothes were now packed away in the bandbox and parcel. After leaving these at the cloakroom, she continued onward, and after a careful look around, she reached a hillside where she could see the burial ground.

It was now a little before two o'clock. While Baptista waited a funeral procession ascended the road. Baptista hastened across, and by the time the procession entered the cemetery gates she had unobtrusively joined it.

It was now just before two o'clock. While Baptista waited, a funeral procession moved up the road. Baptista hurried across, and by the time the procession reached the cemetery gates, she had quietly joined in.

In addition to the schoolmaster's own relatives (not a few), the paragraph in the newspapers of his death by drowning had drawn together many neighbours, acquaintances, and onlookers. Among them she passed unnoticed, and with a quiet step pursued the winding path to the chapel, and afterwards thence to the grave. When all was over, and the relatives and idlers had withdrawn, she stepped to the edge of the chasm. From beneath her mantle she drew a little bunch of forget-me- nots, and dropped them in upon the coffin. In a few minutes she also turned and went away from the cemetery. By five o'clock she was again in Pen-zephyr.

In addition to the schoolmaster's own relatives (quite a few), the newspaper article about his drowning had attracted many neighbors, acquaintances, and onlookers. Among them, she went unnoticed, quietly making her way along the winding path to the chapel, and then to the grave. Once everything was finished and the relatives and bystanders had left, she stepped to the edge of the grave. From beneath her coat, she took out a small bunch of forget-me-nots and placed them on the coffin. After a few minutes, she too turned and left the cemetery. By five o'clock, she was back in Pen-zephyr.

'You have been a mortal long time!' said her husband, crossly. 'I allowed you an hour at most, mee deer.'

'You've been human for a while now!' her husband said, irritably. 'I only gave you an hour at most, my dear.'

'It occupied me longer,' said she.

'It took me longer,' she said.

'Well-I reckon it is wasting words to complain. Hang it, ye look so tired and wisht that I can't find heart to say what I would!'

'Well, I guess it's pointless to complain. Honestly, you look so exhausted and worn out that I can't bring myself to say what I want to!'

'I am-weary and wisht, David; I am. We can get home to-morrow for certain, I hope?'

'I am tired and wish, David; I really do. We can definitely get home tomorrow, right?'

'We can. And please God we will!' said Mr. Heddegan heartily, as if he too were weary of his brief honeymoon. 'I must be into business again on Monday morning at latest.'

'We can. And God willing, we will!' Mr. Heddegan said with enthusiasm, as if he were just as tired of his short honeymoon. 'I need to get back to work by Monday morning at the latest.'

They left by the next morning steamer, and in the afternoon took up their residence in their own house at Giant's Town.

They left on the next morning's steamer and that afternoon moved into their own house in Giant's Town.

The hour that she reached the island it was as if a material weight had been removed from Baptista's shoulders. Her husband attributed the change to the influence of the local breezes after the hot-house atmosphere of the mainland. However that might be, settled here, a few doors from her mother's dwelling, she recovered in no very long time much of her customary bearing, which was never very demonstrative. She accepted her position calmly, and faintly smiled when her neighbours learned to call her Mrs. Heddegan, and said she seemed likely to become the leader of fashion in Giant's Town.

The moment she arrived on the island, it felt like a heavy burden had been lifted off Baptista’s shoulders. Her husband thought the change was due to the refreshing local breezes after the stuffy air of the mainland. Regardless, once she settled a few doors down from her mother’s home, she soon regained much of her usual demeanor, which was never very expressive. She accepted her new role with calmness and gave a slight smile when her neighbors started calling her Mrs. Heddegan, saying she seemed poised to become a trendsetter in Giant's Town.

Her husband was a man who had made considerably more money by trade than her father had done: and perhaps the greater profusion of surroundings at her command than she had heretofore been mistress of, was not without an effect upon her. One week, two weeks, three weeks passed; and, being pre-eminently a young woman who allowed things to drift, she did nothing whatever either to disclose or conceal traces of her first marriage; or to learn if there existed possibilities-which there undoubtedly did-by which that hasty contract might become revealed to those about her at any unexpected moment.

Her husband was a man who had made significantly more money through business than her father ever did; and maybe the abundance of her new surroundings had an impact on her. One week, two weeks, three weeks went by; and, being notably a young woman who let things slide, she did nothing to either reveal or hide the signs of her first marriage, nor to find out if there were any possibilities—which there definitely were—that could lead to that hasty agreement being uncovered by those around her at any unexpected time.

While yet within the first month of her marriage, and on an evening just before sunset, Baptista was standing within her garden adjoining the house, when she saw passing along the road a personage clad in a greasy black coat and battered tall hat, which, common enough in the slums of a city, had an odd appearance in St. Maria's. The tramp, as he seemed to be, marked her at once-bonnetless and unwrapped as she was her features were plainly recognizable-and with an air of friendly surprise came and leant over the wall.

While still in the first month of her marriage, and on an evening just before sunset, Baptista was standing in her garden next to the house when she saw someone walking down the road. This person was wearing a greasy black coat and a battered top hat, which, while common in the city's slums, looked out of place in St. Maria's. The vagabond, as he appeared to be, spotted her right away—her bare head and unwrapped appearance made her features easily recognizable. With a look of friendly surprise, he leaned over the wall.

'What! don't you know me?' said he.

'What! You don’t know me?' he asked.

She had some dim recollection of his face, but said that she was not acquainted with him.

She had a faint memory of his face but claimed that she didn't know him.

'Why, your witness to be sure, ma'am. Don't you mind the man that was mending the church-window when you and your intended husband walked up to be made one; and the clerk called me down from the ladder, and I came and did my part by writing my name and occupation?'

'Well, you have a witness for sure, ma'am. Don’t you remember the guy who was fixing the church window when you and your fiancé walked up to get married? The clerk called me down from the ladder, and I came down and did my part by writing my name and occupation?'

Baptista glanced quickly around; her husband was out of earshot. That would have been of less importance but for the fact that the wedding witnessed by this personage had not been the wedding with Mr. Heddegan, but the one on the day previous.

Baptista looked around quickly; her husband was out of earshot. This would have been less significant if it weren't for the fact that the wedding witnessed by this person had not been the one with Mr. Heddegan, but the one the day before.

'I've had a misfortune since then, that's pulled me under,' continued her friend. 'But don't let me damp yer wedded joy by naming the particulars. Yes, I've seen changes since; though 'tis but a short time ago-let me see, only a month next week, I think; for 'twere the first or second day in August.'

"I've had some bad luck since then that's really brought me down," her friend continued. "But I won't spoil your wedding happiness by going into details. Yes, I've noticed changes since then; even though it's only been a little while—let me see, just a month next week, I think; it was the first or second day of August."

'Yes-that's when it was,' said another man, a sailor, who had come up with a pipe in his mouth, and felt it necessary to join in (Baptista having receded to escape further speech). 'For that was the first time I set foot in Giant's Town; and her husband took her to him the same day.'

'Yeah, that was it,' said another man, a sailor, who had come up with a pipe in his mouth and felt the need to chime in (Baptista having stepped back to avoid more conversation). 'That was the first time I was in Giant's Town; and her husband brought her to him the same day.'

A dialogue then proceeded between the two men outside the wall, which Baptista could not help hearing.

A conversation then took place between the two men outside the wall, which Baptista couldn't help but overhear.

'Ay, I signed the book that made her one flesh,' repeated the decayed glazier. 'Where's her goodman?'

'Ay, I signed the book that made her one flesh,' repeated the aged glazier. 'Where's her partner?'

'About the premises somewhere; but you don't see 'em together much,' replied the sailor in an undertone. 'You see, he's older than she.'

'About the place somewhere; but you don't see them together much,' replied the sailor quietly. 'You see, he's older than she is.'

'Older? I should never have thought it from my own observation,' said the glazier. 'He was a remarkably handsome man.'

'Older? I would never have guessed that from what I saw,' said the glazier. 'He was a really attractive guy.'

'Handsome? Well, there he is-we can see for ourselves.'

'Handsome? Well, there he is—we can see for ourselves.'

David Heddegan had, indeed, just shown himself at the upper end of the garden; and the glazier, looking in bewilderment from the husband to the wife, saw the latter turn pale.

David Heddegan had just appeared at the top of the garden; and the glazier, looking in confusion from the husband to the wife, saw her go pale.

Now that decayed glazier was a far-seeing and cunning man-too far-seeing and cunning to allow himself to thrive by simple and straightforward means-and he held his peace, till he could read more plainly the meaning of this riddle, merely adding carelessly, 'Well-marriage do alter a man, 'tis true. I should never ha' knowed him!'

Now that decayed glazier was a sharp and clever guy—too sharp and clever to get by with just simple and straightforward methods—and he kept quiet until he could understand this riddle better, casually adding, 'Well, marriage does change a person, that's true. I would have never recognized him!'

He then stared oddly at the disconcerted Baptista, and moving on to where he could again address her, asked her to do him a good turn, since he once had done the same for her. Understanding that he meant money, she handed him some, at which he thanked her, and instantly went away.

He then looked strangely at the confused Baptista, and moved to where he could speak to her again. He asked her to do him a favor, since he had once done the same for her. Realizing he meant money, she gave him some, and he thanked her before quickly leaving.

CHAPTER VII

She had escaped exposure on this occasion; but the incident had been an awkward one, and should have suggested to Baptista that sooner or later the secret must leak out. As it was, she suspected that at any rate she had not heard the last of the glazier.

She had avoided being found out this time; however, the situation was uncomfortable and should have made Baptista realize that eventually the secret would come to light. As it stood, she suspected that she definitely hadn't heard the last of the glazier.

In a day or two, when her husband had gone to the old town on the other side of the island, there came a gentle tap at the door, and the worthy witness of her first marriage made his appearance a second time.

In a day or two, after her husband had gone to the old town on the other side of the island, there was a gentle knock at the door, and the respectable witness of her first marriage showed up a second time.

'It took me hours to get to the bottom of the mystery-hours!' he said with a gaze of deep confederacy which offended her pride very deeply. 'But thanks to a good intellect I've done it. Now, ma'am, I'm not a man to tell tales, even when a tale would be so good as this. But I'm going back to the mainland again, and a little assistance would be as rain on thirsty ground.'

'It took me hours to figure out the mystery—hours!' he said, with a look of deep understanding that insulted her pride greatly. 'But thanks to my sharp mind, I've solved it. Now, ma'am, I'm not the kind of guy to spread stories, even when the story is as interesting as this one. But I'm heading back to the mainland, and any help would be greatly appreciated.'

'I helped you two days ago,' began Baptista.

'I helped you two days ago,' Baptista said.

'Yes-but what was that, my good lady? Not enough to pay my passage to Pen-zephyr. I came over on your account, for I thought there was a mystery somewhere. Now I must go back on my own. Mind this-'twould be very awkward for you if your old man were to know. He's a queer temper, though he may be fond.'

'Yes, but what was that, my good lady? It's not enough to cover my ticket to Pen-zephyr. I came here because I thought there was a mystery to uncover. Now I have to head back on my own. Just so you know—it would be really awkward for you if your husband found out. He's got a strange temperament, even if he might have some affection.'

She knew as well as her visitor how awkward it would be; and the hush- money she paid was heavy that day. She had, however, the satisfaction of watching the man to the steamer, and seeing him diminish out of sight. But Baptista perceived that the system into which she had been led of purchasing silence thus was one fatal to her peace of mind, particularly if it had to be continued.

She was fully aware, just like her visitor, of how uncomfortable things would be; and the bribe she paid that day was significant. However, she found some satisfaction in watching the man board the steamer and fade away from view. But Baptista realized that the approach she had taken of buying silence was detrimental to her peace of mind, especially if it had to continue.

Hearing no more from the glazier she hoped the difficulty was past. But another week only had gone by, when, as she was pacing the Giant's Walk (the name given to the promenade), she met the same personage in the company of a fat woman carrying a bundle.

Hearing nothing more from the glazier, she hoped the trouble was over. But another week had passed, and while she was walking along the Giant's Walk (the name for the promenade), she encountered the same person along with a heavy-set woman carrying a bundle.

'This is the lady, my dear,' he said to his companion. 'This, ma'am, is my wife. We've come to settle in the town for a time, if so be we can find room.'

'This is the lady, my dear,' he said to his companion. 'This, ma'am, is my wife. We've come to settle in the town for a while, if we can find a place to stay.'

'That you won't do,' said she. 'Nobody can live here who is not privileged.'

'You won't do that,' she said. 'No one can live here who isn't privileged.'

'I am privileged,' said the glazier, 'by my trade.'

'I feel fortunate,' said the glassworker, 'by my profession.'

Baptista went on, but in the afternoon she received a visit from the man's wife. This honest woman began to depict, in forcible colours, the necessity for keeping up the concealment.

Baptista continued, but in the afternoon she received a visit from the man's wife. This sincere woman started to describe, in vivid detail, the importance of maintaining the secrecy.

'I will intercede with my husband, ma'am,' she said. 'He's a true man if rightly managed; and I'll beg him to consider your position. 'Tis a very nice house you've got here,' she added, glancing round, 'and well worth a little sacrifice to keep it.'

'I will speak to my husband, ma'am,' she said. 'He's a good man if approached the right way; and I'll ask him to think about your situation. 'You have a lovely house here,' she added, looking around, 'and it's definitely worth a small sacrifice to keep it.'

The unlucky Baptista staved off the danger on this third occasion as she had done on the previous two. But she formed a resolve that, if the attack were once more to be repeated she would face a revelation-worse though that must now be than before she had attempted to purchase silence by bribes. Her tormentors, never believing her capable of acting upon such an intention, came again; but she shut the door in their faces. They retreated, muttering something; but she went to the back of the house, where David Heddegan was.

The unfortunate Baptista managed to fend off the danger for the third time, just like she had in the past two instances. However, she made a decision that if the attack happened again, she would confront a truth—though it would be worse than when she had tried to buy silence with bribes. Her tormentors, never thinking she could actually go through with such a plan, returned once more, but she slammed the door in their faces. They backed off, grumbling something under their breath, while she headed to the back of the house where David Heddegan was.

She looked at him, unconscious of all. The case was serious; she knew that well; and all the more serious in that she liked him better now than she had done at first. Yet, as she herself began to see, the secret was one that was sure to disclose itself. Her name and Charles's stood indelibly written in the registers; and though a month only had passed as yet it was a wonder that his clandestine union with her had not already been discovered by his friends. Thus spurring herself to the inevitable, she spoke to Heddegan.

She looked at him, completely unaware of everything else. The situation was serious; she knew that well, and even more serious because she liked him more now than she did at first. Yet, as she began to realize, the secret was bound to come out. Her name and Charles’s were permanently recorded in the registers, and even though only a month had passed, it was surprising that his secret marriage to her hadn’t already been found out by his friends. Pushing herself toward the inevitable, she spoke to Heddegan.

'David, come indoors. I have something to tell you.'

'David, come inside. I have something to tell you.'

He hardly regarded her at first. She had discerned that during the last week or two he had seemed preoccupied, as if some private business harassed him. She repeated her request. He replied with a sigh, 'Yes, certainly, mee deer.'

He barely looked at her at first. She had noticed that for the past week or two, he seemed distracted, as if something personal was bothering him. She restated her request. He answered with a sigh, 'Yes, of course, my dear.'

When they had reached the sitting-room and shut the door she repeated, faintly, 'David, I have something to tell you-a sort of tragedy I have concealed. You will hate me for having so far deceived you; but perhaps my telling you voluntarily will make you think a little better of me than you would do otherwise.'

When they got to the living room and closed the door, she said softly, "David, I have something to share with you—a kind of tragedy I've kept hidden. You might hate me for deceiving you up to this point, but maybe my choice to tell you will help you think a little better of me than you would otherwise."

'Tragedy?' he said, awakening to interest. 'Much you can know about tragedies, mee deer, that have been in the world so short a time!'

'Tragedy?' he asked, suddenly interested. 'You think you know a lot about tragedies, my dear, when they've been around for such a short time!'

She saw that he suspected nothing, and it made her task the harder. But on she went steadily. 'It is about something that happened before we were married,' she said.

She noticed that he didn't suspect anything, which made her job more difficult. But she continued on steadily. 'It's about something that happened before we got married,' she said.

'Indeed!'

'Definitely!'

'Not a very long time before-a short time. And it is about a lover,' she faltered.

'Not too long ago—just a little while back. And it's about a lover,' she hesitated.

'I don't much mind that,' he said mildly. 'In truth, I was in hopes 'twas more.'

"I don't really mind that," he said calmly. "Honestly, I was hoping it was more."

'In hopes!'

'With hope!'

'Well, yes.'

"Sure."

This screwed her up to the necessary effort. 'I met my old sweetheart. He scorned me, chid me, dared me, and I went and married him. We were coming straight here to tell you all what we had done; but he was drowned; and I thought I would say nothing about him: and I married you, David, for the sake of peace and quietness. I've tried to keep it from you, but have found I cannot. There-that's the substance of it, and you can never, never forgive me, I am sure!'

This messed me up enough to take action. 'I ran into my old love. He looked down on me, scolded me, challenged me, and I ended up marrying him. We were on our way here to tell you everything we’d done; but then he drowned, and I thought it was best to not mention him: so I married you, David, for the sake of peace and stability. I've tried to hide this from you, but I've realized I can’t. There it is—that's the truth, and I know you can never, ever forgive me!'

She spoke desperately. But the old man, instead of turning black or blue, or slaying her in his indignation, jumped up from his chair, and began to caper around the room in quite an ecstatic emotion.

She spoke desperately. But the old man, instead of turning angry or furious, or killing her in his outrage, jumped up from his chair and started dancing around the room in sheer excitement.

'O, happy thing! How well it falls out!' he exclaimed, snapping his, fingers over his head. 'Ha-ha-the knot is cut-I see a way out of my trouble-ha-ha!' She looked at him without uttering a sound, till, as he still continued smiling joyfully, she said, 'O-what do you mean! Is it done to torment me?'

'O, how wonderful! This is perfect!' he shouted, snapping his fingers over his head. 'Ha-ha—the knot is untied—I see a way out of my problem—ha-ha!' She looked at him without saying anything, until, as he kept smiling happily, she asked, 'O—what do you mean! Are you doing this to tease me?'

'No-no! O, mee deer, your story helps me out of the most heart-aching quandary a poor man ever found himself in! You see, it is this-I've got a tragedy, too; and unless you had had one to tell, I could never have seen my way to tell mine!'

'No way! Oh my dear, your story helps me out of the most heart-wrenching situation a poor man has ever faced! You see, it’s this—I have a tragedy as well; and if you hadn't had one to share, I could never have brought myself to share mine!'

'What is yours-what is it?' she asked, with altogether a new view of things.

'What is yours - what is it?' she asked, seeing things in a completely new way.

'Well-it is a bouncer; mine is a bouncer!' said he, looking on the ground and wiping his eyes.

'Well, it’s a bouncer; mine is a bouncer!' he said, looking at the ground and wiping his eyes.

'Not worse than mine?'

'Well-that depends upon how you look at it. Yours had to do with the past alone; and I don't mind it. You see, we've been married a month, and it don't jar upon me as it would if we'd only been married a day or two. Now mine refers to past, present, and future; so that-'

'Well, that depends on how you see it. Yours was only about the past, and I'm okay with that. You see, we've been married for a month, and it doesn't bother me like it would if we had only been married for a day or two. Now, mine involves the past, present, and future; so that-'

'Past, present, and future!' she murmured. 'It never occurred to me that you had a tragedy, too.'

'Past, present, and future!' she whispered. 'I never realized you had a tragedy as well.'

'But I have!' he said, shaking his head. 'In fact, four.'

'But I have!' he said, shaking his head. 'Actually, four.'

'Then tell 'em!' cried the young woman.

'Then tell them!' shouted the young woman.

'I will-I will. But be considerate, I beg 'ee, mee deer. Well-I wasn't a bachelor when I married 'ee, any more than you were a spinster. Just as you was a widow-woman, I was a widow-man.

'I will—I will. But please be considerate, I beg you, my dear. Well—I wasn't single when I married you, just as you weren't single. Just as you were a widow, I was a widower.'

'Ah!' said she, with some surprise. 'But is that all?-then we are nicely balanced,' she added, relieved.

'Oh!' she said, a bit surprised. 'Is that it? Then we’re perfectly balanced,' she added, feeling relieved.

'No-it is not all. There's the point. I am not only a widower.'

'No, that’s not all. That’s the point. I’m not just a widower.'

'O, David!'

'Oh, David!'

'I am a widower with four tragedies-that is to say, four strapping girls-the eldest taller than you. Don't 'ee look so struck-dumb-like! It fell out in this way. I knew the poor woman, their mother, in Pen- zephyr for some years; and-to cut a long story short-I privately married her at last, just before she died. I kept the matter secret, but it is getting known among the people here by degrees. I've long felt for the children-that it is my duty to have them here, and do something for them. I have not had courage to break it to 'ee, but I've seen lately that it would soon come to your ears, and that hev worried me.'

'I’m a widower with four tragedies—that is, four strong girls—the oldest is taller than you. Don’t look so shocked! Here’s how it happened. I knew their mother, the poor woman, in Pen- zephyr for several years; and to make a long story short, I married her in private just before she passed away. I kept it a secret, but it’s gradually getting out among the people here. I’ve always felt that it’s my responsibility to have the children with me and do something for them. I haven’t had the courage to tell you, but I’ve realized that you would find out soon, and that has worried me.'

'Are they educated?' said the ex-schoolmistress.

"Are they educated?" asked the former schoolteacher.

'No. I am sorry to say they have been much neglected; in truth, they can hardly read. And so I thought that by marrying a young schoolmistress I should get some one in the house who could teach 'em, and bring 'em into genteel condition, all for nothing. You see, they are growed up too tall to be sent to school.'

'No. I’m sorry to say they’ve been neglected; honestly, they can barely read. So I figured that if I married a young schoolteacher, I’d have someone in the house who could teach them and help them improve their situation, all for free. You see, they’ve grown too tall to be sent to school.'

'O, mercy!' she almost moaned. 'Four great girls to teach the rudiments to, and have always in the house with me spelling over their books; and I hate teaching, it kills me. I am bitterly punished-I am, I am!'

'O, mercy!' she almost moaned. 'Four big girls to teach the basics to, and always having them in the house with me going over their books; and I hate teaching, it drives me crazy. I’m being punished severely—I really am!'

'You'll get used to 'em, mee deer, and the balance of secrets-mine against yours-will comfort your heart with a sense of justice. I could send for 'em this week very well-and I will! In faith, I could send this very day. Baptista, you have relieved me of all my difficulty!'

'You'll get used to them, my dear, and the balance of secrets—mine against yours—will bring you peace with a sense of justice. I could easily send for them this week—and I will! Honestly, I could send for them today. Baptista, you have taken away all my trouble!'

Thus the interview ended, so far as this matter was concerned. Baptista was too stupefied to say more, and when she went away to her room she wept from very mortification at Mr. Heddegan's duplicity. Education, the one thing she abhorred; the shame of it to delude a young wife so!

Thus the interview ended, as far as this matter was concerned. Baptista was too stunned to say anything more, and when she went to her room, she cried out of sheer embarrassment at Mr. Heddegan's deceit. Education, the one thing she hated; how shameful to trick a young wife like that!

The next meal came round. As they sat, Baptista would not suffer her eyes to turn towards him. He did not attempt to intrude upon her reserve, but every now and then looked under the table and chuckled with satisfaction at the aspect of affairs. 'How very well matched we be!' he said, comfortably.

The next meal arrived. As they sat down, Baptista wouldn’t let her eyes look at him. He didn’t try to break her silence, but every now and then, he glanced under the table and chuckled to himself, pleased with the situation. “We’re such a good match!” he said, feeling content.

Next day, when the steamer came in, Baptista saw her husband rush down to meet it; and soon after there appeared at her door four tall, hipless, shoulderless girls, dwindling in height and size from the eldest to the youngest, like a row of Pan pipes; at the head of them standing Heddegan. He smiled pleasantly through the grey fringe of his whiskers and beard, and turning to the girls said, 'Now come forrard, and shake hands properly with your stepmother.'

Next day, when the steamer arrived, Baptista saw her husband hurry down to meet it; and soon after, four tall, skinny girls appeared at her door, getting shorter and smaller from the oldest to the youngest, like a set of panpipes; at the front was Heddegan. He smiled warmly through the grey fringe of his whiskers and beard, and turning to the girls said, 'Now come forward, and shake hands properly with your stepmother.'

Thus she made their acquaintance, and he went out, leaving them together. On examination the poor girls turned out to be not only plain-looking, which she could have forgiven, but to have such a lamentably meagre intellectual equipment as to be hopelessly inadequate as companions. Even the eldest, almost her own age, could only read with difficulty words of two syllables; and taste in dress was beyond their comprehension. In the long vista of future years she saw nothing but dreary drudgery at her detested old trade without prospect of reward.

Thus she got to know them, and he left them alone together. On closer look, the poor girls turned out to be not just plain-looking, which she might have overlooked, but they also had such a disappointingly limited intellect that they would be completely unsuitable as friends. Even the oldest, who was nearly her age, could barely read two-syllable words; and they had no sense of style when it came to clothing. In the long stretch of years ahead, she envisioned nothing but tedious labor at her hated old job with no chance for any reward.

She went about quite despairing during the next few days-an unpromising, unfortunate mood for a woman who had not been married six weeks. From her parents she concealed everything. They had been amongst the few acquaintances of Heddegan who knew nothing of his secret, and were indignant enough when they saw such a ready-made household foisted upon their only child. But she would not support them in their remonstrances.

She was quite despondent over the next few days—an unpromising and unfortunate mood for a woman who had only been married for six weeks. She kept everything from her parents. They were among the few people who knew nothing of Heddegan's secret, and they were furious when they saw such a ready-made household forced onto their only child. But she wouldn't back them in their complaints.

'No, you don't yet know all,' she said.

'No, you don't know everything yet,' she said.

Thus Baptista had sense enough to see the retributive fairness of this issue. For some time, whenever conversation arose between her and Heddegan, which was not often, she always said, 'I am miserable, and you know it. Yet I don't wish things to be otherwise.'

Thus Baptista was smart enough to recognize the fair outcome of this situation. For a while, whenever she and Heddegan talked, which wasn’t very often, she always said, 'I am miserable, and you know it. Yet I don’t want things to be different.'

But one day when he asked, 'How do you like 'em now?' her answer was unexpected. 'Much better than I did,' she said, quietly. 'I may like them very much some day.'

But one day when he asked, 'How do you like them now?' her answer was unexpected. 'Much better than I did,' she said quietly. 'I might really like them someday.'

This was the beginning of a serener season for the chastened spirit of Baptista Heddegan. She had, in truth, discovered, underneath the crust of uncouthness and meagre articulation which was due to their Troglodytean existence, that her unwelcomed daughters had natures that were unselfish almost to sublimity. The harsh discipline accorded to their young lives before their mother's wrong had been righted, had operated less to crush them than to lift them above all personal ambition. They considered the world and its contents in a purely objective way, and their own lot seemed only to affect them as that of certain human beings among the rest, whose troubles they knew rather than suffered.

This was the start of a calmer time for the humbled spirit of Baptista Heddegan. She had, in fact, realized that beneath the roughness and limited communication that came from their primitive existence, her unwanted daughters had natures that were selfless to an almost extraordinary degree. The strict discipline imposed on their young lives before their mother’s mistake was corrected had not crushed them, but rather elevated them above personal ambition. They viewed the world and its matters in a purely objective manner, and their own situation seemed to impact them only as it did for other people, whose troubles they understood rather than experienced.

This was such an entirely new way of regarding life to a woman of Baptista's nature, that her attention, from being first arrested by it, became deeply interested. By imperceptible pulses her heart expanded in sympathy with theirs. The sentences of her tragi-comedy, her life, confused till now, became clearer daily. That in humanity, as exemplified by these girls, there was nothing to dislike, but infinitely much to pity, she learnt with the lapse of each week in their company. She grew to like the girls of unpromising exterior, and from liking she got to love them; till they formed an unexpected point of junction between her own and her husband's interests, generating a sterling friendship at least, between a pair in whose existence there had threatened to be neither friendship nor love.

This was such a completely new way of looking at life for a woman like Baptista that her initial curiosity turned into deep interest. Gradually, her heart opened up in sympathy with theirs. The thoughts of her life's ups and downs, which had been confusing until now, became clearer each day. She realized that there was nothing to dislike in humanity, as shown by these girls, but so much to feel sorry for as she spent more weeks with them. She began to appreciate the girls who didn't seem promising at first, and from that appreciation, she grew to love them; they became an unexpected connection between her and her husband's interests, creating a strong friendship where there had seemed to be neither friendship nor love.

October, 1885. October, 1885.

October 1885. October 1885.

THE HAND OF ETHELBERTA-A COMEDY IN CHAPTERS

By Thomas Hardy

"Life hides behind the scenes." - Lucretius.

CONTENTS

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PREFACE

1. A STREET IN ANGLEBURY-A HEATH NEAR IT-INSIDE THE 'RED LION' INN

2. CHRISTOPHER'S HOUSE-SANDBOURNE TOWN-SANDBOURNE MOOR

3. SANDBOURNE MOOR (continued)

4. SANDBOURNE PIER-ROAD TO WYNDWAY-BALL-ROOM IN WYNDWAY HOUSE

5. AT THE WINDOW-THE ROAD HOME

6. THE SHORE BY WYNDWAY

7. THE DINING-ROOM OF A TOWN HOUSE-THE BUTLER'S PANTRY

8. CHRISTOPHER'S LODGINGS-THE GROUNDS ABOUT ROOKINGTON

9. A LADY'S DRAWING-ROOMS-ETHELBERTA'S DRESSING-ROOM

10. LADY PETHERWIN'S HOUSE

11. SANDBOURNE AND ITS NEIGHBOURHOOD-SOME LONDON STREETS

12. ARROWTHORNE PARK AND LODGE

13. THE LODGE (continued)-THE COPSE BEHIND

14. A TURNPIKE ROAD

15. AN INNER ROOM AT THE LODGE

16. A LARGE PUBLIC HALL

17. ETHELBERTA'S HOUSE

18. NEAR SANDBOURNE-LONDON STREETS-ETHELBERTA'S

19. ETHELBERTA'S DRAWING-ROOM

20. THE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF THE HALL-THE ROAD HOME

21. A STREET-NEIGH'S ROOMS-CHRISTOPHER'S ROOMS

22. ETHELBERTA'S HOUSE

23. ETHELBERTA'S HOUSE (continued)

24. ETHELBERTA'S HOUSE (continued)-THE BRITISH MUSEUM

25. THE ROYAL ACADEMY-THE FARNFIELD ESTATE

26. ETHELBERTA'S DRAWING-ROOM

27. MRS. BELMAINE'S-CRIPPLEGATE CHURCH

28. ETHELBERTA'S-MR. CHICKEREL'S ROOM

29. ETHELBERTA'S DRESSING-ROOM-MR. DONCASTLE'S HOUSE

30. ON THE HOUSETOP

31. KNOLLSEA-A LOFTY DOWN-A RUINED CASTLE

32. A ROOM IN ENCKWORTH COURT

33. THE ENGLISH CHANNEL-NORMANDY

34. THE HOTEL BEAU SEJOUR AND SPOTS NEAR IT

35. THE HOTEL (continued), AND THE QUAY IN FRONT

36. THE HOUSE IN TOWN

37. KNOLLSEA-AN ORNAMENTAL VILLA

38. ENCKWORTH COURT

39. KNOLLSEA-MELCHESTER

40. MELCHESTER (continued)

41. WORKSHOPS-AN INN-THE STREET

42. THE DONCASTLES' RESIDENCE, AND OUTSIDE THE SAME

43. THE RAILWAY-THE SEA-THE SHORE BEYOND

44. SANDBOURNE-A LONELY HEATH-THE 'RED LION'-THE HIGHWAY

45. KNOLLSEA-THE ROAD THENCE-ENCKWORTH

46. ENCKWORTH (continued)-THE ANGLEBURY HIGHWAY

47. ENCKWORTH AND ITS PRECINCTS-MELCHESTER

SEQUEL. ANGLEBURY-ENCKWORTH-SANDBOURNE

PREFACE

This somewhat frivolous narrative was produced as an interlude between stories of a more sober design, and it was given the sub-title of a comedy to indicate-though not quite accurately-the aim of the performance. A high degree of probability was not attempted in the arrangement of the incidents, and there was expected of the reader a certain lightness of mood, which should inform him with a good-natured willingness to accept the production in the spirit in which it was offered. The characters themselves, however, were meant to be consistent and human.

This lighthearted story was created as a break between more serious tales, and it was labeled as a comedy to suggest—though not entirely accurately—the intent of the piece. There wasn’t a strong focus on making the events believable, and the reader was expected to adopt a somewhat carefree attitude, embracing the narrative in the lighthearted spirit it was intended. The characters, however, were designed to be relatable and realistic.

On its first appearance the novel suffered, perhaps deservedly, for what was involved in these intentions-for its quality of unexpectedness in particular-that unforgivable sin in the critic's sight-the immediate precursor of 'Ethelberta' having been a purely rural tale. Moreover, in its choice of medium, and line of perspective, it undertook a delicate task: to excite interest in a drama-if such a dignified word may be used in the connection-wherein servants were as important as, or more important than, their masters; wherein the drawing-room was sketched in many cases from the point of view of the servants' hall. Such a reversal of the social foreground has, perhaps, since grown more welcome, and readers even of the finer crusted kind may now be disposed to pardon a writer for presenting the sons and daughters of Mr. and Mrs. Chickerel as beings who come within the scope of a congenial regard.

On its initial release, the novel faced criticism, possibly deservedly so, due to what was involved in its intentions—especially its element of surprise—which is seen as an unforgivable flaw by critics, particularly since its immediate predecessor was a purely rural story. Additionally, in its approach and perspective, it took on a challenging task: to spark interest in a drama—if we can use such a grand term—where servants were just as important, if not more so, than their masters; where the drawing-room was often depicted from the perspective of the servants' hall. This shift in social focus has likely become more accepted since then, and even readers of highbrow tastes may now be inclined to forgive a writer for portraying the sons and daughters of Mr. and Mrs. Chickerel as individuals worthy of sympathetic attention.

T. H.

December 1895.

1. A STREET IN ANGLEBURY-A HEATH NEAR IT-INSIDE THE 'RED LION' INN

Young Mrs. Petherwin stepped from the door of an old and well-appointed inn in a Wessex town to take a country walk. By her look and carriage she appeared to belong to that gentle order of society which has no worldly sorrow except when its jewellery gets stolen; but, as a fact not generally known, her claim to distinction was rather one of brains than of blood. She was the daughter of a gentleman who lived in a large house not his own, and began life as a baby christened Ethelberta after an infant of title who does not come into the story at all, having merely furnished Ethelberta's mother with a subject of contemplation. She became teacher in a school, was praised by examiners, admired by gentlemen, not admired by gentlewomen, was touched up with accomplishments by masters who were coaxed into painstaking by her many graces, and, entering a mansion as governess to the daughter thereof, was stealthily married by the son. He, a minor like herself, died from a chill caught during the wedding tour, and a few weeks later was followed into the grave by Sir Ralph Petherwin, his unforgiving father, who had bequeathed his wealth to his wife absolutely.

Young Mrs. Petherwin stepped out from the door of a charming and well-furnished inn in a Wessex town to go for a country walk. By her appearance and demeanor, she seemed to belong to that refined class of society that only faces problems when its jewelry gets stolen; however, as a little-known fact, her status was more about her intelligence than her heritage. She was the daughter of a gentleman who lived in a large house that wasn’t his own and started life as a baby named Ethelberta after a titled infant who doesn’t play any role in the story, simply providing her mother with something to think about. She became a teacher at a school, received praise from examiners, was admired by men, but not by women, and was refined with skills by tutors who were encouraged to be diligent because of her many charms. She became a governess in a mansion for the owner’s daughter and was secretly married by the son. He, like her, was still a minor and died from a chill taken during their honeymoon, and a few weeks later, he was followed to the grave by Sir Ralph Petherwin, his unyielding father, who had left all his wealth to his wife completely.

These calamities were a sufficient reason to Lady Petherwin for pardoning all concerned. She took by the hand the forlorn Ethelberta-who seemed rather a detached bride than a widow-and finished her education by placing her for two or three years in a boarding-school at Bonn. Latterly she had brought the girl to England to live under her roof as daughter and companion, the condition attached being that Ethelberta was never openly to recognize her relations, for reasons which will hereafter appear.

These disasters were enough for Lady Petherwin to forgive everyone involved. She took the sad Ethelberta—who seemed more like a bride than a widow—by the hand and completed her education by enrolling her in a boarding school in Bonn for two or three years. More recently, she had brought the girl to England to live with her as a daughter and companion, with the condition that Ethelberta never publicly acknowledge her relatives, for reasons that will become clear later.

The elegant young lady, as she had a full right to be called if she cared for the definition, arrested all the local attention when she emerged into the summer-evening light with that diadem-and-sceptre bearing-many people for reasons of heredity discovering such graces only in those whose vestibules are lined with ancestral mail, forgetting that a bear may be taught to dance. While this air of hers lasted, even the inanimate objects in the street appeared to know that she was there; but from a way she had of carelessly overthrowing her dignity by versatile moods, one could not calculate upon its presence to a certainty when she was round corners or in little lanes which demanded no repression of animal spirits.

The elegant young lady, deserving of that title if she appreciated the definition, captured everyone's attention when she stepped into the summer evening light, exuding a regal presence. Many people, due to their backgrounds, only recognized such grace in those from noble families, forgetting that even a bear can learn to dance. While she maintained this air of elegance, everything around her seemed to acknowledge her presence; however, because of her tendency to carelessly disrupt her poise with her changing moods, one couldn’t count on her regal demeanor being consistent around corners or in narrow lanes where she felt free to let loose.

'Well to be sure!' exclaimed a milkman, regarding her. 'We should freeze in our beds if 'twere not for the sun, and, dang me! if she isn't a pretty piece. A man could make a meal between them eyes and chin-eh, hostler? Odd nation dang my old sides if he couldn't!'

'Well, for sure!' exclaimed a milkman, looking at her. 'We’d freeze in our beds if it weren't for the sun, and, dang it! if she isn't a pretty girl. A guy could feast on those eyes and chin, right, hostler? Seriously, I swear he could!'

The speaker, who had been carrying a pair of pails on a yoke, deposited them upon the edge of the pavement in front of the inn, and straightened his back to an excruciating perpendicular. His remarks had been addressed to a rickety person, wearing a waistcoat of that preternatural length from the top to the bottom button which prevails among men who have to do with horses. He was sweeping straws from the carriage-way beneath the stone arch that formed a passage to the stables behind.

The speaker, who had been carrying a pair of buckets on a yoke, set them down on the edge of the sidewalk in front of the inn and straightened his back painfully. He had been speaking to a frail-looking man wearing a ridiculously long waistcoat, which is common among those who work with horses. The man was sweeping straw from the pathway beneath the stone arch that led to the stables in the back.

'Never mind the cursing and swearing, or somebody who's never out of hearing may clap yer name down in his black book,' said the hostler, also pausing, and lifting his eyes to the mullioned and transomed windows and moulded parapet above him-not to study them as features of ancient architecture, but just to give as healthful a stretch to the eyes as his acquaintance had done to his back. 'Michael, a old man like you ought to think about other things, and not be looking two ways at your time of life. Pouncing upon young flesh like a carrion crow-'tis a vile thing in a old man.'

"Forget about the cursing and swearing, or someone who's always listening might write your name in their black book," said the stableman, pausing too and looking up at the leaded windows and ornate parapet above him—not to appreciate them as parts of old architecture, but just to give his eyes a healthy stretch, like his friend had done for his back. "Michael, at your age, you should focus on other things instead of looking at life from two angles. Preying on young people like a vulture—it's a disgusting thing for an old man."

''Tis; and yet 'tis not, for 'tis a naterel taste,' said the milkman, again surveying Ethelberta, who had now paused upon a bridge in full view, to look down the river. 'Now, if a poor needy feller like myself could only catch her alone when she's dressed up to the nines for some grand party, and carry her off to some lonely place-sakes, what a pot of jewels and goold things I warrant he'd find about her! 'Twould pay en for his trouble.'

"It is, and yet it isn't, because it’s a natural taste," said the milkman, once more looking at Ethelberta, who had now stopped on a bridge in full view to gaze down the river. "Now, if a poor guy like me could just catch her alone when she's all dressed up for some fancy party, and take her off to some secluded spot, I bet he'd discover a treasure trove of jewels and gold things with her! It would definitely be worth his effort."

'I don't dispute the picter; but 'tis sly and untimely to think such roguery. Though I've had thoughts like it, 'tis true, about high women-Lord forgive me for't.'

'I don't argue with the picture; but it's sneaky and inappropriate to think such trickery. Though I've had thoughts like it, it's true, about powerful women—Lord forgive me for it.'

'And that figure of fashion standing there is a widow woman, so I hear?'

'So I hear that the fashionable woman standing there is a widow?'

'Lady-not a penny less than lady. Ay, a thing of twenty-one or thereabouts.'

'Lady—not a penny less than a lady. Yeah, about twenty-one or so.'

'A widow lady and twenty-one. 'Tis a backward age for a body who's so forward in her state of life.'

'A twenty-one-year-old widow. It's a tough time for someone who's moved so far forward in life.'

'Well, be that as 'twill, here's my showings for her age. She was about the figure of two or three-and-twenty when a' got off the carriage last night, tired out wi' boaming about the country; and nineteen this morning when she came downstairs after a sleep round the clock and a clane-washed face: so I thought to myself, twenty-one, I thought.'

'Well, whatever the case, here’s my take on her age. She looked around twenty-two or twenty-three when she got out of the carriage last night, worn out from traveling around the countryside; and she seemed nineteen this morning when she came downstairs after sleeping for a whole day and washing her face clean: so I figured, twenty-one, I thought.'

'And what's the young woman's name, make so bold, hostler?'

'And what's the young woman's name, being so bold, innkeeper?'

'Ay, and the house were all in a stoor with her and the old woman, and their boxes and camp-kettles, that they carry to wash in because hand-basons bain't big enough, and I don't know what all; and t'other folk stopping here were no more than dirt thencefor'ard.'

'Ay, and the house was all in a mess with her and the old woman, and their boxes and camp-kettles, that they take to wash in because hand basins aren't big enough, and I don’t know what else; and the other people staying here were nothing more than dirt from then on.'

'I suppose they've come out of some noble city a long way herefrom?'

'I guess they came from some noble city far away from here?'

'And there was her hair up in buckle as if she'd never seen a clay-cold man at all. However, to cut a long story short, all I know besides about 'em is that the name upon their luggage is Lady Petherwin, and she's the widow of a city gentleman, who was a man of valour in the Lord Mayor's Show.'

'And there was her hair styled up as if she’d never come across a cold-hearted guy at all. Anyway, to keep it brief, all I really know about them is that the name on their luggage says Lady Petherwin, and she’s the widow of a city guy who was a brave man in the Lord Mayor’s Show.'

'Who's that chap in the gaiters and pack at his back, come out of the door but now?' said the milkman, nodding towards a figure of that description who had just emerged from the inn and trudged off in the direction taken by the lady-now out of sight.

'Who's that guy in the gaiters with a pack on his back, just came out of the door?' said the milkman, nodding towards a figure that fit that description who had just exited the inn and was walking off in the direction the lady had gone—now out of sight.

'Chap in the gaiters? Chok' it all-why, the father of that nobleman that you call chap in the gaiters used to be hand in glove with half the Queen's court.'

'Guy in the gaiters? Forget it—all that, the father of that nobleman you call guy in the gaiters used to be close with half the Queen's court.'

'What d'ye tell o'?'

'What do you think of?'

'That man's father was one of the mayor and corporation of Sandbourne, and was that familiar with men of money, that he'd slap 'em upon the shoulder as you or I or any other poor fool would the clerk of the parish.'

'That man's father was part of the mayor and corporation of Sandbourne, and he was so comfortable with wealthy people that he would slap them on the shoulder just like you or I or any other poor fool would do to the parish clerk.'

'O, what's my lordlin's name, make so bold, then?'

'O, what's my lord's name, being so bold, then?'

'Ay, the toppermost class nowadays have left off the use of wheels for the good of their constitutions, so they traipse and walk for many years up foreign hills, where you can see nothing but snow and fog, till there's no more left to walk up; and if they reach home alive, and ha'n't got too old and weared out, they walk and see a little of their own parishes. So they tower about with a pack and a stick and a clane white pocket-handkerchief over their hats just as you see he's got on his. He's been staying here a night, and is off now again. "Young man, young man," I think to myself, "if your shoulders were bent like a bandy and your knees bowed out as mine be, till there is not an inch of straight bone or gristle in 'ee, th' wouldstn't go doing hard work for play 'a b'lieve."'

'Yeah, the upper class these days have stopped using wheels for the sake of their health, so they wander and hike for many years up foreign hills, where all you can see is nothing but snow and fog, until there's nowhere left to climb; and if they make it back home alive, and haven't gotten too old and worn out, they stroll around and see a bit of their own neighborhoods. So they walk around with a backpack, a stick, and a clean white handkerchief over their hats just like the one he's wearing. He's been staying here for a night, and he's off again now. "Young man, young man," I think to myself, "if your shoulders were hunched like mine and your knees were bowed out like mine, until there's not a single straight bone or piece of cartilage in you, you wouldn't be doing hard work for fun, I believe."'

'True, true, upon my song. Such a pain as I have had in my lynes all this day to be sure; words don't know what shipwreck I suffer in these lynes o' mine-that they do not! And what was this young widow lady's maiden name, then, hostler? Folk have been peeping after her, that's true; but they don't seem to know much about her family.'

'It's true, it's true, I swear on my song. I've had such pain in my lines all day, for sure; words can't capture the shipwreck I'm going through in these lines of mine—not at all! And what was this young widow lady's maiden name, then, innkeeper? People have been snooping around after her, that's for sure; but they don't seem to know much about her family.'

'And while I've tended horses fifty year that other folk might straddle 'em, here I be now not a penny the better! Often-times, when I see so many good things about, I feel inclined to help myself in common justice to my pocket.

'And while I've taken care of horses for fifty years so that others could ride them, here I am now not any better off! Often, when I see so many good things around, I feel tempted to take a little for myself, just out of fairness to my own wallet.'

    "Put in the effort and stay broke,  
    Do nothing and you'll gain more."

But I draw in the horns of my mind and think to myself, "Forbear, John Hostler, forbear!"-Her maiden name? Faith, I don't know the woman's maiden name, though she said to me, "Good evening, John;" but I had no memory of ever seeing her afore-no, no more than the dead inside church-hatch-where I shall soon be likewise-I had not. "Ay, my nabs," I think to myself, "more know Tom Fool than Tom Fool knows."'

But I pull back my thoughts and tell myself, "Hold on, John Hostler, hold on!" – Her maiden name? Honestly, I don’t know the woman’s maiden name, even though she said to me, "Good evening, John;" but I have no recollection of ever having seen her before – no more than the dead inside the church entrance – where I’ll soon be as well – I hadn’t. "Yeah, my friends," I think to myself, "more people know Tom Fool than Tom Fool knows."

'More know Tom Fool-what rambling old canticle is it you say, hostler?' inquired the milkman, lifting his ear. 'Let's have it again-a good saying well spit out is a Christmas fire to my withered heart. More know Tom Fool-'

'More know Tom Fool—what old song are you rambling about, hostler?' the milkman asked, straining to hear. 'Let's hear it again—a good saying, well delivered, is like a Christmas fire to my weary heart. More know Tom Fool—'

'Than Tom Fool knows,' said the hostler.

'Than Tom Fool knows,' said the stablehand.

'Ah! That's the very feeling I've feeled over and over again, hostler, but not in such gifted language. 'Tis a thought I've had in me for years, and never could lick into shape!-O-ho-ho-ho! Splendid! Say it again, hostler, say it again! To hear my own poor notion that had no name brought into form like that-I wouldn't ha' lost it for the world! More know Tom Fool than-than-h-ho-ho-ho-ho!'

'Ah! That's exactly how I've felt again and again, hostler, but not expressed in such eloquent words. It's a thought I've carried for years, and I've never been able to articulate it! Oh, wonderful! Say it again, hostler, say it again! To hear my own humble idea, which I couldn't name, put into words like that—I wouldn't trade it for anything! More people know Tom Fool than—ha-ha-ha!'

'Don't let your sense o' vitness break out in such uproar, for heaven's sake, or folk will surely think you've been laughing at the lady and gentleman. Well, here's at it again-Night t'ee, Michael.' And the hostler went on with his sweeping.

'Don't let your sense of wit break out in such an uproar, for heaven's sake, or people will definitely think you've been laughing at the lady and gentleman. Well, here it is again—Good night to you, Michael.' And the hostler continued with his sweeping.

'Night t'ee, hostler, I must move too,' said the milkman, shouldering his yoke, and walking off; and there reached the inn in a gradual diminuendo, as he receded up the street, shaking his head convulsively, 'More know-Tom Fool-than Tom Fool-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho!'

'Good night to you, innkeeper, I need to get going too,' said the milkman, lifting his yoke and walking away. He moved away from the inn, his footsteps fading as he went up the street, shaking his head vigorously, 'More people know Tom Fool than Tom Fool himself—ho-ho-ho-ho-ho!'

The 'Red Lion,' as the inn or hotel was called which of late years had become the fashion among tourists, because of the absence from its precincts of all that was fashionable and new, stood near the middle of the town, and formed a corner where in winter the winds whistled and assembled their forces previous to plunging helter-skelter along the streets. In summer it was a fresh and pleasant spot, convenient for such quiet characters as sojourned there to study the geology and beautiful natural features of the country round.

The 'Red Lion,' as the inn or hotel was known, had recently become popular with tourists because it was free from all things trendy and modern. It stood near the center of town, at a corner where in winter the winds howled and gathered strength before rushing wildly down the streets. In summer, it was a cool and inviting place, perfect for those calm individuals staying there to explore the geology and stunning natural scenery of the surrounding area.

The lady whose appearance had asserted a difference between herself and the Anglebury people, without too clearly showing what that difference was, passed out of the town in a few moments and, following the highway across meadows fed by the Froom, she crossed the railway and soon got into a lonely heath. She had been watching the base of a cloud as it closed down upon the line of a distant ridge, like an upper upon a lower eyelid, shutting in the gaze of the evening sun. She was about to return before dusk came on, when she heard a commotion in the air immediately behind and above her head. The saunterer looked up and saw a wild-duck flying along with the greatest violence, just in its rear being another large bird, which a countryman would have pronounced to be one of the biggest duck-hawks that he had ever beheld. The hawk neared its intended victim, and the duck screamed and redoubled its efforts.

The woman, whose look clearly set her apart from the people of Anglebury without fully revealing how, quickly left the town. After following the main road through the meadows beside the River Froom, she crossed the railway and soon entered a quiet heath. She had been observing the bottom of a cloud as it descended toward a distant ridge, like an upper eyelid closing over a lower one, blocking the evening sun's view. Just as she was about to head back before it got dark, she heard a disturbance in the air just behind and above her. The woman looked up and saw a wild duck flying desperately, with another large bird chasing it closely behind. A local would have called it one of the biggest duck hawks they’d ever seen. The hawk closed in on its target, and the duck let out a terrified scream, increasing its speed.

Ethelberta impulsively started off in a rapid run that would have made a little dog bark with delight and run after, her object being, if possible, to see the end of this desperate struggle for a life so small and unheard-of. Her stateliness went away, and it could be forgiven for not remaining; for her feet suddenly became as quick as fingers, and she raced along over the uneven ground with such force of tread that, being a woman slightly heavier than gossamer, her patent heels punched little D's in the soil with unerring accuracy wherever it was bare, crippled the heather-twigs where it was not, and sucked the swampy places with a sound of quick kisses.

Ethelberta suddenly took off in a fast run that would have made a little dog bark with joy and chase after her. She aimed to catch a glimpse of the end of this desperate struggle for such a small and unknown life. Her elegance faded away, which was understandable, as her feet quickly became as fast as fingers. She sprinted over the uneven ground with such force that, being a woman a bit heavier than feathers, her heels left little imprints in the soil wherever it was bare, damaged the heather-twigs where it wasn’t, and made a sound like quick kisses in the muddy spots.

Her rate of advance was not to be compared with that of the two birds, though she went swiftly enough to keep them well in sight in such an open place as that around her, having at one point in the journey been so near that she could hear the whisk of the duck's feathers against the wind as it lifted and lowered its wings. When the bird seemed to be but a few yards from its enemy she saw it strike downwards, and after a level flight of a quarter of a minute, vanish. The hawk swooped after, and Ethelberta now perceived a whitely shining oval of still water, looking amid the swarthy level of the heath like a hole through to a nether sky.

Her speed couldn't be compared to that of the two birds, but she moved quickly enough to keep them in sight in the open space around her. At one point during her journey, she got so close that she could hear the sound of the duck's feathers ruffling in the wind as it flapped its wings. When the bird seemed just a few yards away from its pursuer, she saw it dive down, and after gliding level for about fifteen seconds, it disappeared. The hawk chased after it, and Ethelberta then noticed a glimmering oval of still water, standing out against the dark expanse of the heath like a hole leading to a different sky.

Into this large pond, which the duck had been making towards from the beginning of its precipitate flight, it had dived out of sight. The excited and breathless runner was in a few moments close enough to see the disappointed hawk hovering and floating in the air as if waiting for the reappearance of its prey, upon which grim pastime it was so intent that by creeping along softly she was enabled to get very near the edge of the pool and witness the conclusion of the episode. Whenever the duck was under the necessity of showing its head to breathe, the other bird would dart towards it, invariably too late, however; for the diver was far too experienced in the rough humour of the buzzard family at this game to come up twice near the same spot, unaccountably emerging from opposite sides of the pool in succession, and bobbing again by the time its adversary reached each place, so that at length the hawk gave up the contest and flew away, a satanic moodiness being almost perceptible in the motion of its wings.

Into this large pond, which the duck had been heading toward since the start of its frantic flight, it had dived out of sight. The excited and breathless runner quickly got close enough to see the disappointed hawk hovering and floating in the air, waiting for its prey to reappear. So focused on this grim pastime, the hawk didn’t notice her creeping along quietly, allowing her to get very near the edge of the pool and witness the end of the chase. Whenever the duck had to come up for air, the hawk would dart toward it, always just a moment too late. The duck was too savvy about the rough tactics of the buzzard family in this game and never surfaced in the same spot. Instead, it would emerge from different sides of the pool in turn, diving back under the water just as the hawk reached each spot. Eventually, the hawk gave up the chase and flew away, a sinister moodiness almost evident in the way its wings moved.

The young lady now looked around her for the first time, and began to perceive that she had run a long distance-very much further than she had originally intended to come. Her eyes had been so long fixed upon the hawk, as it soared against the bright and mottled field of sky, that on regarding the heather and plain again it was as if she had returned to a half-forgotten region after an absence, and the whole prospect was darkened to one uniform shade of approaching night. She began at once to retrace her steps, but having been indiscriminately wheeling round the pond to get a good view of the performance, and having followed no path thither, she found the proper direction of her journey to be a matter of some uncertainty.

The young woman looked around for the first time and realized she had traveled a long way—much farther than she had originally planned. Her eyes had been fixed on the hawk soaring against the bright, speckled sky for so long that when she looked back at the heather and plain, it felt like she had returned to a half-remembered place after a long time away, and everything appeared to be fading into a uniform shade of approaching night. She immediately started to retrace her steps, but after aimlessly circling the pond to get a better view of the scene, and without having followed a specific path, she found it tricky to figure out the right direction for her journey.

'Surely,' she said to herself, 'I faced the north at starting:' and yet on walking now with her back where her face had been set, she did not approach any marks on the horizon which might seem to signify the town. Thus dubiously, but with little real concern, she walked on till the evening light began to turn to dusk, and the shadows to darkness.

'Surely,' she thought to herself, 'I started out facing north:' yet now, as she walked with her back where her face had been, she didn’t see any signs on the horizon that could indicate the town. With some uncertainty, but not much worry, she continued walking until the evening light faded into dusk, and the shadows turned to darkness.

Presently in front of her Ethelberta saw a white spot in the shade, and it proved to be in some way attached to the head of a man who was coming towards her out of a slight depression in the ground. It was as yet too early in the evening to be afraid, but it was too late to be altogether courageous; and with balanced sensations Ethelberta kept her eye sharply upon him as he rose by degrees into view. The peculiar arrangement of his hat and pugree soon struck her as being that she had casually noticed on a peg in one of the rooms of the 'Red Lion,' and when he came close she saw that his arms diminished to a peculiar smallness at their junction with his shoulders, like those of a doll, which was explained by their being girt round at that point with the straps of a knapsack that he carried behind him. Encouraged by the probability that he, like herself, was staying or had been staying at the 'Red Lion,' she said, 'Can you tell me if this is the way back to Anglebury?'

Currently, Ethelberta spotted a white shape in the shade, which turned out to be attached to a man's head as he approached her from a slight dip in the ground. It was still too early in the evening to feel scared, but too late to be completely brave; so, with mixed feelings, Ethelberta kept a sharp eye on him as he gradually came into view. The way his hat and scarf were arranged reminded her of something she had casually seen hanging on a peg in one of the rooms at the 'Red Lion.' When he got closer, she noticed that his arms tapered to an unusual smallness where they met his shoulders, resembling a doll, which was explained by the straps of a knapsack he had slung across his back. Feeling encouraged by the likelihood that he, like her, was staying or had stayed at the 'Red Lion,' she asked, "Can you tell me if this is the way back to Anglebury?"

'It is one way; but the nearest is in this direction,' said the tourist-the same who had been criticized by the two old men.

'It's one way; but the closest is in this direction,' said the tourist—the same one who had been criticized by the two old men.

At hearing him speak all the delicate activities in the young lady's person stood still: she stopped like a clock. When she could again fence with the perception which had caused all this, she breathed.

At the sound of his voice, all the subtle movements in the young woman's body froze: she halted like a clock. When she could finally process what had caused all this, she took a breath.

'Mr. Julian!' she exclaimed. The words were uttered in a way which would have told anybody in a moment that here lay something connected with the light of other days.

'Mr. Julian!' she exclaimed. The way she said it would have immediately indicated to anyone that there was something tied to the brightness of the past.

'Ah, Mrs. Petherwin!-Yes, I am Mr. Julian-though that can matter very little, I should think, after all these years, and what has passed.'

'Ah, Mrs. Petherwin! Yes, I'm Mr. Julian—though I think that hardly matters after all these years and everything that has happened.'

No remark was returned to this rugged reply, and he continued unconcernedly, 'Shall I put you in the path-it is just here?'

No comment was made in response to this harsh reply, and he carried on casually, 'Should I guide you to the path—it's right here?'

'If you please.'

'Please.'

'Come with me, then.'

'Come with me.'

She walked in silence at his heels, not a word passing between them all the way: the only noises which came from the two were the brushing of her dress and his gaiters against the heather, or the smart rap of a stray flint against his boot.

She walked silently behind him, not a word exchanged between them the entire time; the only sounds were the rustle of her dress and his gaiters against the heather, or the sharp knock of a stray flint hitting his boot.

They had now reached a little knoll, and he turned abruptly: 'That is Anglebury-just where you see those lights. The path down there is the one you must follow; it leads round the hill yonder and directly into the town.'

They had now reached a small hill, and he turned suddenly: 'That’s Anglebury—just where you see those lights. The path down there is the one you need to take; it goes around the hill over there and straight into the town.'

'Thank you,' she murmured, and found that he had never removed his eyes from her since speaking, keeping them fixed with mathematical exactness upon one point in her face. She moved a little to go on her way; he moved a little less-to go on his.

"Thanks," she whispered, noticing that he hadn't taken his eyes off her since he spoke, staring with precise intensity at one spot on her face. She shifted slightly to continue on her path; he shifted just a little less to do the same.

'Good-night,' said Mr. Julian.

"Good night," said Mr. Julian.

The moment, upon the very face of it, was critical; and yet it was one of those which have to wait for a future before they acquire a definite character as good or bad.

The moment, on the surface, was crucial; yet it was one of those that need time to pass before it takes on a clear label as good or bad.

Thus much would have been obvious to any outsider; it may have been doubly so to Ethelberta, for she gave back more than she had got, replying, 'Good-bye-if you are going to say no more.'

Thus, it would have been clear to anyone watching; it might have been even more obvious to Ethelberta, since she responded with more than she received, saying, 'Goodbye—if you're not going to say anything else.'

Then in struck Mr. Julian: 'What can I say? You are nothing to me. . . . I could forgive a woman doing anything for spite, except marrying for spite.'

Then it hit Mr. Julian: 'What can I say? You mean nothing to me. . . . I could forgive a woman for doing anything out of spite, except marrying out of spite.'

'The connection of that with our present meeting does not appear, unless it refers to what you have done. It does not refer to me.'

'The link between that and our current meeting isn't clear, unless it relates to what you’ve done. It’s not about me.'

'I am not married: you are.'

"I'm not married; you are."

She did not contradict him, as she might have done. 'Christopher,' she said at last, 'this is how it is: you knew too much of me to respect me, and too little to pity me. A half knowledge of another's life mostly does injustice to the life half known.'

She didn't argue with him, even though she could have. 'Christopher,' she finally said, 'here's the thing: you know too much about me to respect me, and not enough to feel sorry for me. Only knowing part of someone else's life usually does injustice to the life that's only half understood.'

'Then since circumstances forbid my knowing you more, I must do my best to know you less, and elevate my opinion of your nature by forgetting what it consists in,' he said in a voice from which all feeling was polished away.

'Then since circumstances prevent me from getting to know you better, I have to do my best to know you less and raise my opinion of your character by forgetting what it actually is,' he said in a voice stripped of all emotion.

'If I did not know that bitterness had more to do with those words than judgment, I-should be-bitter too! You never knew half about me; you only knew me as a governess; you little think what my beginnings were.'

'If I didn’t know that bitterness was more about those words than judgment, I’d be bitter too! You never knew half of what I’m about; you only saw me as a governess; you would never guess what my beginnings were.'

'I have guessed. I have many times told myself that your early life was superior to your position when I first met you. I think I may say without presumption that I recognize a lady by birth when I see her, even under reverses of an extreme kind. And certainly there is this to be said, that the fact of having been bred in a wealthy home does slightly redeem an attempt to attain to such a one again.'

'I’ve noticed. I’ve often told myself that your early life was better than your situation when I first met you. I think it's fair to say that I can recognize a lady by birth when I see one, even in extreme circumstances. And it’s true that growing up in a wealthy home does somewhat make up for the effort to reach that status again.'

Ethelberta smiled a smile of many meanings.

Ethelberta smiled a smile with many meanings.

'However, we are wasting words,' he resumed cheerfully. 'It is better for us to part as we met, and continue to be the strangers that we have become to each other. I owe you an apology for having been betrayed into more feeling than I had a right to show, and let us part friends. Good night, Mrs. Petherwin, and success to you. We may meet again, some day, I hope.'

'But we're just wasting our breath,' he said with a smile. 'It's better for us to split up like we came together and keep being the strangers we've turned into. I owe you an apology for showing more emotions than I should have, so let's say goodbye as friends. Good night, Mrs. Petherwin, and best of luck to you. Hopefully, we'll run into each other again someday.'

'Good night,' she said, extending her hand. He touched it, turned about, and in a short time nothing remained of him but quick regular brushings against the heather in the deep broad shadow of the moor.

'Good night,' she said, reaching out her hand. He touched it, turned away, and soon nothing was left of him but the quick, steady rustling against the heather in the deep, wide shadow of the moor.

Ethelberta slowly moved on in the direction that he had pointed out. This meeting had surprised her in several ways. First, there was the conjuncture itself; but more than that was the fact that he had not parted from her with any of the tragic resentment that she had from time to time imagined for that scene if it ever occurred. Yet there was really nothing wonderful in this: it is part of the generous nature of a bachelor to be not indisposed to forgive a portionless sweetheart who, by marrying elsewhere, has deprived him of the bliss of being obliged to marry her himself. Ethelberta would have been disappointed quite had there not been a comforting development of exasperation in the middle part of his talk; but after all it formed a poor substitute for the loving hatred she had expected.

Ethelberta slowly moved in the direction he had indicated. This meeting had caught her off guard in several ways. First, there was the situation itself; but more importantly, he hadn’t parted from her with any of the dramatic resentment she had sometimes imagined for that scenario if it ever happened. Still, there was really nothing surprising about this: it’s part of a bachelor’s generous nature to be willing to forgive a broke sweetheart who, by marrying someone else, has taken away his chance to marry her himself. Ethelberta would have felt let down had there not been a somewhat reassuring hint of irritation during the middle of his conversation; but ultimately, it was a poor replacement for the passionate resentment she had anticipated.

When she reached the hotel the lamp over the door showed a face a little flushed, but the agitation which at first had possessed her was gone to a mere nothing. In the hall she met a slender woman wearing a silk dress of that peculiar black which in sunlight proclaims itself to have once seen better days as a brown, and days even better than those as a lavender, green, or blue.

When she arrived at the hotel, the lamp above the door illuminated a slightly flushed face, but the anxiety that had initially overwhelmed her had faded to nearly nothing. In the hallway, she encountered a slim woman wearing a silk dress in that unique black that, in sunlight, reveals it once had better days as brown, and even better days as lavender, green, or blue.

'Menlove,' said the lady, 'did you notice if any gentleman observed and followed me when I left the hotel to go for a walk this evening?'

'Menlove,' the lady said, 'did you see if any man watched and followed me when I left the hotel to take a walk this evening?'

The lady's-maid, thus suddenly pulled up in a night forage after lovers, put a hand to her forehead to show that there was no mistake about her having begun to meditate on receiving orders to that effect, and said at last, 'You once told me, ma'am, if you recollect, that when you were dressed, I was not to go staring out of the window after you as if you were a doll I had just manufactured and sent round for sale.'

The lady's maid, abruptly interrupted during a late-night search for her lovers, placed a hand to her forehead to indicate that she was indeed contemplating taking orders on that matter. Finally, she said, "You once told me, ma'am, if you remember, that when you were dressed, I shouldn’t be staring out the window at you like you were a doll I had just made and sent out for sale."

'Yes, so I did.'

"Yep, I did."

'So I didn't see if anybody followed you this evening.'

'So I didn't see if anyone followed you this evening.'

'Then did you hear any gentleman arrive here by the late train last night?'

'Did you hear if any gentlemen arrived here on the late train last night?'

'O no, ma'am-how could I?' said Mrs. Menlove-an exclamation which was more apposite than her mistress suspected, considering that the speaker, after retiring from duty, had slipped down her dark skirt to reveal a light, puffed, and festooned one, put on a hat and feather, together with several pennyweights of metal in the form of rings, brooches, and earrings-all in a time whilst one could count a hundred-and enjoyed half-an-hour of prime courtship by an honourable young waiter of the town, who had proved constant as the magnet to the pole for the space of the day and a half that she had known him.

"Oh no, ma'am—how could I?" said Mrs. Menlove—an exclamation that was more fitting than her mistress realized, considering that the speaker, after clocking out, had slipped off her dark skirt to show a light, puffed, and decorated one, put on a hat with a feather, and adorned herself with several pieces of jewelry in the form of rings, brooches, and earrings—all in the time it takes to count to a hundred—and enjoyed half an hour of sweet courtship with a respectable young waiter from town, who had been as loyal as a magnet to its pole for the day and a half that she had known him.

Going at once upstairs, Ethelberta ran down the passage, and after some hesitation softly opened the door of the sitting-room in the best suite of apartments that the inn could boast of.

Going straight upstairs, Ethelberta hurried down the hallway and, after a moment of hesitation, quietly opened the door to the sitting room in the finest suite the inn had to offer.

In this room sat an elderly lady writing by the light of two candles with green shades. Well knowing, as it seemed, who the intruder was, she continued her occupation, and her visitor advanced and stood beside the table. The old lady wore her spectacles low down her cheek, her glance being depressed to about the slope of her straight white nose in order to look through them. Her mouth was pursed up to almost a youthful shape as she formed the letters with her pen, and a slight move of the lip accompanied every downstroke. There were two large antique rings on her forefinger, against which the quill rubbed in moving backwards and forwards, thereby causing a secondary noise rivalling the primary one of the nib upon the paper.

In this room, an elderly lady sat writing by the light of two candles with green shades. Knowing, it seemed, who the intruder was, she continued her work while her visitor approached and stood beside the table. The old lady wore her glasses low on her cheek, her gaze directed downwards to see through them. Her mouth was pursed into almost a youthful shape as she crafted the letters with her pen, and a slight movement of her lip accompanied every downstroke. She had two large antique rings on her forefinger, and the quill rubbed against them as it moved back and forth, creating a secondary sound that matched the primary noise of the nib on the paper.

'Mamma,' said the younger lady, 'here I am at last.'

'Mom,' said the younger lady, 'I’m here at last.'

A writer's mind in the midst of a sentence being like a ship at sea, knowing no rest or comfort till safely piloted into the harbour of a full stop, Lady Petherwin just replied with 'What,' in an occupied tone, not rising to interrogation. After signing her name to the letter, she raised her eyes.

A writer's mind in the middle of a sentence is like a ship at sea, knowing no rest or comfort until it safely comes into the harbor of a full stop. Lady Petherwin simply replied with "What," in a distracted tone, not engaging with the question. After signing her name to the letter, she looked up.

'Why, how late you are, Ethelberta, and how heated you look!' she said. 'I have been quite alarmed about you. What do you say has happened?'

'Wow, you're really late, Ethelberta, and you look flustered!' she said. 'I've been pretty worried about you. What do you say happened?'

The great, chief, and altogether eclipsing thing that had happened was the accidental meeting with an old lover whom she had once quarrelled with; and Ethelberta's honesty would have delivered the tidings at once, had not, unfortunately, all the rest of her attributes been dead against that act, for the old lady's sake even more than for her own.

The biggest, most significant thing that had happened was running into an old lover with whom she had once fought; and Ethelberta's honesty would have made her share the news immediately, if only all her other traits hadn't strongly opposed that choice, for the sake of the old lady even more than for her own.

'I saw a great cruel bird chasing a harmless duck!' she exclaimed innocently. 'And I ran after to see what the end of it would be-much further than I had any idea of going. However, the duck came to a pond, and in running round it to see the end of the fight, I could not remember which way I had come.'

'I saw this big, mean bird chasing a defenseless duck!' she said, sounding innocent. 'And I ran after them to see how it would turn out—way farther than I planned to go. But then the duck got to a pond, and while I was running around it to see how everything would end, I totally forgot which way I had come.'

'Mercy!' said her mother-in-law, lifting her large eyelids, heavy as window-shutters, and spreading out her fingers like the horns of a snail. 'You might have sunk up to your knees and got lost in that swampy place-such a time of night, too. What a tomboy you are! And how did you find your way home after all!'

"Mercy!" said her mother-in-law, lifting her heavy eyelids like window shutters and spreading her fingers out like a snail's horns. "You could have sunk up to your knees and gotten lost in that swampy area—especially at this time of night. What a tomboy you are! How did you even find your way home?"

'O, some man showed me the way, and then I had no difficulty, and after that I came along leisurely.'

'O, someone showed me the way, and then I had no trouble, and after that I took my time getting here.'

'I thought you had been running all the way; you look so warm.'

"I thought you had been running the whole way; you look so warm."

'It is a warm evening. . . . Yes, and I have been thinking of old times as I walked along,' she said, 'and how people's positions in life alter. Have I not heard you say that while I was at Bonn, at school, some family that we had known had their household broken up when the father died, and that the children went away you didn't know where?'

'It's a warm evening... Yes, I've been reminiscing about the past as I walked along,' she said, 'and how people's circumstances change over time. Didn't I hear you mention that while I was at Bonn, at school, some family we knew had their household shattered when the father passed away, and that the children went off somewhere you didn't know?'

'Do you mean the Julians?'

'Are you talking about the Julians?'

'Yes, that was the name.'

'Why, of course you know it was the Julians. Young Julian had a day or two's fancy for you one summer, had he not?-just after you came to us, at the same time, or just before it, that my poor boy and you were so desperately attached to each other.'

'Of course you know it was the Julians. Young Julian had a crush on you for a day or two one summer, didn’t he? Just after you joined us, around the same time, or maybe just before, when my poor boy and you were so deeply attached to each other.'

'O yes, I recollect,' said Ethelberta. 'And he had a sister, I think. I wonder where they went to live after the family collapse.'

'O yes, I remember,' said Ethelberta. 'And he had a sister, I think. I wonder where they went to live after the family fell apart.'

'I do not know,' said Lady Petherwin, taking up another sheet of paper. 'I have a dim notion that the son, who had been brought up to no profession, became a teacher of music in some country town-music having always been his hobby. But the facts are not very distinct in my memory.' And she dipped her pen for another letter.

'I don't know,' said Lady Petherwin, picking up another sheet of paper. 'I have a vague idea that the son, who wasn't raised for any particular career, ended up teaching music in some small town—music always being his passion. But the details aren't very clear in my mind.' And she dipped her pen for another letter.

Ethelberta, with a rather fallen countenance, then left her mother-in-law, and went where all ladies are supposed to go when they want to torment their minds in comfort-to her own room. Here she thoughtfully sat down awhile, and some time later she rang for her maid.

Ethelberta, looking rather downcast, then left her mother-in-law and went where all ladies are supposed to go when they want to sulk in privacy—her own room. Here, she sat down for a bit, deep in thought, and after some time, she rang for her maid.

'Menlove,' she said, without looking towards a rustle and half a footstep that had just come in at the door, but leaning back in her chair and speaking towards the corner of the looking-glass, 'will you go down and find out if any gentleman named Julian has been staying in this house? Get to know it, I mean, Menlove, not by directly inquiring; you have ways of getting to know things, have you not? If the devoted George were here now, he would help-'

'Menlove,' she said, without turning to the rustle and half-step that had just entered the room, but leaning back in her chair and speaking towards the corner of the mirror, 'could you go downstairs and see if any gentleman named Julian has been staying here? I mean, find out discreetly, Menlove; you have your methods for gathering information, right? If the devoted George were here now, he would help-'

'George was nothing to me, ma'am.'

'George didn't mean anything to me, ma'am.'

'James, then.'

'James, I guess.'

'And I only had James for a week or ten days: when I found he was a married man, I encouraged his addresses very little indeed.'

'And I only had James for about a week or ten days: when I realized he was a married man, I didn't really encourage his advances at all.'

'If you had encouraged him heart and soul, you couldn't have fumed more at the loss of him. But please to go and make that inquiry, will you, Menlove?'

'If you had supported him completely, you couldn't have been more upset about losing him. But please go and check on that, will you, Menlove?'

In a few minutes Ethelberta's woman was back again. 'A gentleman of that name stayed here last night, and left this afternoon.'

In a few minutes, Ethelberta's maid returned. 'A gentleman by that name stayed here last night and left this afternoon.'

'Will you find out his address?'

'Will you find out what his address is?'

Now the lady's-maid had already been quick-witted enough to find out that, and indeed all about him; but it chanced that a fashionable illustrated weekly paper had just been sent from the bookseller's, and being in want of a little time to look it over before it reached her mistress's hands, Mrs. Menlove retired, as if to go and ask the question-to stand meanwhile under the gas-lamp in the passage, inspecting the fascinating engravings. But as time will not wait for tire-women, a natural length of absence soon elapsed, and she returned again and said,

Now the lady's-maid had already been smart enough to find out that, and actually everything about him; but it happened that a trendy illustrated weekly magazine had just been delivered from the bookstore, and needing a little time to look it over before it got to her boss, Mrs. Menlove stepped away, pretending to go ask a question—she stayed under the gas lamp in the hallway, checking out the intriguing illustrations. But since time doesn’t wait for anyone, a reasonable amount of time passed, and she came back and said,

'His address is, Upper Street, Sandbourne.'

'His address is Upper Street, Sandbourne.'

'Thank you, that will do,' replied her mistress.

'Thanks, that will be enough,' replied her boss.

The hour grew later, and that dreamy period came round when ladies' fancies, that have lain shut up close as their fans during the day, begin to assert themselves anew. At this time a good guess at Ethelberta's thoughts might have been made from her manner of passing the minutes away. Instead of reading, entering notes in her diary, or doing any ordinary thing, she walked to and fro, curled her pretty nether lip within her pretty upper one a great many times, made a cradle of her locked fingers, and paused with fixed eyes where the walls of the room set limits upon her walk to look at nothing but a picture within her mind.

The hour grew late, and that dreamy time came around when women's thoughts, which had been kept quiet like their fans during the day, began to bubble up again. At this moment, you could have guessed Ethelberta's thoughts by how she passed the time. Instead of reading, writing in her diary, or doing anything typical, she walked back and forth, biting her bottom lip a lot, made a cradle with her locked fingers, and stopped with her eyes fixed on a spot where the walls of the room limited her walking, looking at nothing but a picture in her mind.

2. CHRISTOPHER'S HOUSE-SANDBOURNE TOWN-SANDBOURNE MOOR

During the wet autumn of the same year, the postman passed one morning as usual into a plain street that ran through the less fashionable portion of Sandbourne, a modern coast town and watering-place not many miles from the ancient Anglebury. He knocked at the door of a flat-faced brick house, and it was opened by a slight, thoughtful young man, with his hat on, just then coming out. The postman put into his hands a book packet, addressed, 'Christopher Julian, Esq.'

During the rainy autumn of that same year, the postman came one morning as always into a simple street that went through the less trendy part of Sandbourne, a contemporary seaside town and resort not far from the historic Anglebury. He knocked on the door of a flat-faced brick house, and it was opened by a slender, thoughtful young man, wearing his hat, who was just stepping out. The postman handed him a package, labeled, 'Christopher Julian, Esq.'

Christopher took the package upstairs, opened it with curiosity, and discovered within a green volume of poems, by an anonymous writer, the title-page bearing the inscription, 'Metres by E.' The book was new, though it was cut, and it appeared to have been looked into. The young man, after turning it over and wondering where it came from, laid it on the table and went his way, being in haste to fulfil his engagements for the day.

Christopher carried the package upstairs, opened it with interest, and found a green book of poems by an anonymous author, the title page marked 'Metres by E.' The book seemed new, though it had been opened, and it looked like it had been read. The young man, after examining it and wondering about its origin, set it down on the table and went on his way, eager to meet his commitments for the day.

In the evening, on returning home from his occupations, he sat himself down cosily to read the newly-arrived volume. The winds of this uncertain season were snarling in the chimneys, and drops of rain spat themselves into the fire, revealing plainly that the young man's room was not far enough from the top of the house to admit of a twist in the flue, and revealing darkly a little more, if that social rule-of-three inverse, the higher in lodgings the lower in pocket, were applicable here. However, the aspect of the room, though homely, was cheerful, a somewhat contradictory group of furniture suggesting that the collection consisted of waifs and strays from a former home, the grimy faces of the old articles exercising a curious and subduing effect on the bright faces of the new. An oval mirror of rococo workmanship, and a heavy cabinet-piano with a cornice like that of an Egyptian temple, adjoined a harmonium of yesterday, and a harp that was almost as new. Printed music of the last century, and manuscript music of the previous evening, lay there in such quantity as to endanger the tidiness of a retreat which was indeed only saved from a chronic state of litter by a pair of hands that sometimes played, with the lightness of breezes, about the sewing-machine standing in a remote corner-if any corner could be called remote in a room so small.

In the evening, after finishing his work, he settled in comfortably to read the new book that had just arrived. The winds of this unpredictable season howled in the chimneys, and raindrops spattered into the fire, clearly showing that the young man's room was too close to the roof to allow for a proper flue, and hinting a bit darker, if the saying holds true that the higher you live, the poorer you are. Still, the room’s appearance, while simple, was cheerful, with a mismatched collection of furniture that seemed like a gathering of castoffs from another home. The worn surfaces of the old items had a strangely calming effect on the bright new ones. An oval mirror with ornate design, and a heavy cabinet piano with a cornice reminiscent of an Egyptian temple, sat next to a modern harmonium and a nearly new harp. There was so much printed music from the last century and handwritten music from just the night before that it threatened the tidiness of a space that was only kept from being a complete mess by a pair of hands that sometimes danced lightly around the sewing machine tucked away in a corner—if any corner could be considered remote in such a small room.

Fire lights and shades from the shaking flames struck in a butterfly flutter on the underparts of the mantelshelf, and upon the reader's cheek as he sat. Presently, and all at once, a much greater intentness pervaded his face: he turned back again, and read anew the subject that had arrested his eyes. He was a man whose countenance varied with his mood, though it kept somewhat in the rear of that mood. He looked sad when he felt almost serene, and only serene when he felt quite cheerful. It is a habit people acquire who have had repressing experiences.

Firelight flickered and cast shadows from the dancing flames, creating a butterfly effect on the underside of the mantelpiece and on the reader's cheek as he sat. Suddenly, a deeper focus filled his face; he turned back and reread the passage that had caught his attention. He was a man whose expression changed with his feelings, though it often lagged behind them. He appeared sad when he felt nearly calm, and only looked calm when he was truly happy. This is a tendency that people develop after experiencing suppression.

A faint smile and flush now lightened his face, and jumping up he opened the door and exclaimed, 'Faith! will you come here for a moment?'

A faint smile and blush now brightened his face, and jumping up, he opened the door and said, "Faith! Can you come here for a minute?"

A prompt step was heard on the stairs, and the young person addressed as Faith entered the room. She was small in figure, and bore less in the form of her features than in their shades when changing from expression to expression the evidence that she was his sister.

A quick step was heard on the stairs, and the young person called Faith entered the room. She was petite, and it was more in the subtle changes of her expressions than in her features that showed she was his sister.

'Faith-I want your opinion. But, stop, read this first.' He laid his finger upon a page in the book, and placed it in her hand.

'Faith—I want your opinion. But wait, read this first.' He put his finger on a page in the book and handed it to her.

The girl drew from her pocket a little green-leather sheath, worn at the edges to whity-brown, and out of that a pair of spectacles, unconsciously looking round the room for a moment as she did so, as if to ensure that no stranger saw her in the act of using them. Here a weakness was uncovered at once; it was a small, pretty, and natural one; indeed, as weaknesses go in the great world, it might almost have been called a commendable trait. She then began to read, without sitting down.

The girl pulled a small green leather case out of her pocket, its edges worn to a faded brown, and from it she took a pair of glasses, subconsciously glancing around the room for a moment as if to make sure no one else was watching her put them on. In that moment, a little vulnerability was revealed; it was a small, charming, and genuine one; honestly, compared to bigger weaknesses in the world, it could almost be seen as an admirable quality. She then started reading without taking a seat.

These 'Metres by E.' composed a collection of soft and marvellously musical rhymes, of a nature known as the vers de societe. The lines presented a series of playful defences of the supposed strategy of womankind in fascination, courtship, and marriage-the whole teeming with ideas bright as mirrors and just as unsubstantial, yet forming a brilliant argument to justify the ways of girls to men. The pervading characteristic of the mass was the means of forcing into notice, by strangeness of contrast, the single mournful poem that the book contained. It was placed at the very end, and under the title of 'Cancelled Words,' formed a whimsical and rather affecting love-lament, somewhat in the tone of many of Sir Thomas Wyatt's poems. This was the piece which had arrested Christopher's attention, and had been pointed out by him to his sister Faith.

These 'Metres by E.' made up a collection of soft and beautifully musical rhymes known as vers de société. The lines provided a series of playful defenses of the supposed strategies of women in attraction, courtship, and marriage—full of ideas shining like mirrors and just as insubstantial, yet creating a brilliant argument to justify girls' actions to men. The main feature of the collection was the way it highlighted, through striking contrast, the single sad poem that the book included. It was placed at the very end and titled 'Cancelled Words,' forming a whimsical and somewhat touching love lament, reminiscent of many of Sir Thomas Wyatt's poems. This was the piece that captured Christopher's attention, and he had pointed it out to his sister Faith.

'It is very touching,' she said, looking up.

'It's really touching,' she said, looking up.

'What do you think I suspect about it-that the poem is addressed to me! Do you remember, when father was alive and we were at Solentsea that season, about a governess who came there with a Sir Ralph Petherwin and his wife, people with a sickly little daughter and a grown-up son?'

'What do you think I suspect about it—that the poem is meant for me! Do you remember when dad was alive and we were at Solentsea that season, about a governess who came there with Sir Ralph Petherwin and his wife, a couple with a frail little daughter and a grown son?'

'I never saw any of them. I think I remember your knowing something about a young man of that name.'

'I never saw any of them. I think I remember that you knew something about a young man with that name.'

'Yes, that was the family. Well, the governess there was a very attractive woman, and somehow or other I got more interested in her than I ought to have done (this is necessary to the history), and we used to meet in romantic places-and-and that kind of thing, you know. The end of it was, she jilted me and married the son.'

'Yeah, that was the family. So, the governess was a really attractive woman, and somehow I became more interested in her than I should have (this is important to the story), and we would meet in romantic spots—and that sort of thing, you know. In the end, she ditched me and married the son.'

'You were anxious to get away from Solentsea.'

You were eager to leave Solentsea.

'Was I? Then that was chiefly the reason. Well, I decided to think no more of her, and I was helped to do it by the troubles that came upon us shortly afterwards; it is a blessed arrangement that one does not feel a sentimental grief at all when additional grief comes in the shape of practical misfortune. However, on the first afternoon of the little holiday I took for my walking tour last summer, I came to Anglebury, and stayed about the neighbourhood for a day or two to see what it was like, thinking we might settle there if this place failed us. The next evening I left, and walked across the heath to Flychett-that's a village about five miles further on-so as to be that distance on my way for next morning; and while I was crossing the heath there I met this very woman. We talked a little, because we couldn't help it-you may imagine the kind of talk it was-and parted as coolly as we had met. Now this strange book comes to me; and I have a strong conviction that she is the writer of it, for that poem sketches a similar scene-or rather suggests it; and the tone generally seems the kind of thing she would write-not that she was a sad woman, either.'

'Was I? Then that was mainly the reason. Well, I decided to stop thinking about her, and I was helped by the troubles that hit us shortly after; it’s a relief that you don’t feel sentimental sorrow at all when additional grief arrives in the form of practical misfortune. However, on the first afternoon of the little holiday I took for my walking tour last summer, I got to Anglebury and spent a day or two in the area to see what it was like, thinking we might settle there if this place didn’t work out. The next evening, I left and walked across the heath to Flychett—that’s a village about five miles further on—so I’d be that far along for the next morning; and while I was crossing the heath, I ran into that very woman. We chatted a bit, because we couldn’t avoid it—you can imagine the kind of conversation it was—and parted as coolly as we had met. Now this strange book comes to me; and I have a strong feeling that she is the author, because that poem describes a similar scene—or rather suggests it; and the overall tone seems like something she would write—not that she was a sad person, either.'

'She seems to be a warm-hearted, impulsive woman, to judge from these tender verses.'

'She appears to be a kind, spontaneous woman, judging by these heartfelt verses.'

'People who print very warm words have sometimes very cold manners. I wonder if it is really her writing, and if she has sent it to me!'

'People who write very warm words often have very cold manners. I wonder if it's really her writing, and if she actually sent it to me!'

'Would it not be a singular thing for a married woman to do? Though of course'-(she removed her spectacles as if they hindered her from thinking, and hid them under the timepiece till she should go on reading)-'of course poets have morals and manners of their own, and custom is no argument with them. I am sure I would not have sent it to a man for the world!'

'Wouldn’t it be something unique for a married woman to do? Though of course'—(she took off her glasses as if they were blocking her thoughts and hid them under the clock until she continued reading)—'of course poets have their own morals and manners, and tradition doesn’t apply to them. I know I wouldn’t have sent it to a man for anything!'

'I do not see any absolute harm in her sending it. Perhaps she thinks that, since it is all over, we may as well die friends.'

'I don't see any real harm in her sending it. Maybe she thinks that, since it's all over, we might as well die as friends.'

'If I were her husband I should have doubts about the dying. And "all over" may not be so plain to other people as it is to you.'

'If I were her husband, I'd have doubts about dying. And "all over" might not be as clear to others as it is to you.'

'Perhaps not. And when a man checks all a woman's finer sentiments towards him by marrying her, it is only natural that it should find a vent somewhere. However, she probably does not know of my downfall since father's death. I hardly think she would have cared to do it had she known that. (I am assuming that it is Ethelberta-Mrs. Petherwin-who sends it: of course I am not sure.) We must remember that when I knew her I was a gentleman at ease, who had not the least notion that I should have to work for a living, and not only so, but should have first to invent a profession to work at out of my old tastes.'

'Maybe not. And when a man limits all a woman's feelings for him by marrying her, it's only natural that those feelings will express themselves in some way. However, she probably doesn't know about my struggles since my father's death. I really doubt she would have done it if she had known that. (I assume it’s Ethelberta—Mrs. Petherwin—who sends this: of course, I’m not sure.) We need to remember that when I knew her, I was a relaxed gentleman who had no idea I would have to work for a living, and not just that, but I would have to come up with a profession to pursue based on my old interests.'

'Kit, you have made two mistakes in your thoughts of that lady. Even though I don't know her, I can show you that. Now I'll tell you! the first is in thinking that a married lady would send the book with that poem in it without at any rate a slight doubt as to its propriety: the second is in supposing that, had she wished to do it, she would have given the thing up because of our misfortunes. With a true woman the second reason would have had no effect had she once got over the first. I'm a woman, and that's why I know.'

'Kit, you've made two mistakes in how you're thinking about that woman. Even though I don't know her, I can prove it to you. Let me explain! The first mistake is believing that a married woman would send the book with that poem in it without at least some doubt about how appropriate it is. The second mistake is thinking that if she really wanted to do it, she would have backed out because of our troubles. For a true woman, the second reason wouldn’t matter as long as she got past the first one. I'm a woman, and that's why I understand.'

Christopher said nothing, and turned over the poems.

Christopher said nothing and flipped over the poems.

He lived by teaching music, and, in comparison with starving, thrived; though the wealthy might possibly have said that in comparison with thriving he starved. During this night he hummed airs in bed, thought he would do for the ballad of the fair poetess what other musicians had done for the ballads of other fair poetesses, and dreamed that she smiled on him as her prototype Sappho smiled on Phaon.

He made a living teaching music and, compared to starving, he was doing well; although the rich might argue that compared to thriving, he was actually starving. That night, he hummed tunes in bed, thinking he could do for the ballad of the beautiful poet what other musicians had done for the ballads of other beautiful poets, and he dreamed that she smiled at him just like her prototype Sappho smiled at Phaon.

The next morning before starting on his rounds a new circumstance induced him to direct his steps to the bookseller's, and ask a question. He had found on examining the wrapper of the volume that it was posted in his own town.

The next morning, before starting his rounds, a new situation made him decide to head to the bookstore and ask a question. Upon checking the wrapper of the book, he realized it had been sent from his own town.

'No copy of the book has been sold by me,' the bookseller's voice replied from far up the Alpine height of the shop-ladder, where he stood dusting stale volumes, as was his habit of a morning before customers came. 'I have never heard of it-probably never shall;' and he shook out the duster, so as to hit the delicate mean between stifling Christopher and not stifling him.

'No copies of the book have been sold by me,' the bookseller's voice responded from high up on the shop ladder, where he was dusting old books, as he usually did in the morning before customers arrived. 'I've never heard of it—probably never will;' and he shook out the duster, trying to find the right balance between annoying Christopher and not annoying him.

'Surely you don't live by your shop?' said Christopher, drawing back.

'Surely you don't live off your shop?' said Christopher, pulling back.

The bookseller's eyes rested on the speaker's; his face changed; he came down and placed his hand on the lapel of Christopher's coat. 'Sir,' he said, 'country bookselling is a miserable, impoverishing, exasperating thing in these days. Can you understand the rest?'

The bookseller looked at the speaker; his expression shifted; he came down and put his hand on the lapel of Christopher's coat. 'Sir,' he said, 'selling books in the countryside is a tough, draining, frustrating job these days. Do you get what I mean?'

'I can; I forgive a starving man anything,' said Christopher.

"I can; I forgive a hungry person anything," said Christopher.

'You go a long way very suddenly,' said the book seller. 'Half as much pity would have seemed better. However, wait a moment.' He looked into a list of new books, and added: 'The work you allude to was only published last week; though, mind you, if it had been published last century I might not have sold a copy.'

'You make a sudden leap,' said the bookseller. 'A little less pity would have been more fitting. Anyway, hold on a sec.' He glanced at a list of new books and added, 'The book you're talking about was just released last week; but honestly, if it had come out last century, I probably wouldn't have sold a single copy.'

Although his time was precious, Christopher had now become so interested in the circumstance that the unseen sender was somebody breathing his own atmosphere, possibly the very writer herself-the book being too new to be known-that he again passed through the blue shadow of the spire which stretched across the street to-day, and went towards the post-office, animated by a bright intention-to ask the postmaster if he knew the handwriting in which the packet was addressed.

Although his time was valuable, Christopher had become so intrigued by the fact that the unknown sender was someone close to him, possibly the very writer herself—the book being too new to be familiar—that he once again walked through the blue shadow of the spire that stretched across the street today and headed towards the post office, filled with a clear purpose—to ask the postmaster if he recognized the handwriting on the addressed packet.

Now the postmaster was an acquaintance of Christopher's, but, as regarded putting that question to him, there was a difficulty. Everything turned upon whether the postmaster at the moment of asking would be in his under-government manner, or in the manner with which mere nature had endowed him. In the latter case his reply would be all that could be wished; in the former, a man who had sunk in society might as well put his tongue into a mousetrap as make an inquiry so obviously outside the pale of legality as was this.

Now the postmaster was someone Christopher knew, but there was a problem with asking him that question. It all depended on whether the postmaster would be in his formal role at that moment or just behaving naturally. If he was being natural, his response would be perfect; if he was acting officially, a man who had fallen out of favor in society might as well stick his tongue in a mousetrap than ask a question that was clearly illegal.

So he postponed his business for the present, and refrained from entering till he passed by after dinner, when pleasant malt liquor, of that capacity for cheering which is expressed by four large letter X's marching in a row, had refilled the globular trunk of the postmaster and neutralized some of the effects of officiality. The time was well chosen, but the inquiry threatened to prove fruitless: the postmaster had never, to his knowledge, seen the writing before. Christopher was turning away when a clerk in the background looked up and stated that some young lady had brought a packet with such an address upon it into the office two days earlier to get it stamped.

So he put off his business for now and waited to go in until after dinner, when a nice drink, represented by four big X's lined up in a row, had filled the postmaster's round belly and lessened some of the seriousness of his job. The timing was good, but the inquiry was likely to be unhelpful: the postmaster had never seen the handwriting before, as far as he knew. Christopher was about to leave when a clerk in the back looked up and said that a young lady had brought a package with that address into the office two days earlier to get it stamped.

'Do you know her?' said Christopher.

'Do you know her?' Christopher asked.

'I have seen her about the neighbourhood. She goes by every morning; I think she comes into the town from beyond the common, and returns again between four and five in the afternoon.'

'I have seen her around the neighborhood. She passes by every morning; I think she comes into town from beyond the common and then heads back again between four and five in the afternoon.'

'What does she wear?'

'What is she wearing?'

'A white wool jacket with zigzags of black braid.'

'A white wool jacket with zigzag black braids.'

Christopher left the post-office and went his way. Among his other pupils there were two who lived at some distance from Sandbourne-one of them in the direction indicated as that habitually taken by the young person; and in the afternoon, as he returned homeward, Christopher loitered and looked around. At first he could see nobody; but when about a mile from the outskirts of the town he discerned a light spot ahead of him, which actually turned out to be the jacket alluded to. In due time he met the wearer face to face; she was not Ethelberta Petherwin-quite a different sort of individual. He had long made up his mind that this would be the case, yet he was in some indescribable way disappointed.

Christopher left the post office and went on his way. Among his other students, there were two who lived quite a distance from Sandbourne—one of them in the direction that the young person usually took; and in the afternoon, as he headed home, Christopher lingered and looked around. At first, he couldn’t see anyone, but when he was about a mile from the edge of town, he noticed a light spot ahead of him, which turned out to be the jacket he had mentioned. Eventually, he met the wearer face to face; she wasn’t Ethelberta Petherwin—she was totally different. He had long accepted that this would be the case, yet he felt a strange disappointment.

Of the two classes into which gentle young women naturally divide, those who grow red at their weddings, and those who grow pale, the present one belonged to the former class. She was an April-natured, pink-cheeked girl, with eyes that would have made any jeweller in England think of his trade-one who evidently took her day in the daytime, frequently caught the early worm, and had little to do with yawns or candlelight. She came and passed him; he fancied that her countenance changed. But one may fancy anything, and the pair receded each from each without turning their heads. He could not speak to her, plain and simple as she seemed.

Of the two types of young women, those who blush at their weddings and those who turn pale, the one in question was definitely a blusher. She was a cheerful girl with rosy cheeks, and her eyes sparkled in a way that would catch any jeweler's attention. She clearly embraced each day, often rising early and avoiding late nights. As she walked past him, he thought he noticed a change in her expression. But it's easy to imagine things, and they both moved on without looking back. He couldn't bring himself to speak to her, even though she seemed so approachable.

It is rarely that a man who can be entered and made to throb by the channel of his ears is not open to a similar attack through the channel of his eyes-for many doors will admit to one mansion-allowance being made for the readier capacity of chosen and practised organs. Hence the beauties, concords, and eloquences of the female form were never without their effect upon Christopher, a born musician, artist, poet, seer, mouthpiece-whichever a translator of Nature's oracles into simple speech may be called. The young girl who had gone by was fresh and pleasant; moreover, she was a sort of mysterious HANDlink between himself and the past, which these things were vividly reviving in him.

It's rare for a guy who can feel things when he hears something not to be affected in a similar way by what he sees—many paths can lead to the same place, especially considering some senses are more finely tuned. Because of this, the beauty, harmony, and grace of the female form always had an impact on Christopher, who was a natural musician, artist, poet, seer, or whatever you want to call a person who translates Nature's messages into everyday language. The young girl who just passed by was fresh and delightful; additionally, she was like a mysterious link between him and the past, which these memories were bringing back to him in a vivid way.

The following week Christopher met her again. She had not much dignity, he had not much reserve, and the sudden resolution to have a holiday which sometimes impels a plump heart to rise up against a brain that overweights it was not to be resisted. He just lifted his hat, and put the only question he could think of as a beginning: 'Have I the pleasure of addressing the author of a book of very melodious poems that was sent me the other day?'

The following week, Christopher met her again. She didn’t have much dignity, he didn’t have much restraint, and the sudden urge for a break that sometimes drives a carefree heart to defy an overthinking mind was impossible to resist. He simply tipped his hat and asked the only question he could think of to start the conversation: 'Am I speaking to the author of a book of beautiful poems that was sent to me the other day?'

The girl's forefinger twirled rapidly the loop of braid that it had previously been twirling slowly, and drawing in her breath, she said, 'No, sir.'

The girl's forefinger spun quickly around the braid it had been twisting slowly before, and taking a breath, she said, 'No, sir.'

'The sender, then?'

'So, who's the sender?'

'Yes.'

Yes.

She somehow presented herself as so insignificant by the combined effect of the manner and the words that Christopher lowered his method of address to her level at once. 'Ah,' he said, 'such an atmosphere as the writer of "Metres by E." seems to breathe would soon spoil cheeks that are fresh and round as lady-apples-eh, little girl? But are you disposed to tell me that writer's name?'

She somehow made herself seem so unimportant with her manner and words that Christopher immediately adjusted how he spoke to her. "Ah," he said, "the kind of atmosphere that the writer of 'Metres by E.' seems to create would quickly ruin cheeks as fresh and round as lady apples—right, little girl? But are you willing to tell me that writer's name?"

By applying a general idea to a particular case a person with the best of intentions may find himself immediately landed in a quandary. In saying to the country girl before him what would have suited the mass of country lasses well enough, Christopher had offended her beyond the cure of compliment.

By applying a general idea to a specific situation, a person with the best intentions can quickly find themselves in a difficult spot. When Christopher said something to the country girl that would have suited many other country girls just fine, he offended her in a way that no compliment could fix.

'I am not disposed to tell the writer's name,' she replied, with a dudgeon that was very great for one whose whole stock of it was a trifle. And she passed on and left him standing alone.

'I’m not going to share the writer's name,' she replied, with a frustration that was quite intense for someone who usually didn't have much of it. Then she moved on, leaving him standing there alone.

Thus further conversation was checked; but, through having rearranged the hours of his country lessons, Christopher met her the next Wednesday, and the next Friday, and throughout the following week-no further words passing between them. For a while she went by very demurely, apparently mindful of his offence. But effrontery is not proved to be part of a man's nature till he has been guilty of a second act: the best of men may commit a first through accident or ignorance-may even be betrayed into it by over-zeal for experiment. Some such conclusion may or may not have been arrived at by the girl with the lady-apple cheeks; at any rate, after the lapse of another week a new spectacle presented itself; her redness deepened whenever Christopher passed her by, and embarrassment pervaded her from the lowest stitch to the tip of her feather. She had little chance of escaping him by diverging from the road, for a figure could be seen across the open ground to the distance of half a mile on either side. One day as he drew near as usual, she met him as women meet a cloud of dust-she turned and looked backwards till he had passed.

Thus, further conversation was cut off; however, after rearranging the times for his country lessons, Christopher saw her the next Wednesday, and again on Friday, and throughout the following week—no more words passed between them. For a while, she moved about quite demurely, seemingly aware of his mistake. But a person’s boldness isn’t seen until they’ve made a second mistake; even the best of people can slip up the first time by accident or ignorance—sometimes even driven by overzealous curiosity. The girl with the lady-apple cheeks may or may not have come to this conclusion; regardless, after another week passed, a new sight unfolded—her blush deepened every time Christopher walked by, and a sense of embarrassment radiated from her, from her lowest hem to the tip of her feather. She had little chance of avoiding him by straying from the path, as figures could be seen across the open ground for half a mile in either direction. One day, as he approached as usual, she reacted like women do to a cloud of dust—she turned and looked back until he had gone by.

This would have been disconcerting but for one reason: Christopher was ceasing to notice her. He was a man who often, when walking abroad, and looking as it were at the scene before his eyes, discerned successes and failures, friends and relations, episodes of childhood, wedding feasts and funerals, the landscape suffering greatly by these visions, until it became no more than the patterned wall-tints about the paintings in a gallery; something necessary to the tone, yet not regarded. Nothing but a special concentration of himself on externals could interrupt this habit, and now that her appearance along the way had changed from a chance to a custom he began to lapse again into the old trick. He gazed once or twice at her form without seeing it: he did not notice that she trembled.

This would have been unsettling if not for one reason: Christopher was starting to overlook her. He was the type of person who, while out and about, often seemed to see the world around him as a mix of successes and failures, friends and family, memories from childhood, wedding celebrations and funerals. The landscape suffered under these visions until it became just like the color patterns on the walls of an art gallery; something essential for the atmosphere, yet overlooked. Only a focused effort on what was outside could break this routine, and now that her presence had shifted from a chance encounter to a regular sight, he began to slip back into his old ways. He glanced at her a couple of times without really seeing her: he didn't notice that she was trembling.

He sometimes read as he walked, and book in hand he frequently approached her now. This went on till six weeks had passed from the time of their first encounter. Latterly might have been once or twice heard, when he had moved out of earshot, a sound like a small gasping sigh; but no arrangements were disturbed, and Christopher continued to keep down his eyes as persistently as a saint in a church window.

He sometimes read while he walked, and with a book in hand, he often approached her now. This continued until six weeks had passed since their first meeting. Recently, once or twice, she might have heard a sound like a small gasp when he had moved out of earshot; but nothing changed, and Christopher kept his eyes lowered just like a saint in a church window.

The last day of his engagement had arrived, and with it the last of his walks that way. On his final return he carried in his hand a bunch of flowers which had been presented to him at the country-house where his lessons were given. He was taking them home to his sister Faith, who prized the lingering blossoms of the seeding season. Soon appeared as usual his fellow-traveller; whereupon Christopher looked down upon his nosegay. 'Sweet simple girl,' he thought, 'I'll endeavour to make peace with her by means of these flowers before we part for good.'

The last day of his engagement had come, and with it, the final time he would walk this way. On his last return, he held a bouquet of flowers that had been given to him at the country house where he had his lessons. He was taking them home to his sister Faith, who cherished the last blossoms of the season. Soon, his usual travel companion appeared, and Christopher looked down at his bouquet. 'Sweet, innocent girl,' he thought, 'I’ll try to make peace with her using these flowers before we say goodbye for good.'

When she came up he held them out to her and said, 'Will you allow me to present you with these?'

When she approached, he offered them to her and said, 'Will you let me give you these?'

The bright colours of the nosegay instantly attracted the girl's hand-perhaps before there had been time for thought to thoroughly construe the position; for it happened that when her arm was stretched into the air she steadied it quickly, and stood with the pose of a statue-rigid with uncertainty. But it was too late to refuse: Christopher had put the nosegay within her fingers. Whatever pleasant expression of thanks may have appeared in her eyes fell only on the bunch of flowers, for during the whole transaction they reached to no higher level than that. To say that he was coming no more seemed scarcely necessary under the circumstances, and wishing her 'Good afternoon' very heartily, he passed on.

The bright colors of the bouquet instantly caught the girl's attention—maybe even before she had fully processed what was happening. When she reached her arm up into the air, she quickly steadied it, standing still like a statue—frozen in uncertainty. But it was too late to back out: Christopher had placed the bouquet in her hand. Any pleasant look of gratitude that might have appeared in her eyes was directed solely at the flowers, since throughout the whole exchange, they were her only focus. It hardly seemed necessary to mention that he wouldn’t be coming back, and after wishing her a very warm 'Good afternoon,' he walked away.

He had learnt by this time her occupation, which was that of pupil-teacher at one of the schools in the town, whither she walked daily from a village near. If he had not been poor and the little teacher humble, Christopher might possibly have been tempted to inquire more briskly about her, and who knows how such a pursuit might have ended? But hard externals rule volatile sentiment, and under these untoward influences the girl and the book and the truth about its author were matters upon which he could not afford to expend much time. All Christopher did was to think now and then of the pretty innocent face and round deep eyes, not once wondering if the mind which enlivened them ever thought of him.

He had learned by this point that her job was a pupil-teacher at one of the local schools, where she walked every day from a nearby village. If he hadn’t been poor and the little teacher humble, Christopher might have been tempted to ask her more directly about herself, and who knows how that might have turned out? But harsh realities can suppress fleeting feelings, and under those unfavorable conditions, the girl, the book, and the truth about its author were things he couldn’t spend much time on. All Christopher did was occasionally think of her pretty innocent face and deep, round eyes, never once wondering if the mind behind them ever thought of him.

3. SANDBOURNE MOOR (continued)

It was one of those hostile days of the year when chatterbox ladies remain miserably in their homes to save the carriage and harness, when clerks' wives hate living in lodgings, when vehicles and people appear in the street with duplicates of themselves underfoot, when bricklayers, slaters, and other out-door journeymen sit in a shed and drink beer, when ducks and drakes play with hilarious delight at their own family game, or spread out one wing after another in the slower enjoyment of letting the delicious moisture penetrate to their innermost down. The smoke from the flues of Sandbourne had barely strength enough to emerge into the drizzling rain, and hung down the sides of each chimney-pot like the streamer of a becalmed ship; and a troop of rats might have rattled down the pipes from roof to basement with less noise than did the water that day.

It was one of those dreadful days of the year when talkative ladies stayed stuck at home to save their carriage and harness, when clerks' wives hated living in rented places, when vehicles and people filled the streets with their reflections underfoot, when bricklayers, roofers, and other outdoor workers sat in a shed drinking beer, when ducks and drakes happily played their family games, or spread their wings one after another to enjoy the delicious moisture soaking into their soft feathers. The smoke from the chimneys of Sandbourne barely had the strength to break through the drizzling rain and hung down the sides of each chimney pot like the flag of a ship that had come to a standstill; and a group of rats could have slid down the pipes from the roof to the basement with less noise than the water did that day.

On the broad moor beyond the town, where Christopher's meetings with the teacher had so regularly occurred, were a stream and some large pools; and beside one of these, near some hatches and a weir, stood a little square building, not much larger inside than the Lord Mayor's coach. It was known simply as 'The Weir House.' On this wet afternoon, which was the one following the day of Christopher's last lesson over the plain, a nearly invisible smoke came from the puny chimney of the hut. Though the door was closed, sounds of chatting and mirth fizzed from the interior, and would have told anybody who had come near-which nobody did-that the usually empty shell was tenanted to-day.

On the wide moor beyond the town, where Christopher regularly met with the teacher, there was a stream and some large pools; beside one of these, near some hatches and a weir, stood a small square building, barely larger inside than the Lord Mayor's coach. It was simply called 'The Weir House.' On this rainy afternoon, which was the day after Christopher's last lesson over the plain, a faint wisp of smoke rose from the tiny chimney of the hut. Although the door was closed, sounds of chatting and laughter bubbled up from inside, which would have indicated to anyone who had come close—which no one did—that the usually empty place was occupied today.

The scene within was a large fire in a fireplace to which the whole floor of the house was no more than a hearthstone. The occupants were two gentlemanly persons, in shooting costume, who had been traversing the moor for miles in search of wild duck and teal, a waterman, and a small spaniel. In the corner stood their guns, and two or three wild mallards, which represented the scanty product of their morning's labour, the iridescent necks of the dead birds replying to every flicker of the fire. The two sportsmen were smoking, and their man was mostly occupying himself in poking and stirring the fire with a stick: all three appeared to be pretty well wetted.

The scene inside featured a big fire in a fireplace, making the entire floor of the house just a hearthstone. There were two well-dressed gentlemen in shooting gear who had been walking the moor for miles looking for wild ducks and teal, along with a waterman and a small spaniel. In the corner were their guns and a couple of wild mallards, which represented the meager results of their morning’s efforts, the iridescent necks of the dead birds glinting with every flicker of the fire. The two sportsmen were smoking, while their man mostly kept busy poking and stirring the fire with a stick: all three looked pretty soaked.

One of the gentlemen, by way of varying the not very exhilarating study of four brick walls within microscopic distance of his eye, turned to a small square hole which admitted light and air to the hut, and looked out upon the dreary prospect before him. The wide concave of cloud, of the monotonous hue of dull pewter, formed an unbroken hood over the level from horizon to horizon; beneath it, reflecting its wan lustre, was the glazed high-road which stretched, hedgeless and ditchless, past a directing-post where another road joined it, and on to the less regular ground beyond, lying like a riband unrolled across the scene, till it vanished over the furthermost undulation. Beside the pools were occasional tall sheaves of flags and sedge, and about the plain a few bushes, these forming the only obstructions to a view otherwise unbroken.

One of the guys, aiming to break the monotony of staring at four brick walls up close, turned to a small square opening that let in light and air. He looked out at the bleak view in front of him. The vast dome of clouds, a dull gray color like tarnished metal, created a continuous cover from one side of the horizon to the other; below it, mirroring its pale glow, was the glossy highway that stretched on without any hedges or ditches, past a signpost where another road met it, and on to the more uneven land beyond. It lay like a ribbon unspooled across the landscape until it disappeared over the next rise. Next to the puddles were occasional tall bunches of reeds and grass, and around the flat land were a few bushes, which were the only interruptions in an otherwise unobstructed view.

The sportsman's attention was attracted by a figure in a state of gradual enlargement as it approached along the road.

The athlete's attention was caught by a figure getting larger as it came closer along the road.

'I should think that if pleasure can't tempt a native out of doors to-day, business will never force him out,' he observed. 'There is, for the first time, somebody coming along the road.'

'I should think that if pleasure can't get a local person outside today, business will never make them go out,' he said. 'For the first time, there's someone coming down the road.'

'If business don't drag him out pleasure'll never tempt en, is more like our nater in these parts, sir,' said the man, who was looking into the fire.

'If business doesn't pull him out, pleasure will never tempt him, that's more like our nature around here, sir,' said the man, who was staring into the fire.

The conversation showed no vitality, and down it dropped dead as before, the man who was standing up continuing to gaze into the moisture. What had at first appeared as an epicene shape the decreasing space resolved into a cloaked female under an umbrella: she now relaxed her pace, till, reaching the directing-post where the road branched into two, she paused and looked about her. Instead of coming further she slowly retraced her steps for about a hundred yards.

The conversation felt lifeless, and it ended flatly, just like before, while the man who was standing continued to stare into the mist. What had initially seemed like a neutral figure gradually appeared as a cloaked woman under an umbrella: she slowed down until she reached the signpost where the road split in two, then she stopped and looked around. Instead of moving forward, she slowly turned back and walked about a hundred yards.

'That's an appointment,' said the first speaker, as he removed the cigar from his lips; 'and by the lords, what a day and place for an appointment with a woman!'

'That's an appointment,' said the first speaker, as he took the cigar out of his mouth; 'and by the heavens, what a day and place for a meeting with a woman!'

'What's an appointment?' inquired his friend, a town young man, with a Tussaud complexion and well-pencilled brows half way up his forehead, so that his upper eyelids appeared to possess the uncommon quality of tallness.

"What's an appointment?" asked his friend, a young man from town with a Tussaud-like complexion and perfectly shaped eyebrows that arched halfway up his forehead, making his upper eyelids look unusually tall.

'Look out here, and you'll see. By that directing-post, where the two roads meet. As a man devoted to art, Ladywell, who has had the honour of being hung higher up on the Academy walls than any other living painter, you should take out your sketch-book and dash off the scene.'

'Look over here, and you'll see. At that signpost, where the two roads converge. As someone passionate about art, Ladywell, who has the distinction of being displayed higher on the Academy walls than any other living painter, you should grab your sketchbook and quickly capture the scene.'

Where nothing particular is going on, one incident makes a drama; and, interested in that proportion, the art-sportsman puts up his eyeglass (a form he adhered to before firing at game that had risen, by which merciful arrangement the bird got safe off), placed his face beside his companion's, and also peered through the opening. The young pupil-teacher-for she was the object of their scrutiny-re-approached the spot whereon she had been accustomed for the last many weeks of her journey home to meet Christopher, now for the first time missing, and again she seemed reluctant to pass the hand-post, for that marked the point where the chance of seeing him ended. She glided backwards as before, this time keeping her face still to the front, as if trying to persuade the world at large, and her own shamefacedness, that she had not yet approached the place at all.

Where nothing special is happening, one event creates drama; and, fascinated by that ratio, the art-loving sportsman raised his monocle (a habit he kept before taking aim at game that had taken flight, which thankfully allowed the bird to escape), leaned his face next to his companion's, and peered through the opening. The young pupil-teacher—since she was the focus of their attention—returned to the spot where she had gotten used to meeting Christopher, who was now missing for the first time, and once again she hesitated to pass the signpost, as it marked the point where the chance of seeing him ended. She moved backward as before, this time keeping her face forward, as if trying to convince the world at large, and her own sense of embarrassment, that she hadn’t approached the place at all.

'Query, how long will she wait for him (for it is a man to a certainty)?' resumed the elder of the smokers, at the end of several minutes of silence, when, full of vacillation and doubt, she became lost to view behind some bushes. 'Will she reappear?' The smoking went on, and up she came into open ground as before, and walked by.

'So, how long will she wait for him (because it definitely is a man)?' resumed the older of the smokers after several minutes of silence, as she disappeared behind some bushes, filled with uncertainty and doubt. 'Will she come back?' The smoking continued, and then she appeared again in the open, just like before, and walked past.

'I wonder who the girl is, to come to such a place in this weather? There she is again,' said the young man called Ladywell.

'I wonder who the girl is, to come to such a place in this weather? There she is again,' said the young man named Ladywell.

'Some cottage lass, not yet old enough to make the most of the value set on her by her follower, small as that appears to be. Now we may get an idea of the hour named by the fellow for the appointment, for, depend upon it, the time when she first came-about five minutes ago-was the time he should have been there. It is now getting on towards five-half-past four was doubtless the time mentioned.'

'Some village girl, still too young to fully appreciate the worth placed on her by her admirer, however little that may seem. Now we can guess the time he suggested for their meeting, because, trust me, the moment she arrived—about five minutes ago—was when he was supposed to be there. It's now getting close to five—half past four was probably the time he mentioned.'

'She's not come o' purpose: 'tis her way home from school every day,' said the waterman.

'She's not here on purpose: it’s just her way home from school every day,' said the waterman.

'An experiment on woman's endurance and patience under neglect. Two to one against her staying a quarter of an hour.'

'An experiment on a woman's endurance and patience when faced with neglect. The odds are two to one against her lasting even fifteen minutes.'

'The same odds against her not staying till five would be nearer probability. What's half-an-hour to a girl in love?'

'The chances of her not staying until five are more likely. What’s half an hour to a girl in love?'

'On a moorland in wet weather it is thirty perceptible minutes to any fireside man, woman, or beast in Christendom-minutes that can be felt, like the Egyptian plague of darkness. Now, little girl, go home: he is not worth it.'

'On a moorland in wet weather, it takes thirty noticeable minutes for any person or animal in Christendom to reach a fireside—minutes that can be felt, like the Egyptian plague of darkness. Now, little girl, go home: he isn’t worth it.'

Twenty minutes passed, and the girl returned miserably to the hand-post, still to wander back to her retreat behind the sedge, and lead any chance comer from the opposite quarter to believe that she had not yet reached this ultimate point beyond which a meeting with Christopher was impossible.

Twenty minutes went by, and the girl came back sadly to the hand-post, still wandering back to her hiding spot behind the grass, making any random passerby from the opposite direction think that she had not yet reached this final point beyond which meeting Christopher was impossible.

'Now you'll find that she means to wait the complete half-hour, and then off she goes with a broken heart.'

'Now you'll see that she plans to wait the full half-hour, and then she leaves with a broken heart.'

All three now looked through the hole to test the truth of the prognostication. The hour of five completed itself on their watches; the girl again came forward. And then the three in ambuscade could see her pull out her handkerchief and place it to her eyes.

All three of them now looked through the hole to see if the prediction was true. The hour of five showed on their watches; the girl stepped forward again. Then the three hidden could see her take out her handkerchief and press it to her eyes.

'She's grieving now because he has not come. Poor little woman, what a brute he must be; for a broken heart in a woman means a broken vow in a man, as I infer from a thousand instances in experience, romance, and history. Don't open the door till she is gone, Ladywell; it will only disturb her.'

'She’s upset now because he hasn’t shown up. Poor thing, what a jerk he must be; because a woman’s broken heart means a man’s broken promise, as I’ve seen in countless situations from experience, romance, and history. Don’t open the door until she leaves, Ladywell; it will only upset her.'

As they had guessed, the pupil-teacher, hearing the distant town-clock strike the hour, gave way to her fancy no longer, and launched into the diverging path. This lingering for Christopher's arrival had, as is known, been founded on nothing more of the nature of an assignation than lay in his regular walk along the plain at that time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday of the six previous weeks. It must be said that he was very far indeed from divining that his injudicious peace-offering of the flowers had stirred into life such a wearing, anxious, hopeful, despairing solicitude as this, which had been latent for some time during his constant meetings with the little stranger.

As they had suspected, the pupil-teacher, hearing the distant town clock strike the hour, stopped indulging her imagination and took a different path. Her wait for Christopher's arrival was based on nothing more than his regular walk along the plain at that time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for the past six weeks. It's worth noting that he had no idea that his ill-timed peace offering of flowers had sparked such a burdensome mix of hope and despair that had been building up during his frequent encounters with the little stranger.

She vanished in the mist towards the left, and the loiterers in the hut began to move and open the door, remarking, 'Now then for Wyndway House, a change of clothes, and a dinner.'

She disappeared into the mist on the left, and the people hanging around in the hut started to move and open the door, saying, 'Time to head to Wyndway House for a change of clothes and dinner.'

4. SANDBOURNE PIER-ROAD TO WYNDWAY-BALL-ROOM IN WYNDWAY HOUSE

The last light of a winter day had gone down behind the houses of Sandbourne, and night was shut close over all. Christopher, about eight o'clock, was standing at the end of the pier with his back towards the open sea, whence the waves were pushing to the shore in frills and coils that were just rendered visible in all their bleak instability by the row of lights along the sides of the jetty, the rapid motion landward of the wavetips producing upon his eye an apparent progress of the pier out to sea. This pier-head was a spot which Christopher enjoyed visiting on such moaning and sighing nights as the present, when the sportive and variegated throng that haunted the pier on autumn days was no longer there, and he seemed alone with weather and the invincible sea.

The last light of a winter day had faded behind the houses of Sandbourne, and night had settled in completely. Christopher, around eight o'clock, was standing at the end of the pier with his back to the open sea, where the waves rolled toward the shore in frills and curls that were just made visible in their bleak instability by the row of lights along the jetty. The swift motion of the wave tips towards the land made it seem like the pier was extending out to sea. This pier-head was a place that Christopher liked to visit on moaning and sighing nights like tonight, when the lively and colorful crowd that filled the pier on autumn days was no longer there, leaving him feeling alone with the weather and the relentless sea.

Somebody came towards him along the deserted footway, and rays from the nearest lamp streaked the face of his sister Faith.

Somebody walked toward him along the empty sidewalk, and the light from the closest lamp illuminated his sister Faith's face.

'O Christopher, I knew you were here,' she said eagerly. 'You are wanted; there's a servant come from Wyndway House for you. He is sent to ask if you can come immediately to play at a little dance they have resolved upon this evening-quite suddenly it seems. If you can come, you must bring with you any assistant you can lay your hands upon at a moment's notice, he says.'

'O Christopher, I knew you were here,' she said excitedly. 'You’re needed; a servant from Wyndway House has come for you. He’s been sent to see if you can come right away to join a little dance they’ve planned for this evening—quite suddenly, it seems. If you can make it, you have to bring any help you can find at a moment's notice, he says.'

'Wyndway House; why should the people send for me above all other musicians in the town?'

'Wyndway House; why should people call for me instead of all the other musicians in town?'

Faith did not know. 'If you really decide to go,' she said, as they walked homeward, 'you might take me as your assistant. I should answer the purpose, should I not, Kit? since it is only a dance or two they seem to want.'

Faith didn't know. 'If you really decide to go,' she said as they walked home, 'you could take me as your assistant. I would be useful, right, Kit? since it’s just a dance or two that they seem to want.'

'And your harp I suppose you mean. Yes; you might be competent to take a part. It cannot be a regular ball; they would have had the quadrille band for anything of that sort. Faith-we'll go. However, let us see the man first, and inquire particulars.'

'And your harp, I assume you mean. Yes; you could probably join in. It can't be a formal ball; they would have had the quadrille band for something like that. Well, let's go. But first, let's meet the man and ask for details.'

Reaching home, Christopher found at his door a horse and wagonette in charge of a man-servant in livery, who repeated what Faith had told her brother. Wyndway House was a well-known country-seat three or four miles out of the town, and the coachman mentioned that if they were going it would be well that they should get ready to start as soon as they conveniently could, since he had been told to return by ten if possible. Christopher quickly prepared himself, and put a new string or two into Faith's harp, by which time she also was dressed; and, wrapping up herself and her instrument safe from the night air, away they drove at half-past nine.

Reaching home, Christopher found a horse and wagonette at his door being handled by a man-servant in uniform, who relayed what Faith had told her brother. Wyndway House was a well-known country estate three or four miles outside of town, and the coachman mentioned that if they planned to go, it would be best to get ready to leave as soon as they could since he had been instructed to return by ten if possible. Christopher quickly got ready and put a new string or two on Faith's harp, by which time she was also dressed. Wrapping themselves and her instrument up to protect against the night air, they drove off at half-past nine.

'Is it a large party?' said Christopher, as they whizzed along.

"Is it a big party?" Christopher asked as they sped along.

'No, sir; it is what we call a dance-that is, 'tis like a ball, you know, on a small scale-a ball on a spurt, that you never thought of till you had it. In short, it grew out of a talk at dinner, I believe; and some of the young people present wanted a jig, and didn't care to play themselves, you know, young ladies being an idle class of society at the best of times. We've a house full of sleeping company, you understand-been there a week some of 'em-most of 'em being mistress's relations.'

'No, sir; it’s what we call a dance—that is, it’s like a ball, you know, on a smaller scale—a mini ball that you never thought of until it happened. In short, I believe it came up during a dinner conversation, and some of the young people present wanted to dance but didn’t want to play the music themselves, you know, as young ladies tend to be a bit lazy at the best of times. We’ve got a house full of guests who are sleeping over, you understand—some of them have been here for a week—most of them being relatives of the hostess.'

'They probably found it a little dull.'

They likely found it a bit boring.

'Well, yes-it is rather dull for 'em-Christmas-time and all. As soon as it was proposed they were wild for sending post-haste for somebody or other to play to them.'

'Well, yes—it is kind of boring for them—Christmas time and all. As soon as it was suggested, they were eager to quickly find someone to perform for them.'

'Did they name me particularly?' said Christopher.

'Did they name me specifically?' said Christopher.

'Yes; "Mr. Christopher Julian," she says. "The gent who's turned music-man?" I said. "Yes, that's him," says she.'

'Yes; "Mr. Christopher Julian," she says. "The guy who's become a music man?" I asked. "Yes, that's him," she replied.'

'There were music-men living nearer to your end of the town than I.'

'There were musicians living closer to your part of town than I am.'

'Yes, but I know it was you particular: though I don't think mistress thought anything about you at first. Mr. Joyce-that's the butler-said that your name was mentioned to our old party, when he was in the room, by a young lady staying with us, and mistress says then, "The Julians have had a downfall, and the son has taken to music." Then when dancing was talked of, they said, "O, let's have him by all means."'

'Yes, but I know it was you specifically: although I don't think the mistress thought much of you at first. Mr. Joyce—that's the butler—said that your name came up while our old friend was in the room, mentioned by a young lady staying with us, and the mistress then said, "The Julians have had a downfall, and the son has turned to music." Then when dancing was mentioned, they said, "Oh, let's definitely have him."'

'Was the young lady who first inquired for my family the same one who said, "Let's have him by all means?"'

'Was the young woman who first asked about my family the same one who said, "Let's definitely have him?"'

'O no; but it was on account of her asking that the rest said they would like you to play-at least that's as I had it from Joyce.'

'O no; it was because she asked that the others said they would like you to play—at least that's what I heard from Joyce.'

'Do you know that lady's name?'

'Do you know that woman's name?'

'Mrs. Petherwin.'

'Ms. Petherwin.'

'Ah!'

'Oh!'

'Cold, sir?'

'Feeling cold, sir?'

'O no.'

'Oh no.'

Christopher did not like to question the man any further, though what he had heard added new life to his previous curiosity; and they drove along the way in silence, Faith's figure, wrapped up to the top of her head, cutting into the sky behind them like a sugar-loaf. Such gates as crossed the roads had been left open by the forethought of the coachman, and, passing the lodge, they proceeded about half-a-mile along a private drive, then ascended a rise, and came in view of the front of the mansion, punctured with windows that were now mostly lighted up.

Christopher didn’t want to ask the man anything more, but what he’d heard sparked new interest in his earlier curiosity. They drove along in silence, Faith’s figure, wrapped up to her head, standing out against the sky behind them like a sugar loaf. The gates that crossed the roads had been left open thanks to the coachman’s foresight, and after passing the lodge, they continued about half a mile along a private drive, then went up a slope and saw the front of the mansion, which was dotted with windows that were mostly lit up.

'What is that?' said Faith, catching a glimpse of something that the carriage-lamp showed on the face of one wall as they passed, a marble bas-relief of some battle-piece, built into the stonework.

'What is that?' Faith asked, catching a glimpse of something illuminated by the carriage lamp on the wall as they passed— a marble bas-relief of a battle scene, built into the stonework.

'That's the scene of the death of one of the squire's forefathers-Colonel Sir Martin Jones, who was killed at the moment of victory in the battle of Salamanca-but I haven't been here long enough to know the rights of it. When I am in one of my meditations, as I wait here with the carriage sometimes, I think how many more get killed at the moment of victory than at the moment of defeat. This is the entrance for you, sir.' And he turned the corner and pulled up before a side door.

'That's where one of the squire's ancestors, Colonel Sir Martin Jones, met his death—he was killed at the moment of victory in the Battle of Salamanca—but I haven't been here long enough to know the details. When I'm deep in thought, waiting here with the carriage sometimes, I think about how many more people die at the moment of victory than at the moment of defeat. This is your entrance, sir.' And he turned the corner and stopped in front of a side door.

They alighted and went in, Christopher shouldering Faith's harp, and she marching modestly behind, with curly-eared music-books under her arm. They were shown into the house-steward's room, and ushered thence along a badly-lit passage and past a door within which a hum and laughter were audible. The door next to this was then opened for them, and they entered.

They got out and went inside, Christopher carrying Faith's harp, and she walking quietly behind with curly-eared music books tucked under her arm. They were led into the house steward's room and then through a dimly lit hallway, passing a door where they could hear laughter and chatter. Next, the door beside that one was opened for them, and they stepped in.

Scarcely had Faith, or Christopher either, ever beheld a more shining scene than was presented by the saloon in which they now found themselves. Coming direct from the gloomy park, and led to the room by that back passage from the servants' quarter, the light from the chandelier and branches against the walls, striking on gilding at all points, quite dazzled their sight for a minute or two; it caused Faith to move forward with her eyes on the floor, and filled Christopher with an impulse to turn back again into some dusky corner where every thread of his not over-new dress suit-rather moth-eaten through lack of feasts for airing it-could be counted less easily.

Scarcely had Faith, or Christopher for that matter, ever seen a more dazzling scene than the saloon they found themselves in now. Coming straight from the gloomy park and led to the room via the back passage from the servants' quarters, the light from the chandelier and the wall sconces, hitting the gold accents everywhere, completely dazzled their eyes for a moment. It made Faith keep her gaze fixed on the floor as she moved forward, and it filled Christopher with the urge to retreat into some dark corner where every thread of his slightly worn dress suit—rather tattered from lack of opportunities to air it out—could be less easily spotted.

He was soon seated before a grand piano, and Faith sat down under the shadow of her harp, both being arranged on a dais within an alcove at one end of the room. A screen of ivy and holly had been constructed across the front of this recess for the games of the children on Christmas Eve, and it still remained there, a small creep-hole being left for entrance and exit.

He soon sat down at a grand piano, and Faith took her place beneath the shadow of her harp, both set up on a platform in an alcove at one end of the room. A screen made of ivy and holly had been put up in front of this nook for the children's games on Christmas Eve, and it was still there, leaving a small gap for people to come and go.

Then the merry guests tumbled through doors at the further end, and dancing began. The mingling of black-coated men and bright ladies gave a charming appearance to the groups as seen by Faith and her brother, the whole spectacle deriving an unexpected novelty from the accident of reaching their eyes through interstices in the tracery of green leaves, which added to the picture a softness that it would not otherwise have possessed. On the other hand, the musicians, having a much weaker light, could hardly be discerned by the performers in the dance.

Then the cheerful guests burst through the doors at the far end, and dancing started. The mix of men in dark suits and brightly dressed women created a lovely sight for Faith and her brother. The whole scene looked especially beautiful to them through the gaps in the green leaves, adding a softness that it wouldn’t have had otherwise. On the flip side, the musicians, barely illuminated, could hardly be seen by the dancers.

The music was now rattling on, and the ladies in their foam-like dresses were busily threading and spinning about the floor, when Faith, casually looking up into her brother's face, was surprised to see that a change had come over it. At the end of the quadrille he leant across to her before she had time to speak, and said quietly, 'She's here!'

The music was playing loudly, and the women in their fluffy dresses were spinning around the floor when Faith glanced up at her brother's face and noticed a change in it. At the end of the dance, he leaned over to her before she could say anything and quietly said, "She's here!"

'Who?' said Faith, for she had not heard the words of the coachman.

'Who?' Faith asked, since she hadn't heard what the coachman said.

'Ethelberta.'

'Which is she?' asked Faith, peeping through with the keenest interest.

'Which one is she?' asked Faith, peeking through with the utmost interest.

'The one who has the skirts of her dress looped up with convolvulus flowers-the one with her hair fastened in a sort of Venus knot behind; she has just been dancing with that perfumed piece of a man they call Mr. Ladywell-it is he with the high eyebrows arched like a girl's.' He added, with a wrinkled smile, 'I cannot for my life see anybody answering to the character of husband to her, for every man takes notice of her.'

'The woman with her dress hem lifted by morning glory flowers—the one who has her hair tied up in a Venus knot at the back; she just danced with that charming guy they call Mr. Ladywell—he’s the one with the high eyebrows arched like a girl’s.' He added, with a wrinkled smile, 'I honestly can’t imagine anyone being her husband, because every man notices her.'

They were interrupted by another dance being called for, and then, his fingers tapping about upon the keys as mechanically as fowls pecking at barleycorns, Christopher gave himself up with a curious and far from unalloyed pleasure to the occupation of watching Ethelberta, now again crossing the field of his vision like a returned comet whose characteristics were becoming purely historical. She was a plump-armed creature, with a white round neck as firm as a fort-altogether a vigorous shape, as refreshing to the eye as the green leaves through which he beheld her. She danced freely, and with a zest that was apparently irrespective of partners. He had been waiting long to hear her speak, and when at length her voice did reach his ears, it was the revelation of a strange matter to find how great a thing that small event had become to him. He knew the old utterance-rapid but not frequent, an obstructive thought causing sometimes a sudden halt in the midst of a stream of words. But the features by which a cool observer would have singled her out from others in his memory when asking himself what she was like, was a peculiar gaze into imaginary far-away distance when making a quiet remark to a partner-not with contracted eyes like a seafaring man, but with an open full look-a remark in which little words in a low tone were made to express a great deal, as several single gentlemen afterwards found.

They were interrupted by another dance being called, and then, with his fingers tapping on the keys as mindlessly as birds pecking at grains, Christopher lost himself in the strange but undeniable pleasure of watching Ethelberta, who was again moving across his field of vision like a comet whose significance was becoming merely historical. She had plump arms and a firm, white round neck, sturdy as a fort—altogether a lively figure, as refreshing to the eye as the green leaves framing her. She danced freely, with an enthusiasm that seemed independent of any partner. He had been waiting a long time to hear her speak, and when her voice finally reached him, it was surprising how significant that small moment felt to him. He recognized her voice—quick but not frequent, sometimes pausing abruptly mid-sentence due to a distracting thought. But what stood out to him was how a detached observer would remember her—a distinctive gaze into some imagined far-off place when she quietly remarked to her partner—not squinting as a sailor would, but with a wide, open look—making simple words in a soft tone convey a lot, as several single men would later discover.

The production of dance-music when the criticizing stage among the dancers has passed, and they have grown full of excitement and animal spirits, does not require much concentration of thought in the producers thereof; and desultory conversation accordingly went on between Faith and her brother from time to time.

The production of dance music, once the critical phase among the dancers has passed and they are full of excitement and energy, doesn’t demand a lot of focus from the producers; so, casual conversation flowed between Faith and her brother now and then.

'Kit,' she said on one occasion, 'are you looking at the way in which the flowers are fastened to the leaves?-taking a mean advantage of being at the back of the tapestry? You cannot think how you stare at them.'

'Kit,' she said one time, 'are you noticing how the flowers are attached to the leaves? You do have a sneaky advantage being at the back of the tapestry. You wouldn’t believe how hard you’re staring at them.'

'I was looking through them-certainly not at them. I have a feeling of being moved about like a puppet in the hands of a person who legally can be nothing to me.'

'I was looking through them—definitely not at them. I feel like I'm being tossed around like a puppet in the hands of someone who really can't mean anything to me.'

'That charming woman with the shining bunch of hair and convolvuluses?'

'That lovely woman with the shining bunch of hair and morning glories?'

'Yes: it is through her that we are brought here, and through her writing that poem, "Cancelled Words," that the book was sent me, and through the accidental renewal of acquaintance between us on Anglebury Heath, that she wrote the poem. I was, however, at the moment you spoke, thinking more particularly of the little teacher whom Ethelberta must have commissioned to send the book to me; and why that girl was chosen to do it.'

'Yes, it’s because of her that we’re here, and through her poem "Cancelled Words" that I received the book, and through the chance reconnection we had on Anglebury Heath that she wrote the poem. However, at the moment you mentioned it, I was specifically thinking about the little teacher whom Ethelberta must have asked to send the book to me; and why that girl was chosen for the task.'

'There may be a hundred reasons. Kit, I have never yet seen her look once this way.'

'There could be a hundred reasons. Kit, I've never seen her look like this before.'

Christopher had certainly not yet received look or gesture from her; but his time came. It was while he was for a moment outside the recess, and he caught her in the act. She became slightly confused, turned aside, and entered into conversation with a neighbour.

Christopher hadn’t received any looks or gestures from her yet, but his moment arrived. It happened while he was briefly outside the alcove, and he caught her in the act. She became a little flustered, turned away, and started chatting with a neighbor.

It was only a look, and yet what a look it was! One may say of a look that it is capable of division into as many species, genera, orders, and classes, as the animal world itself. Christopher saw Ethelberta Petherwin's performance in this kind-the well-known spark of light upon the well-known depths of mystery-and felt something going out of him which had gone out of him once before.

It was just a glance, but what a glance it was! You could say that a look can be categorized into as many types, categories, groups, and classes as the animal kingdom itself. Christopher watched Ethelberta Petherwin's performance in this form—the familiar flash of light in the well-known depths of mystery—and sensed something leaving him that had left before.

Thus continually beholding her and her companions in the giddy whirl, the night wore on with the musicians, last dances and more last dances being added, till the intentions of the old on the matter were thrice exceeded in the interests of the young. Watching the couples whirl and turn, advance and recede as gently as spirits, knot themselves like house-flies and part again, and lullabied by the faint regular beat of their footsteps to the tune, the players sank into the peculiar mesmeric quiet which comes over impressionable people who play for a great length of time in the midst of such scenes; and at last the only noises that Christopher took cognizance of were those of the exceptional kind, breaking above the general sea of sound-a casual smart rustle of silk, a laugh, a stumble, the monosyllabic talk of those who happened to linger for a moment close to the leafy screen-all coming to his ears like voices from those old times when he had mingled in similar scenes, not as servant but as guest.

Thus, constantly watching her and her friends in the dizzying dance, the night went on with the musicians, adding last dances and even more last dances, until the plans of the older crowd were far outpaced by the younger ones. Observing the couples spin and flow, move forward and backward like gentle spirits, entangle themselves like house-flies and then separate again, and lulled by the soft, steady rhythm of their footsteps to the music, the players fell into that strange, calming quiet that affects impressionable people who perform for a long time in such lively settings; eventually, the only sounds Christopher noticed were the rare ones that broke through the general noise—a soft rustle of silk, a laugh, a stumble, the brief chatter of those who happened to linger for a moment near the leafy screen—all coming to him like echoes from those old times when he had participated in similar scenes, not as a servant but as a guest.

5. AT THE WINDOW-THE ROAD HOME

The dancing was over at last, and the radiant company had left the room. A long and weary night it had been for the two players, though a stimulated interest had hindered physical exhaustion in one of them for a while. With tingling fingers and aching arms they came out of the alcove into the long and deserted apartment, now pervaded by a dry haze. The lights had burnt low, and Faith and her brother were waiting by request till the wagonette was ready to take them home, a breakfast being in course of preparation for them meanwhile.

The dancing was finally over, and the glowing guests had left the room. It had been a long and exhausting night for the two performers, although heightened excitement had temporarily kept one of them from feeling too tired. With numb fingers and sore arms, they stepped out of the alcove into the long, empty space, now filled with a dry haze. The lights had dimmed, and Faith and her brother were waiting as requested until the carriage was ready to take them home, while breakfast was being prepared for them in the meantime.

Christopher had crossed the room to relieve his cramped limbs, and now, peeping through a crevice in the window curtains, he said suddenly, 'Who's for a transformation scene? Faith, look here!'

Christopher had walked across the room to stretch his stiff limbs, and now, peeking through a gap in the window curtains, he suddenly said, 'Who's up for a transformation scene? Seriously, check this out!'

He touched the blind, up it flew, and a gorgeous scene presented itself to her eyes. A huge inflamed sun was breasting the horizon of a wide sheet of sea which, to her surprise and delight, the mansion overlooked. The brilliant disc fired all the waves that lay between it and the shore at the bottom of the grounds, where the water tossed the ruddy light from one undulation to another in glares as large and clear as mirrors, incessantly altering them, destroying them, and creating them again; while further off they multiplied, thickened, and ran into one another like struggling armies, till they met the fiery source of them all.

He pulled up the blind, and an amazing view unfolded before her. A massive glowing sun was rising over a vast expanse of ocean that, to her surprise and delight, the mansion overlooked. The bright sun ignited all the waves between it and the shore at the bottom of the grounds, where the water reflected the warm light from one ripple to another in flashes as big and clear as mirrors, constantly changing, destroying, and recreating them; while further out, they multiplied, thickened, and merged like battling armies until they reached the blazing source of it all.

'O, how wonderful it is!' said Faith, putting her hand on Christopher's arm. 'Who knew that whilst we were all shut in here with our puny illumination such an exhibition as this was going on outside! How sorry and mean the grand and stately room looks now!'

'O, how wonderful it is!' said Faith, placing her hand on Christopher's arm. 'Who knew that while we were all cooped up here in our dim light, a show like this was happening outside! The grand and elegant room looks so sorry and pathetic now!'

Christopher turned his back upon the window, and there were the hitherto beaming candle-flames shining no more radiantly than tarnished javelin-heads, while the snow-white lengths of wax showed themselves clammy and cadaverous as the fingers of a corpse. The leaves and flowers which had appeared so very green and blooming by the artificial light were now seen to be faded and dusty. Only the gilding of the room in some degree brought itself into keeping with the splendours outside, stray darts of light seizing upon it and lengthening themselves out along fillet, quirk, arris, and moulding, till wasted away.

Christopher turned away from the window, and the once bright candle flames shone no more brilliantly than dull javelin heads, while the white wax lengths looked damp and lifeless like a corpse's fingers. The leaves and flowers that had seemed so lush and vibrant under the artificial light now appeared faded and dusty. Only the room's gilding somewhat matched the splendor outside, with stray beams of light catching it and stretching along the edges and moldings, until they faded away.

'It seems,' said Faith, 'as if all the people who were lately so merry here had died: we ourselves look no more than ghosts.' She turned up her weary face to her brother's, which the incoming rays smote aslant, making little furrows of every wrinkle thereon, and shady ravines of every little furrow.

"It feels," said Faith, "like all the people who were recently so happy here are gone: we ourselves look like nothing more than ghosts." She turned her tired face to her brother's, where the incoming light struck at an angle, highlighting every wrinkle and creating shadowy grooves in each little line.

'You are very tired, Faith,' he said. 'Such a heavy night's work has been almost too much for you.'

'You're really tired, Faith,' he said. 'Last night's work has been almost too much for you.'

'O, I don't mind that,' said Faith. 'But I could not have played so long by myself.'

'O, I don't mind that,' Faith said. 'But I couldn't have played for so long by myself.'

'We filled up one another's gaps; and there were plenty of them towards the morning; but, luckily, people don't notice those things when the small hours draw on.'

'We filled each other's gaps, and there were a lot of them as morning approached; but, fortunately, people don't pay attention to that stuff in the early hours.'

'What troubles me most,' said Faith, 'is not that I have worked, but that you should be so situated as to need such miserable assistance as mine. We are poor, are we not, Kit?'

'What bothers me the most,' said Faith, 'is not that I have worked, but that you should be in a position where you need such pathetic help from me. We're poor, aren't we, Kit?'

'Yes, we know a little about poverty,' he replied.

'Yeah, we know a bit about poverty,' he replied.

While thus lingering

While waiting

'In dark alleys of thought,'

Faith interrupted with, 'I believe there is one of the dancers now!-why, I should have thought they had all gone to bed, and wouldn't get up again for days.' She indicated to him a figure on the lawn towards the left, looking upon the same flashing scene as that they themselves beheld.

Faith interrupted, "I think one of the dancers is out now! I would have thought they all went to bed and wouldn't get up for days." She pointed out a figure on the lawn to the left, watching the same lively scene that they were.

'It is your own particular one,' continued Faith. 'Yes, I see the blue flowers under the edge of her cloak.'

'It's your own special one,' continued Faith. 'Yeah, I can see the blue flowers peeking out from under her cloak.'

'And I see her squirrel-coloured hair,' said Christopher.

'And I see her grayish-brown hair,' said Christopher.

Both stood looking at this apparition, who once, and only once, thought fit to turn her head towards the front of the house they were gazing from. Faith was one in whom the meditative somewhat overpowered the active faculties; she went on, with no abundance of love, to theorize upon this gratuitously charming woman, who, striking freakishly into her brother's path, seemed likely to do him no good in her sisterly estimation. Ethelberta's bright and shapely form stood before her critic now, smartened by the motes of sunlight from head to heel: what Faith would have given to see her so clearly within!

Both stood staring at this figure, who once, and only once, decided to glance towards the front of the house they were looking from. Faith was someone whose reflective nature often overshadowed her active side; she continued, with little affection, to speculate about this unexpectedly charming woman, who, by intruding into her brother's life, seemed unlikely to have a positive impact in her sisterly opinion. Ethelberta's bright and graceful figure stood before her critic now, enhanced by the sunlight shining on her from head to toe: how much Faith would have given to understand her so clearly on the inside!

'Without doubt she is already a lady of many romantic experiences,' she said dubiously.

"There's no doubt she's already a lady with a lot of romantic experiences," she said skeptically.

'And on the way to many more,' said Christopher. The tone was just of the kind which may be imagined of a sombre man who had been up all night piping that others might dance.

'And on the way to many more,' said Christopher. The tone was exactly what you might expect from a serious guy who had been up all night playing music for others to enjoy.

Faith parted her lips as if in consternation at possibilities. Ethelberta, having already become an influence in Christopher's system, might soon become more-an indestructible fascination-to drag him about, turn his soul inside out, harrow him, twist him, and otherwise torment him, according to the stereotyped form of such processes.

Faith opened her mouth in surprise at the possibilities. Ethelberta, already influencing Christopher's life, might soon become an unshakeable obsession—pulling him in every direction, exposing his emotions, tormenting him, and generally putting him through the wringer, just like these situations usually go.

They were interrupted by the opening of a door. A servant entered and came up to them.

They were interrupted when a door opened. A servant walked in and approached them.

'This is for you, I believe, sir,' he said. 'Two guineas;' and he placed the money in Christopher's hand. 'Some breakfast will be ready for you in a moment if you like to have it. Would you wish it brought in here; or will you come to the steward's room?'

'This is for you, I think, sir,' he said. 'Two guineas;' and he handed the money to Christopher. 'Some breakfast will be ready for you shortly if you'd like. Would you prefer it brought in here or will you come to the steward's room?'

'Yes, we will come.' And the man then began to extinguish the lights one by one. Christopher dropped the two pounds and two shillings singly into his pocket, and looking listlessly at the footman said, 'Can you tell me the address of that lady on the lawn? Ah, she has disappeared!'

'Yeah, we’ll come.' The man then started turning off the lights one by one. Christopher dropped the two pounds and two shillings into his pocket, and, looking listlessly at the footman, said, 'Do you know the address of that lady on the lawn? Oh, she’s gone!'

'She wore a dress with blue flowers,' said Faith.

'She wore a dress with blue flowers,' Faith said.

'And remarkable bright in her manner? O, that's the young widow, Mrs-what's that name-I forget for the moment.'

'And she's really bright in her demeanor? Oh, that's the young widow, Mrs-what's her name-I can't remember at the moment.'

'Widow?' said Christopher, the eyes of his understanding getting wonderfully clear, and Faith uttering a private ejaculation of thanks that after all no commandments were likely to be broken in this matter. 'The lady I mean is quite a girlish sort of woman.'

'Widow?' Christopher said, suddenly understanding things clearly, and Faith quietly thanked herself that no commandments were likely to be broken in this situation. 'The woman I'm talking about is quite a youthful, girlish kind of person.'

'Yes, yes, so she is-that's the one. Coachman says she must have been born a widow, for there is not time for her ever to have been made one. However, she's not quite such a chicken as all that. Mrs. Petherwin, that's the party's name.'

'Yes, yes, that's her—that's the one. The coachman says she must have been born a widow, because there’s no way she could have become one in the time she’s been around. Still, she’s not as naive as she seems. Mrs. Petherwin is her name.'

'Does she live here?'

'No, she is staying in the house visiting for a few days with her mother-in-law. They are a London family, I don't know her address.'

'No, she’s staying at the house visiting for a few days with her mother-in-law. They’re a London family; I don’t know her address.'

'Is she a poetess?'

'Is she a poet?'

'That I cannot say. She is very clever at verses; but she don't lean over gates to see the sun, and goes to church as regular as you or I, so I should hardly be inclined to say that she's the complete thing. When she's up in one of her vagaries she'll sit with the ladies and make up pretty things out of her head as fast as sticks a-breaking. They will run off her tongue like cotton from a reel, and if she can ever be got in the mind of telling a story she will bring it out that serious and awful that it makes your flesh creep upon your bones; if she's only got to say that she walked out of one door into another, she'll tell it so that there seems something wonderful in it. 'Tis a bother to start her, so our people say behind her back, but, once set going, the house is all alive with her. However, it will soon be dull enough; she and Lady Petherwin are off to-morrow for Rookington, where I believe they are going to stay over New Year's Day.'

'That I can't say. She's really good at making up poems, but she doesn’t lean over fences to catch a glimpse of the sun, and goes to church just as regularly as you or I do, so I wouldn't say she's perfect. When she’s in one of her moods, she’ll sit with the other ladies and come up with lovely things from her imagination as quickly as someone breaking sticks. They roll off her tongue like cotton from a reel, and if she ever gets in the mood to tell a story, she’ll make it sound so serious and intense that it sends chills down your spine; even if she’s just saying she walked from one door to another, she’ll make it seem extraordinary. It’s a hassle to get her started, so people say behind her back, but once she’s going, the whole house comes alive with her. However, it’s going to be pretty dull soon; she and Lady Petherwin are leaving tomorrow for Rookington, where I believe they’ll be staying over New Year's Day.'

'Where do you say they are going?' inquired Christopher, as they followed the footman.

"Where do you think they’re going?" asked Christopher, as they followed the footman.

'Rookington Park-about three miles out of Sandbourne, in the opposite direction to this.'

'Rookington Park—about three miles from Sandbourne, in the opposite direction from here.'

'A widow,' Christopher murmured.

"A widow," Christopher whispered.

Faith overheard him. 'That makes no difference to us, does it?' she said wistfully.

Faith overheard him. "That doesn't change anything for us, does it?" she said with a hint of sadness.

Forty minutes later they were driving along an open road over a ridge which commanded a view of a small inlet below them, the sands of this nook being sheltered by crumbling cliffs. Here at once they saw, in the full light of the sun, two women standing side by side, their faces directed over the sea.

Forty minutes later, they were driving down an open road over a ridge that overlooked a small inlet below them, its sandy beach sheltered by crumbling cliffs. Immediately, they spotted two women standing side by side in the bright sunlight, their faces turned toward the sea.

'There she is again!' said Faith. 'She has walked along the shore from the lawn where we saw her before.'

'There she is again!' said Faith. 'She walked along the shore from the lawn where we saw her earlier.'

'Yes,' said the coachman, 'she's a curious woman seemingly. She'll talk to any poor body she meets. You see she had been out for a morning walk instead of going to bed, and that is some queer mortal or other she has picked up with on her way.'

'Yeah,' said the coachman, 'she's a strange woman, it seems. She'll talk to anyone she encounters. You see, she had gone out for a morning walk instead of going to bed, and she's picked up some odd character on her way.'

'I wonder she does not prefer some rest,' Faith observed.

'I wonder why she doesn't prefer to rest,' Faith observed.

The road then dropped into a hollow, and the women by the sea were no longer within view from the carriage, which rapidly neared Sandbourne with the two musicians.

The road then dipped into a valley, and the women by the sea were no longer visible from the carriage, which quickly approached Sandbourne with the two musicians.

6. THE SHORE BY WYNDWAY

The east gleamed upon Ethelberta's squirrel-coloured hair as she said to her companion, 'I have come, Picotee; but not, as you imagine, from a night's sleep. We have actually been dancing till daylight at Wyndway.'

The east shone on Ethelberta's gray-brown hair as she said to her friend, "I’ve arrived, Picotee, but not like you think, after a night’s sleep. We’ve really been dancing until sunrise at Wyndway."

'Then you should not have troubled to come! I could have borne the disappointment under such circumstances,' said the pupil-teacher, who, wearing a dress not so familiar to Christopher's eyes as had been the little white jacket, had not been recognized by him from the hill. 'You look so tired, Berta. I could not stay up all night for the world!'

'Then you shouldn’t have bothered to come! I could have handled the disappointment in that case,' said the pupil-teacher, who, dressed in a way that was less familiar to Christopher than the little white jacket, hadn’t been recognized by him from the hill. 'You look so tired, Berta. I wouldn’t be able to stay up all night for anything!'

'One gets used to these things,' said Ethelberta quietly. 'I should have been in bed certainly, had I not particularly wished to use this opportunity of meeting you before you go home to-morrow. I could not have come to Sandbourne to-day, because we are leaving to return again to Rookington. This is all that I wish you to take to mother-only a few little things which may be useful to her; but you will see what it contains when you open it.' She handed to Picotee a small parcel. 'This is for yourself,' she went on, giving a small packet besides. 'It will pay your fare home and back, and leave you something to spare.'

'You get used to these things,' Ethelberta said quietly. 'I definitely should have been in bed, but I really wanted to take this chance to see you before you go home tomorrow. I couldn’t come to Sandbourne today because we are leaving to go back to Rookington. This is all I want you to take to mom—just a few little things that might be useful to her; you’ll see what’s inside when you open it.' She handed a small package to Picotee. 'And this is for you,' she continued, giving her a small packet as well. 'It will cover your fare home and back, and you’ll have some left over.'

'Thank you,' said Picotee docilely.

"Thanks," said Picotee obediently.

'Now, Picotee,' continued the elder, 'let us talk for a few minutes before I go back: we may not meet again for some time.' She put her arm round the waist of Picotee, who did the same by Ethelberta; and thus interlaced they walked backwards and forwards upon the firm flat sand with the motion of one body animated by one will.

'Now, Picotee,' the older woman said, 'let’s chat for a few minutes before I head back: we might not see each other for a while.' She wrapped her arm around Picotee's waist, and Picotee did the same with Ethelberta; together, they walked back and forth on the solid, flat sand, moving like a single unit driven by a shared purpose.

'Well, what did you think of my poems?'

'So, what did you think of my poems?'

'I liked them; but naturally, I did not understand all the experience you describe. It is so different from mine. Yet that made them more interesting to me. I thought I should so much like to mix in the same scenes; but that of course is impossible.'

'I liked them; but of course, I didn’t understand all the experiences you describe. They're so different from mine. Yet that made them even more interesting to me. I thought I would really like to be part of those same scenes; but that’s obviously impossible.'

'I am afraid it is. And you posted the book as I said?'

'I’m afraid it is. And did you send the book like I asked?'

'Yes.' She added hurriedly, as if to change the subject, 'I have told nobody that we are sisters, or that you are known in any way to me or to mother or to any of us. I thought that would be best, from what you said.'

'Yes.' She quickly added, as if to shift the topic, 'I haven't told anyone that we are sisters or that you are connected to me, our mother, or any of us in any way. I figured that would be best, based on what you said.'

'Yes, perhaps it is best for the present.'

'Yes, maybe that's for the best right now.'

'The box of clothes came safely, and I find very little alteration will be necessary to make the dress do beautifully for me on Sundays. It is quite new-fashioned to me, though I suppose it was old-fashioned to you. O, and Berta, will the title of Lady Petherwin descend to you when your mother-in-law dies?'

'The box of clothes arrived safely, and I see that only a few minor adjustments will be needed to make the dress perfect for me on Sundays. It feels quite modern to me, although I imagine it seems old-fashioned to you. Oh, and Berta, will the title of Lady Petherwin pass down to you when your mother-in-law passes away?'

'No, of course not. She is only a knight's widow, and that's nothing.'

'No, of course not. She’s just a knight’s widow, and that doesn’t mean much.'

'The lady of a knight looks as good on paper as the lady of a lord.'

'The knight's lady looks just as impressive on paper as the lord's lady.'

'Yes. And in other places too sometimes. However, about your journey home. Be very careful; and don't make any inquiries at the stations of anybody but officials. If any man wants to be friendly with you, try to find out if it is from a genuine wish to assist you, or from admiration of your fresh face.'

'Yes. And sometimes in other places too. But about your trip home, be very careful; don’t ask anyone at the stations anything except the officials. If a man seems friendly toward you, see if he genuinely wants to help you or if he’s just taken by your fresh face.'

'How shall I know which?' said Picotee.

'How will I know which one?' said Picotee.

Ethelberta laughed. 'If Heaven does not tell you at the moment I cannot,' she said. 'But humanity looks with a different eye from love, and upon the whole it is most to be prized by all of us. I believe it ends oftener in marriage than do a lover's flying smiles. So that for this and other reasons love from a stranger is mostly worthless as a speculation; and it is certainly dangerous as a game. Well, Picotee, has any one paid you real attentions yet?'

Ethelberta laughed. "If Heaven doesn't give you the answer right now, I can't either," she said. "But humanity sees things differently than love does, and overall, it's what's most valuable to all of us. I believe it often leads to marriage more than those fleeting smiles from a lover do. So for this and other reasons, love from a stranger is usually not worth pursuing, and it can definitely be risky as a game. So, Picotee, has anyone shown you genuine interest yet?"

'No-that is-'

'No, that is-'

'There is something going on.'

'Something is happening.'

'Only a wee bit.'

'Just a little.'

'I thought so. There was a dishonesty about your dear eyes which has never been there before, and love-making and dishonesty are inseparable as coupled hounds. Up comes man, and away goes innocence. Are you going to tell me anything about him?'

'I thought so. There was a dishonesty in your dear eyes that hasn’t been there before, and flirting and dishonesty go hand in hand like paired hounds. Here comes the man, and away goes innocence. Are you going to tell me anything about him?'

'I would rather not, Ethelberta; because it is hardly anything.'

'I’d prefer not to, Ethelberta; because it’s barely anything.'

'Well, be careful. And mind this, never tell him what you feel.'

'Well, be careful. And remember this, never tell him how you feel.'

'But then he will never know it.'

'But then he will never know.'

'Nor must he. He must think it only. The difference between his thinking and knowing is often the difference between your winning and losing. But general advice is not of much use, and I cannot give more unless you tell more. What is his name?'

'Nor must he. He must only think it. The difference between thinking and knowing is often the difference between winning and losing for you. But general advice isn't very helpful, and I can't provide more unless you share more. What’s his name?'

Picotee did not reply.

Picotee didn’t respond.

'Never mind: keep your secret. However, listen to this: not a kiss-not so much as the shadow, hint, or merest seedling of a kiss!'

'It’s okay: keep your secret. But hear this: not a kiss—not even the shadow, hint, or slightest hint of a kiss!'

'There is no fear of it,' murmured Picotee; 'though not because of me!'

"There’s nothing to worry about," Picotee whispered, "but not because of me!"

'You see, my dear Picotee, a lover is not a relative; and he isn't quite a stranger; but he may end in being either, and the way to reduce him to whichever of the two you wish him to be is to treat him like the other. Men who come courting are just like bad cooks: if you are kind to them, instead of ascribing it to an exceptional courtesy on your part, they instantly set it down to their own marvellous worth.'

'You see, my dear Picotee, a lover isn't a family member; and he isn't exactly a stranger; but he could end up being either one, and the way to bring him to whichever you want him to be is to treat him like the other. Men who come courting are just like bad cooks: if you're nice to them, instead of thinking it's an extraordinary kindness from you, they immediately take it as a sign of their own amazing value.'

'But I ought to favour him just a little, poor thing? Just the smallest glimmer of a gleam!'

'But I should give him a little support, poor thing? Just the tiniest hint of encouragement!'

'Only a very little indeed-so that it comes as a relief to his misery, not as adding to his happiness.'

'It's really just a tiny bit—enough to relieve his misery, not to add to his happiness.'

'It is being too clever, all this; and we ought to be harmless as doves.'

'It's all too clever; we should be innocent like doves.'

'Ah, Picotee! to continue harmless as a dove you must be wise as a serpent, you'll find-ay, ten serpents, for that matter.'

'Ah, Picotee! To stay innocent like a dove, you have to be as clever as a snake—you'll find, really, ten snakes, for that matter.'

'But if I cannot get at him, how can I manage him in these ways you speak of?'

'But if I can't reach him, how can I control him in the ways you're talking about?'

'Get at him? I suppose he gets at you in some way, does he not?-tries to see you, or to be near you?'

'Are you trying to get to him? I guess he tries to get to you in some way, right?—wants to see you or be around you?'

'No-that's just the point-he doesn't do any such thing, and there's the worry of it!'

'No—that's exactly the problem—he doesn't do any of that, and that's what worries me!'

'Well, what a silly girl! Then he is not your lover at all?'

'Well, what a silly girl! So, he isn't your boyfriend at all?'

'Perhaps he's not. But I am his, at any rate-twice over.'

'Maybe he's not. But I belong to him, anyway—twice over.'

'That's no use. Supply the love for both sides? Why, it's worse than furnishing money for both. You don't suppose a man will give his heart in exchange for a woman's when he has already got hers for nothing? That's not the way old Adam does business at all.'

'That’s pointless. Provide love for both sides? That’s even worse than giving money to both. You really think a guy will give his heart in return for a woman’s when he’s already got hers for free? That’s not how things work at all.'

Picotee sighed. 'Have you got a young man, too, Berta?'

Picotee sighed. "Do you have a boyfriend, too, Berta?"

'A young man?'

"A young guy?"

'A lover I mean-that's what we call 'em down here.'

'A lover, I mean—that's what we call them down here.'

'It is difficult to explain,' said Ethelberta evasively. 'I knew one many years ago, and I have seen him again, and-that is all.'

'It's hard to explain,' Ethelberta said vaguely. 'I met someone many years ago, and I've seen him again, and that's all there is to it.'

'According to my idea you have one, but according to your own you have not; he does not love you, but you love him-is that how it is?'

'According to what I think, you have one, but according to what you think, you don’t; he doesn’t love you, but you love him—is that how it is?'

'I have not quite considered how it is.'

'I haven't really thought about how it is.'

'Do you love him?'

'I have never seen a man I hate less.'

'I have never seen a man I dislike less.'

'A great deal lies covered up there, I expect!'

'A lot is hidden up there, I bet!'

'He was in that carriage which drove over the hill at the moment we met here.'

'He was in that carriage that drove over the hill when we met here.'

'Ah-ah-some great lord or another who has his day by candlelight, and so on. I guess the style. Somebody who no more knows how much bread is a loaf than I do the price of diamonds and pearls.'

'Ah, some great lord or another who spends his days by candlelight, and so on. I get the style. Someone who knows as little about the price of bread as I do about diamonds and pearls.'

'I am afraid he's only a commoner as yet, and not a very great one either. But surely you guess, Picotee? But I'll set you an example of frankness by telling his name. My friend, Mr. Julian, to whom you posted the book. Such changes as he has seen!-from affluence to poverty. He and his sister have been playing dances all night at Wyndway-What is the matter?'

'I’m afraid he’s just an ordinary guy right now, and not a particularly impressive one either. But you must have an idea, Picotee? I'll be open with you and share his name. My friend, Mr. Julian, to whom you sent the book. The changes he has experienced! From wealth to struggle. He and his sister have been playing music all night at Wyndway—What’s wrong?'

'Only a pain!'

'Just a headache!'

'My dear Picotee-'

'I think I'll sit down for a moment, Berta.'

'I think I'll take a seat for a bit, Berta.'

'What-have you over-walked yourself, dear?'

'Have you overdone it, dear?'

'Yes-and I got up very early, you see.'

'Yes—and I got up really early, you see.'

'I hope you are not going to be ill, child. You look as if you ought not to be here.'

'I hope you're not going to get sick, kid. You look like you shouldn’t be here.'

'O, it is quite trifling. Does not getting up in a hurry cause a sense of faintness sometimes?'

'O, it's pretty trivial. Doesn't getting up in a hurry sometimes make you feel faint?'

'Yes, in people who are not strong.'

'If we don't talk about being faint it will go off. Faintness is such a queer thing that to think of it is to have it. Let us talk as we were talking before-about your young man and other indifferent matters, so as to divert my thoughts from fainting, dear Berta. I have always thought the book was to be forwarded to that gentleman because he was a connection of yours by marriage, and he had asked for it. And so you have met this-this Mr. Julian, and gone for walks with him in evenings, I suppose, just as young men and women do who are courting?'

'If we don’t talk about feeling faint, it’s just going to come on. Faintness is such a strange thing that just thinking about it makes it worse. Let’s chat like we were before—about your young man and other unimportant things, to distract me from fainting, dear Berta. I’ve always thought the book was meant to be sent to that gentleman because he’s related to you by marriage and had asked for it. So, you’ve met this Mr. Julian and gone for evening walks with him, I suppose, just like young men and women do who are dating?'

'No, indeed-what an absurd child you are!' said Ethelberta. 'I knew him once, and he is interesting; a few little things like that make it all up.'

'No way—what a silly kid you are!' said Ethelberta. 'I knew him once, and he’s interesting; a few little things like that add up to it all.'

'The love is all on one side, as with me.'

'The love is completely one-sided, just like with me.'

'O no, no: there is nothing like that. I am not attached to any one, strictly speaking-though, more strictly speaking, I am not unattached.'

'O no, no: there's nothing like that. I'm not really attached to anyone, strictly speaking—though, if we're being more precise, I’m not completely unattached.'

''Tis a delightful middle mind to be in. I know it, for I was like it once; but I had scarcely been so long enough to know where I was before I was gone past.'

''It's a lovely state of mind to be in. I know this, because I was in it once; but I barely stayed there long enough to realize where I was before I moved on.''

'You should have commanded yourself, or drawn back entirely; for let me tell you that at the beginning of caring for a man-just when you are suspended between thinking and feeling-there is a hair's-breadth of time at which the question of getting into love or not getting in is a matter of will-quite a thing of choice. At the same time, drawing back is a tame dance, and the best of all is to stay balanced awhile.'

'You should have controlled yourself or stepped away completely; because I’ll tell you that at the start of caring for someone—just when you’re caught between thinking and feeling—there’s a very brief moment where deciding whether to fall in love or not is really up to your choice. On the other hand, stepping back is a safe move, and the best option is to maintain balance for a bit.'

'You do that well, I'll warrant.'

'You do that well, I assure you.'

'Well, no; for what between continually wanting to love, to escape the blank lives of those who do not, and wanting not to love, to keep out of the miseries of those who do, I get foolishly warm and foolishly cold by turns.'

'Well, no; because between always wanting to love to escape the empty lives of those who don’t, and wanting not to love to avoid the sufferings of those who do, I end up feeling foolishly warm and foolishly cold at different times.'

'Yes-and I am like you as far as the "foolishly" goes. I wish we poor girls could contrive to bring a little wisdom into our love by way of a change!'

'Yeah—and I'm just like you when it comes to being "foolish." I wish we poor girls could figure out how to add a little wisdom to our love for a change!'

'That's the very thing that leading minds in town have begun to do, but there are difficulties. It is easy to love wisely, but the rich man may not marry you; and it is not very hard to reject wisely, but the poor man doesn't care. Altogether it is a precious problem. But shall we clamber out upon those shining blocks of rock, and find some of the little yellow shells that are in the crevices? I have ten minutes longer, and then I must go.'

'That's exactly what the top thinkers in town have started doing, but there are challenges. It's easy to love with wisdom, but the wealthy guy might not choose you; and while it's not too tough to reject wisely, the poor guy isn't bothered. It's truly a tricky issue. But should we climb out onto those shiny rocks and look for some of the little yellow shells that are tucked into the cracks? I have ten more minutes, and then I have to leave.'

7. THE DINING-ROOM OF A TOWN HOUSE-THE BUTLER'S PANTRY

A few weeks later there was a friendly dinner-party at the house of a gentleman called Doncastle, who lived in a moderately fashionable square of west London. All the friends and relatives present were nice people, who exhibited becoming signs of pleasure and gaiety at being there; but as regards the vigour with which these emotions were expressed, it may be stated that a slight laugh from far down the throat and a slight narrowing of the eye were equivalent as indices of the degree of mirth felt to a Ha-ha-ha! and a shaking of the shoulders among the minor traders of the kingdom; and to a Ho-ho-ho! contorted features, purple face, and stamping foot among the gentlemen in corduroy and fustian who adorn the remoter provinces.

A few weeks later, there was a friendly dinner party at the home of a gentleman named Doncastle, who lived in a moderately upscale square in west London. All the friends and relatives present were pleasant people who showed appropriate signs of enjoyment and happiness at being there; however, in terms of how vigorously these emotions were expressed, it can be said that a slight laugh from deep in the throat and a slight narrowing of the eyes were equivalent to a hearty "Ha-ha-ha!" and a shaking of the shoulders among the minor traders of the kingdom; and a "Ho-ho-ho!" with contorted features, a flushed face, and a stamping foot from the gentlemen in corduroy and rough fabric who reside in the more distant provinces.

The conversation was chiefly about a volume of musical, tender, and humorous rhapsodies lately issued to the world in the guise of verse, which had been reviewed and talked about everywhere. This topic, beginning as a private dialogue between a young painter named Ladywell and the lady on his right hand, had enlarged its ground by degrees, as a subject will extend on those rare occasions when it happens to be one about which each person has thought something beforehand, instead of, as in the natural order of things, one to which the oblivious listener replies mechanically, with earnest features, but with thoughts far away. And so the whole table made the matter a thing to inquire or reply upon at once, and isolated rills of other chat died out like a river in the sands.

The conversation mainly revolved around a collection of musical, heartfelt, and funny poems that had recently been released to the public, which had been reviewed and discussed everywhere. What started as a private exchange between a young painter named Ladywell and the woman sitting next to him gradually expanded, as conversations tend to do when everyone involved has already given it some thought, rather than the usual scenario where a distracted listener responds automatically, looking serious while their mind wanders elsewhere. As a result, the entire table turned the discussion into something everyone wanted to engage with, and stray threads of other conversations faded away like a river disappearing into the sand.

'Witty things, and occasionally Anacreontic: and they have the originality which such a style must naturally possess when carried out by a feminine hand,' said Ladywell.

"Witty remarks and sometimes a bit Anacreontic: they have the originality that such a style naturally has when executed by a woman's touch," said Ladywell.

'If it is a feminine hand,' said a man near.

'If it’s a woman’s hand,' said a man nearby.

Ladywell looked as if he sometimes knew secrets, though he did not wish to boast.

Ladywell seemed like he sometimes held secrets, but he didn't want to show off.

'Written, I presume you mean, in the Anacreontic measure of three feet and a half-spondees and iambics?' said a gentleman in spectacles, glancing round, and giving emphasis to his inquiry by causing bland glares of a circular shape to proceed from his glasses towards the person interrogated.

'You mean written in the Anacreontic meter of three feet and a half-spondees and iambics?' said a man in glasses, looking around and emphasizing his question by directing gentle glares in a circular shape from his glasses towards the person being questioned.

The company appeared willing to give consideration to the words of a man who knew such things as that, and hung forward to listen. But Ladywell stopped the whole current of affairs in that direction by saying-

The company seemed open to considering the thoughts of someone who understood such matters, leaning in to listen. But Ladywell halted the entire flow of events in that direction by saying-

'O no; I was speaking rather of the matter and tone. In fact, the Seven Days' Review said they were Anacreontic, you know; and so they are-any one may feel they are.'

'O no; I was really talking about the content and style. Actually, the Seven Days' Review mentioned they were Anacreontic, you know; and they are—anyone can tell they are.'

The general look then implied a false encouragement, and the man in spectacles looked down again, being a nervous person, who never had time to show his merits because he was so much occupied in hiding his faults.

The overall appearance then suggested a misleading sense of encouragement, and the man in glasses looked down again, as he was a nervous person who never had the chance to showcase his strengths because he was too busy hiding his weaknesses.

'Do you know the authoress, Mr. Neigh?' continued Ladywell.

'Do you know the author, Mr. Neigh?' continued Ladywell.

'Can't say that I do,' he replied.

'Can't say that I do,' he said.

Neigh was a man who never disturbed the flesh upon his face except when he was obliged to do so, and paused ten seconds where other people only paused one; as he moved his chin in speaking, motes of light from under the candle-shade caught, lost, and caught again the outlying threads of his burnished beard.

Neigh was a guy who hardly ever touched his face unless he had to, and he took ten seconds to pause where others would just take one. As he spoke and moved his chin, little glimmers of light from under the candle shade caught, lost, and then caught again the stray strands of his shiny beard.

'She will be famous some day; and you ought at any rate to read her book.'

'She’s going to be famous one day; and you should at least read her book.'

'Yes, I ought, I know. In fact, some years ago I should have done it immediately, because I had a reason for pushing on that way just then.'

'Yes, I should, I know. Actually, a few years ago I would have done it right away, because I had a reason to keep going like that back then.'

'Ah, what was that?'

"Ugh, what was that?"

'Well, I thought of going in for Westminster Abbey myself at that time; but a fellow has so much to do, and-'

'Well, I thought about visiting Westminster Abbey myself back then; but there's so much to do, and-'

'What a pity that you didn't follow it up. A man of your powers, Mr. Neigh-'

'What a shame that you didn't pursue it further. A man with your abilities, Mr. Neigh-'

'Afterwards I found I was too steady for it, and had too much of the respectable householder in me. Besides, so many other men are on the same tack; and then I didn't care about it, somehow.'

'Afterward, I realized I was too composed for it and had too much of the respectable homeowner in me. Plus, so many other guys are on the same path, and I just didn’t care about it, for some reason.'

'I don't understand high art, and am utterly in the dark on what are the true laws of criticism,' a plain married lady, who wore archaeological jewellery, was saying at this time. 'But I know that I have derived an unusual amount of amusement from those verses, and I am heartily thankful to "E." for them.'

"I don't get high art at all, and I really have no clue about the real rules of criticism," said an ordinary married woman, who was wearing vintage jewelry, at that moment. "But I know I've gotten a lot of enjoyment from those poems, and I'm truly grateful to 'E.' for them."

'I am afraid,' said a gentleman who was suffering from a bad shirt-front, 'that an estimate which depends upon feeling in that way is not to be trusted as permanent opinion.'

'I’m afraid,' said a man who was dealing with a crumpled shirt-front, 'that an opinion based on those feelings can’t be trusted as a lasting view.'

The subject now flitted to the other end.

The topic quickly shifted to the other end.

'Somebody has it that when the heart flies out before the understanding, it saves the judgment a world of pains,' came from a voice in that quarter.

'Someone says that when the heart leads ahead of the mind, it saves the judgment a lot of trouble,' came from a voice in that direction.

'I, for my part, like something merry,' said an elderly woman, whose face was bisected by the edge of a shadow, which toned her forehead and eyelids to a livid neutral tint, and left her cheeks and mouth like metal at a white heat in the uninterrupted light. 'I think the liveliness of those ballads as great a recommendation as any. After all, enough misery is known to us by our experiences and those of our friends, and what we see in the newspapers, for all purposes of chastening, without having gratuitous grief inflicted upon us.'

'I, for my part, like something cheerful,' said an elderly woman, her face split by the edge of a shadow, which turned her forehead and eyelids a pale, neutral color, while her cheeks and mouth glowed like metal at a white heat in the constant light. 'I think the lively nature of those ballads is as good a recommendation as any. After all, we already know enough misery from our own experiences, those of our friends, and what we read in the newspapers, without having extra sadness forced upon us.'

'But you would not have wished that "Romeo and Juliet" should have ended happily, or that Othello should have discovered the perfidy of his Ancient in time to prevent all fatal consequences?'

'But would you really have wanted "Romeo and Juliet" to have a happy ending, or for Othello to have uncovered his Ancient's betrayal early enough to avoid all the tragic outcomes?'

'I am not afraid to go so far as that,' said the old lady. 'Shakespeare is not everybody, and I am sure that thousands of people who have seen those plays would have driven home more cheerfully afterwards if by some contrivance the characters could all have been joined together respectively. I uphold our anonymous author on the general ground of her levity.'

"I’m not afraid to say that," said the old lady. "Shakespeare isn't for everyone, and I’m sure that thousands of people who have seen those plays would have gone home feeling happier afterwards if somehow the characters could all have been connected together. I support our anonymous author because of her overall sense of humor."

'Well, it is an old and worn argument-that about the inexpedience of tragedy-and much may be said on both sides. It is not to be denied that the anonymous Sappho's verses-for it seems that she is really a woman-are clever.'

'Well, it's a tired and overplayed debate about the drawbacks of tragedy, and there are valid points on both sides. It's true that the anonymous Sappho's poems—since it appears she is indeed a woman—are quite clever.'

'Clever!' said Ladywell-the young man who had been one of the shooting-party at Sandbourne-'they are marvellously brilliant.'

'Clever!' said Ladywell—the young man who had been part of the shooting party at Sandbourne—'they're incredibly brilliant.'

'She is rather warm in her assumed character.'

'She is quite warm in her assumed character.'

'That's a sign of her actual coldness; she lets off her feeling in theoretic grooves, and there is sure to be none left for practical ones. Whatever seems to be the most prominent vice, or the most prominent virtue in anybody's writing is the one thing you are safest from in personal dealings with the writer.'

'That's a sign of her real coldness; she expresses her emotions in theoretical ways, and there's definitely none left for practical ones. Whatever appears to be the most noticeable flaw or the most noticeable strength in someone's writing is the one thing you can count on not finding in your personal interactions with the writer.'

'O, I don't mean to call her warmth of feeling a vice or virtue exactly-'

'O, I don’t mean to label her warmth of feeling as a fault or a quality exactly-'

'I agree with you,' said Neigh to the last speaker but one, in tones as emphatic as they possibly could be without losing their proper character of indifference to the whole matter. 'Warm sentiment of any sort, whenever we have it, disturbs us too much to leave us repose enough for writing it down.'

"I agree with you," Neigh said to the second-to-last speaker, in a way that was as strong as it could be without losing the casual vibe of indifference about the whole thing. "Any kind of strong emotion, whenever we feel it, throws us off too much to allow us the calm we need to write it down."

'I am sure, when I was at the ardent age,' said the mistress of the house, in a tone of pleasantly agreeing with every one, particularly those who were diametrically opposed to each other, 'I could no more have printed such emotions and made them public than I-could have helped privately feeling them.'

'I’m sure, when I was at that passionate age,' said the lady of the house, in a tone that happily agreed with everyone, especially those who were completely opposed to each other, 'I could no more have shared those feelings publicly than I could have stopped myself from feeling them privately.'

'I wonder if she has gone through half she says? If so, what an experience!'

'I wonder if she’s really been through half of what she claims? If that’s true, what an experience!'

'O no-not at all likely,' said Mr. Neigh. 'It is as risky to calculate people's ways of living from their writings as their incomes from their way of living.'

'O no—not at all likely,' said Mr. Neigh. 'It's just as risky to judge people's lifestyles based on their writings as it is to estimate their incomes based on their lifestyle.'

'She is as true to nature as fashion is false,' said the painter, in his warmth becoming scarcely complimentary, as sometimes happens with young persons. 'I don't think that she has written a word more than what every woman would deny feeling in a society where no woman says what she means or does what she says. And can any praise be greater than that?'

'She is as genuine as fashion is phony,' said the painter, getting less complimentary in his enthusiasm, as can happen with young people. 'I don't believe she’s written anything more than what every woman would secretly feel in a society where no woman says what she truly means or does what she says. And is there any greater compliment than that?'

'Ha-ha! Capital!'

'LOL! Awesome!'

'All her verses seem to me,' said a rather stupid person, 'to be simply-

'All her verses seem to me,' said a rather foolish person, 'to be simply-

"Tra la la la la la,
    Tra la la la la lu,
    Tra la la la la lalla,
    Tra la la lu."

When you take away the music there is nothing left. Yet she is plainly a woman of great culture.'

When you remove the music, there's nothing left. Still, she is clearly a woman of great culture.

'Have you seen what the London Light says about them-one of the finest things I have ever read in the way of admiration?' continued Ladywell, paying no attention to the previous speaker. He lingered for a reply, and then impulsively quoted several lines from the periodical he had named, without aid or hesitation. 'Good, is it not?' added Ladywell.

'Have you seen what the London Light says about them—it's one of the best things I've ever read in terms of admiration?' Ladywell continued, ignoring the previous speaker. He waited for a response, then impulsively quoted several lines from the periodical he mentioned, without any hesitation. 'Pretty good, right?' Ladywell added.

They assented, but in such an unqualified manner that half as much readiness would have meant more. But Ladywell, though not experienced enough to be quite free from enthusiasm, was too experienced to mind indifference for more than a minute or two. When the ladies had withdrawn, the young man went on-

They agreed, but in such a half-hearted way that a little more enthusiasm would have meant more. But Ladywell, while not experienced enough to be completely unaffected by excitement, was too experienced to care about indifference for more than a minute or two. When the ladies had left, the young man continued—

'Colonel Staff said a funny thing to me yesterday about these very poems. He asked me if I knew her, and-'

'Colonel Staff said something funny to me yesterday about these very poems. He asked me if I knew her, and-'

'Her? Why, he knows that it is a lady all the time, and we were only just now doubting whether the sex of the writer could be really what it seems. Shame, Ladywell!' said his friend Neigh.

'Her? He knows it's a lady the whole time, and we were just questioning whether the writer's gender could actually be what it looks like. Shame on you, Ladywell!' said his friend Neigh.

'Ah, Mr. Ladywell,' said another, 'now we have found you out. You know her!'

'Oh, Mr. Ladywell,' said another, 'now we’ve caught you. You know her!'

'Now-I say-ha-ha!' continued the painter, with a face expressing that he had not at all tried to be found out as the man possessing incomparably superior knowledge of the poetess. 'I beg pardon really, but don't press me on the matter. Upon my word the secret is not my own. As I was saying, the Colonel said, "Do you know her?"-but you don't care to hear?'

'Now—I say—ha-ha!' continued the painter, with a face that showed he hadn’t tried at all to hide his superior knowledge of the poetess. 'I really apologize, but please don’t push me on this. I swear the secret isn’t mine. As I was saying, the Colonel asked, "Do you know her?"—but you probably don’t want to hear it?'

'We shall be delighted!'

'We're excited!'

'So the Colonel said, "Do you know her?" adding, in a most comic way, "Between U. and E., Ladywell, I believe there is a close affinity"-meaning me, you know, by U. Just like the Colonel-ha-ha-ha!'

'So the Colonel said, "Do you know her?" adding, in a really funny way, "Between U. and E., Ladywell, I think there's a strong connection"—meaning me, you know, by U. Just like the Colonel—ha-ha-ha!'

The older men did not oblige Ladywell a second time with any attempt at appreciation; but a weird silence ensued, during which the smile upon Ladywell's face became frozen to painful permanence.

The older men didn't give Ladywell a second chance to feel appreciated; instead, an awkward silence fell, making the smile on Ladywell's face turn into a painful, permanent expression.

'Meaning by E., you know, the "E" of the poems-heh-heh!' he added.

'Meaning by E., you know, the "E" from the poems—heh-heh!' he added.

'It was a very humorous incident certainly,' said his friend Neigh, at which there was a laugh-not from anything connected with what he said, but simply because it was the right thing to laugh when Neigh meant you to do so.

'That was definitely a funny incident,' said his friend Neigh, prompting laughter—not because of anything he said, but simply because it was expected to laugh when Neigh wanted you to.

'Now don't, Neigh-you are too hard upon me. But, seriously, two or three fellows were there when I said it, and they all began laughing-but, then, the Colonel said it in such a queer way, you know. But you were asking me about her? Well, the fact is, between ourselves, I do know that she is a lady; and I don't mind telling a word-'

'Now come on, Neigh—you’re being too tough on me. But honestly, there were two or three guys around when I said it, and they all started laughing—but, the Colonel put it in such a strange way, you know. But you were asking me about her? Well, the truth is, just between us, I do know that she is a lady; and I don't mind sharing a word—'

'But we would not for the world be the means of making you betray her confidence-would we, Jones?'

'But we definitely wouldn’t want to be the reason you break her trust—would we, Jones?'

'No, indeed; we would not.'

'No, we definitely wouldn't.'

'No, no; it is not that at all-this is really too bad!-you must listen just for a moment-'

'No, no; that's not it at all—this is really unfortunate!—you need to listen just for a moment-'

'Ladywell, don't betray anybody on our account.'

'Ladywell, don't let anyone down because of us.'

'Whoever the illustrious young lady may be she has seen a great deal of the world,' said Mr. Doncastle blandly, 'and puts her experience of the comedy of its emotions, and of its method of showing them, in a very vivid light.'

'Whoever this remarkable young woman is, she's experienced a lot of the world,' said Mr. Doncastle suavely, 'and she presents her insights into the drama of its emotions and how they are expressed in a very striking way.'

'I heard a man say that the novelty with which the ideas are presented is more noticeable than the originality of the ideas themselves,' observed Neigh. 'The woman has made a great talk about herself; and I am quite weary of people asking of her condition, place of abode, has she a father, has she a mother, or dearer one yet than all other.'

'I heard a guy say that how fresh the ideas are presented is more noticeable than how original the ideas actually are,' Neigh remarked. 'The woman has made a big deal about herself; and I'm really tired of people asking about her situation, where she lives, does she have a dad, does she have a mom, or someone even closer than all of that.'

'I would have burlesque quotation put down by Act of Parliament, and all who dabble in it placed with him who can cite Scripture for his purposes,' said Ladywell, in retaliation.

'I would have ridiculous quotes banned by law, and everyone who uses them put in the same category as those who misuse Scripture for their own ends,' said Ladywell, in response.

After a pause Neigh remarked half-privately to their host, who was his uncle: 'Your butler Chickerel is a very intelligent man, as I have heard.'

After a moment, Neigh said quietly to their host, who was his uncle, "Your butler Chickerel is quite an intelligent guy, or so I've heard."

'Yes, he does very well,' said Mr. Doncastle.

'Yes, he does really well,' said Mr. Doncastle.

'But is he not a-very extraordinary man?'

'But isn't he a really extraordinary man?'

'Not to my knowledge,' said Doncastle, looking up surprised. 'Why do you think that, Alfred?'

'Not that I know of,' said Doncastle, looking up in surprise. 'Why do you think that, Alfred?'

'Well, perhaps it was not a matter to mention. He reads a great deal, I dare say?'

'Well, maybe it wasn't something to bring up. He reads a lot, I would guess?'

'I don't think so.'

"I don't think so."

'I noticed how wonderfully his face kindled when we began talking about the poems during dinner. Perhaps he is a poet himself in disguise. Did you observe it?'

'I noticed how his face lit up when we started talking about the poems during dinner. Maybe he's a poet himself in disguise. Did you notice that?'

'No. To the best of my belief he is a very trustworthy and honourable man. He has been with us-let me see, how long?-five months, I think, and he was fifteen years in his last place. It certainly is a new side to his character if he publicly showed any interest in the conversation, whatever he might have felt.'

'No. As far as I know, he's a very trustworthy and honorable man. He's been with us—let me see, how long?—about five months, I think, and he spent fifteen years in his last job. It really is a different side to his character if he publicly showed any interest in the conversation, regardless of what he might have actually felt.'

'Since the matter has been mentioned,' said Mr. Jones, 'I may say that I too noticed the singularity of it.'

'Now that this has come up,' said Mr. Jones, 'I should mention that I also noticed how strange it is.'

'If you had not said otherwise,' replied Doncastle somewhat warmly, 'I should have asserted him to be the last man-servant in London to infringe such an elementary rule. If he did so this evening, it is certainly for the first time, and I sincerely hope that no annoyance was caused-'

'If you hadn't said otherwise,' Doncastle replied somewhat heatedly, 'I would have insisted he was the last man-servant in London to break such a basic rule. If he did that tonight, it's definitely for the first time, and I truly hope no one was bothered by it-'

'O no, no-not at all-it might have been a mistake of mine,' said Jones. 'I should quite have forgotten the circumstance if Mr. Neigh's words had not brought it to my mind. It was really nothing to notice, and I beg that you will not say a word to him about it on my account.'

'O no, not at all—it might have been my mistake,' said Jones. 'I would have completely forgotten about it if Mr. Neigh's words hadn't reminded me. It really wasn't anything worth mentioning, and I ask that you don't say anything to him about it on my behalf.'

'He has a taste that way, my dear uncle, nothing more, depend upon it,' said Neigh. 'If I had such a man belonging to me I should only be too proud. Certainly do not mention it.'

'He has a taste for that kind of thing, my dear uncle, nothing more, trust me on that,' said Neigh. 'If I had a man like him in my life, I'd be incredibly proud. Definitely don’t bring it up.'

'Of course Chickerel is Chickerel,' Mr. Doncastle rejoined. 'We all know what that means. And really, on reflecting, I do remember that he is of a literary turn of mind-not further by an inch than is commendable, you know. I am quite aware as I glance down the papers and prints any morning that Chickerel's eyes have been over the ground before mine, and that he generally forestalls the rest of us by a chapter or so in the last new book sent home; but in these vicious days that particular weakness is really virtue, just because it is not quite a vice.'

"Of course, Chickerel is Chickerel," Mr. Doncastle replied. "We all know what that means. And honestly, thinking about it, I do remember that he has a bit of a literary mindset—not more than is reasonable, you know. I'm well aware that as I glance through the papers and magazines any morning, Chickerel's eyes have been over the material before mine, and he usually gets ahead of the rest of us by a chapter or so in the latest book that’s arrived; but in these troubled times, that particular quirk is actually a good thing, simply because it isn't entirely a bad habit."

'Yes,' said Mr. Jones, the reflective man in spectacles, 'positive virtues are getting moved off the stage: negative ones are moved on to the place of positives; we thank bare justice as we used only to thank generosity; call a man honest who steals only by law, and consider him a benefactor if he does not steal at all.'

'Yes,' said Mr. Jones, the thoughtful man in glasses, 'positive virtues are being pushed aside: negative ones are being elevated to the status of positives; we now appreciate mere justice as we used to appreciate generosity; we label a man honest who only steals legally, and we see him as a benefactor if he doesn’t steal at all.'

'Hear, hear!' said Neigh. 'We will decide that Chickerel is even a better trained fellow than if he had shown no interest at all in his face.'

"Hear, hear!" said Neigh. "We will agree that Chickerel is actually a better-trained guy than if he had shown no interest in his appearance at all."

'The action being like those trifling irregularities in art at its vigorous periods, which seemed designed to hide the unpleasant monotony of absolute symmetry,' said Ladywell.

'The action is like those minor irregularities in art during its dynamic periods, which appeared to be meant to mask the dull monotony of perfect symmetry,' said Ladywell.

'On the other hand, an affected want of training of that sort would be even a better disguise for an artful man than a perfectly impassible demeanour. He is two removes from discovery in a hidden scheme, whilst a neutral face is only one.'

'On the flip side, pretending not to have that kind of training would actually be a better cover for a crafty person than having a completely unreadable expression. They are two steps away from being found out in a secret plan, while a neutral face is only one step away.'

'You quite alarm me by these subtle theories,' said Mr. Doncastle, laughing; and the subject then became compounded with other matters, till the speakers rose to rejoin the charming flock upstairs.

'You really surprise me with these subtle theories,' said Mr. Doncastle, laughing; and the conversation then mixed with other topics until the speakers stood up to rejoin the delightful group upstairs.

In the basement story at this hour Mr. Chickerel the butler, who had formed the subject of discussion on the floor above, was busily engaged in looking after his two subordinates as they bustled about in the operations of clearing away. He was a man of whom, if the shape of certain bones and muscles of the face is ever to be taken as a guide to the character, one might safely have predicated conscientiousness in the performance of duties, a thorough knowledge of all that appertained to them, a general desire to live on without troubling his mind about anything which did not concern him. Any person interested in the matter would have assumed without hesitation that the estimate his employer had given of Chickerel was a true one-more, that not only would the butler under all ordinary circumstances resolutely prevent his face from showing curiosity in an unbecoming way, but that, with the soul of a true gentleman, he would, if necessary, equivocate as readily as the noblest of his betters to remove any stain upon his honour in such trifles. Hence it is apparent that if Chickerel's countenance really appeared, as Neigh had asserted, full of curiosity with regard to the gossip that was going on, the feelings which led to the exhibition must have been of a very unusual and irrepressible kind.

In the basement at this moment, Mr. Chickerel, the butler who was the topic of discussion upstairs, was busy supervising his two assistants as they hurried around cleaning up. He was a man whose facial structure indicated, at least according to any interpretations of bone and muscle shape, a strong sense of duty, a thorough understanding of his responsibilities, and a general preference for a life free of concerns that didn’t involve him directly. Anyone paying attention would have confidently concluded that his employer's assessment of Chickerel was accurate—more so, that the butler would typically keep his face from revealing curiosity in an inappropriate manner, but with the heart of a true gentleman, he would, if needed, easily bend the truth like the noblest of his superiors to preserve his honor in minor matters. Therefore, it's clear that if Chickerel’s expression really seemed, as Neigh had claimed, filled with curiosity about the gossip occurring, the feelings driving that expression must have been quite unusual and difficult to suppress.

His hair was of that peculiar bluish-white which is to be observed when the oncoming years, instead of singling out special locks of a man's head for operating against, advance uniformly over the whole field, and enfeeble the colour at all points before absolutely extinguishing it anywhere; his nose was of the knotty shape in the gristle and earthward tendency in the flesh which is commonly said to carry sound judgment above it, his eyes were thoughtful, and his face was thin-a contour which, if it at once abstracted from his features that cheerful assurance of single-minded honesty which adorns the exteriors of so many of his brethren, might have raised a presumption in the minds of some beholders that perhaps in this case the quality might not be altogether wanting within.

His hair had that strange bluish-white color that you see when age starts to set in evenly across a man’s head, rather than just affecting a few strands, gradually fading the color out everywhere before completely removing it. His nose had a bumpy shape and a downward tilt that people often say suggest good judgment, while his eyes were thoughtful and his face was thin—a shape that, although it took away the cheerful assurance of straightforward honesty that many of his peers had, might have led some observers to think that maybe this guy was lacking that quality internally as well.

The coffee having been served to the people upstairs, one of the footmen rushed into his bedroom on the lower floor, and in a few minutes emerged again in the dress of a respectable clerk who had been born for better things, with the trifling exceptions that he wore a low-crowned hat, and instead of knocking his heels on the pavement walked with a gait as delicate as a lady's. Going out of the area-door with a cigar in his mouth, he mounted the steps hastily to keep an appointment round the corner-the keeping of which as a private gentleman necessitated the change of the greater part of his clothes twice within a quarter of an hour-the limit of his time of absence. The other footman was upstairs, and the butler, finding that he had a few minutes to himself, sat down at the table and wrote:-

The coffee was served to the people upstairs, and one of the footmen hurried into his bedroom on the lower floor. In a few minutes, he came out dressed as a respectable clerk who was meant for better things, with the minor detail of wearing a low-crowned hat, and instead of clopping his heels on the pavement, he walked with a gait as delicate as a lady's. Exiting through the area door with a cigar in his mouth, he quickly climbed the steps to keep an appointment around the corner— a commitment that required him to change most of his clothes twice within fifteen minutes, the limit of his absence. The other footman was upstairs, and the butler, noticing he had a few minutes to himself, sat down at the table and wrote:

'MY DEAR ETHELBERTA, - I didn't plan to write to you for a few more days, but the way people have been talking about you here tonight makes me want to send a quick note right away, even though I'm short on time as usual. We just had a dinner party—in fact, the carriages haven't even been brought around yet—and, of course, the conversation at dinner was all about your poems. It started with a young guy named Ladywell—do you know him? He’s a painter by trade, but he has a decent private income on top of what he earns working for the nobility, which I imagine is quite a bit since he's well-regarded and gets a lot of encouragement because he's young and good-looking, among other things. His family owns quite a bit of land out by Aldbrickham. Anyway, I'm getting ahead of myself. It’s clear from what everyone said that you’re held in high regard in fashionable society as a poetess—but I imagine you’re already aware of this, given that you move in those circles yourself, my dear.

The ladies became very curious about your age, so curious, in fact, that they were convinced you were thirty-five and had a sad life, even if just for an hour. I almost spoke up right then and there to say, "My daughter, ladies, is only twenty-one as of her last birthday, and she has as bright a heart as anyone in London." One of them even said you must be fifty to have such experience. In some ways, her guess was pretty sharp, as it was based on how you use my strange experiences in society and make them your own; and, as you can see, she accurately guessed my age to the year. I thought it was clever of her to be so right, even while being so wrong.

I don’t want to sway your plans regarding things that your education has prepared you to understand much better than I, who never had those opportunities, but if I were in your shoes, Berta, I might consider keeping my name under wraps for now, since people always want what is kept from them and don’t value what is handed to them. I'm not certain, but I think that after the women went upstairs, the others might have turned their thoughts back to you; I don’t know what they said about you, as I can’t stand lingering around the doors when the men start getting tipsy, which they certainly did tonight and were very loud about it. They always do here because old Don is quite generous in his own way. However, since you see these people from their own level now, I can't tell you much by only seeing them from below, though I witness strange things sometimes, and of course—

"What great ones do, the less will prattle of,"

as it says in that book of selected pieces you gave me.

Well, my dear girl, I hope you thrive. One thing above all else you need to keep in mind is that people must continuously push to advance just to stay in the same place: particularly you. But I wouldn’t overdo it. The key is that your best way to maintain a light heart is to elevate yourself just a bit above your old friends, but not so high that you’re completely out of their reach. All humans enjoy participating from the outside, and so moving up a little has its benefits; you still remain in your old class where your feelings belong, and you're treated thoughtfully by that class. However, if you move up too much, you’ll be looked down upon by your new acquaintances, who don’t appreciate how you got there, and you’ll be forgotten by the old ones who do. Whatever happens, don’t be too quick to react emotionally. You will surely face challenges when you are uncovered, for if those at the top can’t find a reason to lash out with a mind, they’ll do it and claim it was just for fun. But you are young and healthy, and youth and health are powerful. I wish I could have a decent footman here with me, but I suppose that’s a lost cause. It’s people like these who provoke the contempt we face. Thank God a few years will see the end of me, for I’m starting to feel embarrassed by my company—they're so different from the servants of old times. -Your affectionate father, R. CHICKEREL.

P.S. - Please don’t press Lady Petherwin any further about the rules you live by with her. She’s right: she can’t accommodate us, and acknowledging us won’t benefit you, nor us either. We’re fine with seeing you in secret since it’s best for you.'

8. CHRISTOPHER'S LODGINGS-THE GROUNDS ABOUT ROOKINGTON

Meanwhile, in the distant town of Sandbourne, Christopher Julian had recovered from the weariness produced by his labours at the Wyndway evening-party where Ethelberta had been a star. Instead of engaging his energies to clear encumbrances from the tangled way of his life, he now set about reading the popular 'Metres by E.' with more interest and assiduity than ever; for though Julian was a thinker by instinct, he was a worker by effort only; and the higher of these kinds being dependent upon the lower for its exhibition, there was often a lamentable lack of evidence of his power in either. It is a provoking correlation, and has conduced to the obscurity of many a genius.

Meanwhile, in the far-off town of Sandbourne, Christopher Julian had bounced back from the fatigue caused by his efforts at the Wyndway evening party where Ethelberta had been a standout. Instead of using his energy to sort out the mess in his life, he now focused on reading the popular 'Metres by E.' with more interest and dedication than ever; for although Julian was a natural thinker, he was a worker only through effort; and since the higher type of thinking relied on the lower for its expression, there was often a frustrating lack of evidence of his abilities in either area. It's an annoying correlation, and it has led to the obscurity of many a genius.

'Kit,' said his sister, on reviving at the end of the bad headache which had followed the dance, 'those poems seem to have increased in value with you. The lady, lofty as she appears to be, would be flattered if she only could know how much you study them. Have you decided to thank her for them? Now let us talk it over-I like having a chat about such a pretty new subject.'

'Kit,' his sister said, waking up after the bad headache that followed the dance, 'those poems seem to mean more to you now. The lady, as impressive as she seems, would be flattered to know how much you enjoy studying them. Have you thought about thanking her for them? Now, let’s discuss it—I love chatting about such a lovely new topic.'

'I would thank her in a moment if I were absolutely certain that she had anything to do with sending them, or even writing them. I am not quite sure of that yet.'

'I would thank her right now if I was completely sure she had anything to do with sending them, or even writing them. I'm still not entirely convinced about that.'

'How strange that a woman could bring herself to write those verses!'

'How strange that a woman could bring herself to write those lines!'

'Not at all strange-they are natural outpourings.'

'Not weird at all—they're natural expressions.'

Faith looked critically at the remoter caverns of the fire.

Faith looked closely at the distant caverns of the fire.

'Why strange?' continued Christopher. 'There is no harm in them.'

'Why is that strange?' Christopher continued. 'There's no harm in them.'

'O no-no harm. But I cannot explain to you-unless you see it partly of your own accord-that to write them she must be rather a fast lady-not a bad fast lady; a nice fast lady, I mean, of course. There, I have said it now, and I daresay you are vexed with me, for your interest in her has deepened to what it originally was, I think. I don't mean any absolute harm by "fast," Kit.'

'O no, no harm. But I can’t explain to you—unless you see it for yourself—that to write them she must be quite a daring lady—not a bad daring lady; a nice daring lady, I mean. There, I’ve said it now, and I guess you’re annoyed with me, because your interest in her has grown deeper than it originally was, I think. I don’t mean any real harm by "daring," Kit.'

'Bold, forward, you mean, I suppose?'

'Bold and forward, you mean, I guess?'

Faith tried to hit upon a better definition which should meet all views; and, on failing to do so, looked concerned at her brother's somewhat grieved appearance, and said, helplessly, 'Yes, I suppose I do.'

Faith tried to come up with a better definition that would satisfy everyone; and, failing to do so, she glanced worriedly at her brother's somewhat sad expression and said, helplessly, 'Yeah, I guess I do.'

'My idea of her is quite the reverse. A poetess must intrinsically be sensitive, or she could never feel: but then, frankness is a rhetorical necessity even with the most modest, if their inspirations are to do any good in the world. You will, for certain, not be interested in something I was going to tell you, which I thought would have pleased you immensely; but it is not worth mentioning now.'

'My view of her is the complete opposite. A poet needs to be naturally sensitive, or else she wouldn’t be able to feel anything; however, honesty is a must even for the most humble, if their work is going to make any impact in the world. You probably won’t care about something I was going to share with you, which I thought would have made you really happy; but it’s not worth bringing up now.'

'If you will not tell me, never mind. But don't be crabbed, Kit! You know how interested I am in all your affairs.'

'If you won’t tell me, that’s fine. But don’t be grumpy, Kit! You know how interested I am in everything going on with you.'

'It is only that I have composed an air to one of the prettiest of her songs, "When tapers tall"-but I am not sure about the power of it. This is how it begins-I threw it off in a few minutes, after you had gone to bed.'

'I've just composed a tune for one of her prettiest songs, "When tapers tall"—but I'm not sure how good it is. This is how it starts—I came up with it in just a few minutes after you went to bed.'

He went to the piano and lightly touched over an air, the manuscript copy of which he placed in front of him, and listened to hear her opinion, having proved its value frequently; for it was not that of a woman merely, but impersonally human. Though she was unknown to fame, this was a great gift in Faith, since to have an unsexed judgment is as precious as to be an unsexed being is deplorable.

He walked over to the piano and gently played a melody, the sheet music of which he laid out in front of him, waiting to hear her thoughts on it, as he had often confirmed its worth; for it was not just a woman’s perspective, but a universally human one. Even though she wasn't famous, this was a remarkable strength of Faith, since having a judgment free from gender is as valuable as being a gender-neutral person is unfortunate.

'It is very fair indeed,' said the sister, scarcely moving her lips in her great attention. 'Now again, and again, and again. How could you do it in the time!'

'It is really fair,' said the sister, barely moving her lips as she focused intently. 'Now again, and again, and again. How could you do it so quickly!'

Kit knew that she admired his performance: passive assent was her usual praise, and she seldom insisted vigorously upon any view of his compositions unless for purposes of emendation.

Kit knew that she appreciated his performance: agreeing quietly was her typical form of praise, and she rarely pushed strongly for any opinion on his work unless it was to suggest changes.

'I was thinking that, as I cannot very well write to her, I may as well send her this,' said Christopher, with lightened spirits, voice to correspond, and eyes likewise; 'there can be no objection to it, for such things are done continually. Consider while I am gone, Faith. I shall be out this evening for an hour or two.'

"I was thinking that since I can't really write to her, I might as well send her this," said Christopher, feeling more upbeat, with his voice matching his mood and his eyes shining; "there's no reason not to, because people do it all the time. Think about it while I'm gone, Faith. I'll be out for an hour or two this evening."

When Christopher left the house shortly after, instead of going into the town on some errand, as was customary whenever he went from home after dark, he ascended a back street, passed over the hills behind, and walked at a brisk pace inland along the road to Rookington Park, where, as he had learnt, Ethelberta and Lady Petherwin were staying for a time, the day or two which they spent at Wyndway having formed a short break in the middle of this visit. The moon was shining to-night, and Christopher sped onwards over the pallid high-road as readily as he could have done at noonday. In three-quarters of an hour he reached the park gates; and entering now upon a tract which he had never before explored, he went along more cautiously and with some uncertainty as to the precise direction that the road would take. A frosted expanse of even grass, on which the shadow of his head appeared with an opal halo round it, soon allowed the house to be discovered beyond, the other portions of the park abounding with timber older and finer than that of any other spot in the neighbourhood. Christopher withdrew into the shade, and wheeled round to the front of the building that contained his old love. Here he gazed and idled, as many a man has done before him-wondering which room the fair poetess occupied, waiting till lights began to appear in the upper windows-which they did as uncertainly as glow-worms bHANDlinking up at eventide-and warming with currents of revived feeling in perhaps the sweetest of all conditions. New love is brightest, and long love is greatest; but revived love is the tenderest thing known upon earth.

When Christopher left the house shortly after, instead of heading into town for some errand, like he usually did when leaving home after dark, he took a back street, went over the hills behind, and walked quickly inland along the road to Rookington Park. He had learned that Ethelberta and Lady Petherwin were staying there for a while, having spent a day or two at Wyndway as a short break in the middle of their visit. The moon was shining tonight, and Christopher moved along the pale high road as easily as he could have in the daytime. In about forty-five minutes, he reached the park gates, and as he entered an area he had never explored before, he walked more cautiously, unsure of the exact direction the road would take. A frosted stretch of smooth grass, where the shadow of his head appeared with a soft halo around it, soon revealed the house beyond, surrounded by trees older and more impressive than any in the surrounding area. Christopher stepped into the shade and turned to face the front of the building that held his old love. Here he stood and loitered, like many men before him, wondering which room the beautiful poetess was in, waiting for lights to start appearing in the upper windows—lights that flickered on as hesitantly as glow-worms blinking at twilight—stirring feelings within him in perhaps the sweetest of all emotions. New love is the brightest, long love is the greatest, but revived love is the tenderest thing known on Earth.

Occupied thus, Christopher was greatly surprised to see, on casually glancing to one side, another man standing close to the shadowy trunk of another tree, in a similar attitude to his own, gazing, with arms folded, as blankly at the windows of the house as Christopher himself had been gazing. Not willing to be discovered, Christopher stuck closer to his tree. While he waited thus, the stranger began murmuring words, in a slow soft voice. Christopher listened till he heard the following:-

Occupied in this way, Christopher was really surprised to notice, when he casually glanced to one side, that another man was standing close to the shadowy trunk of another tree, in a similar pose to his own, staring with arms folded just as blankly at the windows of the house as Christopher had been. Not wanting to be noticed, Christopher pressed closer to his tree. As he waited, the stranger started to murmur words in a slow, soft voice. Christopher listened until he heard the following:

'The day was pale and devoid of light, love,  
       That had an evening so dim.'

Two well-known lines from one of Ethelberta's poems.

Two famous lines from one of Ethelberta's poems.

Jealousy is a familiar kind of heat which disfigures, licks playfully, clouds, blackens, and boils a man as a fire does a pot; and on recognizing these pilferings from what he had grown to regard as his own treasury, Christopher's fingers began to nestle with great vigour in the palms of his hands. Three or four minutes passed, when the unknown rival gave a last glance at the windows, and walked away. Christopher did not like the look of that walk at all-there was grace enough in it to suggest that his antagonist had no mean chance of finding favour in a woman's eyes. A sigh, too, seemed to proceed from the stranger's breast; but as their distance apart was too great for any such sound to be heard by any possibility, Christopher set down that to imagination, or to the brushing of the wind over the trees.

Jealousy is a familiar type of heat that distorts, plays around, clouds, darkens, and boils a person like fire does a pot; and upon realizing these thefts from what he had come to see as his own treasure, Christopher's fingers began to curl tightly in his palms. Three or four minutes went by, and the unknown rival took one last look at the windows before walking away. Christopher didn’t like the way he walked at all—there was enough grace in it to suggest that his opponent had a good chance of winning a woman's affection. A sigh seemed to come from the stranger's chest; but since they were too far apart for any sound to reach him, Christopher dismissed it as either his imagination or just the wind rustling through the trees.

The lighted windows went out one by one, and all the house was in darkness. Julian then walked off himself, with a vigour that was spasmodic only, and with much less brightness of mind than he had experienced on his journey hither. The stranger had gone another way, and Christopher saw no more of him. When he reached Sandbourne, Faith was still sitting up.

The lit windows went dark one by one, and the whole house was plunged into darkness. Julian then walked away, with a fitful energy and much less clarity of thought than he had on his way here. The stranger had taken a different path, and Christopher didn't see him again. When he got to Sandbourne, Faith was still awake.

'But I told you I was going to take a long walk,' he said.

'But I told you I was going to go for a long walk,' he said.

'No, Christopher: really you did not. How tired and sad you do look-though I always know beforehand when you are in that state: one of your feet has a drag about it as you pass along the pavement outside the window.'

'No, Christopher: you really didn’t. You look so tired and sad—though I can always tell when you’re like this: one of your feet drags as you walk along the sidewalk outside the window.'

'Yes, I forgot that I did not tell you.'

'Yes, I forgot to mention that.'

He could not begin to describe his pilgrimage: it was too silly a thing even for her to hear of.

He couldn't even start to explain his journey: it was too ridiculous for her to hear about.

'It does not matter at all about my staying up,' said Faith assuringly; 'that is, if exercise benefits you. Walking up and down the lane, I suppose?'

'It doesn't matter at all that I'm staying up,' Faith said reassuringly; 'that is, if exercise is good for you. Walking back and forth in the lane, I guess?'

'No; not walking up and down the lane.'

'No; not pacing back and forth along the path.'

'The turnpike-road to Rookington is pleasant.'

The highway to Rookington is nice.

'Faith, that is really where I have been. How came you to know?'

'Faith, that's really where I've been. How did you find out?'

'I only guessed. Verses and an accidental meeting produce a special journey.'

'I just guessed. Lines of poetry and a chance encounter create a unique journey.'

'Ethelberta is a fine woman, physically and mentally, both. I wonder people do not talk about her twice as much as they do.'

'Ethelberta is a remarkable woman, both physically and mentally. I wonder why people don't talk about her twice as much as they do.'

'Then surely you are getting attached to her again. You think you discover in her more than anybody else does; and love begins with a sense of superior discernment.'

'Then you’re definitely getting attached to her again. You believe you see things in her that no one else does; and love starts with a feeling of having a better understanding.'

'No, no. That is only nonsense,' he said hurriedly. 'However, love her or love her not, I can keep a corner of my heart for you, Faith. There is another brute after her too, it seems.'

'No, no. That's just nonsense,' he said quickly. 'But whether I love her or not, I can still keep a spot in my heart for you, Faith. It looks like there's another jerk going after her too.'

'Of course there is: I expect there are many. Her position in society is above ours, so that it is an unwise course to go troubling yourself more about her.'

'Of course there is: I’m sure there are many. Her status in society is higher than ours, so it’s not smart to keep worrying about her.'

'No. If a needy man must be so foolish as to fall in love, it is best to do so where he cannot double his foolishness by marrying the woman.'

'No. If a man in need is foolish enough to fall in love, it’s better that he does so with someone he can’t marry and make his foolishness even worse.'

'I don't like to hear you talk so slightingly of what poor father did.'

"I don't like hearing you talk so disrespectfully about what our poor father did."

Christopher fixed his attention on the supper. That night, late as it was, when Faith was in bed and sleeping, he sat before a sheet of music-paper, neatly copying his composition upon it. The manuscript was intended as an offering to Ethelberta at the first convenient opportunity.

Christopher focused on dinner. That night, as late as it was, with Faith in bed and sleeping, he sat in front of a sheet of music paper, carefully copying his composition onto it. The manuscript was meant as a gift for Ethelberta at the first chance he got.

'Well, after all my trouble to find out about Ethelberta, here comes the clue unasked for,' said the musician to his sister a few days later.

'Well, after all my effort to learn about Ethelberta, here comes the clue I didn't even ask for,' said the musician to his sister a few days later.

She turned and saw that he was reading the Wessex Reflector.

'What is it?' asked Faith.

"What’s that?" Faith asked.

'The secret of the true authorship of the book is out at last, and it is Ethelberta of course. I am so glad to have it proved hers.'

'The secret about who actually wrote the book is finally out, and it's Ethelberta, of course. I'm really glad it's been confirmed that it's hers.'

'But can we believe-?'

'But can we trust-?'

'O yes. Just hear what "Our London Correspondent" says. It is one of the nicest bits of gossip that he has furnished us with for a long time.'

'O yes. Just listen to what "Our London Correspondent" says. It’s one of the best pieces of gossip he’s shared with us in a long time.'

'Yes: now read it, do.'

"Yes: now read it."

'"The author of 'Metres by E.'"' Christopher began, '"a book of which so much has been said and conjectured, and one, in fact, that has been the chief talk for several weeks past of the literary circles to which I belong, is a young lady who was a widow before she reached the age of eighteen, and is now not far beyond her fourth lustrum. I was additionally informed by a friend whom I met yesterday on his way to the House of Lords, that her name is Mrs. Petherwin-Christian name Ethelberta; and that she resides with her mother-in-law at their house in Exonbury Crescent. She is, moreover, the daughter of the late Bishop of Silchester (if report may be believed), whose active benevolence, as your readers know, left his family in comparatively straitened circumstances at his death. The marriage was a secret one, and much against the wish of her husband's friends, who are wealthy people on all sides. The death of the bridegroom two or three weeks after the wedding led to a reconciliation; and the young poetess was taken to the home which she still occupies, devoted to the composition of such brilliant effusions as those the world has lately been favoured with from her pen."'

'"The author of 'Metres by E.'"' Christopher began, '"a book that's been talked about a lot and has been the main topic in the literary circles I’m a part of for the past few weeks, is a young woman who was a widow before she turned eighteen and is now just a bit past her twenties. A friend I ran into yesterday on his way to the House of Lords told me her name is Mrs. Petherwin—her first name is Ethelberta—and she lives with her mother-in-law at their house on Exonbury Crescent. Additionally, she’s said to be the daughter of the late Bishop of Silchester (if the rumors are true), whose active goodwill, as your readers know, left his family in somewhat difficult financial circumstances when he passed away. The marriage was kept secret and went against her husband’s family's wishes, who are well-off. The groom’s death just a few weeks after the wedding led to a reconciliation, and the young poetess was taken to the home where she still lives, dedicated to writing the impressive works we’ve recently seen from her."'

'If you want to send her your music, you can do so now,' said Faith.

'If you want to send her your music, you can do that now,' said Faith.

'I might have sent it before, but I wanted to deliver it personally. However, it is all the same now, I suppose, whether I send it or not. I always knew that our destinies would lie apart, though she was once temporarily under a cloud. Her momentary inspiration to write that "Cancelled Words" was the worst possible omen for me. It showed that, thinking me no longer useful as a practical chance, she would make me ornamental as a poetical regret. But I'll send the manuscript of the song.'

'I might have sent it before, but I wanted to deliver it in person. However, it doesn't really matter now, I guess, whether I send it or not. I always knew that our paths would separate, even though she was briefly in a tough spot. Her sudden inspiration to write "Cancelled Words" was the worst possible sign for me. It indicated that, seeing me as no longer useful in a practical sense, she would keep me around as a poetic regret. But I'll go ahead and send the manuscript of the song.'

'In the way of business, as a composer only; and you must say to yourself, "Ethelberta, as thou art but woman, I dare; but as widow I fear thee."'

'In terms of business, just as a composer; and you have to tell yourself, "Ethelberta, since you are simply a woman, I dare; but as a widow, I fear you."'

Notwithstanding Christopher's affected carelessness, that evening saw a great deal of nicety bestowed upon the operation of wrapping up and sending off the song. He dropped it into the box and heard it fall, and with the curious power which he possessed of setting his wisdom to watch any particular folly in himself that it could not hinder, speculated as he walked on the result of this first tangible step of return to his old position as Ethelberta's lover.

Despite Christopher's pretended indifference, that evening was filled with careful attention to the process of wrapping up and sending off the song. He dropped it into the box and heard it land, and with his unique ability to observe any particular foolishness in himself that he couldn’t stop, he wondered, as he walked on, about the outcome of this first real step back to his former role as Ethelberta's lover.

9. A LADY'S DRAWING-ROOMS-ETHELBERTA'S DRESSING-ROOM

It was a house on the north side of Hyde Park, between ten and eleven in the evening, and several intelligent and courteous people had assembled there to enjoy themselves as far as it was possible to do so in a neutral way-all carefully keeping every variety of feeling in a state of solution, in spite of any attempt such feelings made from time to time to crystallize on interesting subjects in hand.

It was a house on the north side of Hyde Park, between ten and eleven in the evening, and several smart and polite people had gathered there to have a good time as much as possible in a neutral way—all carefully keeping every kind of feeling in a state of flux, despite any attempts those feelings made from time to time to solidify into interesting topics at hand.

'Neigh, who is that charming woman with her head built up in a novel way even for hair architecture-the one with her back towards us?' said a man whose coat fitted doubtfully to a friend whose coat fitted well.

'Hey, who is that captivating woman with her hair styled in such a unique way, even for hair design—the one with her back to us?' said a man whose coat fit awkwardly to a friend whose coat fit perfectly.

'Just going to ask for the same information,' said Mr. Neigh, determining the very longest hair in his beard to an infinitesimal nicety by drawing its lower portion through his fingers. 'I have quite forgotten-cannot keep people's names in my head at all; nor could my father either-nor any of my family-a very odd thing. But my old friend Mrs. Napper knows for certain.' And he turned to one of a small group of middle-aged persons near, who, instead of skimming the surface of things in general, like the rest of the company, were going into the very depths of them.

"Just going to ask for the same info," Mr. Neigh said, meticulously measuring the longest hair in his beard by running his fingers along its lower part. "I've completely forgotten—I can't remember people's names for the life of me; neither could my dad—or anyone in my family—a really strange thing. But my old friend Mrs. Napper definitely knows." He then turned to a small group of middle-aged people nearby who, instead of just skimming the surface of things like everyone else, were diving deep into them.

'O-that is the celebrated Mrs. Petherwin, the woman who makes rhymes and prints 'em,' said Mrs. Napper, in a detached sentence, and then continued talking again to those on the other side of her.

'O—that's the famous Mrs. Petherwin, the woman who writes poems and publishes them,' said Mrs. Napper, in a brief comment, and then went back to chatting with those on the other side of her.

The two loungers went on with their observations of Ethelberta's headdress, which, though not extraordinary or eccentric, did certainly convey an idea of indefinable novelty. Observers were sometimes half inclined to think that her cuts and modes were acquired by some secret communication with the mysterious clique which orders the livery of the fashionable world, for-and it affords a parallel to cases in which clever thinkers in other spheres arrive independently at one and the same conclusion-Ethelberta's fashion often turned out to be the coming one.

The two loungers continued to observe Ethelberta's hairstyle, which, while not extraordinary or unusual, definitely gave off a sense of undefined freshness. Onlookers sometimes wondered if her styles and techniques were picked up through some secret connection with the hidden group that decides the trends in the fashion world, because—much like smart thinkers in other fields who come to the same conclusion independently—Ethelberta's fashion often ended up being the next big thing.

'O, is that the woman at last?' said Neigh, diminishing his broad general gaze at the room to a close criticism of Ethelberta.

'O, is that the woman at last?' Neigh said, narrowing his wide gaze around the room to a focused assessment of Ethelberta.

'"The rhymes," as Mrs. Napper calls them, are not to be despised,' said his companion. 'They are not quite virginibus puerisque, and the writer's opinions of life and society differ very materially from mine, but I cannot help admiring her in the more reflective pieces; the songs I don't care for. The method in which she handles curious subjects, and at the same time impresses us with a full conviction of her modesty, is very adroit, and somewhat blinds us to the fact that no such poems were demanded of her at all.'

"The rhymes," as Mrs. Napper calls them, shouldn't be dismissed," said his companion. "They aren't exactly for young people, and the writer’s views on life and society are quite different from mine, but I can’t help but admire her in the more thoughtful pieces; the songs don’t appeal to me. The way she tackles unusual subjects while still making us feel her modesty is very skillful, and it somewhat distracts us from the fact that no one actually asked her to write these poems."

'I have not read them,' said Neigh, secretly wrestling with his jaw, to prevent a yawn; 'but I suppose I must. The truth is, that I never care much for reading what one ought to read; I wish I did, but I cannot help it. And, no doubt, you admire the lady immensely for writing them: I don't. Everybody is so talented now-a-days that the only people I care to honour as deserving real distinction are those who remain in obscurity. I am myself hoping for a corner in some biographical dictionary when the time comes for those works only to contain lists of the exceptional individuals of whom nothing is known but that they lived and died.'

"I haven't read them," Neigh said, secretly fighting the urge to yawn, "but I guess I have to. The truth is, I never really enjoy reading what I'm supposed to read; I wish I did, but I can't help it. And sure, you probably admire the lady a lot for writing them: I don’t. Everyone seems so talented these days that the only people I want to honor as truly distinguished are those who stay out of the spotlight. I'm hoping for a mention in some biographical dictionary when the time comes for those works to only list exceptional individuals about whom nothing is known except that they lived and died."

'Ah-listen. They are going to sing one of her songs,' said his friend, looking towards a bustling movement in the neighbourhood of the piano. 'I believe that song, "When tapers tall," has been set to music by three or four composers already.'

'Hey, listen. They're about to sing one of her songs,' said his friend, looking toward the lively scene around the piano. 'I think that song, "When tapers tall," has already been put to music by a few different composers.'

'Men of any note?' said Neigh, at last beaten by his yawn, which courtesy nevertheless confined within his person to such an extent that only a few unimportant symptoms, such as reduced eyes and a certain rectangular manner of mouth in speaking, were visible.

'Any notable guys?' Neigh finally asked, overwhelmed by his yawn, which he still managed to keep contained to the point that only a few minor signs, like narrowed eyes and a somewhat stiff way of speaking, were noticeable.

'Scarcely,' replied the other man. 'Established writers of music do not expend their energies upon new verse until they find that such verse is likely to endure; for should the poet be soon forgotten, their labour is in some degree lost.'

'Hardly,' replied the other man. 'Established music writers don't spend their energy on new lyrics until they believe those lyrics will last; if the poet is forgotten quickly, their work is somewhat wasted.'

'Artful dogs-who would have thought it?' said Neigh, just as an exercise in words; and they drew nearer to the piano, less to become listeners to the singing than to be spectators of the scene in that quarter. But among some others the interest in the songs seemed to be very great; and it was unanimously wished that the young lady who had practised the different pieces of music privately would sing some of them now in the order of their composers' reputations. The musical persons in the room unconsciously resolved themselves into a committee of taste.

'Artful dogs—who would have thought that?' Neigh said, just as a playful comment; and they moved closer to the piano, not so much to listen to the singing but to watch what was happening over there. However, among some others, the interest in the songs seemed really high; and everyone agreed that the young lady who had been practicing the different pieces of music privately should sing some of them now in the order of their composers' reputations. The music lovers in the room unknowingly formed a committee of taste.

One and another had been tried, when, at the end of the third, a lady spoke to Ethelberta.

One after another had been tried, when, at the end of the third, a woman spoke to Ethelberta.

'Now, Mrs. Petherwin,' she said, gracefully throwing back her face, 'your opinion is by far the most valuable. In which of the cases do you consider the marriage of verse and tune to have been most successful?'

'Now, Mrs. Petherwin,' she said, elegantly tilting her head back, 'your opinion is definitely the most important. In which of these cases do you think the marriage of lyrics and melody has been most successful?'

Ethelberta, finding these and other unexpected calls made upon herself, came to the front without flinching.

Ethelberta, noticing these and other surprising demands placed on her, stepped forward without hesitation.

'The sweetest and the best that I like by far,' she said, 'is none of these. It is one which reached me by post only this morning from a place in Wessex, and is written by an unheard-of man who lives somewhere down there-a man who will be, nevertheless, heard a great deal of some day, I hope-think. I have only practised it this afternoon; but, if one's own judgment is worth anything, it is the best.'

"The sweetest and the best that I like by far," she said, "is none of these. It's one that I just received in the mail this morning from somewhere in Wessex, written by an unknown man who lives down there—a man who, I hope, will be talked about a lot someday. I've only practiced it this afternoon, but if my own judgment counts for anything, it's the best."

'Let us have your favourite, by all means,' said another friend of Ethelberta's who was present-Mrs. Doncastle.

"Please share your favorite with us," said another friend of Ethelberta's who was there—Mrs. Doncastle.

'I am so sorry that I cannot oblige you, since you wish to hear it,' replied the poetess regretfully; 'but the music is at home. I had not received it when I lent the others to Miss Belmaine, and it is only in manuscript like the rest.'

"I'm really sorry I can't help you, since you want to hear it," the poetess said with regret; "but the music is at home. I didn't get it back when I lent the others to Miss Belmaine, and it's only in manuscript like the rest."

'Could it not be sent for?' suggested an enthusiast who knew that Ethelberta lived only in the next street, appealing by a look to her, and then to the mistress of the house.

'Couldn't it be sent for?' suggested an enthusiastic person who knew that Ethelberta lived just down the next street, glancing at her and then at the lady of the house.

'Certainly, let us send for it,' said that lady. A footman was at once quietly despatched with precise directions as to where Christopher's sweet production might be found.

"Sure, let's get it," the lady said. A footman was immediately sent off with clear instructions on where to find Christopher's sweet creation.

'What-is there going to be something interesting?' asked a young married friend of Mrs. Napper, who had returned to her original spot.

'Is there going to be something interesting?' asked a young married friend of Mrs. Napper, who had returned to her original spot.

'Yes-the best song she has written is to be sung in the best manner to the best air that has been composed for it. I should not wonder if she were going to sing it herself.'

'Yes—the best song she has written should be sung in the best way to the best music that’s been created for it. I wouldn't be surprised if she plans to sing it herself.'

'Did you know anything of Mrs. Petherwin until her name leaked out in connection with these ballads?'

'Did you know anything about Mrs. Petherwin until her name came up in relation to these ballads?'

'No; but I think I recollect seeing her once before. She is one of those people who are known, as one may say, by subscription: everybody knows a little, till she is astonishingly well known altogether; but nobody knows her entirely. She was the orphan child of some clergyman, I believe. Lady Petherwin, her mother-in-law, has been taking her about a great deal latterly.'

'No; but I think I remember seeing her once before. She's one of those people who are known, so to speak, by reputation: everyone knows a bit about her until she ends up being surprisingly well-known overall; but no one knows her completely. I believe she was the orphaned child of a clergyman. Lady Petherwin, her mother-in-law, has been taking her around a lot lately.'

'She has apparently a very good prospect.'

'She apparently has a very good outlook.'

'Yes; and it is through her being of that curious undefined character which interprets itself to each admirer as whatever he would like to have it. Old men like her because she is so girlish; youths because she is womanly; wicked men because she is good in their eyes; good men because she is wicked in theirs.'

'Yes; and it's because she has that strange, undefined quality that means different things to everyone who admires her. Older men are drawn to her because she feels youthful; young men love her for her femininity; bad men see her as pure; and good men think of her as rebellious.'

'She must be a very anomalous sort of woman, at that rate.'

'She must be a really unusual kind of woman, then.'

'Yes. Like the British Constitution, she owes her success in practice to her inconsistencies in principle.'

'Yes. Just like the British Constitution, her practical success comes from her inconsistencies in principle.'

'These poems must have set her up. She appears to be quite the correct spectacle. Happy Mrs. Petherwin!'

'These poems must have given her a boost. She seems to be quite the proper sight. Happy Mrs. Petherwin!'

The subject of their dialogue was engaged in a conversation with Mrs. Belmaine upon the management of households-a theme provoked by a discussion that was in progress in the pages of some periodical of the time. Mrs. Belmaine was very full of the argument, and went on from point to point till she came to servants.

The topic of their conversation revolved around managing households, sparked by an ongoing discussion in a contemporary magazine. Mrs. Belmaine was quite passionate about the subject, moving from one point to another until she got to the topic of servants.

The face of Ethelberta showed caution at once.

The look on Ethelberta's face immediately showed that she was being careful.

'I consider that Lady Plamby pets her servants by far too much,' said Mrs. Belmaine. 'O, you do not know her? Well, she is a woman with theories; and she lends her maids and men books of the wrong kind for their station, and sends them to picture exhibitions which they don't in the least understand-all for the improvement of their taste, and morals, and nobody knows what besides. It only makes them dissatisfied.'

"I think Lady Plamby spoils her servants way too much," said Mrs. Belmaine. "Oh, you don't know her? Well, she's a woman with a lot of ideas; she gives her maids and men books that aren't suitable for their status and sends them to art exhibits that they don't understand at all—all in the name of improving their taste, morals, and who knows what else. It just makes them unhappy."

The face of Ethelberta showed venturesomeness. 'Yes, and dreadfully ambitious!' she said.

The look on Ethelberta's face was bold. 'Yes, and incredibly ambitious!' she said.

'Yes, indeed. What a turn the times have taken! People of that sort push on, and get into business, and get great warehouses, until at last, without ancestors, or family, or name, or estate-'

'Yes, exactly. Look how much things have changed! Those kinds of people keep pushing forward, getting into business, acquiring huge warehouses, and eventually, without any ancestors, family, name, or estate-'

'Or the merest scrap of heirloom or family jewel.'

'Or just a tiny piece of heirloom or family jewelry.'

'Or heirlooms, or family jewels, they are thought as much of as if their forefathers had glided unobtrusively through the peerage-'

'Or heirlooms, or family jewels, they are regarded just as if their ancestors had quietly moved through the nobility-'

'Ever since the first edition.'

"Since the first edition."

'Yes.' Mrs. Belmaine, who really sprang from a good old family, had been going to say, 'for the last seven hundred years,' but fancying from Ethelberta's addendum that she might not date back more than a trifling century or so, adopted the suggestion with her usual well-known courtesy, and blushed down to her locket at the thought of the mistake that she might have made. This sensitiveness was a trait in her character which gave great gratification to her husband, and, indeed, to all who knew her.

'Yes.' Mrs. Belmaine, who actually came from a proud old family, had been going to say, 'for the last seven hundred years,' but thinking from Ethelberta's comment that she might not go back more than a trivial century or so, she embraced the suggestion with her usual well-known courtesy and blushed down to her locket at the thought of the mistake she might have made. This sensitivity was a characteristic of hers that greatly pleased her husband and, in fact, everyone who knew her.

'And have you any theory on the vexed question of servant-government?' continued Mrs. Belmaine, smiling. 'But no-the subject is of far too practical a nature for one of your bent, of course.'

'Do you have any thoughts on the tricky issue of servant-government?' Mrs. Belmaine continued, smiling. 'But no—the topic is way too practical for someone like you, of course.'

'O no-it is not at all too practical. I have thought of the matter often,' said Ethelberta. 'I think the best plan would be for somebody to write a pamphlet, "The Shortest Way with the Servants," just as there was once written a terribly stinging one, "The Shortest Way with the Dissenters," which had a great effect.'

'O no—it’s definitely not too practical. I’ve thought about it a lot,' said Ethelberta. 'I believe the best idea would be for someone to write a pamphlet called "The Shortest Way with the Servants," just like there was once a really sharp one called "The Shortest Way with the Dissenters," which had a huge impact.'

'I have always understood that that was written by a dissenter as a satire upon the Church?'

'I’ve always understood that was written by someone opposing the Church as a satire?'

'Ah-so it was: but the example will do to illustrate my meaning.'

'So it was: but this example will help illustrate my point.'

'Quite so-I understand-so it will,' said Mrs. Belmaine, with clouded faculties.

'Exactly—I get it—so it will,' said Mrs. Belmaine, her mind a bit foggy.

Meanwhile Christopher's music had arrived. An accomplished gentleman who had every musical talent except that of creation, scanned the notes carefully from top to bottom, and sat down to accompany the singer. There was no lady present of sufficient confidence or skill to venture into a song she had never seen before, and the only one who had seen it was Ethelberta herself; she did not deny having practised it the greater part of the afternoon, and was very willing to sing it now if anybody would derive pleasure from the performance. Then she began, and the sweetness of her singing was such that even the most unsympathetic honoured her by looking as if they would be willing to listen to every note the song contained if it were not quite so much trouble to do so. Some were so interested that, instead of continuing their conversation, they remained in silent consideration of how they would continue it when she had finished; while the particularly civil people arranged their countenances into every attentive form that the mind could devise. One emotional gentleman looked at the corner of a chair as if, till that moment, such an object had never crossed his vision before; the movement of his finger to the imagined tune was, for a deaf old clergyman, a perfect mine of interest; whilst a young man from the country was powerless to put an end to an enchanted gaze at nothing at all in the exact middle of the room before him. Neigh, and the general phalanx of cool men and celebrated club yawners, were so much affected that they raised their chronic look of great objection to things, to an expression of scarcely any objection at all.

Meanwhile, Christopher's music had arrived. An accomplished gentleman who had every musical talent except for creating music carefully scanned the notes from top to bottom and sat down to accompany the singer. There wasn’t a lady present with enough confidence or skill to attempt a song she had never seen before, and the only one who had seen it was Ethelberta herself; she admitted to having practiced it for most of the afternoon and was very willing to sing it now if anyone would enjoy the performance. Then she began, and the sweetness of her singing was such that even the most indifferent listeners looked as if they would be willing to hear every note of the song if it weren’t too much trouble. Some were so captivated that instead of continuing their conversation, they stayed silent, thinking about how they would resume it once she finished, while the particularly polite people arranged their faces into every attentive expression they could muster. One emotional gentleman stared at the corner of a chair as if he had never noticed it before; the movement of his finger to the imagined tune fascinated a deaf old clergyman; meanwhile, a young man from the country couldn’t tear his enchanted gaze away from an empty spot in the center of the room. Even the usual crowd of indifferent men and renowned club snoozers were so moved that they changed their typical look of disdain into an expression of barely any objection at all.

'What makes it so interesting,' said Mrs. Doncastle to Ethelberta, when the song was over and she had retired from the focus of the company, 'is, that it is played from the composer's own copy, which has never met the public eye, or any other than his own before to-day. And I see that he has actually sketched in the lines by hand, instead of having ruled paper-just as the great old composers used to do. You must have been as pleased to get it fresh from the stocks like that as he probably was pleased to get your thanks.'

"What makes it so interesting," Mrs. Doncastle said to Ethelberta after the song ended and she had stepped away from the main group, "is that it's played from the composer's own copy, which hasn't been seen by anyone else until today. And I can see that he actually sketched in the lines by hand instead of using ruled paper—just like the great old composers used to do. You must have been as happy to receive it fresh from the source as he probably was to get your thanks."

Ethelberta became reflective. She had not thanked Christopher; moreover, she had decided, after some consideration, that she ought not to thank him. What new thoughts were suggested by that remark of Mrs. Doncastle's, and what new inclination resulted from the public presentation of his tune and her words as parts of one organic whole, are best explained by describing her doings at a later hour, when, having left her friends somewhat early, she had reached home and retired from public view for that evening.

Ethelberta became thoughtful. She hadn’t thanked Christopher; in fact, after some reflection, she decided that she shouldn’t thank him. The new ideas sparked by Mrs. Doncastle's comment, and the new feelings arising from the public performance of his music alongside her words, are better understood by describing what she did later, when, having left her friends a bit early, she got home and went out of the public eye for the evening.

Ethelberta went to her room, sent away the maid who helped both her and Lady Petherwin, walked in circles on the carpet until the fire had become dim and hollow, sighed, took a sheet of paper, and wrote: 

    'DEAR MR. JULIAN,-I’ve said I wouldn’t write: I’ve said it twice; but being discreet, in some situations, is just another way of being unkind. Before I thank you for your lovely gift, let me briefly explain something that might significantly change the way you see me and why I deserve it.

    'You’re completely mistaken about my history and background; and how can I know whether your frustration at my previous silence on these matters might lead you to take back your kindness? But being honest with you at last might even make up for losing your respect.

    'The truth is actually a small thing to share. What will you think when you learn that I’m not the “lady by birth” you’ve believed me to be? That my father isn’t dead, as you probably think; that he is living and working among a particularly stigmatized and ridiculed group of people?

    'If he were a strong laborer, carpenter, mason, blacksmith, well-digger, laborer, tree-feller—essentially a manly worker who can stand tall in front of the nobles and delicate folks, showing his rough arms and confidently declaring, “Look at a real man!”—I could show you a background that, while not intensely romantic, isn’t completely against romance either. But the current trend of associating everything ridiculous and pretentious with one particular class overwhelms me when I think of it concerning myself and your known sensitivities. When the well-born poetess of good reputation melts into...

Having got thus far, a faint-hearted look, which had begun to show itself several sentences earlier, became pronounced. She threw the writing into the dull fire, poked and stirred it till a red inflammation crept over the sheet, and then started anew:-

Having gotten this far, a hesitant expression, which had started to appear several sentences earlier, became clear. She tossed the writing into the dull fire, poked and stirred it until a red glow spread over the sheet, and then began again:

'DEAR MR. JULIAN,-Not knowing your current status as a composer—whether you're on the verge of fame or still far from it—I can't decide how best to express my sincere gratitude. Let me simply say in one short phrase, thank you so much!

'I’m not a musician, and my opinions on music probably don’t hold much weight, but I know what I like (as everyone says, though I don’t use that as a way to cover up my ignorance on the subject), and I love this beautiful melody. You must have moved around me like a gentle breeze, glimpsed into a heart that isn’t worthy of examination, and captured words that don’t deserve attention before you could create such an exquisite song. My gratitude turned to despair when I heard the ballad performed publicly this evening and realized I didn't have the strength to hold back a response that might cause us both more trouble than good. Then I thought, "Forget all emotions—I wish the world were completely devoid of them—I won’t acknowledge this,” until a lady whispered beside me that, of course, I had expressed my appreciation to you. I should mention first that your piece was performed tonight in full drawing rooms, and the original notes refreshed the artificial air like a fountain.

'I predict great things for you. Maybe, when we’re both just bones in our respective graves, your talent will be remembered while my mere cleverness will be long forgotten.

'However—you must let a woman with experience say this—your undeniable talent won’t do you any social good unless you mix in a little ambition, a quality in which I fear you’re quite lacking. I write this letter hoping to inspire you to have a better opinion of yourself.

'It’s likely I’ll never see you again. Not because I think circumstances would particularly prevent such a meeting, but rather because I’ll actively avoid it. There can’t be a strong friendship between a man and a woman who aren’t related.

'Furthermore, there shouldn’t be anything more than that, and that’s why we won’t meet. You see, I don’t beat around the bush; it would be hypocritical to avoid discussing a subject that all men and women in our situation inevitably think about, regardless of what they say. Some women might have written distantly and shed tears over their repressed feelings, but it’s better to be honest and keep a dry eye.-Yours, ETHELBERTA.'

Her feet felt cold and her heart weak as she directed the letter, and she was overpowered with weariness. But murmuring, 'If I let it stay till the morning I shall not send it, and a man may be lost to fame because of a woman's squeamishness-it shall go,' she partially dressed herself, wrapped a large cloak around her, descended the stairs, and went out to the pillar-box at the corner, leaving the door not quite close. No gust of wind had realized her misgivings that it might be blown shut on her return, and she re-entered as softly as she had emerged.

Her feet felt cold and her heart weak as she wrote the letter, and she was overwhelmed with exhaustion. But murmuring, 'If I wait until morning, I won’t send it, and a man might lose his chance at fame because of a woman's hesitation—it has to go,' she partially got dressed, wrapped herself in a big cloak, went downstairs, and headed out to the mailbox at the corner, leaving the door slightly ajar. No gust of wind had fulfilled her fears that it might slam shut when she returned, and she came back inside as quietly as she had left.

It will be seen that Ethelberta had said nothing about her family after all.

It will be clear that Ethelberta had not mentioned anything about her family after all.

10. LADY PETHERWIN'S HOUSE

The next day old Lady Petherwin, who had not accompanied Ethelberta the night before, came into the morning-room, with a newspaper in her hand.

The next day, the elderly Lady Petherwin, who hadn’t joined Ethelberta the night before, entered the morning room with a newspaper in her hand.

'What does this mean, Ethelberta?' she inquired in tones from which every shade of human expressiveness was extracted by some awful and imminent mood that lay behind. She was pointing to a paragraph under the heading of 'Literary Notes,' which contained in a few words the announcement of Ethelberta's authorship that had more circumstantially appeared in the Wessex Reflector.

'What does this mean, Ethelberta?' she asked in a tone stripped of all emotion by some terrible and looming mood beneath the surface. She was pointing to a paragraph under the heading of 'Literary Notes,' which briefly announced Ethelberta's authorship that had been more extensively covered in the Wessex Reflector.

'It means what it says,' said Ethelberta quietly.

'It means what it says,' Ethelberta said softly.

'Then it is true?'

'So it is true?'

'Yes. I must apologize for having kept it such a secret from you. It was not done in the spirit that you may imagine: it was merely to avoid disturbing your mind that I did it so privately.'

'Yes. I have to apologize for keeping it a secret from you. It wasn't done with any bad intention: I just wanted to avoid disturbing your peace of mind by handling it privately.'

'But surely you have not written every one of those ribald verses?'

'But surely you haven't written all of those crude verses?'

Ethelberta looked inclined to exclaim most vehemently against this; but what she actually did say was, '"Ribald"-what do you mean by that? I don't think that you are aware what "ribald" means.'

Ethelberta seemed ready to protest strongly against this; but what she actually said was, '"Ribald"—what do you mean by that? I don't think you really know what "ribald" means.'

'I am not sure that I am. As regards some words as well as some persons, the less you are acquainted with them the more it is to your credit.'

'I’m not sure I am. When it comes to certain words and some people, the less you know about them, the better it reflects on you.'

'I don't quite deserve this, Lady Petherwin.'

'I really don't deserve this, Lady Petherwin.'

'Really, one would imagine that women wrote their books during those dreams in which people have no moral sense, to see how improper some, even virtuous, ladies become when they get into print.'

'Honestly, you would think that women wrote their books during those dreams when people lack any moral compass, just to see how inappropriate some, even decent, women can be when they publish their work.'

'I might have done a much more unnatural thing than write those poems. And perhaps I might have done a much better thing, and got less praise. But that's the world's fault, not mine.'

'I might have done something a lot more unnatural than write those poems. And maybe I could have done something better and received less praise. But that's the world's problem, not mine.'

'You might have left them unwritten, and shown more fidelity.'

'You could have left them unwritten and shown more loyalty.'

'Fidelity! it is more a matter of humour than principle. What has fidelity to do with it?'

'Fidelity! It’s more about humor than principle. What does fidelity have to do with it?'

'Fidelity to my dear boy's memory.'

'Staying true to my dear boy's memory.'

'It would be difficult to show that because I have written so-called tender and gay verse, I feel tender and gay. It is too often assumed that a person's fancy is a person's real mind. I believe that in the majority of cases one is fond of imagining the direct opposite of one's principles in sheer effort after something fresh and free; at any rate, some of the lightest of those rhymes were composed between the deepest fits of dismals I have ever known. However, I did expect that you might judge in the way you have judged, and that was my chief reason for not telling you what I had done.'

'It would be hard to prove that just because I've written what people call tender and cheerful poetry, I actually feel tender and cheerful. It's often assumed that a person's imagination reflects their true thoughts. I think in most cases, people enjoy imagining the complete opposite of their beliefs as a way to explore something new and free; at least, some of the lightest verses I wrote came during some of the darkest times I've ever experienced. Still, I did think you might judge me the way you did, and that was the main reason I didn't tell you what I had written.'

'You don't deny that you tried to escape from recollections you ought to have cherished? There is only one thing that women of your sort are as ready to do as to take a man's name, and that is, drop his memory.'

'You can't deny that you tried to run away from memories you should have valued? There's only one thing that women like you are just as willing to do as taking a man's last name, and that's forgetting his memory.'

'Dear Lady Petherwin-don't be so unreasonable as to blame a live person for living! No woman's head is so small as to be filled for life by a memory of a few months. Four years have passed since I last saw my boy-husband. We were mere children; see how I have altered since in mind, substance, and outline-I have even grown half an inch taller since his death. Two years will exhaust the regrets of widows who have long been faithful wives; and ought I not to show a little new life when my husband died in the honeymoon?'

'Dear Lady Petherwin, please don’t be unreasonable and blame someone for simply living! No woman’s mind is so small that it can be filled for life with just a memory from a few months. Four years have passed since I last saw my boy-husband. We were just kids; look at how much I’ve changed in my thoughts, body, and shape—I’ve even grown half an inch taller since his death. Two years can ease the regrets of widows who have been faithful wives for a long time; shouldn’t I show a little bit of new life when my husband died right after our honeymoon?'

'No. Accepting the protection of your husband's mother was, in effect, an avowal that you rejected the idea of being a widow to prolong the idea of being a wife; and the sin against your conventional state thus assumed is almost as bad as would have been a sin against the married state itself. If you had gone off when he died, saying, "Thank heaven, I am free!" you would, at any rate, have shown some real honesty.'

'No. Accepting your mother-in-law's protection was basically admitting that you were choosing to cling to being a wife, even though you were a widow; and that betrayal of your expected role is nearly as bad as betraying the married state itself. If you had left when he died, saying, "Thank goodness, I'm free!" at least you would have been being honest.'

'I should have been more virtuous by being more unfeeling. That often happens.'

'I should have been more virtuous by being less emotional. That often happens.'

'I have taken to you, and made a great deal of you-given you the inestimable advantages of foreign travel and good society to enlarge your mind. In short, I have been like a Naomi to you in everything, and I maintain that writing these poems saps the foundation of it all.'

'I have connected with you and invested a lot in you—provided you the priceless benefits of traveling abroad and being in good company to broaden your perspective. In short, I have been like a Naomi to you in every way, and I believe that writing these poems undermines everything we've built.'

'I do own that you have been a very good Naomi to me thus far; but Ruth was quite a fast widow in comparison with me, and yet Naomi never blamed her. You are unfortunate in your illustration. But it is dreadfully flippant of me to answer you like this, for you have been kind. But why will you provoke me!'

'I admit that you have been a very good Naomi to me so far; but Ruth was quite a quick widow compared to me, and yet Naomi never blamed her. Your example is unfortunate. But it’s really inconsiderate of me to respond this way, since you have been kind. But why do you insist on provoking me!'

'Yes, you are flippant, Ethelberta. You are too much given to that sort of thing.'

'Yes, you are being flippant, Ethelberta. You're too inclined to that kind of behavior.'

'Well, I don't know how the secret of my name has leaked out; and I am not ribald, or anything you say,' said Ethelberta, with a sigh.

'Well, I don’t know how the secret of my name got out; and I’m not crude, or anything you say,' Ethelberta said with a sigh.

'Then you own you do not feel so ardent as you seem in your book?'

'So, you admit you don't feel as passionate as you appear in your book?'

'I do own it.'

"I own it."

'And that you are sorry your name has been published in connection with it?'

'And that you're upset your name has been mentioned in connection with it?'

'I am.'

"I'm here."

'And you think the verses may tend to misrepresent your character as a gay and rapturous one, when it is not?'

'And you think the lines might misrepresent your character as someone cheerful and ecstatic, when that's not the case?'

'I do fear it.'

"I'm scared of it."

'Then, of course, you will suppress the poems instantly. That is the only way in which you can regain the position you have hitherto held with me.'

'Then, of course, you'll need to get rid of the poems right away. That's the only way you can get back to the position you've had with me until now.'

Ethelberta said nothing; and the dull winter atmosphere had far from light enough in it to show by her face what she might be thinking.

Ethelberta said nothing; and the gloomy winter atmosphere had barely enough light to reveal what she might be thinking by her expression.

'Well?' said Lady Petherwin.

"Well?" said Lady Petherwin.

'I did not expect such a command as that,' said Ethelberta. 'I have been obedient for four years, and would continue so-but I cannot suppress the poems. They are not mine now to suppress.'

'I didn’t expect a command like that,' said Ethelberta. 'I have been obedient for four years and would continue to be, but I can’t just suppress the poems. They’re not mine to suppress anymore.'

'You must get them into your hands. Money will do it, I suppose?'

'You need to get them into your hands. I guess money will help with that?'

'Yes, I suppose it would-a thousand pounds.'

'Yes, I guess it would - a thousand pounds.'

'Very well; the money shall be forthcoming,' said Lady Petherwin, after a pause. 'You had better sit down and write about it at once.'

'Okay, the money will be ready,' said Lady Petherwin after a pause. 'You should sit down and write about it right now.'

'I cannot do it,' said Ethelberta; 'and I will not. I don't wish them to be suppressed. I am not ashamed of them; there is nothing to be ashamed of in them; and I shall not take any steps in the matter.'

'I can't do it,' Ethelberta said; 'and I won't. I don't want them to be hidden away. I'm not embarrassed by them; there's nothing to feel ashamed about in them; and I won't take any action on this.'

'Then you are an ungrateful woman, and wanting in natural affection for the dead! Considering your birth-'

'Then you are an ungrateful woman, lacking natural affection for the dead! Considering your background-'

'That's an intolerable-'

'That's unacceptable-'

Lady Petherwin crashed out of the room in a wind of indignation, and went upstairs and heard no more. Adjoining her chamber was a smaller one called her study, and, on reaching this, she unlocked a cabinet, took out a small deed-box, removed from it a folded packet, unfolded it, crumpled it up, and turning round suddenly flung it into the fire. Then she stood and beheld it eaten away word after word by the flames, 'Testament'-'all that freehold'-'heirs and assigns' appearing occasionally for a moment only to disappear for ever. Nearly half the document had turned into a glossy black when the lady clasped her hands.

Lady Petherwin stormed out of the room in a rush of anger and went upstairs, not looking back. Next to her bedroom was a smaller room she called her study. When she got there, she unlocked a cabinet, took out a small deed box, removed a folded packet from it, unfolded it, crumpled it up, and then suddenly turned around and threw it into the fire. She stood there watching as the flames consumed the paper, word by word; 'Testament'—'all that freehold'—'heirs and assigns' flashed briefly before disappearing forever. Almost half of the document had turned into shiny black ash by the time the lady clasped her hands.

'What have I done!' she exclaimed. Springing to the tongs she seized with them the portion of the writing yet unconsumed, and dragged it out of the fire. Ethelberta appeared at the door.

'What have I done!' she exclaimed. Springing to the tongs, she grabbed the part of the writing that was still intact and pulled it out of the fire. Ethelberta appeared at the door.

'Quick, Ethelberta!' said Lady Petherwin. 'Help me to put this out!' And the two women went trampling wildly upon the document and smothering it with a corner of the hearth-rug.

"Quick, Ethelberta!" Lady Petherwin said. "Help me put this out!" The two women started trampling wildly on the document and smothering it with a corner of the hearth rug.

'What is it?' said Ethelberta.

"What’s that?" said Ethelberta.

'My will!' said Lady Petherwin. 'I have kept it by me lately, for I have wished to look over it at leisure-'

'My will!' said Lady Petherwin. 'I've been holding onto it recently because I've wanted to review it at my convenience-'

'Good heavens!' said Ethelberta. 'And I was just coming in to tell you that I would always cling to you, and never desert you, ill-use me how you might!'

'Good heavens!' Ethelberta said. 'And I was just coming in to tell you that I would always stick by you and never leave you, no matter how you treated me!'

'Such an affectionate remark sounds curious at such a time,' said Lady Petherwin, sinking down in a chair at the end of the struggle.

"That kind of affectionate comment seems strange at a time like this," said Lady Petherwin, collapsing into a chair at the end of the struggle.

'But,' cried Ethelberta, 'you don't suppose-'

'But,' cried Ethelberta, 'you don't think-'

'Selfishness, my dear, has given me such crooked looks that I can see it round a corner.'

'Selfishness, my dear, has given me such twisted perspectives that I can spot it from a distance.'

'If you mean that what is yours to give may not be mine to take, it would be as well to name it in an impersonal way, if you must name it at all,' said the daughter-in-law, with wet eyelids. 'God knows I had no selfish thought in saying that. I came upstairs to ask you to forgive me, and knew nothing about the will. But every explanation distorts it all the more!'

'If you mean that what you have to give isn’t something I can take, it would be better to refer to it in a neutral way, if you have to mention it at all,' said the daughter-in-law, her eyes glistening. 'I swear I had no selfish intentions when I said that. I came up here to ask for your forgiveness, and I didn’t know anything about the will. But every explanation just makes things worse!'

'We two have got all awry, dear-it cannot be concealed-awry-awry. Ah, who shall set us right again? However, now I must send for Mr. Chancerly-no, I am going out on other business, and I will call upon him. There, don't spoil your eyes: you may have to sell them.'

'We both have messed everything up, my dear—it can’t be hidden—messed up—messed up. Ah, who will fix us again? Anyway, I need to call Mr. Chancerly—but no, I have other things to do, and I’ll visit him later. There, don’t strain your eyes: you might have to sell them.'

She rang the bell and ordered the carriage; and half-an-hour later Lady Petherwin's coachman drove his mistress up to the door of her lawyer's office in Lincoln's Inn Fields.

She rang the doorbell and called for the carriage; and half an hour later, Lady Petherwin's coachman drove her up to the entrance of her lawyer's office in Lincoln's Inn Fields.

11. SANDBOURNE AND ITS NEIGHBOURHOOD-SOME LONDON STREETS

While this was going on in town, Christopher, at his lodgings in Sandbourne, had been thrown into rare old visions and dreams by the appearance of Ethelberta's letter. Flattered and encouraged to ambition as well as to love by her inspiriting sermon, he put off now the last remnant of cynical doubt upon the genuineness of his old mistress, and once and for all set down as disloyal a belief he had latterly acquired that 'Come, woo me, woo me; for I am like enough to consent,' was all a young woman had to tell.

While all of this was happening in town, Christopher, at his place in Sandbourne, was caught up in rare visions and dreams sparked by Ethelberta's letter. Flattered and inspired by her motivating words, he finally let go of any lingering doubts about the authenticity of his former love. He decided that it was disloyal to believe that "Come, woo me, woo me; for I am likely to say yes," was all a young woman needed to say.

All the reasoning of political and social economists would not have convinced Christopher that he had a better chance in London than in Sandbourne of making a decent income by reasonable and likely labour; but a belief in a far more improbable proposition, impetuously expressed, warmed him with the idea that he might become famous there. The greater is frequently more readily credited than the less, and an argument which will not convince on a matter of halfpence appears unanswerable when applied to questions of glory and honour.

All the arguments from political and social economists wouldn't have convinced Christopher that he had a better chance of making a decent income in London than in Sandbourne through reasonable and likely work; however, a belief in a much more unlikely idea, passionately stated, excited him with the thought that he might become famous there. People often find it easier to believe in something grander than something smaller, and an argument that fails to persuade about a few pennies seems undeniable when it comes to matters of fame and honor.

The regulation wet towel and strong coffee of the ambitious and intellectual student floated before him in visions; but it was with a sense of relief that he remembered that music, in spite of its drawbacks as a means of sustenance, was a profession happily unencumbered with those excruciating preliminaries to greatness.

The usual damp towel and strong coffee of the ambitious and intellectual student appeared in his mind, but he felt relieved as he recalled that music, despite its challenges as a way to make a living, was a profession free from those painful steps to success.

Christopher talked about the new move to his sister, and he was vexed that her hopefulness was not roused to quite the pitch of his own. As with others of his sort, his too general habit of accepting the most clouded possibility that chances offered was only transcended by his readiness to kindle with a fitful excitement now and then. Faith was much more equable. 'If you were not the most melancholy man God ever created,' she said, kindly looking at his vague deep eyes and thin face, which was but a few degrees too refined and poetical to escape the epithet of lantern-jawed from any one who had quarrelled with him, 'you would not mind my coolness about this. It is a good thing of course to go; I have always fancied that we were mistaken in coming here. Mediocrity stamped "London" fetches more than talent marked "provincial." But I cannot feel so enthusiastic.'

Christopher discussed the new move with his sister, feeling frustrated that her optimism didn’t quite match his own. Like many people of his kind, he usually accepted even the most uncertain possibilities, but he also had moments of intermittent excitement. Faith was much more balanced. “If you weren’t the most depressing person God ever created,” she said, kindly looking at his vague, deep-set eyes and thin face, which was just refined and poetic enough to earn the nickname 'lantern-jawed' from anyone who had fought with him, “you wouldn’t be bothered by my lack of enthusiasm. It’s definitely a good thing to go; I’ve always thought we were mistaken in coming here. Mediocre talent labeled 'London' sells for more than talent labeled 'provincial.' But I just can’t feel that excited about it.”

'Still, if we are to go, we may as well go by enthusiasm as by calculation; it is a sensation pleasanter to the nerves, and leads to just as good a result when there is only one result possible.'

'Still, if we're going to go, we might as well go with enthusiasm instead of calculation; it feels better and leads to just as good a result when there's only one outcome possible.'

'Very well,' said Faith. 'I will not depress you. If I had to describe you I should say you were a child in your impulses, and an old man in your reflections. Have you considered when we shall start?'

'Alright,' said Faith. 'I won't bring you down. If I had to describe you, I’d say you’re a child in your impulses, but an old man in your thoughts. Have you thought about when we should leave?'

'Yes.'

Yes.

'What have you thought?'

'What do you think?'

'That we may very well leave the place in six weeks if we wish.'

'We can definitely leave this place in six weeks if we want to.'

'We really may?'

"Really, we might?"

'Yes. And what is more, we will.'

'Yes. And what's more, we will.'

Christopher and Faith arrived in London on an afternoon at the end of winter, and beheld from one of the river bridges snow-white scrolls of steam from the tall chimneys of Lambeth, rising against the livid sky behind, as if drawn in chalk on toned cardboard.

Christopher and Faith arrived in London one winter afternoon and saw from one of the river bridges white clouds of steam billowing from the tall chimneys of Lambeth, rising against the gray sky behind, like chalk drawings on a colored background.

The first thing he did that evening, when settled in their apartments near the British Museum, before applying himself to the beginning of the means by which success in life might be attained, was to go out in the direction of Ethelberta's door, leaving Faith unpacking the things, and sniffing extraordinary smoke-smells which she discovered in all nooks and crannies of the rooms. It was some satisfaction to see Ethelberta's house, although the single feature in which it differed from the other houses in the Crescent was that no lamp shone from the fanlight over the entrance-a speciality which, if he cared for omens, was hardly encouraging. Fearing to linger near lest he might be detected, Christopher stole a glimpse at the door and at the steps, imagined what a trifle of the depression worn in each step her feet had tended to produce, and strolled home again.

The first thing he did that evening, once they were settled in their apartment near the British Museum, before getting started on how to achieve success in life, was to head towards Ethelberta's door, leaving Faith to unpack and take in the strange smoke scents that filled every corner of the rooms. It was somewhat satisfying to see Ethelberta's house, even though the only thing that set it apart from the other houses in the Crescent was the absence of a lamp shining from the fanlight above the entrance—a detail that, if he believed in omens, was hardly encouraging. Worried about being seen, Christopher took a quick look at the door and steps, imagined the slight impression her feet might have left on each step, and then walked back home.

Feeling that his reasons for calling just now were scarcely sufficient, he went next day about the business that had brought him to town, which referred to a situation as organist in a large church in the north-west district. The post was half ensured already, and he intended to make of it the nucleus of a professional occupation and income. Then he sat down to think of the preliminary steps towards publishing the song that had so pleased her, and had also, as far as he could understand from her letter, hit the popular taste very successfully; a fact which, however little it may say for the virtues of the song as a composition, was a great recommendation to it as a property. Christopher was delighted to perceive that out of this position he could frame an admissible, if not an unimpeachable, reason for calling upon Ethelberta. He determined to do so at once, and obtain the required permission by word of mouth.

Feeling that his reasons for calling just now weren't really enough, he went the next day to take care of the business that had brought him to town, which was about a position as an organist in a large church in the northwest district. The job was already half secured, and he planned to make it the foundation of a professional career and income. Then he sat down to think about the first steps toward publishing the song that had pleased her so much, and which, from what he understood from her letter, had also resonated well with the public; a fact that, while it might not speak much to the virtues of the song as a composition, was a huge advantage for it as a valuable asset. Christopher was excited to realize that from this situation, he could come up with a valid, if not entirely foolproof, reason to visit Ethelberta. He decided to do it right away and get the necessary permission in person.

He was greatly surprised, when the front of the house appeared in view on this spring afternoon, to see what a white and sightless aspect pervaded all the windows. He came close: the eyeball blankness was caused by all the shutters and blinds being shut tight from top to bottom. Possibly this had been the case for some time-he could not tell. In one of the windows was a card bearing the announcement, 'This House to be let Furnished.' Here was a merciless clash between fancy and fact. Regretting now his faint-heartedness in not letting her know beforehand by some means that he was about to make a new start in the world, and coming to dwell near her, Christopher rang the bell to make inquiries. A gloomy caretaker appeared after a while, and the young man asked whither the ladies had gone to live. He was beyond measure depressed to learn that they were in the South of France-Arles, the man thought the place was called-the time of their return to town being very uncertain; though one thing was clear, they meant to miss the forthcoming London season altogether.

He was really surprised when he saw the front of the house on that spring afternoon, noticing how completely white and lifeless the windows looked. He stepped closer: the empty look was due to all the shutters and blinds being tightly closed. This might have been the case for a while—he couldn’t tell. In one window, there was a sign that said, “This House to be let Furnished.” Here was a harsh contrast between imagination and reality. Regretting his hesitation in not informing her beforehand that he was about to start fresh in life and move nearby, Christopher rang the bell to ask for details. After a while, a gloomy caretaker appeared, and the young man inquired where the ladies had gone to live. He was incredibly disappointed to find out they were in the South of France—Arles, the man thought it was called—with their return to the city being very uncertain; however, one thing was clear, they intended to completely miss the upcoming London season.

As Christopher's hope to see her again had brought a resolve to do so, so now resolve led to dogged patience. Instead of attempting anything by letter, he decided to wait; and he waited well, occupying himself in publishing a 'March' and a 'Morning and Evening Service in E flat.' Some four-part songs, too, engaged his attention when the heavier duties of the day were over-these duties being the giving of lessons in harmony and counterpoint, in which he was aided by the introductions of a man well known in the musical world, who had been acquainted with young Julian as a promising amateur long before he adopted music as the staff of his pilgrimage.

As Christopher's desire to see her again fueled his determination to do so, that same determination evolved into persistent patience. Rather than attempting to reach out through letters, he chose to wait; and he waited patiently, keeping himself busy by publishing a 'March' and a 'Morning and Evening Service in E flat.' He also focused on some four-part songs when the heavier responsibilities of the day were behind him—these responsibilities included giving lessons in harmony and counterpoint, for which he received support from a well-known figure in the music world who had known young Julian as a promising amateur long before he committed to music as the path of his journey.

It was the end of summer when he again tried his fortune at the house in Exonbury Crescent. Scarcely calculating upon finding her at this stagnant time of the town year, and only hoping for information, Julian was surprised and excited to see the shutters open, and the house wearing altogether a living look, its neighbours having decidedly died off meanwhile.

It was the end of summer when he tried his luck again at the house on Exonbury Crescent. Not really expecting to find her during this slow time of year in town, and mostly hoping for some news, Julian was surprised and thrilled to see the shutters open and the house looking vibrant, while its neighbors seemed to have completely fallen silent.

'The family here,' said a footman in answer to his inquiry, 'are only temporary tenants of the house. It is not Lady Petherwin's people.'

'The family here,' said a footman in response to his question, 'are just temporary renters of the house. They aren't Lady Petherwin's guests.'

'Do you know the Petherwins' present address?'

'Do you know the current address of the Petherwins?'

'Underground, sir, for the old lady. She died some time ago in Switzerland, and was buried there, I believe.'

'Underground, sir, for the old lady. She passed away a while ago in Switzerland and was buried there, I think.'

'And Mrs. Petherwin-the young lady,' said Christopher, starting.

'And Mrs. Petherwin - the young lady,' said Christopher, surprised.

'We are not acquainted personally with the family,' the man replied. 'My master has only taken the house for a few months, whilst extensive alterations are being made in his own on the other side of the park, which he goes to look after every day. If you want any further information about Lady Petherwin, Mrs. Petherwin will probably give it. I can let you have her address.'

'We don't know the family personally,' the man replied. 'My boss has only rented the house for a few months while significant renovations are happening at his own place on the other side of the park, which he checks on every day. If you need more details about Lady Petherwin, Mrs. Petherwin will likely have that information. I can give you her address.'

'Ah, yes; thank you,' said Christopher.

"Oh, yes; thanks," Christopher said.

The footman handed him one of some cards which appeared to have been left for the purpose. Julian, though tremblingly anxious to know where Ethelberta was, did not look at it till he could take a cool survey in private. The address was 'Arrowthorne Lodge, Upper Wessex.'

The footman gave him one of the cards that seemed to be left for that reason. Julian, although nervously eager to find out where Ethelberta was, didn't look at it until he could calmly check it in private. The address was 'Arrowthorne Lodge, Upper Wessex.'

'Dear me!' said Christopher to himself, 'not far from Melchester; and not dreadfully far from Sandbourne.'

'Oh dear!' Christopher said to himself, 'not too far from Melchester; and not really far from Sandbourne.'

12. ARROWTHORNE PARK AND LODGE

Summer was just over when Christopher Julian found himself rattling along in the train to Sandbourne on some trifling business appertaining to his late father's affairs, which would afford him an excuse for calling at Arrowthorne about the song of hers that he wished to produce. He alighted in the afternoon at a little station some twenty miles short of Sandbourne, and leaving his portmanteau behind him there, decided to walk across the fields, obtain if possible the interview with the lady, and return then to the station to finish the journey to Sandbourne, which he could thus reach at a convenient hour in the evening, and, if he chose, take leave of again the next day.

Summer had just ended when Christopher Julian found himself on a train to Sandbourne for some minor business related to his late father's affairs, which gave him an excuse to stop by Arrowthorne about the song he wanted to produce. He got off in the afternoon at a small station about twenty miles before Sandbourne, leaving his suitcase behind, and decided to walk across the fields to hopefully meet with the lady. He planned to return to the station afterward to complete his journey to Sandbourne, which would allow him to arrive at a convenient hour in the evening and, if he wanted, leave again the next day.

It was an afternoon which had a fungous smell out of doors, all being sunless and stagnant overhead and around. The various species of trees had begun to assume the more distinctive colours of their decline, and where there had been one pervasive green were now twenty greenish yellows, the air in the vistas between them being half opaque with blue exhalation. Christopher in his walk overtook a countryman, and inquired if the path they were following would lead him to Arrowthorne Lodge.

It was an afternoon with a musty smell outside, everything being dull and still overhead and around. The different types of trees had started to show the more distinctive colors of their decline, and where there used to be one overall green, there were now twenty shades of greenish yellow, the air in the spaces between them being partly thick with a bluish haze. Christopher, while walking, passed a man from the countryside and asked if the path they were on would take him to Arrowthorne Lodge.

''Twill take 'ee into Arr'thorne Park,' the man replied. 'But you won't come anigh the Lodge, unless you bear round to the left as might be.'

''It'll take you into Arr'thorne Park,'' the man replied. ''But you won't get close to the Lodge unless you turn left, like you should.''

'Mrs. Petherwin lives there, I believe?'

'Mrs. Petherwin lives there, I think?'

'No, sir. Leastwise unless she's but lately come. I have never heard of such a woman.'

'No, sir. At least not unless she just arrived. I’ve never heard of such a woman.'

'She may possibly be only visiting there.'

'She might just be visiting there.'

'Ah, perhaps that's the shape o't. Well, now you tell o't, I have seen a strange face thereabouts once or twice lately. A young good-looking maid enough, seemingly.'

'Ah, maybe that’s what it is. Now that you mention it, I’ve seen a strange face around here once or twice lately. A young, pretty girl, it seems.'

'Yes, she's considered a very handsome lady.'

'Yes, she's seen as a very attractive woman.'

'I've heard the woodmen say, now that you tell o't, that they meet her every now and then, just at the closing in of the day, as they come home along with their nitches of sticks; ay, stalking about under the trees by herself-a tall black martel, so long-legged and awful-like that you'd think 'twas the old feller himself a-coming, they say. Now a woman must be a queer body to my thinking, to roam about by night so lonesome and that? Ay, now that you tell o't, there is such a woman, but 'a never have showed in the parish; sure I never thought who the body was-no, not once about her, nor where 'a was living and that-not I, till you spoke. Well, there, sir, that's Arr'thorne Lodge; do you see they three elms?' He pointed across the glade towards some confused foliage a long way off.

"I've heard the loggers say, now that you mention it, that they see her every now and then, right as the day's ending, when they’re coming home with their bundles of sticks; yeah, wandering around under the trees by herself—a tall, dark figure, so long-legged and eerie that you'd think it was the Devil himself coming, they say. Now a woman has to be pretty strange, in my opinion, to wander around alone at night like that, right? Yeah, now that you mention it, there is such a woman, but she’s never shown up in the parish; I never even thought about who she was—not once, or where she was living or anything—not me, until you said something. Well, look there, sir, that's Arr'thorne Lodge; do you see those three elms?" He pointed across the clearing towards some confused foliage far off.

'I am not sure about the sort of tree you mean,' said Christopher, 'I see a number of trees with edges shaped like edges of clouds.'

'I’m not sure what kind of tree you mean,' said Christopher, 'I see a bunch of trees with shapes like the edges of clouds.'

'Ay, ay, they be oaks; I mean the elms to the left hand.'

'Ay, ay, they are oaks; I mean the elms on the left.'

'But a man can hardly tell oaks from elms at that distance, my good fellow!'

'But a guy can barely tell oaks from elms at that distance, my good man!'

'That 'a can very well-leastwise, if he's got the sense.'

'That he can very well—at least if he has the sense.'

'Well, I think I see what you mean,' said Christopher. 'What next?'

'Well, I think I get what you’re saying,' said Christopher. 'What’s next?'

'When you get there, you bear away smart to nor'-west, and you'll come straight as a line to the Lodge.'

'When you arrive, head directly northwest, and you'll get straight to the Lodge.'

'How the deuce am I to know which is north-west in a strange place, with no sun to tell me?'

'How on earth am I supposed to know which way is northwest in a weird place, with no sun to guide me?'

'What, not know nor-west? Well, I should think a boy could never live and grow up to be a man without knowing the four quarters. I knowed 'em when I was a mossel of a chiel. We be no great scholars here, that's true, but there isn't a Tom-rig or Jack-straw in these parts that don't know where they lie as well as I. Now I've lived, man and boy, these eight-and-sixty years, and never met a man in my life afore who hadn't learnt such a common thing as the four quarters.'

'What, you don't know northwest? I can't believe a boy could grow up to be a man without knowing the four directions. I knew them when I was just a little kid. We're not exactly scholars around here, that's for sure, but there's not a single person in these parts who doesn't know where they are just as well as I do. Now, I've lived, man and boy, for sixty-eight years, and I've never met anyone in my life before who hasn't learned something as basic as the four directions.'

Christopher parted from his companion and soon reached a stile, clambering over which he entered a park. Here he threaded his way, and rounding a clump of aged trees the young man came in view of a light and elegant country-house in the half-timbered Gothic style of the late revival, apparently only a few years old. Surprised at finding himself so near, Christopher's heart fluttered unmanageably till he had taken an abstract view of his position, and, in impatience at his want of nerve, adopted a sombre train of reasoning to convince himself that, far from indulgence in the passion of love bringing bliss, it was a folly, leading to grief and disquiet-certainly one which would do him no good. Cooled down by this, he stepped into the drive and went up to the house.

Christopher said goodbye to his friend and soon reached a fence, climbing over it to enter a park. He made his way through and rounded a group of old trees, coming into view of a light and stylish country house in the half-timbered Gothic style of the late revival, apparently only a few years old. Surprised to find himself so close, Christopher's heart raced uncontrollably until he managed to take a step back and assess his situation. Frustrated by his lack of confidence, he adopted a serious line of thought to convince himself that indulging in the passion of love brought no happiness but rather was a folly that led to sorrow and unrest—certainly something that would do him no good. Feeling more composed, he stepped onto the driveway and approached the house.

'Is Mrs. Petherwin at home?' he said modestly.

'Is Mrs. Petherwin home?' he asked shyly.

'Who did you say, sir?'

'Who did you say?'

He repeated the name.

He said the name again.

'Don't know the person.'

'Don’t know this person.'

'The lady may be a visitor-I call on business.'

'The lady might be a visitor—I’m here for business.'

'She is not visiting in this house, sir.'

'She isn't visiting this house, sir.'

'Is not this Arrowthorne Lodge?'

'Is this Arrowthorne Lodge?'

'Certainly not.'

'Definitely not.'

'Then where is Arrowthorne Lodge, please?'

'So, where is Arrowthorne Lodge, please?'

'Well, it is nearly a mile from here. Under the trees by the high-road. If you go across by that footpath it will bring you out quicker than by following the bend of the drive.'

'Well, it’s almost a mile from here. Under the trees by the main road. If you take that footpath, it’ll get you there faster than following the curve of the driveway.'

Christopher wondered how he could have managed to get into the wrong park; but, setting it down to his ignorance of the difference between oak and elm, he immediately retraced his steps, passing across the park again, through the gate at the end of the drive, and into the turnpike road. No other gate, park, or country seat of any description was within view.

Christopher wondered how he could have ended up in the wrong park; but, chalking it up to not knowing the difference between oak and elm, he quickly retraced his steps, crossing through the park again, going through the gate at the end of the drive, and onto the turnpike road. No other gate, park, or estate of any kind was in sight.

'Can you tell me the way to Arrowthorne Lodge?' he inquired of the first person he met, who was a little girl.

'Can you tell me how to get to Arrowthorne Lodge?' he asked the first person he saw, who was a little girl.

'You are just coming away from it, sir,' said she. 'I'll show you; I am going that way.'

'You're just leaving it, sir,' she said. 'I’ll show you; I'm going that way.'

They walked along together. Getting abreast the entrance of the park he had just emerged from, the child said, 'There it is, sir; I live there too.'

They walked side by side. As they approached the entrance of the park he had just come out of, the child said, 'There it is, sir; I live there too.'

Christopher, with a dazed countenance, looked towards a cottage which stood nestling in the shrubbery and ivy like a mushroom among grass. 'Is that Arrowthorne Lodge?' he repeated.

Christopher, looking a bit dazed, glanced at a cottage that was tucked away in the bushes and ivy like a mushroom in the grass. "Is that Arrowthorne Lodge?" he asked again.

'Yes, and if you go up the drive, you come to Arrowthorne House.'

'Yes, and if you head up the driveway, you’ll reach Arrowthorne House.'

'Arrowthorne Lodge-where Mrs. Petherwin lives, I mean.'

'Arrowthorne Lodge—where Mrs. Petherwin lives, I mean.'

'Yes. She lives there along wi' mother and we. But she don't want anybody to know it, sir, cause she's celebrate, and 'twouldn't do at all.'

'Yes. She lives there with her mother and us. But she doesn't want anyone to know, sir, because she's famous, and that wouldn't be good at all.'

Christopher said no more, and the little girl became interested in the products of the bank and ditch by the wayside. He left her, pushed open the heavy gate, and tapped at the Lodge door.

Christopher said nothing more, and the little girl started to pay attention to the things produced by the bank and ditch along the path. He left her there, pushed open the heavy gate, and knocked on the Lodge door.

The latch was lifted. 'Does Mrs. Petherwin,' he began, and, determined that there should be no mistake, repeated, 'Does Mrs. Ethelberta Petherwin, the poetess, live here?' turning full upon the person who opened the door.

The latch was lifted. 'Does Mrs. Petherwin,' he started, and, wanting to make sure there was no confusion, added, 'Does Mrs. Ethelberta Petherwin, the poet, live here?' as he turned to face the person who opened the door.

'She does, sir,' said a faltering voice; and he found himself face to face with the pupil-teacher of Sandbourne.

'She does, sir,' said a hesitant voice; and he found himself face to face with the student-teacher of Sandbourne.

13. THE LODGE (continued)-THE COPSE BEHIND

'This is indeed a surprise; I-am glad to see you!' Christopher stammered, with a wire-drawn, radically different smile from the one he had intended-a smile not without a tinge of ghastliness.

'This is really surprising; I'm glad to see you!' Christopher stammered, with a forced, completely different smile from the one he had planned—a smile that carried a hint of eeriness.

'Yes-I am home for the holidays,' said the blushing maiden; and, after a critical pause, she added, 'If you wish to speak to my sister, she is in the plantation with the children.'

'Yes, I'm home for the holidays,' said the blushing girl; and, after a thoughtful pause, she added, 'If you want to talk to my sister, she's out in the fields with the kids.'

'O no-no, thank you-not necessary at all,' said Christopher, in haste. 'I only wish for an interview with a lady called Mrs. Petherwin.'

'O no-no, thank you—not necessary at all,' said Christopher quickly. 'I just want to meet with a lady named Mrs. Petherwin.'

'Yes; Mrs Petherwin-my sister,' said Picotee. 'She is in the plantation. That little path will take you to her in five minutes.'

'Yes; Mrs. Petherwin—my sister,' said Picotee. 'She's in the plantation. That little path will get you to her in five minutes.'

The amazed Christopher persuaded himself that this discovery was very delightful, and went on persuading so long that at last he felt it to be so. Unable, like many other people, to enjoy being satirized in words because of the irritation it caused him as aimed-at victim, he sometimes had philosophy enough to appreciate a satire of circumstance, because nobody intended it. Pursuing the path indicated, he found himself in a thicket of scrubby undergrowth, which covered an area enclosed from the park proper by a decaying fence. The boughs were so tangled that he was obliged to screen his face with his hands, to escape the risk of having his eyes filliped out by the twigs that impeded his progress. Thus slowly advancing, his ear caught, between the rustles, the tones of a voice in earnest declamation; and, pushing round in that direction, he beheld through some beech boughs an open space about ten yards in diameter, floored at the bottom with deep beds of curled old leaves, and cushions of furry moss. In the middle of this natural theatre was the stump of a tree that had been felled by a saw, and upon the flat stool thus formed stood Ethelberta, whom Christopher had not beheld since the ball at Wyndway House.

The amazed Christopher convinced himself that this discovery was really wonderful, and he kept convincing himself until he actually felt that way. Unlike many others, he couldn’t stand being mocked in words because it irritated him as the target, but sometimes he had enough perspective to appreciate a satire of circumstance since no one intended it. Following the indicated path, he found himself in a tangle of scruffy underbrush, which was separated from the main park by a rotting fence. The branches were so tangled that he had to shield his face with his hands to avoid getting his eyes poked out by the twigs blocking his way. As he made his way slowly forward, he heard the sounds of a voice earnestly speaking; and, moving toward that direction, he glimpsed an open area about ten yards wide through some beech branches, covered in thick layers of curled old leaves and soft moss. In the center of this natural stage was the stump of a tree that had been cut down, and on this flat platform stood Ethelberta, whom Christopher hadn’t seen since the ball at Wyndway House.

Round her, leaning against branches or prostrate on the ground, were five or six individuals. Two were young mechanics-one of them evidently a carpenter. Then there was a boy about thirteen, and two or three younger children. Ethelberta's appearance answered as fully as ever to that of an English lady skilfully perfected in manner, carriage, look, and accent; and the incongruity of her present position among lives which had had many of Nature's beauties stamped out of them, and few of the beauties of Art stamped in, brought him, as a second feeling, a pride in her that almost equalled his first sentiment of surprise. Christopher's attention was meanwhile attracted from the constitution of the group to the words of the speaker in the centre of it-words to which her auditors were listening with still attention.

Around her, leaning against branches or lying on the ground, were five or six people. Two were young mechanics—one of them clearly a carpenter. Then there was a boy about thirteen, and two or three younger children. Ethelberta looked just like an English lady, perfectly polished in her manner, posture, appearance, and accent; and the oddity of her current situation among people whose lives had stripped them of many of Nature's beauties, with few of the beauties of Art added in, filled him with a pride in her that almost matched his initial surprise. Meanwhile, Christopher's attention shifted from the composition of the group to the words of the speaker in the center—words that her listeners were focused on intently.

It appeared to Christopher that Ethelberta had lately been undergoing some very extraordinary experiences. What the beginning of them had been he could not in the least understand, but the portion she was describing came distinctly to his ears, and he wondered more and more.

It seemed to Christopher that Ethelberta had recently been through some really unusual experiences. He couldn't grasp what had started it all, but the part she was talking about was clear to him, and he found himself increasingly intrigued.

'He came forward till he, like myself, was about twenty yards from the edge. I instinctively grasped my useless stiletto. How I longed for the assistance which a little earlier I had so much despised! Reaching the block or boulder upon which I had been sitting, he clasped his arms around from behind; his hands closed upon the empty seat, and he jumped up with an oath. This method of attack told me a new thing with wretched distinctness; he had, as I suppose, discovered my sex, male attire was to serve my turn no longer. The next instant, indeed, made it clear, for he exclaimed, "You don't escape me, masquerading madam," or some such words, and came on. My only hope was that in his excitement he might forget to notice where the grass terminated near the edge of the cliff, though this could be easily felt by a careful walker: to make my own feeling more distinct on this point I hastily bared my feet.'

He stepped forward until he, like me, was about twenty yards from the edge. I instinctively grabbed my useless stiletto. How I wished for the help that I had so recently looked down upon! Reaching the block or boulder where I had been sitting, he wrapped his arms around from behind; his hands gripped the empty seat, and he jumped up with an oath. This method of attack made me realize something painfully clear; he had, I assume, figured out my gender, and my male clothing wouldn’t help me anymore. The next moment confirmed it when he shouted, "You’re not getting away from me, masquerading lady," or something like that, and moved forward. My only hope was that in his excitement he might forget to notice where the grass ended near the edge of the cliff, though a careful walker would easily feel it: to make my own sense of this clearer, I quickly took off my shoes.

The listeners moistened their lips, Ethelberta took breath, and then went on to describe the scene that ensued, 'A dreadful variation on the game of Blindman's buff,' being the words by which she characterized it.

The listeners wet their lips, Ethelberta took a breath, and then continued to describe the scene that followed, calling it "a terrible twist on the game of Blindman's buff."

Ethelberta's manner had become so impassioned at this point that the lips of her audience parted, the children clung to their elders, and Christopher could control himself no longer. He thrust aside the boughs, and broke in upon the group.

Ethelberta's demeanor had become so intense at this moment that the mouths of her audience gaped, the kids hung onto their parents, and Christopher could no longer hold back. He pushed aside the branches and interrupted the group.

'For Heaven's sake, Ethelberta,' he exclaimed with great excitement, 'where did you meet with such a terrible experience as that?'

'For heaven's sake, Ethelberta,' he exclaimed with great excitement, 'where did you have such a terrible experience like that?'

The children shrieked, as if they thought that the interruption was in some way the catastrophe of the events in course of narration. Every one started up; the two young mechanics stared, and one of them inquired, in return, 'What's the matter, friend?'

The children screamed, as if they believed that the interruption was somehow the disaster of the story being told. Everyone jumped up; the two young mechanics stared, and one of them asked in response, "What's the matter, buddy?"

Christopher had not yet made reply when Ethelberta stepped from her pedestal down upon the crackling carpet of deep leaves.

Christopher hadn’t replied yet when Ethelberta stepped off her pedestal and onto the rustling carpet of deep leaves.

'Mr. Julian!' said she, in a serene voice, turning upon him eyes of such a disputable stage of colour, between brown and grey, as would have commended itself to a gallant duellist of the last century as a point on which it was absolutely necessary to take some friend's life or other. But the calmness was artificially done, and the astonishment that did not appear in Ethelberta's tones was expressed by her gaze. Christopher was not in a mood to draw fine distinctions between recognized and unrecognized organs of speech. He replied to the eyes.

'Mr. Julian!' she said calmly, looking at him with eyes that were an ambiguous mix of brown and gray, which would have inspired a brave duelist from the last century to feel it was essential to settle the matter with someone's life. But her calm demeanor was feigned, and the surprise that she didn't show in her voice was clear in her gaze. Christopher wasn't in the mood to make subtle distinctions between known and unknown ways of expressing oneself. He responded to her eyes.

'I own that your surprise is natural,' he said, with an anxious look into her face, as if he wished to get beyond this interpolated scene to something more congenial and understood. 'But my concern at such a history of yourself since I last saw you is even more natural than your surprise at my manner of breaking in.'

"I admit that your surprise is understandable," he said, looking at her anxiously, as if he wanted to move past this awkward moment to something more comfortable and familiar. "But my worry about what you've been through since we last met is even more understandable than your surprise at how I suddenly jumped in."

'That history would justify any conduct in one who hears it-'

'That history would justify any behavior in someone who hears it-'

'Yes, indeed.'

'Absolutely.'

'If it were true,' added Ethelberta, smiling. 'But it is as false as-' She could name nothing notoriously false without raising an image of what was disagreeable, and she continued in a better manner: 'The story I was telling is entirely a fiction, which I am getting up for a particular purpose-very different from what appears at present.'

'If that were true,' Ethelberta said with a smile. 'But it’s as false as—' She couldn't think of anything obviously false without bringing up something unpleasant, so she went on more gracefully: 'The story I was sharing is completely made-up, which I'm creating for a specific reason—very different from what it seems right now.'

'I am sorry there was such a misunderstanding,' Christopher stammered, looking upon the ground uncertain and ashamed. 'Yet I am not, either, for I am very glad you have not undergone such trials, of course. But the fact is, I-being in the neighbourhood-I ventured to call on a matter of business, relating to a poem which I had the pleasure of setting to music at the beginning of the year.'

'I’m sorry there was such a misunderstanding,' Christopher stammered, looking down, unsure and ashamed. 'But I’m also not, because I’m really glad you haven’t gone through those trials, of course. The thing is, since I was in the area, I decided to drop by about a business matter related to a poem I had the pleasure of setting to music earlier this year.'

Ethelberta was only a little less ill at ease than Christopher showed himself to be by this way of talking.

Ethelberta felt just a bit less uncomfortable than Christopher did with the way he was talking.

'Will you walk slowly on?' she said gently to the two young men, 'and take the children with you; this gentleman wishes to speak to me on business.'

"Could you please walk a bit slower?" she said kindly to the two young men. "And take the children with you; this gentleman wants to talk to me about some business."

The biggest young man caught up a little one under his arm, and plunged amid the boughs; another little one lingered behind for a few moments to look shyly at Christopher, with an oblique manner of hiding her mouth against her shoulder and her eyes behind her pinafore. Then she vanished, the boy and the second young man followed, and Ethelberta and Christopher stood within the wood-bound circle alone.

The tall young man picked up a smaller boy under his arm and disappeared into the trees; another girl stayed back for a moment to sneak a shy glance at Christopher, covering her mouth with her shoulder and hiding her eyes behind her pinafore. Then she disappeared too, followed by the boy and the second young man, leaving Ethelberta and Christopher standing alone in the wooded area.

'I hope I have caused no inconvenience by interrupting the proceedings,' said Christopher softly; 'but I so very much wished to see you!'

'I hope I haven't disrupted anything by interrupting,' said Christopher softly; 'but I really wanted to see you!'

'Did you, indeed-really wish to see me?' she said gladly. 'Never mind inconvenience then; it is a word which seems shallow in meaning under the circumstances. I surely must say that a visit is to my advantage, must I not? I am not as I was, you see, and may receive as advantages what I used to consider as troubles.'

"Did you really want to see me?" she said happily. "Forget about any inconvenience; that just feels like an empty word in this situation. I have to admit that a visit is definitely a benefit for me, right? I'm not who I used to be, you know, and I can now see benefits in what I once thought were troubles."

'Has your life really changed so much?'

'Has your life really changed that much?'

'It has changed. But what I first meant was that an interesting visitor at a wrong time is better than a stupid one at a right time.'

'It has changed. But what I originally meant was that an intriguing visitor at the wrong time is better than a foolish one at the right time.'

'I had been behind the trees for some minutes, looking at you, and thinking of you; but what you were doing rather interrupted my first meditation. I had thought of a meeting in which we should continue our intercourse at the point at which it was broken off years ago, as if the omitted part had not existed at all; but something, I cannot tell what, has upset all that feeling, and-'

'I had been hiding behind the trees for a few minutes, watching you and thinking about you; but what you were doing interrupted my initial thoughts. I had envisioned a meeting where we would pick up our conversation right where we left off years ago, as if the time in between hadn’t happened at all; but something, I can’t quite put my finger on, has thrown all of that off, and-'

'I can soon tell you the meaning of my extraordinary performance,' Ethelberta broke in quickly, and with a little trepidation. 'My mother-in-law, Lady Petherwin, is dead; and she has left me nothing but her house and furniture in London-more than I deserve, but less than she had distinctly led me to expect; and so I am somewhat in a corner.'

'I can quickly explain the meaning of my unusual performance,' Ethelberta interrupted nervously. 'My mother-in-law, Lady Petherwin, has passed away; and she left me nothing but her house and furniture in London—more than I deserve, but less than she clearly led me to expect; and so I'm feeling a bit stuck.'

'It is always so.'

"That's always the case."

'Not always, I think. But this is how it happened. Lady Petherwin was very capricious; when she was not foolishly kind she was unjustly harsh. A great many are like it, never thinking what a good thing it would be, instead of going on tacking from side to side between favour and cruelty, to keep to a mean line of common justice. And so we quarrelled, and she, being absolute mistress of all her wealth, destroyed her will that was in my favour, and made another, leaving me nothing but the fag-end of the lease of the town-house and the furniture in it. Then, when we were abroad, she turned to me again, forgave everything, and, becoming ill afterwards, wrote a letter to the brother, to whom she had left the bulk of her property, stating that I was to have twenty-thousand of the one-hundred-thousand pounds she had bequeathed to him-as in the original will-doing this by letter in case anything should happen to her before a new will could be considered, drawn, and signed, and trusting to his honour quite that he would obey her expressed wish should she die abroad. Well, she did die, in the full persuasion that I was provided for; but her brother (as I secretly expected all the time) refused to be morally bound by a document which had no legal value, and the result is that he has everything, except, of course, the furniture and the lease. It would have been enough to break the heart of a person who had calculated upon getting a fortune, which I never did; for I felt always like an intruder and a bondswoman, and had wished myself out of the Petherwin family a hundred times, with my crust of bread and liberty. For one thing, I was always forbidden to see my relatives, and it pained me much. Now I am going to move for myself, and consider that I have a good chance of success in what I may undertake, because of an indifference I feel about succeeding which gives the necessary coolness that any great task requires.'

'Not always, I think. But this is how it happened. Lady Petherwin was very unpredictable; when she wasn’t foolishly kind, she was unjustly harsh. Many people are like that, never realizing how beneficial it would be to stay balanced between favor and cruelty, instead of constantly switching sides. Because of this, we had our fights, and she, being the sole mistress of her wealth, canceled her will that favored me and created a new one, leaving me only the tail end of the lease on the town-house and the furniture inside it. Then, when we were abroad, she turned back to me, forgave everything, and later, when she got sick, she wrote a letter to her brother, to whom she had left most of her property, saying I was to receive twenty thousand pounds out of the one hundred thousand she had bequeathed to him—as stated in the original will—writing this letter in case something happened to her before a new will could be made, trusting completely that he would honor her wishes if she died while overseas. Well, she did die, fully believing I was taken care of; but her brother (as I secretly expected all along) refused to feel morally obligated by a document that had no legal weight, resulting in him getting everything, except, of course, the furniture and the lease. It would have been enough to break the heart of someone who was counting on inheriting a fortune, which I never was; I always felt like an intruder and a servant, wishing more than once to leave the Petherwin family with my bit of bread and freedom. For one thing, I was always forbidden to see my relatives, and it hurt me a lot. Now I am ready to move on for myself, and I believe I have a good shot at succeeding in whatever I attempt because of the indifference I feel about succeeding, which gives me the necessary calm needed for any big task.'

'I presume you mean to write more poems?'

'I assume you plan to write more poems?'

'I cannot-that is, I can write no more that satisfy me. To blossom into rhyme on the sparkling pleasures of life, you must be under the influence of those pleasures, and I am at present quite removed from them-surrounded by gaunt realities of a very different description.'

'I can’t—well, I can’t write anything that satisfies me anymore. To create poetry about the joyful moments in life, you need to be experiencing those moments, and right now I’m far removed from them—surrounded by harsh realities of a completely different kind.'

'Then try the mournful. Trade upon your sufferings: many do, and thrive.'

'Then embrace the sorrow. Capitalize on your struggles: a lot of people do, and they succeed.'

'It is no use to say that-no use at all. I cannot write a line of verse. And yet the others flowed from my heart like a stream. But nothing is so easy as to seem clever when you have money.'

'It’s pointless to say that—totally pointless. I can’t write a single line of poetry. And yet the others came from my heart like a stream. But nothing is easier than pretending to be smart when you have money.'

'Except to seem stupid when you have none,' said Christopher, looking at the dead leaves.

'Unless you want to look foolish when you don't have any,' said Christopher, staring at the dead leaves.

Ethelberta allowed herself to linger on that thought for a few seconds; and continued, 'Then the question arose, what was I to do? I felt that to write prose would be an uncongenial occupation, and altogether a poor prospect for a woman like me. Finally I have decided to appear in public.'

Ethelberta let herself think about that for a few seconds; and continued, 'Then the question came up, what was I supposed to do? I realized that writing prose wouldn’t suit me at all, and it seemed like a disappointing path for a woman like me. In the end, I’ve decided to make a public appearance.'

'Not on the stage?'

'Not on stage?'

'Certainly not on the stage. There is no novelty in a poor lady turning actress, and novelty is what I want. Ordinary powers exhibited in a new way effect as much as extraordinary powers exhibited in an old way.'

'Definitely not on the stage. There's nothing new about a poor lady becoming an actress, and what I seek is novelty. Ordinary abilities shown in a different way have the same impact as extraordinary abilities displayed in a traditional manner.'

'Yes-so they do. And extraordinary powers, and a new way too, would be irresistible.'

'Yes, they really do. And having extraordinary powers, along with a new approach, would be impossible to resist.'

'I don't calculate upon both. I had written a prose story by request, when it was found that I had grown utterly inane over verse. It was written in the first person, and the style was modelled after De Foe's. The night before sending it off, when I had already packed it up, I was reading about the professional story-tellers of Eastern countries, who devoted their lives to the telling of tales. I unfastened the manuscript and retained it, convinced that I should do better by telling the story.'

'I don't rely on both. I had written a prose story at someone's request, when it turned out that I had completely lost my touch with verse. It was written in the first person, and the style was inspired by Defoe. The night before sending it off, after I had already packed it, I was reading about the professional storytellers from Eastern countries, who dedicated their lives to telling tales. I unfastened the manuscript and kept it, sure that I would do a better job by telling the story.'

'Well thought of!' exclaimed Christopher, looking into her face. 'There is a way for everybody to live, if they can only find it out.'

"Well said!" Christopher exclaimed, looking into her face. "There's a way for everyone to live if they can just figure it out."

'It occurred to me,' she continued, blushing slightly, 'that tales of the weird kind were made to be told, not written. The action of a teller is wanted to give due effect to all stories of incident; and I hope that a time will come when, as of old, instead of an unsocial reading of fiction at home alone, people will meet together cordially, and sit at the feet of a professed romancer. I am going to tell my tales before a London public. As a child, I had a considerable power in arresting the attention of other children by recounting adventures which had never happened; and men and women are but children enlarged a little. Look at this.'

'It occurred to me,' she continued, blushing slightly, 'that strange stories are meant to be told, not written down. We need a storyteller to truly bring to life tales of events; and I hope the day will come when, like in the past, instead of reading fiction alone at home, people will gather happily and listen to a skilled storyteller. I'm going to share my stories with a London audience. As a child, I had a knack for grabbing the attention of other kids by sharing adventures that never actually happened; and adults are just kids who have grown up a bit. Look at this.'

She drew from her pocket a folded paper, shook it abroad, and disclosed a rough draft of an announcement to the effect that Mrs. Petherwin, Professed Story-teller, would devote an evening to that ancient form of the romancer's art, at a well-known fashionable hall in London. 'Now you see,' she continued, 'the meaning of what you observed going on here. That you heard was one of three tales I am preparing, with a view of selecting the best. As a reserved one, I have the tale of my own life-to be played as a last card. It was a private rehearsal before my brothers and sisters-not with any view of obtaining their criticism, but that I might become accustomed to my own voice in the presence of listeners.'

She took out a folded piece of paper from her pocket, shook it open, and revealed a rough draft of an announcement saying that Mrs. Petherwin, Professional Storyteller, would spend an evening showcasing that old form of storytelling at a popular upscale venue in London. 'Now you understand,' she went on, 'the purpose of what you saw happening here. What you heard was one of three stories I'm preparing, aiming to choose the best one. As a backup, I have my own life story to perform as a finale. This was a private rehearsal for my siblings—not for their feedback, but so I could get used to hearing my own voice in front of an audience.'

'If I only had had half your enterprise, what I might have done in the world!'

'If I had just half your ambition, imagine what I could have achieved in the world!'

'Now did you ever consider what a power De Foe's manner would have if practised by word of mouth? Indeed, it is a style which suits itself infinitely better to telling than to writing, abounding as it does in colloquialisms that are somewhat out of place on paper in these days, but have a wonderful power in making a narrative seem real. And so, in short, I am going to talk De Foe on a subject of my own. Well?'

'Have you ever thought about how powerful De Foe's style would be if spoken aloud? It’s a way of writing that works much better when telling a story than on the page, filled as it is with colloquial expressions that feel a bit off in writing these days but really bring a narrative to life. So, in short, I'm going to share some thoughts in the style of De Foe on a topic of my own. Sound good?'

The last word had been given tenderly, with a long-drawn sweetness, and was caused by a look that Christopher was bending upon her at the moment, in which he revealed that he was thinking less of the subject she was so eagerly and hopefully descanting upon than upon her aspect in explaining it. It is a fault of manner particularly common among men newly imported into the society of bright and beautiful women; and we will hope that, springing as it does from no unworthy source, it is as soon forgiven in the general world as it was here.

The last word was spoken softly, with a lingering sweetness, prompted by the look Christopher was giving her at that moment. It showed that he was paying less attention to the topic she was passionately discussing and more to the way she looked while explaining it. This is a tendency that’s especially common among men who are new to being around charming and attractive women; and we can hope that, since it comes from a good place, it is quickly forgiven in the wider world just as it was here.

'I was only following a thought,' said Christopher:-'a thought of how I used to know you, and then lost sight of you, and then discovered you famous, and how we are here under these sad autumn trees, and nobody in sight.'

'I was just following a thought,' said Christopher, 'a thought about how I used to know you, then lost track of you, and later found out you were famous, and how we are here under these sad autumn trees, with no one else around.'

'I think it must be tea-time,' she said suddenly. 'Tea is a great meal with us here-you will join us, will you not?' And Ethelberta began to make for herself a passage through the boughs. Another rustle was heard a little way off, and one of the children appeared.

'I think it must be tea time,' she said suddenly. 'Tea is a big deal for us here—you'll join us, right?' And Ethelberta started to push her way through the branches. Another rustling sound was heard a short distance away, and one of the kids showed up.

'Emmeline wants to know, please, if the gentleman that come to see 'ee will stay to tea; because, if so, she's agoing to put in another spoonful for him and a bit of best green.'

'Emmeline wants to know if the gentleman who came to see you will stay for tea; because, if he does, she's going to add another spoonful for him and a piece of the best green.'

'O Georgina-how candid! Yes, put in some best green.'

'O Georgina—how straightforward! Yes, add in some of the best green.'

Before Christopher could say any more to her, they were emerging by the corner of the cottage, and one of the brothers drew near them. 'Mr. Julian, you'll bide and have a cup of tea wi' us?' he inquired of Christopher. 'An old friend of yours, is he not, Mrs. Petherwin? Dan and I be going back to Sandbourne to-night, and we can walk with 'ee as far as the station.'

Before Christopher could say anything else to her, they stepped out by the corner of the cottage, and one of the brothers came over. "Mr. Julian, will you stay and have a cup of tea with us?" he asked Christopher. "An old friend of yours, right, Mrs. Petherwin? Dan and I are heading back to Sandbourne tonight, and we can walk with you as far as the station."

'I shall be delighted,' said Christopher; and they all entered the cottage. The evening had grown clearer by this time; the sun was peeping out just previous to departure, and sent gold wires of light across the glades and into the windows, throwing a pattern of the diamond quarries, and outlines of the geraniums in pots, against the opposite wall. One end of the room was polygonal, such a shape being dictated by the exterior design; in this part the windows were placed, as at the east end of continental churches. Thus, from the combined effects of the ecclesiastical lancet lights and the apsidal shape of the room, it occurred to Christopher that the sisters were all a delightful set of pretty saints, exhibiting themselves in a lady chapel, and backed up by unkempt major prophets, as represented by the forms of their big brothers.

"I'll be happy to," said Christopher, and they all went into the cottage. By this time, the evening had become clearer; the sun was peeking out just before setting, casting golden rays of light across the glades and through the windows, creating a pattern of diamond shapes and outlining the potted geraniums against the opposite wall. One end of the room was polygonal, shaped that way by the outside design; in this part, the windows were set up like those at the east end of churches in Europe. So, with the combined effects of the church-like pointed windows and the curved shape of the room, Christopher thought of the sisters as a charming group of pretty saints, showcasing themselves in a lady chapel, backed by disheveled major prophets, represented by their big brothers.

Christopher sat down to tea as invited, squeezing himself in between two children whose names were almost as long as their persons, and whose tin cups discoursed primitive music by means of spoons rattled inside them until they were filled. The tea proceeded pleasantly, notwithstanding that the cake, being a little burnt, tasted on the outside like the latter plums in snapdragon. Christopher never could meet the eye of Picotee, who continued in a wild state of flushing all the time, fixing her looks upon the sugar-basin, except when she glanced out of the window to see how the evening was going on, and speaking no word at all unless it was to correct a small sister of somewhat crude manners as regards filling the mouth, which Picotee did in a whisper, and a gentle inclination of her mouth to the little one's ear, and a still deeper blush than before.

Christopher sat down for tea as invited, squeezing in between two kids whose names were almost as long as they were, and whose tin cups made primitive music from the spoons rattling inside them until they were filled. The tea went along nicely, even though the cake, being a bit burnt, tasted on the outside like old plums from snapdragon. Christopher could never meet Picotee's gaze, as she was constantly blushing fiercely, her eyes fixed on the sugar bowl, except when she looked out the window to see how the evening was going, and she hardly spoke unless it was to quietly correct her little sister's somewhat awkward way of eating, which Picotee did with a whisper and a gentle lean towards her sibling, resulting in an even deeper blush than before.

Their visitor next noticed that an additional cup-and-saucer and plate made their appearance occasionally at the table, were silently replenished, and then carried off by one of the children to an inner apartment.

Their visitor then noticed that an extra cup and saucer, along with a plate, occasionally appeared at the table, were quietly refilled, and then taken away by one of the children to another room.

'Our mother is bedridden,' said Ethelberta, noticing Christopher's look at the proceeding. 'Emmeline attends to the household, except when Picotee is at home, and Joey attends to the gate; but our mother's affliction is a very unfortunate thing for the poor children. We are thinking of a plan of living which will, I hope, be more convenient than this is; but we have not yet decided what to do.' At this minute a carriage and pair of horses became visible through one of the angular windows of the apse, in the act of turning in from the highway towards the park gate. The boy who answered to the name of Joey sprang up from the table with the promptness of a Jack-in-the-box, and ran out at the door. Everybody turned as the carriage passed through the gate, which Joey held open, putting his other hand where the brim of his hat would have been if he had worn one, and lapsing into a careless boy again the instant that the vehicle had gone by.

'Our mom is stuck in bed,' Ethelberta said, noticing Christopher’s look at the scene. 'Emmeline takes care of the house, except when Picotee is around, and Joey handles the gate; but our mom's situation is really unfortunate for the little ones. We're thinking of a living arrangement that, hopefully, will be more convenient than this one; but we haven't figured out what to do yet.' Just then, a carriage and two horses came into view through one of the angular windows of the apse, turning in from the highway toward the park gate. The boy named Joey jumped up from the table like a Jack-in-the-box and ran out the door. Everyone turned as the carriage passed through the gate, which Joey held open, placing his other hand where the brim of his hat would have been if he had worn one, and becoming a careless boy again the moment the vehicle drove past.

'There's a tremendous large dinner-party at the House to-night,' said Emmeline methodically, looking at the equipage over the edge of her teacup, without leaving off sipping. 'That was Lord Mountclere. He's a wicked old man, they say.'

"There's a huge dinner party at the house tonight," Emmeline said methodically, glancing at the carriage over the edge of her teacup while still sipping. "That was Lord Mountclere. They say he's a wicked old man."

'Lord Mountclere?' said Ethelberta musingly. 'I used to know some friends of his. In what way is he wicked?'

'Lord Mountclere?' Ethelberta said thoughtfully. 'I used to know some of his friends. What makes him wicked?'

'I don't know,' said Emmeline, with simplicity. 'I suppose it is because he breaks the commandments. But I wonder how a big rich lord can want to steal anything.' Emmeline's thoughts of breaking commandments instinctively fell upon the eighth, as being in her ideas the only case wherein the gain could be considered as at all worth the hazard.

"I don’t know," Emmeline said simply. "I guess it’s because he breaks the commandments. But I wonder how such a wealthy lord could want to steal anything." Emmeline instinctively thought of breaking commandments and immediately focused on the eighth, as it was the only situation in her mind where the reward could seem worth the risk.

Ethelberta said nothing; but Christopher thought that a shade of depression passed over her.

Ethelberta said nothing, but Christopher noticed a hint of sadness cross her face.

'Hook back the gate, Joey,' shouted Emmeline, when the carriage had proceeded up the drive. 'There's more to come.'

'Hook back the gate, Joey,' shouted Emmeline, when the carriage had gone up the drive. 'There's more to come.'

Joey did as ordered, and by the time he got indoors another carriage turned in from the public road-a one-horse brougham this time.

Joey did as he was told, and by the time he got inside, another carriage came in from the main road—a one-horse brougham this time.

'I know who that is: that's Mr. Ladywell,' said Emmeline, in the same matter-of-fact tone. 'He's been here afore: he's a distant relation of the squire's, and he once gave me sixpence for picking up his gloves.'

'I know who that is: that's Mr. Ladywell,' Emmeline said in a straightforward way. 'He's been here before: he's a distant relative of the squire's, and he once gave me sixpence for picking up his gloves.'

'What shall I live to see?' murmured the poetess, under her breath, nearly dropping her teacup in an involuntary trepidation, from which she made it a point of dignity to recover in a moment. Christopher's eyes, at that exhibition from Ethelberta, entered her own like a pair of lances. Picotee, seeing Christopher's quick look of jealousy, became involved in her turn, and grew pale as a lily in her endeavours to conceal the complications to which it gave birth in her poor little breast likewise.

'What will I live to see?' the poetess murmured quietly, nearly dropping her teacup in a sudden panic, which she quickly composed herself from with a sense of dignity. Christopher's gaze, reacting to Ethelberta, pierced her eyes like a pair of lances. Picotee, noticing Christopher's quick look of jealousy, felt her own struggle and turned pale as a lily in her efforts to hide the turmoil it caused in her innocent heart as well.

'You judge me very wrongly,' said Ethelberta, in answer to Christopher's hasty look of resentment.

'You're judging me completely wrong,' Ethelberta said in response to Christopher's quick look of anger.

'In supposing Mr. Ladywell to be a great friend of yours?' said Christopher, who had in some indescribable way suddenly assumed a right to Ethelberta as his old property.

'Are you really thinking of Mr. Ladywell as a close friend of yours?' Christopher asked, who had, in some unexplainable way, suddenly taken ownership of Ethelberta as if she were his old possession.

'Yes: for I hardly know him, and certainly do not value him.'

'Yes: I barely know him, and I definitely don’t think much of him.'

After this there was something in the mutual look of the two, though their words had been private, which did not tend to remove the anguish of fragile Picotee. Christopher, assured that Ethelberta's embarrassment had been caused by nothing more than the sense of her odd social subsidence, recovered more bliss than he had lost, and regarded calmly the profile of young Ladywell between the two windows of his brougham as it passed the open cottage door, bearing him along unconscious as the dead of the nearness of his beloved one, and of the sad buffoonery that fate, fortune, and the guardian angels had been playing with Ethelberta of late. He recognized the face as that of the young man whom he had encountered when watching Ethelberta's window from Rookington Park.

After this, there was something in the shared glance between the two, even though their words had been private, that didn't ease the distress of delicate Picotee. Christopher, realizing that Ethelberta's discomfort was just due to her strange social decline, felt happier than he had before and calmly observed the profile of young Ladywell between the two windows of his carriage as he passed the open cottage door, completely unaware of how close he was to his beloved and the sad comedy that fate, luck, and their guardian angels had been playing with Ethelberta lately. He recognized the face as that of the young man he had seen when watching Ethelberta's window from Rookington Park.

'Perhaps you remember seeing him at the Christmas dance at Wyndway?' she inquired. 'He is a good-natured fellow. Afterwards he sent me that portfolio of sketches you see in the corner. He might possibly do something in the world as a painter if he were obliged to work at the art for his bread, which he is not.' She added with bitter pleasantry: 'In bare mercy to his self-respect I must remain unseen here.'

'Maybe you remember seeing him at the Christmas dance at Wyndway?' she asked. 'He’s a nice guy. Later, he sent me that portfolio of sketches you see in the corner. He could probably make a name for himself as a painter if he had to rely on art for his income, but he doesn’t.' She added with a touch of sarcastic humor, 'For the sake of his self-respect, I have to stay out of sight here.'

It impressed Christopher to perceive how, under the estrangement which arose from differences of education, surroundings, experience, and talent, the sympathies of close relationship were perceptible in Ethelberta's bearing towards her brothers and sisters. At a remark upon some simple pleasure wherein she had not participated because absent and occupied by far more comprehensive interests, a gloom as of banishment would cross her face and dim it for awhile, showing that the free habits and enthusiasms of country life had still their charm with her, in the face of the subtler gratifications of abridged bodices, candlelight, and no feelings in particular, which prevailed in town. Perhaps the one condition which could work up into a permanent feeling the passing revival of his fancy for a woman whose chief attribute he had supposed to be sprightliness was added now by the romantic ubiquity of station that attached to her. A discovery which might have grated on the senses of a man wedded to conventionality was a positive pleasure to one whose faith in society had departed with his own social ruin.

Christopher was struck by how, despite the distance created by differences in education, environment, experiences, and skills, the connections of close family ties were evident in Ethelberta's attitude towards her siblings. When someone mentioned a simple pleasure she had missed out on because she was busy with much broader interests, a shadow of sadness would pass over her face, revealing that the carefree ways and joys of rural life still held appeal for her, even in contrast to the more refined pleasures of low-cut dresses, candlelit settings, and a lack of strong emotions that dominated city life. Perhaps the only thing that could transform his fleeting attraction to a woman he had thought of as lively into something more lasting was the romantic allure of her social status. What might have bothered someone attached to tradition was actually a delight for him, given that his belief in society had faded along with his own social downfall.

The room began to darken, whereupon Christopher arose to leave; and the brothers Sol and Dan offered to accompany him.

The room started to get dark, so Christopher got up to leave, and his brothers Sol and Dan offered to walk with him.

14. A TURNPIKE ROAD

'We be thinking of coming to London ourselves soon,' said Sol, a carpenter and joiner by trade, as he walked along at Christopher's left hand. 'There's so much more chance for a man up the country. Now, if you was me, how should you set about getting a job, sir?'

'We're thinking of coming to London ourselves soon,' said Sol, a carpenter and joiner by trade, as he walked alongside Christopher. 'There's so much more opportunity for a man in the countryside. Now, if you were me, how would you go about getting a job, sir?'

'What can you do?' said Christopher.

'What can you do?' Christopher asked.

'Well, I am a very good staircase hand; and I have been called neat at sash-frames; and I can knock together doors and shutters very well; and I can do a little at the cabinet-making. I don't mind framing a roof, neither, if the rest be busy; and I am always ready to fill up my time at planing floor-boards by the foot.'

'Well, I’m really good at working with staircases; I’ve been told I’m neat with sash frames; I can put together doors and shutters quite well; and I have some skills in cabinet-making. I don’t mind framing a roof either, if everyone else is busy; and I’m always ready to keep myself occupied planing floorboards by the foot.'

'And I can mix and lay flat tints,' said Dan, who was a house painter, 'and pick out mouldings, and grain in every kind of wood you can mention-oak, maple, walnut, satinwood, cherry-tree-'

'And I can mix and apply flat colors,' said Dan, who was a house painter, 'and highlight moldings, and create wood grain in every type of wood you can think of—oak, maple, walnut, satinwood, cherry—'

'You can both do too much to stand the least chance of being allowed to do anything in a city, where limitation is all the rule in labour. To have any success, Sol, you must be a man who can thoroughly look at a door to see what ought to be done to it, but as to looking at a window, that's not your line; or a person who, to the remotest particular, understands turning a screw, but who does not profess any knowledge of how to drive a nail. Dan must know how to paint blue to a marvel, but must be quite in the dark about painting green. If you stick to some such principle of specialty as this, you may get employment in London.'

'You can go overboard trying to stand even the slightest chance of getting permission to do anything in a city, where limitations are the norm in work. To succeed, Sol, you need to be someone who can closely examine a door to figure out what needs to be done to it, but when it comes to looking at a window, that's not your area; or a person who understands every tiny detail of turning a screw, but doesn’t claim to know how to drive a nail. Dan needs to know how to paint blue perfectly, but he should be completely clueless about painting green. If you stick to a principle of specialization like this, you might find work in London.'

'Ha-ha-ha!' said Dan, striking at a stone in the road with the stout green hazel he carried. 'A wink is as good as a nod: thank'ee-we'll mind all that now.'

'Ha-ha-ha!' said Dan, hitting a stone in the road with the thick green hazel stick he was carrying. 'A wink is just as good as a nod: thanks—we’ll remember all that now.'

'If we do come,' said Sol, 'we shall not mix up with Mrs. Petherwin at all.'

'If we do come,' said Sol, 'we won’t interact with Mrs. Petherwin at all.'

'O indeed!'

'Oh definitely!'

'O no. (Perhaps you think it odd that we call her "Mrs. Petherwin," but that's by agreement as safer and better than Berta, because we be such rough chaps you see, and she's so lofty.) 'Twould demean her to claim kin wi' her in London-two journeymen like we, that know nothing besides our trades.'

'O no. (You might find it strange that we call her "Mrs. Petherwin," but we agreed on that because it's safer and better than calling her Berta, since we're just rough guys and she's so high above us.) It would be degrading for her to say she's related to us in London—two tradesmen like us, who don’t know anything beyond our jobs.'

'Not at all,' said Christopher, by way of chiming in in the friendliest manner. 'She would be pleased to see any straightforward honest man and brother, I should think, notwithstanding that she has moved in other society for a time.'

'Not at all,' said Christopher, joining in the conversation in the friendliest way. 'She would be happy to see any straightforward, honest man and brother, I believe, even though she has been in different circles for a while.'

'Ah, you don't know Berta!' said Dan, looking as if he did.

'Oh, you don't know Berta!' said Dan, looking like he did.

'How-in what way do you mean?' said Christopher uneasily.

'How do you mean?' Christopher asked uneasily.

'So lofty-so very lofty! Isn't she, Sol? Why she'll never stir out from mother's till after dark, and then her day begins; and she'll traipse about under the trees, and never go into the high-road, so that nobody in the way of gentle-people shall run up against her and know her living in such a little small hut after biding in a big mansion-place. There, we don't find fault wi' her about it: we like her just the same, though she don't speak to us in the street; for a feller must be a fool to make a piece of work about a woman's pride, when 'tis his own sister, and hang upon her and bother her when he knows 'tis for her good that he should not. Yes, her life has been quare enough. I hope she enjoys it, but for my part I like plain sailing. None of your ups and downs for me. There, I suppose 'twas her nater to want to look into the world a bit.'

'So high-so very high! Isn't she, Sol? She won't step out of the house until after dark, and then her day starts; she'll wander around under the trees, never hitting the main road, so that no one from the upper class will bump into her and find out she lives in such a tiny place after staying in a big mansion. We don't hold it against her: we like her just the same, even if she doesn’t talk to us in the street; because a guy would have to be an idiot to make a fuss about a woman's pride, especially when it's his own sister, and bother her when he knows it's for her own good that he shouldn't. Yes, her life has been pretty strange. I hope she enjoys it, but personally, I prefer things straightforward. No ups and downs for me. I guess it’s just in her nature to want to explore the world a bit.'

'Father and mother kept Berta to school, you understand, sir,' explained the more thoughtful Sol, 'because she was such a quick child, and they always had a notion of making a governess of her. Sums? If you said to that child, "Berta, 'levenpence-three-farthings a day, how much a year?" she would tell 'ee in three seconds out of her own little head. And that hard sum about the herrings she had done afore she was nine.'

'Mom and Dad kept Berta in school, you see, sir,' explained the more insightful Sol, 'because she was such a bright kid, and they always thought about making her a governess. Math? If you asked that child, "Berta, elevenpence-three-farthings a day, how much is that a year?" she'd tell you in three seconds off the top of her head. And that tough problem about the herrings she had figured out before she turned nine.'

'True, she had,' said Dan. 'And we all know that to do that is to do something that's no nonsense.'

'True, she had,' said Dan. 'And we all know that doing that is just straightforward.'

'What is the sum?' Christopher inquired.

"What's the total?" Christopher asked.

'What-not know the sum about the herrings?' said Dan, spreading his gaze all over Christopher in amazement.

'What—don’t you know the deal about the herrings?' said Dan, looking at Christopher in disbelief.

'Never heard of it,' said Christopher.

'Never heard of it,' Christopher said.

'Why down in these parts just as you try a man's soul by the Ten Commandments, you try his head by that there sum-hey, Sol?'

'Why down in these parts, just as you test a man's character by the Ten Commandments, you test his intellect with that there sum-hey, Sol?'

'Ay, that we do.'

"Yeah, we do."

'A herring and a half for three-halfpence, how many can ye get for 'levenpence: that's the feller; and a mortal teaser he is, I assure 'ee. Our parson, who's not altogether without sense o' week days, said one afternoon, "If cunning can be found in the multiplication table at all, Chickerel, 'tis in connection with that sum." Well, Berta was so clever in arithmetic that she was asked to teach summing at Miss Courtley's, and there she got to like foreign tongues more than ciphering, and at last she hated ciphering, and took to books entirely. Mother and we were very proud of her at that time: not that we be stuck-up people at all-be we, Sol?'

'A herring and a half for three-halfpence, how many can you get for eleven pence: that's the question; and he's a real puzzle, I assure you. Our priest, who's not totally clueless on weekdays, said one afternoon, "If there's any cleverness to be found in the multiplication table at all, Chickerel, it’s in relation to that problem." Well, Berta was so good at math that she was asked to teach arithmetic at Miss Courtley's, and there she ended up liking foreign languages more than math, and eventually she came to hate math and focused completely on books. Mother and we were really proud of her at that time: not that we’re stuck-up people at all—right, Sol?'

'Not at all; nobody can say that we be that, though there's more of it in the country than there should be by all account.'

'Not at all; nobody can say that we are that, although there’s more of it in the country than there should be, by all accounts.'

'You'd be surprised to see how vain the girls about here be getting. Little rascals, why they won't curtsey to the loftiest lady in the land; no, not if you were to pay 'em to do it. Now, the men be different. Any man will touch his hat for a pint of beer. But then, of course, there's some difference between the two. Touching your hat is a good deal less to do than bending your knees, as Berta used to say, when she was blowed up for not doing it. She was always one of the independent sort-you never seed such a maid as she was! Now, Picotee was quite the other way.'

'You'd be surprised at how vain the girls around here are becoming. Those little rascals won't even curtsy to the highest lady in the land; no, not even if you paid them to do it. Now, the men are different. Any man will tip his hat for a pint of beer. But of course, there's some difference between the two. Tipping your hat is a lot less than bending your knees, as Berta used to say when she got scolded for not doing it. She was always the independent type—you'd never see a maid like her! Now, Picotee was completely the opposite.'

'Has Picotee left Sandbourne entirely?'

'Has Picotee totally left Sandbourne?'

'O no; she is home for the holidays. Well, Mr. Julian, our road parts from yours just here, unless you walk into the next town along with us. But I suppose you get across to this station and go by rail?'

'O no; she's home for the holidays. Well, Mr. Julian, our path splits from yours right here, unless you want to walk into the next town with us. But I guess you're heading to this station to take the train?'

'I am obliged to go that way for my portmanteau,' said Christopher, 'or I should have been pleased to walk further. Shall I see you in Sandbourne to-morrow? I hope so.'

'I have to head that way for my suitcase,' said Christopher, 'or I would have liked to walk further. Will I see you in Sandbourne tomorrow? I hope so.'

'Well, no. 'Tis hardly likely that you will see us-hardly. We know how unpleasant it is for a high sort of man to have rough chaps like us hailing him, so we think it best not to meet you-thank you all the same. So if you should run up against us in the street, we should be just as well pleased by your taking no notice, if you wouldn't mind. 'Twill save so much awkwardness-being in our working clothes. 'Tis always the plan that Mrs. Petherwin and we agree to act upon, and we find it best for both. I hope you take our meaning right, and as no offence, Mr. Julian.'

"Well, no. It's really unlikely that you’ll see us—hardly at all. We know how uncomfortable it can be for someone of your standing to have rough people like us approaching you, so we think it’s best to avoid the meeting—thank you all the same. So if you happen to run into us on the street, we would prefer if you didn’t acknowledge us, if that’s okay with you. It would save a lot of awkwardness, especially since we’ll be in our work clothes. That’s always the plan that Mrs. Petherwin and we agree on, and we’ve found it works best for both sides. I hope you understand our point and don’t take it as offense, Mr. Julian."

'And do you do the same with Picotee?'

'Do you do the same with Picotee?'

'O Lord, no-'tisn't a bit of use to try. That's the worst of Picotee-there's no getting rid of her. The more in the rough we be the more she'll stick to us; and if we say she shan't come, she'll bide and fret about it till we be forced to let her.'

'O Lord, no—it’s no use trying. That’s the worst part about Picotee—there’s no getting rid of her. The rougher we are, the more she’ll cling to us; and if we say she can’t come, she’ll just stick around and worry about it until we have to let her.'

Christopher laughed, and promised, on condition that they would retract the statement about their not being proud; and then he wished his friends good-night.

Christopher laughed and promised, as long as they took back the statement about not being proud; then he wished his friends good night.

15. AN INNER ROOM AT THE LODGE

At the Lodge at this time a discussion of some importance was in progress. The scene was Mrs. Chickerel's bedroom, to which, unfortunately, she was confined by some spinal complaint; and here she now appeared as an interesting woman of five-and-forty, properly dressed as far as visible, and propped up in a bed covered with a quilt which presented a field of little squares in many tints, looking altogether like a bird's-eye view of a market garden.

At the Lodge, an important discussion was taking place. The setting was Mrs. Chickerel's bedroom, where she was unfortunately confined due to a spinal issue. She appeared to be an interesting woman in her mid-forties, appropriately dressed as far as could be seen, and was propped up in a bed covered with a quilt featuring a variety of small colored squares, resembling a bird's-eye view of a market garden.

Mrs. Chickerel had been nurse in a nobleman's family until her marriage, and after that she played the part of wife and mother, upon the whole, affectionately and well. Among her minor differences with her husband had been one about the naming of the children; a matter that was at last compromised by an agreement under which the choice of the girls' names became her prerogative, and that of the boys' her husband's, who limited his field of selection to strict historical precedent as a set-off to Mrs. Chickerel's tendency to stray into the regions of romance.

Mrs. Chickerel had worked as a nurse in a nobleman's household until she got married, and after that, she took on the roles of wife and mother, overall, with love and care. Among her minor disagreements with her husband was one about naming their children; this was eventually settled by an agreement where she got to choose the girls' names, while her husband would choose the boys' names, which he limited to strict historical options to balance out Mrs. Chickerel's inclination to venture into more romantic choices.

The only grown-up daughters at home, Ethelberta and Picotee, with their brother Joey, were sitting near her; the two youngest children, Georgina and Myrtle, who had been strutting in and out of the room, and otherwise endeavouring to walk, talk, and speak like the gentleman just gone away, were packed off to bed. Emmeline, of that transitional age which causes its exponent to look wistfully at the sitters when romping and at the rompers when sitting, uncertain whether her position in the household is that of child or woman, was idling in a corner. The two absent brothers and two absent sisters-eldest members of the family-completed the round ten whom Mrs. Chickerel with thoughtless readiness had presented to a crowded world, to cost Ethelberta many wakeful hours at night while she revolved schemes how they might be decently maintained.

The only adult daughters at home, Ethelberta and Picotee, along with their brother Joey, were sitting nearby; the two youngest kids, Georgina and Myrtle, who had been hopping in and out of the room and trying to act like the gentleman who had just left, were sent off to bed. Emmeline, at that in-between age where she wistfully watched the ones sitting when she was playing and the ones playing when she was sitting, unsure if she belonged in the child or adult category, was lounging in a corner. The two older brothers and two older sisters—the oldest members of the family—made up the total of ten that Mrs. Chickerel had thoughtlessly introduced to the world, causing Ethelberta many sleepless nights as she planned how to support them all decently.

'I still think,' Ethelberta was saying, 'that the plan I first proposed is the best. I am convinced that it will not do to attempt to keep on the Lodge. If we are all together in town, I can look after you much better than when you are far away from me down here.'

'I still think,' Ethelberta was saying, 'that the plan I suggested at first is the best. I'm convinced that we shouldn't try to stay at the Lodge. If we're all together in town, I can take better care of you than when you're far away from me down here.'

'Shall we not interfere with you-your plans for keeping up your connections?' inquired her mother, glancing up towards Ethelberta by lifting the flesh of her forehead, instead of troubling to raise her face altogether.

'Should we not intrude on your plans to maintain your connections?' her mother asked, looking up at Ethelberta by lifting her brow, rather than bothering to lift her whole face.

'Not nearly so much as by staying here.'

'Not anywhere near as much as by staying here.'

'But,' said Picotee, 'if you let lodgings, won't the gentlemen and ladies know it?'

'But,' said Picotee, 'if you rent out rooms, won't the guys and gals find out?'

'I have thought of that,' said Ethelberta, 'and this is how I shall manage. In the first place, if mother is there, the lodgings can be let in her name, all bills will be receipted by her, and all tradesmen's orders will be given as from herself. Then, we will take no English lodgers at all; we will advertise the rooms only in Continental newspapers, as suitable for a French or German gentleman or two, and by this means there will be little danger of my acquaintance discovering that my house is not entirely a private one, or of any lodger being a friend of my acquaintance. I have thought over every possible way of combining the dignified social position I must maintain to make my story-telling attractive, with my absolute lack of money, and I can see no better one.'

"I've thought about that," Ethelberta said, "and here's how I'm going to handle it. First of all, if my mother is there, the lodgings can be rented in her name, all bills will be paid by her, and all orders for supplies will come from her as well. Then, we won’t take any English lodgers at all; we'll only advertise the rooms in Continental newspapers, looking for a French or German gentleman or two. This way, there’s little chance of anyone I know finding out that my house isn’t completely private or that any lodger is a friend of mine. I've considered every possible way to balance the dignified social position I need to maintain for my storytelling to be appealing, with my complete lack of funds, and I can't see a better option."

'Then if Gwendoline is to be your cook, she must soon give notice at her present place?'

'So if Gwendoline is going to be your cook, she needs to quit her current job soon?'

'Yes. Everything depends upon Gwendoline and Cornelia. But there is time enough for them to give notice-Christmas will be soon enough. If they cannot or will not come as cook and housemaid, I am afraid the plan will break down. A vital condition is that I do not have a soul in the house (beyond the lodgers) who is not one of my own relations. When we have put Joey into buttons, he will do very well to attend to the door.'

'Yes. Everything relies on Gwendoline and Cornelia. But there's plenty of time for them to give notice—Christmas will be soon enough. If they can't or won't come as the cook and housemaid, I'm afraid the plan will fall apart. A crucial condition is that I don’t want anyone in the house (besides the lodgers) who isn't a relative of mine. Once we’ve got Joey in a uniform, he’ll be just fine to handle the door.'

'But s'pose,' said Joey, after a glassy look at his future appearance in the position alluded to, 'that any of your gentle-people come to see ye, and when I opens the door and lets 'em in a swinging big lodger stalks downstairs. What will 'em think? Up will go their eye-glasses at one another till they glares each other into holes. My gracious!'

'But suppose,' said Joey, after staring blankly at what his future self might look like in the mentioned position, 'if any of your fancy guests come to see you, and when I open the door and let them in, a huge lodger walks downstairs. What will they think? They'll raise their glasses at each other until they stare each other down. Goodness!'

'The one who calls will only think that another visitor is leaving, Joey. But I shall have no visitors, or very few. I shall let it be well known among my late friends that my mother is an invalid, and that on this account we receive none but the most intimate friends. These intimate friends not existing, we receive nobody at all.'

'The person who calls will only assume that another guest is leaving, Joey. But I won’t have visitors, or very few. I’ll make it clear to my former friends that my mom is unwell, and because of that, we only see our closest friends. Since there are no close friends around, we won’t be seeing anyone at all.'

'Except Sol and Dan, if they get a job in London? They'll have to call upon us at the back door, won't they, Berta?' said Joey.

'Except for Sol and Dan, if they get a job in London? They'll have to come to the back door, right, Berta?' said Joey.

'They must go down the area steps. But they will not mind that; they like the idea.'

'They have to go down the steps to the area. But they won’t mind that; they like the idea.'

'And father, too, must he go down the steps?'

'And Dad, does he have to go down the steps too?'

'He may come whichever way he likes. He will be glad enough to have us near at any price. I know that he is not at all happy at leaving you down here, and he away in London. You remember that he has only taken the situation at Mr. Doncastle's on the supposition that you all come to town as soon as he can see an opening for getting you there; and as nothing of the sort has offered itself to him, this will be the very thing. Of course, if I succeed wonderfully well in my schemes for story-tellings, readings of my ballads and poems, lectures on the art of versification, and what not, we need have no lodgers; and then we shall all be living a happy family-all taking our share in keeping the establishment going.'

'He can come any way he wants. He’ll be really happy to have us close by, no matter what. I know he’s not happy at all leaving you down here while he’s in London. Remember, he only took the job at Mr. Doncastle's thinking you’d all come to town as soon as he could find a way to get you there; and since nothing like that has come up for him, this will be perfect. Of course, if I do really well with my plans for storytelling, reading my ballads and poems, giving lectures on writing poetry, and whatever else, we won’t need any lodgers; then we’ll all be living together happily as a family, all contributing to keeping things running.'

'Except poor me!' sighed the mother.

'Except for me!' sighed the mother.

'My dear mother, you will be necessary as a steadying power-a flywheel, in short, to the concern. I wish that father could live there, too.'

'My dear mom, you will be essential as a stabilizing force—a flywheel, in short, for the business. I wish Dad could live there, too.'

'He'll never give up his present way of life-it has grown to be a part of his nature. Poor man, he never feels at home except in somebody else's house, and is nervous and quite a stranger in his own. Sich is the fatal effects of service!'

'He'll never let go of his current lifestyle—it has become a part of who he is. Poor guy, he never feels at home except in someone else's house, and is anxious and completely out of place in his own. Such are the unfortunate effects of servitude!'

'O mother, don't!' said Ethelberta tenderly, but with her teeth on edge; and Picotee curled up her toes, fearing that her mother was going to moralize.

'O mom, don't!' Ethelberta said gently, though feeling tense; and Picotee curled her toes, worried that her mom was about to start lecturing.

'Well, what I mean is, that your father would not like to live upon your earnings, and so forth. But in town we shall be near him-that's one comfort, certainly.'

'Well, what I mean is that your dad wouldn’t want to rely on your earnings, and so on. But in town, we’ll be close to him—that’s definitely one comfort.'

'And I shall not be wanted at all,' said Picotee, in a melancholy tone.

'And I won’t be needed at all,' said Picotee, in a sad tone.

'It is much better to stay where you are,' her mother said. 'You will come and spend the holidays with us, of course, as you do now.'

'It's way better to stay where you are,' her mom said. 'You will come and spend the holidays with us, of course, like you always do.'

'I should like to live in London best,' murmured Picotee, her head sinking mournfully to one side. 'I HATE being in Sandbourne now!'

'I would really prefer to live in London,' Picotee sighed, her head drooping sadly to one side. 'I HATE being in Sandbourne now!'

'Nonsense!' said Ethelberta severely. 'We are all contriving how to live most comfortably, and it is by far the best thing for you to stay at the school. You used to be happy enough there.'

'Nonsense!' Ethelberta said sternly. 'We're all figuring out how to live as comfortably as possible, and it’s definitely best for you to stay at the school. You used to be pretty happy there.'

Picotee sighed, and said no more.

Picotee sighed and didn't say anything more.

16. A LARGE PUBLIC HALL

It was the second week in February, Parliament had just met, and Ethelberta appeared for the first time before an audience in London.

It was the second week of February, Parliament had just convened, and Ethelberta was making her debut before an audience in London.

There was some novelty in the species of entertainment that the active young woman had proposed to herself, and this doubtless had due effect in collecting the body of strangers that greeted her entry, over and above those friends who came to listen to her as a matter of course. Men and women who had become totally indifferent to new actresses, new readers, and new singers, once more felt the freshness of curiosity as they considered the promise of the announcement. But the chief inducement to attend lay in the fact that here was to be seen in the flesh a woman with whom the tongue of rumour had been busy in many romantic ways-a woman who, whatever else might be doubted, had certainly produced a volume of verses which had been the talk of the many who had read them, and of the many more who had not, for several consecutive weeks.

There was something new about the type of entertainment that the active young woman proposed for herself, and that clearly helped draw a crowd of strangers to greet her when she arrived, in addition to the friends who came to support her out of habit. Men and women who had become completely indifferent to new actresses, readers, and singers felt a spark of curiosity again as they considered the excitement of the announcement. But the main reason to attend was that here was a woman who had been the subject of much romantic gossip—a woman who, despite any doubts, had definitely produced a collection of poems that had been the talk of many who read them, and even more who hadn’t, for several weeks straight.

What was her story to be? Persons interested in the inquiry-a small proportion, it may be owned, of the whole London public, and chiefly young men-answered this question for themselves by assuming that it would take the form of some pungent and gratifying revelation of the innermost events of her own life, from which her gushing lines had sprung as an inevitable consequence, and which being once known, would cause such musical poesy to appear no longer wonderful.

What was her story going to be? Those interested in the question—a small part, it must be said, of the entire London public, mainly young men—answered it for themselves by assuming it would be some sharp and satisfying revelation of her personal life, from which her emotional lines had naturally arisen. Once known, these details would make her beautiful poetry seem less amazing.

The front part of the room was well filled, rows of listeners showing themselves like a drilled-in crop of which not a seed has failed. They were listeners of the right sort, a majority having noses of the prominent and dignified type, which when viewed in oblique perspective ranged as regularly as bow-windows at a watering place. Ethelberta's plan was to tell her pretended history and adventures while sitting in a chair-as if she were at her own fireside, surrounded by a circle of friends. By this touch of domesticity a great appearance of truth and naturalness was given, though really the attitude was at first more difficult to maintain satisfactorily than any one wherein stricter formality should be observed. She gently began her subject, as if scarcely knowing whether a throng were near her or not, and, in her fear of seeming artificial, spoke too low. This defect, however, she soon corrected, and ultimately went on in a charmingly colloquial manner. What Ethelberta relied upon soon became evident. It was not upon the intrinsic merits of her story as a piece of construction, but upon her method of telling it. Whatever defects the tale possessed-and they were not a few-it had, as delivered by her, the one pre-eminent merit of seeming like truth. A modern critic has well observed of De Foe that he had the most amazing talent on record for telling lies; and Ethelberta, in wishing her fiction to appear like a real narrative of personal adventure, did wisely to make De Foe her model. His is a style even better adapted for speaking than for writing, and the peculiarities of diction which he adopts to give verisimilitude to his narratives acquired enormous additional force when exhibited as viva-voce mannerisms. And although these artifices were not, perhaps, slavishly copied from that master of feigning, they would undoubtedly have reminded her hearers of him, had they not mostly been drawn from an easeful section in society which is especially characterized by the mental condition of knowing nothing about any author a week after they have read him. The few there who did remember De Foe were impressed by a fancy that his words greeted them anew in a winged auricular form, instead of by the weaker channels of print and eyesight. The reader may imagine what an effect this well-studied method must have produced when intensified by a clear, living voice, animated action, and the brilliant and expressive eye of a handsome woman-attributes which of themselves almost compelled belief. When she reached the most telling passages, instead of adding exaggerated action and sound, Ethelberta would lapse to a whisper and a sustained stillness, which were more striking than gesticulation. All that could be done by art was there, and if inspiration was wanting nobody missed it.

The front part of the room was packed, rows of listeners resembling a perfectly planted crop with not a single seed gone to waste. These were the right kind of listeners, most of them having prominent and dignified noses that created a pattern as regular as bow windows at a resort when viewed from the side. Ethelberta’s plan was to share her made-up history and adventures while sitting in a chair—as if she were at her own fireside, surrounded by friends. This touch of home made her story feel more genuine and natural, even though maintaining that relaxed attitude was actually harder than being more formally structured. She started her tale gently, as if unsure whether anyone was close by, and in her anxiety about sounding artificial, she spoke a bit too softly. However, she quickly corrected this and eventually spoke in a wonderfully casual tone. It soon became clear what Ethelberta relied on. It wasn’t so much the inherent quality of her story as a crafted piece, but rather how she narrated it. Despite its flaws—and there were quite a few—the way she delivered it made it feel authentically true. A modern critic has aptly noted that Defoe had an extraordinary talent for storytelling, and Ethelberta, in aiming for her fiction to feel like a real personal adventure, wisely took Defoe as her model. His style is even better suited for speaking than writing, and the unique language he uses to lend authenticity to his stories gains significant impact when performed live. While her techniques may not have been exact copies of that master of deception, they certainly reminded her audience of him if they hadn't mostly come from a segment of society that tends to forget an author a week after reading them. The few who did remember Defoe felt as though his words were being delivered directly to them in a fresh way, rather than through the less impactful means of print and sight. One can imagine the effect this carefully crafted approach had when combined with a clear, lively voice, animated gestures, and the captivating eyes of an attractive woman—qualities that almost demanded belief. When she hit the most poignant parts, rather than layering on exaggerated actions and sounds, Ethelberta would drop to a whisper and pause, which was even more striking than any gesturing. All that art could accomplish was there, and if inspiration was lacking, no one noticed.

It was in performing this feat that Ethelberta seemed first to discover in herself the full power of that self-command which further onward in her career more and more impressed her as a singular possession, until at last she was tempted to make of it many fantastic uses, leading to results that affected more households than her own. A talent for demureness under difficulties without the cold-bloodedness which renders such a bearing natural and easy, a face and hand reigning unmoved outside a heart by nature turbulent as a wave, is a constitutional arrangement much to be desired by people in general; yet, had Ethelberta been framed with less of that gift in her, her life might have been more comfortable as an experience, and brighter as an example, though perhaps duller as a story.

It was while accomplishing this task that Ethelberta first realized the extent of her self-control, which later in her life began to stand out to her as a unique trait. Eventually, she was tempted to use it in various imaginative ways, leading to outcomes that impacted more families than just her own. A knack for staying composed in tough situations without the coldness that typically makes such a demeanor feel effortless is a quality that many people value; however, if Ethelberta had possessed less of this trait, her life might have been more enjoyable as an experience and more uplifting as an example, although perhaps less interesting as a story.

'Ladywell, how came this Mrs. Petherwin to think of such a queer trick as telling romances, after doing so well as a poet?' said a man in the stalls to his friend, who had been gazing at the Story-teller with a rapt face.

'Ladywell, how did this Mrs. Petherwin come up with such a strange idea as telling stories after she did so well as a poet?' said a man in the stalls to his friend, who had been staring at the Storyteller with an entranced expression.

'What-don't you know?-everybody did, I thought,' said the painter.

'What, don't you know? Everybody did, I thought,' said the painter.

'A mistake. Indeed, I should not have come here at all had I not heard the subject mentioned by accident yesterday at Grey's; and then I remembered her to be the same woman I had met at some place-Belmaine's I think it was-last year, when I thought her just getting on for handsome and clever, not to put it too strongly.'

'A mistake. Honestly, I shouldn’t have come here at all if I hadn’t overheard the topic mentioned by chance yesterday at Grey’s; and then I remembered her as the same woman I had met somewhere—Belmaine’s, I think it was—last year, when I thought she was just starting to be attractive and smart, not to put it too strongly.'

'Ah! naturally you would not know much,' replied Ladywell, in an eager whisper. 'Perhaps I am judging others by myself a little more than-but, as you have heard, she is an acquaintance of mine. I know her very well, and, in fact, I originally suggested the scheme to her as a pleasant way of adding to her fame. "Depend upon it, dear Mrs. Petherwin," I said, during a pause in one of our dances together some time ago, "any public appearance of yours would be successful beyond description."'

'Oh! Of course, you wouldn’t know much,' Ladywell replied in an eager whisper. 'Maybe I’m judging others by my own experience a bit too much—but, as you’ve heard, she’s someone I know. I’m quite familiar with her, and actually, I was the one who proposed the idea to her as a fun way to boost her fame. "Trust me, dear Mrs. Petherwin," I said during a break in one of our dances together a while back, "any public appearance you make would be an incredible success."'

'O, I had no idea that you knew her so well! Then it is quite through you that she has adopted this course?'

'O, I had no idea that you knew her so well! So, it's really thanks to you that she's chosen this path?'

'Well, not entirely-I could not say entirely. She said that some day, perhaps, she might do such a thing; and, in short, I reduced her vague ideas to form.'

'Well, not completely—I couldn't say completely. She mentioned that maybe one day, she would do something like that; and, in short, I clarified her vague ideas.'

'I should not mind knowing her better-I must get you to throw us together in some way,' said Neigh, with some interest. 'I had no idea that you were such an old friend. You could do it, I suppose?'

'I wouldn't mind getting to know her better—I need you to help us spend some time together somehow,' said Neigh, showing some interest. 'I had no idea you were such an old friend. You could make that happen, I guess?'

'Really, I am afraid-hah-hah-may not have the opportunity of obliging you. I met her at Wyndway, you know, where she was visiting with Lady Petherwin. It was some time ago, and I cannot say that I have ever met her since.'

'Really, I'm afraid I might not have the chance to help you. I met her at Wyndway, you know, where she was visiting Lady Petherwin. That was a while ago, and I can't say I've seen her since.'

'Or before?' said Neigh.

"'Or before?' said Neigh."

'Well-no; I never did.'

'Nope; I never did.'

'Ladywell, if I had half your power of going to your imagination for facts, I would be the greatest painter in England.'

'Ladywell, if I had even half your ability to tap into your imagination for inspiration, I'd be the best painter in England.'

'Now Neigh-that's too bad-but with regard to this matter, I do speak with some interest,' said Ladywell, with a pleased sense of himself.

'Well, that's unfortunate—but on this topic, I do have some interest,' said Ladywell, feeling quite pleased with himself.

'In love with her?-Smitten down?-Done for?'

'In love with her? Smitten? Done for?'

'Now, now! However, several other fellows chaff me about her. It was only yesterday that Jones said-'

'Now, now! However, several other guys tease me about her. It was only yesterday that Jones said-'

'Do you know why she cares to do this sort of thing?'

'Do you know why she bothers with this kind of stuff?'

'Merely a desire for fame, I suppose.'

'Just a desire for fame, I guess.'

'I should think she has fame enough already.'

'I think she has enough fame already.'

'That I can express no opinion upon. I am thinking of getting her permission to use her face in a subject I am preparing. It is a fine face for canvas. Glorious contour-glorious. Ah, here she is again, for the second part.'

'That I can’t say anything about. I’m thinking of getting her permission to use her face in a piece I’m working on. It’s a beautiful face for a canvas. Amazing features—simply amazing. Ah, here she is again, for the second part.'

'Dream on, young fellow. You'll make a rare couple!' said Neigh, with a flavour of superciliousness unheeded by his occupied companion.

'Dream on, young man. You two will make a unique pair!' said Neigh, with a hint of arrogance that went unnoticed by his distracted companion.

Further back in the room were a pair of faces whose keen interest in the performance contrasted much with the languidly permissive air of those in front. When the ten minutes' break occurred, Christopher was the first of the two to speak. 'Well, what do you think of her, Faith?' he said, shifting restlessly on his seat.

Further back in the room were a couple of faces whose intense interest in the performance stood in sharp contrast to the relaxed vibe of those in front. When the ten-minute break happened, Christopher was the first of the two to say something. "So, what do you think of her, Faith?" he asked, fidgeting in his seat.

'I like the quiet parts of the tale best, I think,' replied the sister; 'but, of course, I am not a good judge of these things. How still the people are at times! I continually take my eyes from her to look at the listeners. Did you notice the fat old lady in the second row, with her cloak a little thrown back? She was absolutely unconscious, and stayed with her face up and lips parted like a little child of six.'

"I think I like the quiet parts of the story the most," the sister replied; "but, of course, I'm not the best judge of these things. The audience gets so quiet sometimes! I keep glancing away from her to watch the listeners. Did you see the plump old lady in the second row, with her cloak slightly open? She was completely unaware, sitting there with her face up and lips parted like a little six-year-old."

'She well may! the thing is a triumph. That fellow Ladywell is here, I believe-yes, it is he, busily talking to the man on his right. If I were a woman I would rather go donkey-driving than stick myself up there, for gaping fops to quiz and say what they like about! But she had no choice, poor thing; for it was that or nothing with her.'

'She probably will! It's a real success. That guy Ladywell is here, I think—yeah, that's him, chatting away with the guy next to him. If I were a woman, I'd rather drive a donkey than put myself up there, letting clueless fools stare and say whatever they want! But she didn't have a choice, poor thing; it was that or nothing for her.'

Faith, who had secret doubts about the absolute necessity of Ethelberta's appearance in public, said, with remote meanings, 'Perhaps it is not altogether a severe punishment to her to be looked at by well-dressed men. Suppose she feels it as a blessing, instead of an affliction?'

Faith, who privately questioned whether it was really necessary for Ethelberta to be seen in public, said with a hint of ambiguity, "Maybe it's not such a harsh punishment for her to be admired by well-dressed men. What if she sees it as a privilege rather than a burden?"

'She is a different sort of woman, Faith, and so you would say if you knew her. Of course, it is natural for you to criticize her severely just now, and I don't wish to defend her.'

'She is a different kind of woman, Faith, and you would say that if you really knew her. Of course, it's normal for you to be hard on her right now, and I don’t want to defend her.'

'I think you do a little, Kit.'

'I think you do a bit, Kit.'

'No; I am indifferent about it all. Perhaps it would have been better for me if I had never seen her; and possibly it might have been better for her if she had never seen me. She has a heart, and the heart is a troublesome encumbrance when great things have to be done. I wish you knew her: I am sure you would like each other.'

'No; I don't really care about any of it. Maybe it would have been better for me if I had never met her; and it might have been better for her if she had never met me. She has a heart, and having a heart can be a burden when big things need to be accomplished. I wish you knew her: I’m sure you would get along really well.'

'O yes,' said Faith, in a voice of rather weak conviction. 'But, as we live in such a plain way, it would be hardly desirable at present.'

'O yes,' said Faith, in a voice that lacked strong conviction. 'But since we live so simply, it wouldn't really be ideal right now.'

Ethelberta being regarded, in common with the latest conjurer, spirit-medium, aeronaut, giant, dwarf or monarch, as a new sensation, she was duly criticized in the morning papers, and even obtained a notice in some of the weekly reviews.

Ethelberta was seen, just like the newest magician, psychic, balloonist, giant, dwarf, or king, as the latest sensation, so she was properly reviewed in the morning newspapers and even got a mention in a few of the weekly magazines.

'A handsome woman,' said one of these, 'may have her own reasons for causing the flesh of the London public to creep upon its bones by her undoubtedly remarkable narrative powers; but we question if much good can result from such a form of entertainment. Nevertheless, some praise is due. We have had the novel-writer among us for some time, and the novel-reader has occasionally appeared on our platforms; but we believe that this is the first instance on record of a Novel-teller-one, that is to say, who relates professedly as fiction a romantic tale which has never been printed-the whole owing its chief interest to the method whereby the teller identifies herself with the leading character in the story.'

'A beautiful woman,' said one of these, 'might have her own reasons for making the people of London feel chills with her undeniably impressive storytelling skills; but we wonder if much good can come from this kind of entertainment. Still, some credit is deserved. We've had novel writers among us for a while, and novel readers have occasionally appeared on our stages; but we believe this is the first documented case of a Novel-teller—someone, that is, who narrates a romantic tale as fiction, which has never been published—the whole story finding its main appeal in the way the teller connects herself with the main character in the narrative.'

Another observed: 'When once we get away from the magic influence of the story-teller's eye and tongue, we perceive how improbable, even impossible, is the tissue of events to which we have been listening with so great a sense of reality, and we feel almost angry with ourselves at having been the victims of such utter illusion.'

Another observed: 'Once we detach ourselves from the captivating charm of the storyteller's eye and voice, we realize how unlikely, even impossible, the series of events we've been absorbed in really is, and we almost feel angry with ourselves for having fallen for such a complete illusion.'

'Mrs. Petherwin's personal appearance is decidedly in her favour,' said another. 'She affects no unconsciousness of the fact that form and feature are no mean vehicles of persuasion, and she uses the powers of each to the utmost. There spreads upon her face when in repose an air of innocence which is charmingly belied by the subtlety we discover beneath it when she begins her tale; and this amusing discrepancy between her physical presentment and the inner woman is further illustrated by the misgiving, which seizes us on her entrance, that so impressionable a lady will never bear up in the face of so trying an audience. . . . The combinations of incident which Mrs. Petherwin persuades her hearers that she has passed through are not a little marvellous; and if what is rumoured be true, that the tales are to a great extent based upon her own experiences, she has proved herself to be no less daring in adventure than facile in her power of describing it.'

'Mrs. Petherwin's looks definitely work in her favor,' said another. 'She’s completely aware that appearance and charm are powerful tools for persuasion, and she maximizes both to their fullest. When she’s at rest, her face radiates a kind of innocence that is amusingly contradicted by the depth we notice as she starts her story; this entertaining gap between her outward appearance and her true self is reinforced by the doubt that strikes us upon her arrival, wondering how such a sensitive woman could possibly handle such a challenging audience. . . . The series of events that Mrs. Petherwin convinces her listeners she’s gone through are quite remarkable; and if the rumors are true, that her stories are largely drawn from her own life, she’s shown herself to be as adventurous as she is skilled at telling the tale.'

17. ETHELBERTA'S HOUSE

After such successes as these, Christopher could not forego the seductive intention of calling upon the poetess and romancer, at her now established town residence in Exonbury Crescent. One wintry afternoon he reached the door-now for the third time-and gave a knock which had in it every tender refinement that could be thrown into the somewhat antagonistic vehicle of noise. Turning his face down the street he waited restlessly on the step. There was a strange light in the atmosphere: the glass of the street-lamps, the varnished back of a passing cab, a milk-woman's cans, and a row of church-windows glared in his eyes like new-rubbed copper; and on looking the other way he beheld a bloody sun hanging among the chimneys at the upper end, as a danger-lamp to warn him off.

After these successes, Christopher couldn't resist the tempting idea of visiting the poetess and romancer at her now established home in Exonbury Crescent. One winter afternoon, he arrived at the door—for the third time—and knocked with all the gentle finesse he could muster, which somehow mixed with the harshness of sound. Turning his face down the street, he waited anxiously on the step. There was a strange light in the air: the glass of the streetlamps, the shiny back of a passing cab, a milkwoman's cans, and a row of church windows glared at him like freshly polished copper; and when he looked the other way, he saw a bloody sun dangling among the chimneys at the end of the street, like a warning light telling him to stay away.

By this time the door was opened, and before him stood Ethelberta's young brother Joey, thickly populated with little buttons, the remainder of him consisting of invisible green.

By this time, the door was open, and in front of him stood Ethelberta's young brother Joey, covered in little buttons, the rest of him being a shade of invisible green.

'Ah, Joseph,' said Christopher, instantly recognizing the boy. 'What, are you here in office? Is your-'

'Ah, Joseph,' said Christopher, immediately recognizing the boy. 'What, are you here at work? Is your-'

Joey lifted his forefinger and spread his mouth in a genial manner, as if to signify particular friendliness mingled with general caution.

Joey raised his index finger and smiled in a friendly way, as if to show a special warmth mixed with a bit of hesitation.

'Yes, sir, Mrs. Petherwin is my mistress. I'll see if she is at home, sir,' he replied, raising his shoulders and winking a wink of strategic meanings by way of finish-all which signs showed, if evidence were wanted, how effectually this pleasant young page understood, though quite fresh from Wessex, the duties of his peculiar position. Mr. Julian was shown to the drawing-room, and there he found Ethelberta alone.

'Yes, sir, Mrs. Petherwin is my boss. I'll check if she's at home, sir,' he replied, shrugging his shoulders and giving a knowing wink to signal various meanings, all of which indicated, if proof was needed, how well this charming young page understood, even though he was new from Wessex, the responsibilities of his unique role. Mr. Julian was directed to the living room, where he found Ethelberta alone.

She gave him a hand so cool and still that Christopher, much as he desired the contact, was literally ashamed to let her see and feel his own, trembling with unmanageable excess of feeling. It was always so, always had been so, always would be so, at these meetings of theirs: she was immeasurably the strongest; and the deep-eyed young man fancied, in the chagrin which the perception of this difference always bred in him, that she triumphed in her superior control. Yet it was only in little things that their sexes were thus reversed: Christopher would receive quite a shock if a little dog barked at his heels, and be totally unmoved when in danger of his life.

She offered him a hand that was so cool and still that Christopher, despite his longing for the connection, felt embarrassed to let her see and feel his own hand, trembling with overwhelming emotions. It was always like this, always had been, and always would be during their meetings: she was undeniably the stronger one; and the young man with deep-set eyes believed, in the frustration that this realization always caused him, that she took pride in her greater control. Yet it was only in minor ways that their genders were reversed: Christopher would be completely startled if a small dog barked at his heels, but totally unfazed when faced with life-threatening situations.

Certainly the most self-possessed woman in the world, under pressure of the incongruity between their last meeting and the present one, might have shown more embarrassment than Ethelberta showed on greeting him to-day. Christopher was only a man in believing that the shyness which she did evince was chiefly the result of personal interest. She might or might not have been said to blush-perhaps the stealthy change upon her face was too slow an operation to deserve that name: but, though pale when he called, the end of ten minutes saw her colour high and wide. She soon set him at his ease, and seemed to relax a long-sustained tension as she talked to him of her arrangements, hopes, and fears.

Certainly the most composed woman in the world, under the pressure of the contrast between their last meeting and this one, might have shown more embarrassment than Ethelberta showed when she greeted him today. Christopher, being just a man, believed that the shyness she displayed was mainly due to personal interest. She might or might not have been said to blush—perhaps the gradual change on her face was too slow to deserve that label: but, although she was pale when he arrived, after ten minutes her color rose high and flush. She quickly made him feel comfortable and seemed to release a long-held tension as she talked to him about her plans, hopes, and fears.

'And how do you like London society?' said Ethelberta.

'So, what do you think of London society?' Ethelberta asked.

'Pretty well, as far as I have seen it: to the surface of its front door.'

'Pretty much, as far as I can tell: to the front door.'

'You will find nothing to be alarmed at if you get inside.'

'You won’t find anything to worry about once you step inside.'

'O no-of course not-except my own shortcomings,' said the modest musician. 'London society is made up of much more refined people than society anywhere else.'

'O no—of course not—except my own shortcomings,' said the modest musician. 'London society is made up of much more refined people than anywhere else.'

'That's a very prevalent opinion; and it is nowhere half so prevalent as in London society itself. However, come and see my house-unless you think it a trouble to look over a house?'

'That's a really common opinion, and it's nowhere near as common as in London society itself. Anyway, come and see my house—unless you think it's a hassle to check out a house?'

'No; I should like it very much.'

'No; I would like it a lot.'

The decorations tended towards the artistic gymnastics prevalent in some quarters at the present day. Upon a general flat tint of duck's-egg green appeared quaint patterns of conventional foliage, and birds, done in bright auburn, several shades nearer to redbreast-red than was Ethelberta's hair, which was thus thrust further towards brown by such juxtaposition-a possible reason for the choice of tint. Upon the glazed tiles within the chimney-piece were the forms of owls, bats, snakes, frogs, mice, spiders in their webs, moles, and other objects of aversion and darkness, shaped in black and burnt in after the approved fashion.

The decorations leaned towards the artistic gymnastics common in some places today. Over a flat base of duck's-egg green, there were quirky patterns of traditional leaves and birds, done in bright auburn, which was actually a few shades closer to robin-red than Ethelberta's hair. This made her hair appear even browner in comparison—possibly why this color was chosen. On the glazed tiles of the fireplace, there were images of owls, bats, snakes, frogs, mice, spiders in their webs, moles, and other items associated with fear and darkness, all shaped in black and fired using the standard technique.

'My brothers Sol and Dan did most of the actual work,' said Ethelberta, 'though I drew the outlines, and designed the tiles round the fire. The flowers, mice, and spiders are done very simply, you know: you only press a real flower, mouse, or spider out flat under a piece of glass, and then copy it, adding a little more emaciation and angularity at pleasure.'

'My brothers Sol and Dan did most of the actual work,' said Ethelberta, 'though I drew the outlines and designed the tiles around the fireplace. The flowers, mice, and spiders are done really simply, you know: you just press a real flower, mouse, or spider flat under a piece of glass and then copy it, adding a bit more thinness and sharp angles as you like.'

'In that "at pleasure" is where all the art lies,' said he.

'That's where all the skill is,' he said.

'Well, yes-that is the case,' said Ethelberta thoughtfully; and preceding him upstairs, she threw open a door on one of the floors, disclosing Dan in person, engaged upon a similar treatment of this floor also. Sol appeared bulging from the door of a closet, a little further on, where he was fixing some shelves; and both wore workmen's blouses. At once coming down from the short ladder he was standing upon, Dan shook Christopher's hand with some velocity.

'Well, yes, that's true,' Ethelberta said thoughtfully. Leading him upstairs, she opened a door on one of the floors, revealing Dan in person, working on a similar project on that floor too. Sol appeared from the door of a closet a bit further down, where he was putting up some shelves, and both of them were in work shirts. As soon as he came down from the short ladder he was on, Dan shook Christopher's hand quickly.

'We do a little at a time, you see,' he said, 'because Colonel down below, and Mrs. Petherwin's visitors, shan't smell the turpentine.'

'We do a little at a time, you see,' he said, 'because the Colonel down below and Mrs. Petherwin's guests shouldn't smell the turpentine.'

'We be pushing on to-day to get it out of the way,' said Sol, also coming forward and greeting their visitor, but more reluctantly than his brother had done. 'Now I'll tell ye what-you two,' he added, after an uneasy pause, turning from Christopher to Ethelberta and back again in great earnestness; 'you'd better not bide here, talking to we rough ones, you know, for folks might find out that there's something closer between us than workmen and employer and employer's friend. So Berta and Mr. Julian, if you'll go on and take no more notice o' us, in case of visitors, it would be wiser-else, perhaps, if we should be found out intimate with ye, and bring down your gentility, you'll blame us for it. I get as nervous as a cat when I think I may be the cause of any disgrace to ye.'

"We're pushing to get this done today," said Sol, stepping forward to greet their guest, but he was less eager than his brother. "Now let me tell you both," he continued after a brief, tense pause, shifting his gaze between Christopher and Ethelberta in a serious manner, "you really shouldn't stay here chatting with us rough folks, you know, because people might realize there’s something more between us than just workmen and employer and employer's friend. So Berta and Mr. Julian, if you both could just carry on and ignore us for the sake of any visitors, that would be a smarter choice—otherwise, if we get found out being too friendly with you, and it makes you look bad, you'll end up blaming us. I get as anxious as a cat at the thought of being the reason for any shame for you."

'Don't be so silly, Sol,' said Ethelberta, laughing.

"Don't be so ridiculous, Sol," Ethelberta said, laughing.

'Ah, that's all very well,' said Sol, with an unbelieving smile; 'but if we bain't company for you out of doors, you bain't company for we within-not that I find fault with ye or mind it, and shan't take anything for painting your house, nor will Dan neither, any more for that-no, not a penny; in fact, we are glad to do it for 'ee. At the same time, you keep to your class, and we'll keep to ours. And so, good afternoon, Berta, when you like to go, and the same to you, Mr. Julian. Dan, is that your mind?'

'Oh, that's all nice,' said Sol, with a skeptical smile; 'but if we aren't good enough company for you outside, then you aren't good company for us inside—not that I have a problem with you or care much about it, and I won't take anything for painting your house, and neither will Dan, not even a penny; in fact, we're happy to do it for you. At the same time, you stick to your group, and we'll stick to ours. So, good afternoon, Berta, whenever you want to leave, and the same to you, Mr. Julian. Dan, what do you think?'

'I can but own it,' said Dan.

"I can only admit it," said Dan.

The two brothers then turned their backs upon their visitors, and went on working, and Ethelberta and her lover left the room. 'My brothers, you perceive,' said she, 'represent the respectable British workman in his entirety, and a touchy individual he is, I assure you, on points of dignity, after imbibing a few town ideas from his leaders. They are painfully off-hand with me, absolutely refusing to be intimate, from a mistaken notion that I am ashamed of their dress and manners; which, of course, is absurd.'

The two brothers turned their backs on their visitors and continued working, while Ethelberta and her partner left the room. 'You see, my brothers,' she said, 'embody the respectable British worker completely, and he's quite sensitive about dignity, especially after picking up a few urban ideas from his leaders. They’re frustratingly standoffish with me, completely refusing to get close, based on the mistaken belief that I’m embarrassed by their clothing and behavior, which is, of course, ridiculous.'

'Which, of course, is absurd,' said Christopher.

"That's just ridiculous," Christopher said.

'Of course it is absurd!' she repeated with warmth, and looking keenly at him. But, finding no harm in his face, she continued as before: 'Yet, all the time, they will do anything under the sun that they think will advance my interests. In our hearts we are one. All they ask me to do is to leave them to themselves, and therefore I do so. Now, would you like to see some more of your acquaintance?'

'Of course it's ridiculous!' she repeated passionately, studying his face closely. But when she saw no malice in his expression, she went on as before: 'Still, they’ll do anything they think will help me. In our hearts, we're united. All they want from me is to let them be, and so I do. Now, would you like to see more of your friends?'

She introduced him to a large attic; where he found himself in the society of two or three persons considerably below the middle height, whose manners were of that gushing kind sometimes called Continental, their ages ranging from five years to eight. These were the youngest children, presided over by Emmeline, as professor of letters, capital and small.

She showed him a big attic, where he met two or three people who were quite short, with personalities that were very enthusiastic, sometimes referred to as Continental. Their ages ranged from five to eight years old. These were the youngest kids, led by Emmeline, who was in charge of teaching letters, both uppercase and lowercase.

'I am giving them the rudiments of education here,' said Ethelberta; 'but I foresee several difficulties in the way of keeping them here, which I must get over as best I can. One trouble is, that they don't get enough air and exercise.'

'I’m teaching them the basics of education here,' Ethelberta said, 'but I can see a few challenges in keeping them here, which I have to figure out as best as I can. One issue is that they’re not getting enough fresh air and exercise.'

'Is Mrs. Chickerel living here as well?' Christopher ventured to inquire, when they were downstairs again.

'Is Mrs. Chickerel living here too?' Christopher asked cautiously when they were back downstairs.

'Yes; but confined to her room as usual, I regret to say. Two more sisters of mine, whom you have never seen at all, are also here. They are older than any of the rest of us, and had, broadly speaking, no education at all, poor girls. The eldest, Gwendoline, is my cook, and Cornelia is my housemaid. I suffer much sadness, and almost misery sometimes, in reflecting that here are we, ten brothers and sisters, born of one father and mother, who might have mixed together and shared all in the same scenes, and been properly happy, if it were not for the strange accidents that have split us up into sections as you see, cutting me off from them without the compensation of joining me to any others. They are all true as steel in keeping the secret of our kin, certainly; but that brings little joy, though some satisfaction perhaps.'

"Yes, but she's stuck in her room as usual, and I hate to say it. Two more of my sisters, who you've never met, are here too. They're older than the rest of us and, frankly, they received almost no education, poor girls. The oldest, Gwendoline, is my cook, and Cornelia is my housemaid. I feel a lot of sadness, and sometimes even misery, when I think about how we, ten brothers and sisters, all born to the same parents, could have shared everything together and been truly happy if it weren't for the strange circumstances that have divided us into groups like this, cutting me off from them without linking me to anyone else. They're fiercely loyal about keeping our family secret, for sure; but that offers little joy, though maybe some satisfaction."

'You might be less despondent, I think. The tale-telling has been one of the successes of the season.'

'You might feel less down, I think. The storytelling has been one of the highlights of the season.'

'Yes, I might; but I may observe that you scarcely set the example of blitheness.'

'Yes, I might; but I’d like to point out that you hardly set an example of being cheerful.'

'Ah-that's not because I don't recognize the pleasure of being here. It is from a more general cause: simply an underfeeling I have that at the most propitious moment the distance to the possibility of sorrow is so short that a man's spirits must not rise higher than mere cheerfulness out of bare respect to his insight.

'Oh, that's not because I don't appreciate the enjoyment of being here. It's due to a broader reason: I just have a nagging feeling that at the most fortunate times, the chance of sadness is so close that a person shouldn't let his spirits get higher than simple cheerfulness out of basic respect for his understanding.'

       "As long as the skies are blue and the fields are green,  
       Evening will bring in the night, and night will lead to tomorrow,  
       Month after month will bring pain, and year after year will awaken sorrow."

Ethelberta bowed uncertainly; the remark might refer to her past conduct or it might not. 'My great cause of uneasiness is the children,' she presently said, as a new page of matter. 'It is my duty, at all risk and all sacrifice of sentiment, to educate and provide for them. The grown-up ones, older than myself, I cannot help much, but the little ones I can. I keep my two French lodgers for the sake of them.'

Ethelberta hesitated as she bowed; she wasn't sure if the comment was about her past behavior or not. "What really worries me is the kids," she said after a moment. "It's my responsibility, no matter the risk or personal feelings, to educate and take care of them. I can't do much for the older ones, but I can help the little ones. I keep my two French tenants for their sake."

'The lodgers, of course, don't know the relationship between yourself and the rest of the people in the house?'

'The lodgers, of course, don't know how you're connected to the other people in the house?'

'O no!-nor will they ever. My mother is supposed to let the ground and first floors to me-a strange lady-as she does the second and third floors to them. Still, I may be discovered.'

'O no! They never will. My mother is supposed to rent the ground and first floors to me—a strange lady—just like she does with the second and third floors for them. Still, I might get caught.'

'Well-if you are?'

'Well, if you are?'

'Let me be. Life is a battle, they say; but it is only so in the sense that a game of chess is a battle-there is no seriousness in it; it may be put an end to at any inconvenient moment by owning yourself beaten, with a careless "Ha-ha!" and sweeping your pieces into the box. Experimentally, I care to succeed in society; but at the bottom of my heart, I don't care.'

'Let me be. Life is a struggle, they say; but it’s only a struggle in the same way a game of chess is a struggle—there's no real seriousness to it; you can end it anytime by admitting defeat with a casual "Ha-ha!" and putting your pieces away. I try to fit in socially, but deep down, it doesn’t really matter to me.'

'For that very reason you are likely to do it. My idea is, make ambition your business and indifference your relaxation, and you will fail; but make indifference your business and ambition your relaxation, and you will succeed. So impish are the ways of the gods.'

'For that very reason, you’re likely to do it. My suggestion is to make ambition your work and indifference your downtime, and you'll fail; but make indifference your work and ambition your downtime, and you'll succeed. The ways of the gods are so mischievous.'

'I hope that you at any rate will succeed,' she said, at the end of a silence.

'I hope you succeed, at least,' she said, after a pause.

'I never can-if success means getting what one wants.'

'I can never do that—if success means getting what you want.'

'Why should you not get that?'

'Why shouldn't you get that?'

'It has been forbidden to me.'

'I've been forbidden to do that.'

Her complexion changed just enough to show that she knew what he meant. 'If you were as bold as you are subtle, you would take a more cheerful view of the matter,' she said, with a look signifying innermost things.

Her face shifted slightly, enough to reveal that she understood what he meant. 'If you were as daring as you are clever, you'd have a more positive outlook on this,' she said, her expression indicating deeper feelings.

'I will instantly! Shall I test the truth of my cheerful view by a word of question?'

'I will do it right away! Should I check the accuracy of my positive perspective by asking a question?'

'I deny that you are capable of taking that view, and until you prove that you are, no question is allowed,' she said, laughing, and still warmer in the face and neck. 'Nothing but melancholy, gentle melancholy, now as in old times when there was nothing to cause it.'

'I don't believe you can really think that way, and until you show me otherwise, we’re not discussing it,' she said with a laugh, her face and neck still flushed. 'It’s just a bit of sadness, gentle sadness, just like in the old days when there was no reason for it.'

'Ah-you only tease.'

'Oh, you’re just teasing.'

'You will not throw aside that bitter medicine of distrust, for the world. You have grown so used to it, that you take it as food, as some invalids do their mixtures.'

'You won’t let go of that bitter dose of distrust for the world. You’ve become so accustomed to it that you take it like food, just like some sick people do with their medicines.'

'Ethelberta, you have my heart-my whole heart. You have had it ever since I first saw you. Now you understand me, and no pretending that you don't, mind, this second time.'

'Ethelberta, you have my heart—my entire heart. You've had it ever since I first saw you. Now you understand me, and let’s not pretend that you don’t this time.'

'I understood you long ago; you have not understood me.'

"I figured you out a long time ago; you still don’t get me."

'You are mysterious,' he said lightly; 'and perhaps if I disentangle your mystery I shall find it to cover-indifference. I hope it does-for your sake.'

'You're mysterious,' he said playfully; 'and maybe if I figure out your mystery, I’ll discover that it hides indifference. I hope it does—for your sake.'

'How can you say so!' she exclaimed reproachfully. 'Yet I wish it did too-I wish it did cover indifference-for yours. But you have all of me that you care to have, and may keep it for life if you wish to. Listen, surely there was a knock at the door? Let us go inside the room: I am always uneasy when anybody comes, lest any awkward discovery should be made by a visitor of my miserable contrivances for keeping up the establishment.'

'How can you say that!' she exclaimed reproachfully. 'Still, I wish it did—I wish it did show indifference—especially for yours. But you have all of me that you want, and you can keep it for life if you want to. Listen, wasn't there a knock at the door? Let's go inside the room: I always feel uneasy when someone comes over, in case a visitor discovers my pathetic attempts to maintain this place.'

Joey met them before they had left the landing.

'Please, Berta,' he whispered, 'Mr. Ladywell has called, and I've showed him into the liberry. You know, Berta, this is how it was, you know: I thought you and Mr. Julian were in the drawing-room, and wouldn't want him to see ye together, and so I asked him to step into the liberry a minute.'

'Please, Berta,' he whispered, 'Mr. Ladywell has arrived, and I've shown him into the library. You know, Berta, here's the situation: I thought you and Mr. Julian were in the living room and wouldn't want him to see you together, so I asked him to step into the library for a minute.'

'You must improve your way of speaking,' she said, with quick embarrassment, whether at the mention of Ladywell's name before Julian, or at the way Joey coupled herself with Christopher, was quite uncertain. 'Will you excuse me for a few moments?' she said, turning to Christopher. 'Pray sit down; I shall not be long.' And she glided downstairs.

"You need to work on how you speak," she said, feeling a bit embarrassed, though it was unclear whether it was because Ladywell's name had come up in front of Julian or because Joey had linked herself with Christopher. "Can you give me a few minutes?" she asked, looking at Christopher. "Please, have a seat; I won't be long." And she gracefully went downstairs.

They had been standing just by the drawing-room door, and Christopher turned back into the room with no very satisfactory countenance. It was very odd, he thought, that she should go down to Ladywell in that mysterious manner, when he might have been admitted to where they were talking without any trouble at all. What could Ladywell have to say, as an acquaintance calling upon her for a few minutes, that he was not to hear? Indeed, if it came to that, what right had Ladywell to call upon her at all, even though she were a widow, and to some extent chartered to live in a way which might be considered a trifle free if indulged in by other young women. This was the first time that he himself had ventured into her house on that very account-a doubt whether it was quite proper to call, considering her youth, and the fertility of her position as ground for scandal. But no sooner did he arrive than here was Ladywell blundering in, and, since this conjunction had occurred on his first visit, the chances were that Ladywell came very often.

They had been standing right by the drawing-room door, and Christopher turned back into the room looking quite unsatisfied. It struck him as strange that she would go down to Ladywell in such a mysterious way when he could have easily joined them for their conversation. What could Ladywell possibly tell her, as just an acquaintance stopping by for a few minutes, that he wasn’t allowed to hear? In fact, if you really thought about it, what right did Ladywell have to visit her at all, even if she was a widow and lived in a way that might be seen as a bit too free if it were done by other young women? This was the first time he had dared to enter her house for that very reason – he was unsure if it was entirely appropriate to visit, given her youth and the potential for scandal. But as soon as he arrived, here was Ladywell stumbling in, and since this happened on his first visit, it seemed likely that Ladywell came by quite often.

Julian walked up and down the room, every moment expanding itself to a minute in his impatience at the delay and vexation at the cause. After scrutinizing for the fifth time every object on the walls as if afflicted with microscopic closeness of sight, his hands under his coat-tails, and his person jigging up and down upon his toes, he heard her coming up the stairs. When she entered the apartment her appearance was decidedly that of a person subsiding after some little excitement.

Julian paced back and forth in the room, each moment feeling like a minute as he grew impatient with the delay and frustrated by the reason behind it. After examining every object on the walls for the fifth time, as if he had a microscope for eyes, with his hands tucked under his coat and bouncing on his toes, he heard her coming up the stairs. When she walked into the room, she clearly looked like someone who was calming down after a bit of excitement.

'I did not calculate upon being so long,' she said sweetly, at the same time throwing back her face and smiling. 'But I-was longer than I expected.'

"I didn't expect to be gone so long," she said sweetly, tilting her head back and smiling. "But I was longer than I thought."

'It seemed rather long,' said Christopher gloomily, 'but I don't mind it.'

'It felt pretty long,' Christopher said gloomily, 'but I don't mind it.'

'I am glad of that,' said Ethelberta.

'I’m glad about that,' said Ethelberta.

'As you asked me to stay, I was very pleased to do so, and always should be; but I think that now I will wish you good-bye.'

'Since you asked me to stay, I was really happy to do that, and I always should be; but I think it's time for me to say goodbye now.'

'You are not vexed with me?' she said, looking quite into his face. 'Mr. Ladywell is nobody, you know.'

'You're not upset with me, are you?' she asked, looking directly into his face. 'Mr. Ladywell is just nobody, you know.'

'Nobody?'

'Anyone?'

'Well, he is not much, I mean. The case is, that I am sitting to him for a subject in which my face is to be used-otherwise than as a portrait-and he called about it.'

'Well, he’s not great, I guess. The thing is, I’m meeting with him for a topic where my face is going to be used—other than just as a portrait—and he called about it.'

'May I say,' said Christopher, 'that if you want yourself painted, you are ill-advised not to let it be done by a man who knows how to use the brush a little?'

'Can I just say,' Christopher said, 'that if you want to get your portrait painted, it's a bad idea not to have it done by someone who knows how to handle a brush at least a bit?'

'O, he can paint!' said Ethelberta, rather warmly. 'His last picture was excellent, I think. It was greatly talked about.'

'O, he can really paint!' said Ethelberta, rather enthusiastically. 'His latest picture was fantastic, in my opinion. It got a lot of attention.'

'I imagined you to say that he was a mere nobody!'

'I figured you would say he was just a nobody!'

'Yes, but-how provoking you are!-nobody, I mean, to talk to. He is a true artist, nevertheless.'

'Yes, but—how annoying you are!—nobody, I mean, to talk to. He is a true artist, though.'

Christopher made no reply. The warm understanding between them had quite ended now, and there was no fanning it up again. Sudden tiffs had been the constant misfortune of their courtship in days gone by, had been the remote cause of her marriage to another; and the familiar shadows seemed to be rising again to cloud them with the same persistency as ever. Christopher went downstairs with well-behaved moodiness, and left the house forthwith. The postman came to the door at the same time.

Christopher didn't respond. The warm connection they once had was completely gone, and there was no way to revive it. Sudden arguments had always been a recurring problem during their courtship in the past, and they were the distant reason she married someone else; now, familiar issues seemed to be creeping back in, threatening to overshadow them just like before. Christopher went downstairs in a sulky mood and left the house immediately. The postman arrived at the door at the same moment.

Ethelberta opened a letter from Picotee, who was back in Sandbourne again, and leaning toward the firelight, she began to read:

    'MY DEAR ETHELBERTA, - I’ve tried to enjoy my time in Sandbourne because you want me to, but I just can’t stand it here, dear Berta; everything is so miserable and boring! Oh, I wish you could see how dreary it is, and how much I would give to come to London! I can’t help thinking I would do better in the city. You see, I would be close to you and could benefit from your experience. I wouldn’t care what kind of work I did if I could just be there with you all. Being here feels like being in exile. If I can’t get a teaching job in some London school (and I think I could by advertising), I could stay with you and be a governess for Georgina and Myrtle, since I’m sure you don’t have enough time to teach them properly, and Emmeline is too young to manage them. I could also help with your dressmaking, and you must have a lot of that to do if you keep appearing in public. Mr. Long read about your first evening in the papers, and later I overheard two ladies from our committee discussing it; but of course, none of them knew how personally invested I was in what they were saying. Now, Ethelberta, will you please consider if I might come? Please do, my dear sister! I’ll do anything you ask if I can just come. - Your ever affectionate,                    PICOTEE.'

'Great powers above—what worries me!' cried Ethelberta, jumping up. 'What could have suddenly upset the child? She used to like Sandbourne well enough!' She sat down and quickly wrote the following reply:

'MY DEAR PICOTEE—There’s only a little time before the post goes, but I’ll try to answer your letter right away. What’s behind this sudden dislike for Sandbourne? It’s a nice, healthy place, and you’re likely to do much better than our older sisters if you stay on the path you’ve chosen. Of course, if I happen to get rich from my storytelling and other endeavors, I’ll share everything with you and the rest of us, in which case you won’t have to work at all. But (even though I’ve been unexpectedly successful so far) that’s uncertain; it would be reckless to assume all of us can survive, or even just us seven girls, on the fortune I hope to make. So, while I don’t want to be harsh, I have to stress the importance of keeping up with what you’re doing right now. I know the place must be boring, but we all need to deal with boredom sometimes. You, being closest to me in age, need to help me as much as you can to do something for the younger ones; and if anyone is going to live here besides a servant, it must be our father—who, however, won’t hear of it when I mention it to him right now. Please think of all this, Picotee, and stay strong! Maybe one day we’ll all be happy and together. Joey is waiting to take this to the post office right away. Everyone is well. Sol and Dan have nearly finished the repairs and decorations on my house—but I’ll tell you about that another time. Your loving sister, BERTA.'

18. NEAR SANDBOURNE-LONDON STREETS-ETHELBERTA'S

When this letter reached its destination the next morning, Picotee, in her over-anxiety, could not bring herself to read it in anybody's presence, and put it in her pocket till she was on her walk across the moor. She still lived at the cottage out of the town, though at some inconvenience to herself, in order to teach at a small village night-school whilst still carrying on her larger occupation of pupil-teacher in Sandbourne.

When this letter arrived the next morning, Picotee was too anxious to read it in front of anyone, so she tucked it into her pocket until her walk across the moor. She still lived in the cottage outside of town, even though it was inconvenient for her, in order to teach at a small village night school while also continuing her main job as a pupil-teacher in Sandbourne.

So she walked and read, and was soon in tears. Moreover, when she thought of what Ethelberta would have replied had that keen sister known the wildness of her true reason in wishing to go, she shuddered with misery. To wish to get near a man only because he had been kind to her, and had admired her pretty face, and had given her flowers, to nourish a passion all the more because of its hopeless impracticability, were things to dream of, not to tell. Picotee was quite an unreasoning animal. Her sister arranged situations for her, told her how to conduct herself in them, how to make up anew, in unobtrusive shapes, the valuable wearing apparel she sent from time to time-so as to provoke neither exasperation in the little gentry, nor superciliousness in the great. Ethelberta did everything for her, in short; and Picotee obeyed orders with the abstracted ease of mind which people show who have their thinking done for them, and put out their troubles as they do their washing. She was quite willing not to be clever herself, since it was unnecessary while she had a much-admired sister, who was clever enough for two people and to spare.

So she walked and read, and soon found herself in tears. Also, when she thought about how Ethelberta would have reacted if that sharp sister had known the real reason behind her desire to go, she felt a wave of sadness. Wanting to get close to a guy just because he had been nice to her, admired her looks, and given her flowers, and to cultivate a feeling that was even more intense because it was completely unattainable, were things to think about, not to share. Picotee was quite naive. Her sister set up situations for her, told her how to behave in them, and how to redesign the valuable clothes she occasionally sent her—without causing annoyance to the minor gentry or arrogance among the upper class. In short, Ethelberta did everything for her, and Picotee followed instructions with the absent-minded ease of someone whose thinking is done for them, putting her worries aside like laundry. She was perfectly happy not to be smart herself, as it seemed unnecessary when she had a well-regarded sister who was clever enough for both of them and then some.

This arrangement, by which she gained an untroubled existence in exchange for freedom of will, had worked very pleasantly for Picotee until the anomaly of falling in love on her own account created a jar in the machinery. Then she began to know how wearing were miserable days, and how much more wearing were miserable nights. She pictured Christopher in London calling upon her dignified sister (for Ethelberta innocently mentioned his name sometimes in writing) and imagined over and over again the mutual signs of warm feeling between them. And now Picotee resolved upon a noble course. Like Juliet, she had been troubled with a consciousness that perhaps her love for Christopher was a trifle forward and unmaidenly, even though she had determined never to let him or anybody in the whole world know of it. To set herself to pray that she might have strength to see him without a pang the lover of her sister, who deserved him so much more than herself, would be a grand penance and corrective.

This arrangement, where she traded her freedom for a calm life, had worked quite well for Picotee until she unexpectedly fell in love, which threw everything off balance. She started to realize how exhausting miserable days could be, and even more so, how grueling terrible nights were. She pictured Christopher in London visiting her poised sister (since Ethelberta sometimes mentioned him innocently in her letters) and repeatedly imagined the mutual affection they shared. Now, Picotee decided to take a noble path. Like Juliet, she felt a nagging worry that her feelings for Christopher were a bit too bold and not very ladylike, even though she swore never to let him or anyone else in the world know about it. She thought it would be a great penance and a way to correct herself to pray for the strength to see him without pain, knowing he was her sister’s boyfriend who deserved him so much more than she did.

After uttering petitions to this effect for several days, she still felt very bad; indeed, in the psychological difficulty of striving for what in her soul she did not desire, rather worse, if anything. At last, weary of walking the old road and never meeting him, and blank in a general powerlessness, she wrote the letter to Ethelberta, which was only the last one of a series that had previously been written and torn up.

After making requests like this for several days, she still felt really bad; in fact, struggling for something she didn’t want deep down made it even worse. Finally, tired of following the same path and never finding him, feeling completely powerless, she wrote the letter to Ethelberta, which was just the latest in a series of letters she had written and ripped up before.

Now this hope had been whirled away like thistledown, and the case was grievous enough to distract a greater stoic than Picotee. The end of it was that she left the school on insufficient notice, gave up her cottage home on the plea-true in the letter-that she was going to join a relative in London, and went off thither by a morning train, leaving her things packed ready to be sent on when she should write for them.

Now this hope had been blown away like dandelion fluff, and the situation was serious enough to unsettle even someone tougher than Picotee. In the end, she left the school without giving enough notice, gave up her cottage home under the true pretense in her letter that she was going to join a relative in London, and took off there on a morning train, leaving her things packed and ready to be sent when she wrote for them.

Picotee arrived in town late on a cold February afternoon, bearing a small bag in her hand. She crossed Westminster Bridge on foot, just after dusk, and saw a luminous haze hanging over each well-lighted street as it withdrew into distance behind the nearer houses, showing its direction as a train of morning mist shows the course of a distant stream when the stream itself is hidden. The lights along the riverside towards Charing Cross sent an inverted palisade of gleaming swords down into the shaking water, and the pavement ticked to the touch of pedestrians' feet, most of whom tripped along as if walking only to practise a favourite quick step, and held handkerchiefs to their mouths to strain off the river mist from their lungs. She inquired her way to Exonbury Crescent, and between five and six o'clock reached her sister's door.

Picotee arrived in town late on a chilly February afternoon, carrying a small bag in her hand. She walked across Westminster Bridge just after sunset and saw a glowing haze hanging over each brightly lit street as it faded into the distance behind the closer houses, similar to how morning mist reveals the path of a hidden stream. The lights along the river towards Charing Cross created a reflection like a barrier of shining swords in the rippling water, and the pavement clicked under the steps of pedestrians, most of whom seemed to be walking just to practice a favorite quick step, holding handkerchiefs to their mouths to filter out the river mist. She asked for directions to Exonbury Crescent, and between five and six o'clock, she reached her sister's door.

Two or three minutes were passed in accumulating resolution sufficient to ring the bell, which when at last she did, was not performed in a way at all calculated to make the young man Joey hasten to the door. After the lapse of a certain time he did, however, find leisure to stroll and see what the caller might want, out of curiosity to know who there could be in London afraid to ring a bell twice.

Two or three minutes went by as she mustered the courage to ring the bell, but when she finally did, it wasn’t exactly the sort of ringing that would make the young man Joey hurry to the door. After a while, he took his time to stroll over and check who was visiting, curious to see who in London might be afraid to ring the bell twice.

Joey's delight exceeded even his surprise, the ruling maxim of his life being the more the merrier, under all circumstances. The beaming young man was about to run off and announce her upstairs and downstairs, left and right, when Picotee called him hastily to her. In the hall her quick young eye had caught sight of an umbrella with a peculiar horn handle-an umbrella she had been accustomed to meet on Sandbourne Moor on many happy afternoons. Christopher was evidently in the house.

Joey's joy was even greater than his shock, as his life’s motto was always "the more, the merrier," no matter the situation. The cheerful young man was ready to rush off and tell everyone upstairs and downstairs, left and right, when Picotee quickly called him over. In the hallway, her sharp young eyes spotted an umbrella with a unique horn handle—an umbrella she often saw on Sandbourne Moor during many enjoyable afternoons. Christopher was clearly in the house.

'Joey,' she said, as if she were ready to faint, 'don't tell Berta I am come. She has company, has she not?'

'Joey,' she said, sounding like she was about to faint, 'don't tell Berta I'm here. She has company, right?'

'O no-only Mr. Julian!' said the brother. 'He's quite one of the family!'

'O no—only Mr. Julian!' said the brother. 'He's definitely part of the family!'

'Never mind-can't I go down into the kitchen with you?' she inquired. There had been bliss and misery mingled in those tidings, and she scarcely knew for a moment which way they affected her. What she did know was that she had run her dear fox to earth, and a sense of satisfaction at that feat prevented her just now from counting the cost of the performance.

'Forget it—can't I come down to the kitchen with you?' she asked. There had been both joy and sorrow mixed in those news, and she barely knew for a moment how they impacted her. What she did know was that she had tracked down her beloved fox, and a feeling of satisfaction from that achievement kept her from considering the consequences right now.

'Does Mr. Julian come to see her very often?' said she.

"Does Mr. Julian visit her often?" she asked.

'O yes-he's always a-coming-a regular bore to me.'

'O yes, he's always coming—just a regular bore to me.'

'A regular what?'

'A regular what now?'

'Bore!-Ah, I forgot, you don't know our town words. However, come along.'

'Bore! Oh, I forgot, you’re not familiar with our town lingo. Anyway, let’s go.'

They passed by the doors on tiptoe, and their mother upstairs being, according to Joey's account, in the midst of a nap, Picotee was unwilling to disturb her; so they went down at once to the kitchen, when forward rushed Gwendoline the cook, flourishing her floury hands, and Cornelia the housemaid, dancing over her brush; and these having welcomed and made Picotee comfortable, who should ring the area-bell, and be admitted down the steps, but Sol and Dan. The workman-brothers, their day's duties being over, had called to see their relations, first, as usual, going home to their lodgings in Marylebone and making themselves as spruce as bridegrooms, according to the rules of their newly-acquired town experience. For the London mechanic is only nine hours a mechanic, though the country mechanic works, eats, drinks, and sleeps a mechanic throughout the whole twenty-four.

They quietly walked past the doors, and since their mother was supposedly napping upstairs, according to Joey, Picotee didn't want to wake her up. So, they headed straight to the kitchen, where Gwendoline the cook rushed in, her hands covered in flour, and Cornelia the housemaid danced over with her brush. After welcoming Picotee and making her comfortable, who should ring the area bell and come down the steps but Sol and Dan. The two brothers, finished with their workday, had stopped by to see their relatives, first going home to their place in Marylebone to get all spruced up like groomed-up bachelors, following the etiquette of their new city life. Because a London worker is only a mechanic for nine hours, while the country worker is a mechanic all day, every day.

'God bless my soul-Picotee!' said Dan, standing fixed. 'Well-I say, this is splendid! ha-ha!'

'God bless my soul-Picotee!' said Dan, standing still. 'Wow-I mean, this is amazing! Ha-ha!'

'Picotee-what brought you here?' said Sol, expanding the circumference of his face in satisfaction. 'Well, come along-never mind so long as you be here.'

'Picotee—what brought you here?' said Sol, grinning widely. 'Well, come on—doesn't matter as long as you're here.'

Picotee explained circumstances as well as she could without stating them, and, after a general conversation of a few minutes, Sol interrupted with-'Anybody upstairs with Mrs. Petherwin?'

Picotee explained the situation as best as she could without directly mentioning it, and after a casual chat that lasted a few minutes, Sol interrupted with, "Is anyone upstairs with Mrs. Petherwin?"

'Mr. Julian was there just now,' said Joey; 'but he may be gone. Berta always lets him slip out how he can, the form of ringing me up not being necessary with him. Wait a minute-I'll see.'

'Mr. Julian was here just now,' Joey said, 'but he might be gone. Berta always finds a way to let him sneak out without having to call me. Hold on a second—I’ll check.'

Joseph vanished up the stairs; and, the question whether Christopher were gone or not being an uninteresting one to the majority, the talking went on upon other matters. When Joey crept down again a minute later, Picotee was sitting aloof and silent, and he accordingly singled her out to speak to.

Joseph disappeared up the stairs, and since most people didn't care whether Christopher was there or not, the conversation shifted to other topics. When Joey came back down a minute later, Picotee was sitting by herself, quiet and distant, so he chose to talk to her.

'Such a lark, Picotee!' he whispered. 'Berta's a-courting of her young man. Would you like to see how they carries on a bit?'

'Such a fun time, Picotee!' he whispered. 'Berta's out on a date with her guy. Would you like to see how they're getting along?'

'Dearly I should!' said Picotee, the pupils of her eyes dilating.

'Of course I would!' said Picotee, her eyes wide open.

Joey conducted her to the top of the basement stairs, and told her to listen. Within a few yards of them was the morning-room door, now standing ajar; and an intermittent flirtation in soft male and female tones could be heard going on inside. Picotee's lips parted at thus learning the condition of things, and she leant against the stair-newel.

Joey guided her to the top of the basement stairs and told her to listen. A few yards away was the morning-room door, now slightly open, and a soft exchange of male and female voices could be heard coming from inside. Picotee's lips parted as she took in this information, and she leaned against the stair railing.

'My? What's the matter?' said Joey.

'What’s up with you?' said Joey.

'If this is London, I don't like it at all!' moaned Picotee.

'If this is London, I really don't like it!' complained Picotee.

'Well-I never see such a girl-fainting all over the stairs for nothing in the world.'

'Well, I've never seen a girl fainting all over the stairs for no reason at all.'

'O-it will soon be gone-it is-it is only indigestion.'

'O—it will be gone soon—it is—it's just indigestion.'

'Indigestion? Much you simple country people can know about that! You should see what devils of indigestions we get in high life-eating 'normous great dinners and suppers that require clever physicians to carry 'em off, or else they'd carry us off with gout next day; and waking in the morning with such a splitting headache, and dry throat, and inward cusses about human nature, that you feel all the world like some great lord. However, now let's go down again.'

'Indigestion? What do you simple country folks know about that! You should see the terrible indigestions we deal with in high society—eating enormous dinners and late suppers that require skilled doctors to handle, or else they'd leave us suffering from gout the next day; and then waking up in the morning with a splitting headache, a dry throat, and all sorts of complaints about human nature, making you feel just like some great lord. But now, let's head back down again.'

'No, no, no!' said the unhappy maiden imploringly. 'Hark!'

'No, no, no!' the unhappy girl pleaded. 'Listen!'

They listened again. The voices of the musician and poetess had changed: there was a decided frigidity in their tone-then came a louder expression-then a silence.

They listened again. The voices of the musician and poet had changed: there was a clear chill in their tone—then a louder expression—then silence.

'You needn't be afeard,' said Joey. 'They won't fight; bless you, they busts out quarrelling like this times and times when they've been over-friendly, but it soon gets straight with 'em again.'

'You don't need to be afraid,' said Joey. 'They won't fight; trust me, they start arguing like this over and over when they've been too friendly, but it gets sorted out again pretty quickly.'

There was now a quick walk across the room, and Joey and his sister drew down their heads out of sight. Then the room door was slammed, quick footsteps went along the hall, the front door closed just as loudly, and Christopher's tread passed into nothing along the pavement.

There was a quick walk across the room, and Joey and his sister ducked down out of sight. Then the room door slammed, quick footsteps echoed down the hall, the front door closed just as loudly, and Christopher's footsteps faded into silence along the pavement.

'That's rather a wuss one than they mostly have; but Lord, 'tis nothing at all.'

'That's more of a weak one than they usually have; but honestly, it's nothing at all.'

'I don't much like biding here listening!' said Picotee.

'I don't really like sitting here listening!' said Picotee.

'O, 'tis how we do all over the West End,' said Joey. ''Tis yer ignorance of town life that makes it seem a good deal to 'ee.'

'O, that's how we do it all over the West End,' said Joey. 'It's your lack of experience with city life that makes it seem like such a big deal to you.'

'You can't make much boast about town life; for you haven't left off talking just as they do down in Wessex.'

'You can't really brag about city life; because you still talk just like they do back in Wessex.'

'Well, I own to that-what's fair is fair, and 'tis a true charge; but if I talk the Wessex way 'tisn't for want of knowing better; 'tis because my staunch nater makes me bide faithful to our old ancient institutions. You'd soon own 'twasn't ignorance in me, if you knowed what large quantities of noblemen I gets mixed up with every day. In fact 'tis thoughted here and there that I shall do very well in the world.'

'Well, I admit it—what's fair is fair, and that's a true accusation; but if I speak with a Wessex accent, it’s not because I don’t know any better; it’s because my strong nature makes me stay true to our old traditions. You’d quickly realize it’s not ignorance on my part if you knew how many noblemen I interact with every day. In fact, it's believed here and there that I’ll do very well in life.'

'Well, let us go down,' said Picotee. 'Everything seems so overpowering here.'

'Well, let’s head down,' said Picotee. 'Everything feels so overwhelming here.'

'O, you'll get broke in soon enough. I felt just the same when I first entered into society.'

'O, you'll get used to it soon enough. I felt exactly the same when I first joined society.'

'Do you think Berta will be angry with me? How does she treat you?'

'Do you think Berta will be mad at me? How does she treat you?'

'Well, I can't complain. You see she's my own flesh and blood, and what can I say? But, in secret truth, the wages is terrible low, and barely pays for the tobacco I consooms.'

'Well, I can't complain. You see, she's my own flesh and blood, and what can I say? But, honestly, the pay is really low, and it barely covers the tobacco I use.'

'O Joey, you wicked boy! If mother only knew that you smoked!'

'O Joey, you naughty boy! If only Mom knew that you were smoking!'

'I don't mind the wickedness so much as the smell. And Mrs. Petherwin has got such a nose for a fellow's clothes. 'Tis one of the greatest knots in service-the smoke question. 'Tis thoughted that we shall make a great stir about it in the mansions of the nobility soon.'

'I don't mind the wrongdoing as much as the smell. And Mrs. Petherwin has such a nose for a guy's clothes. It's one of the biggest issues in service—the smoke problem. It's expected that we'll make a big fuss about it in the noble houses soon.'

'How much more you know of life than I do-you only fourteen and me seventeen!'

'You know so much more about life than I do—you’re only fourteen and I’m seventeen!'

'Yes, that's true. You see, age is nothing-'tis opportunity. And even I can't boast, for many a younger man knows more.'

'Yes, that's true. You see, age is nothing—it's all about opportunity. And even I can't brag, because many younger men know more.'

'But don't smoke, Joey-there's a dear!'

'But don’t smoke, Joey—there’s a dear!'

'What can I do? Society hev its rules, and if a person wishes to keep himself up, he must do as the world do. We be all Fashion's slave-as much a slave as the meanest in the land!'

'What can I do? Society has its rules, and if someone wants to maintain their status, they have to follow what everyone else does. We are all Fashion's slaves—just as much a slave as the lowest person in the land!'

They got downstairs again; and when the dinner of the French lady and gentleman had been sent up and cleared away, and also Ethelberta's evening tea (which she formed into a genuine meal, making a dinner of luncheon, when nobody was there, to give less trouble to her servant-sisters), they all sat round the fire. Then the rustle of a dress was heard on the staircase, and squirrel-haired Ethelberta appeared in person. It was her custom thus to come down every spare evening, to teach Joey and her sisters something or other-mostly French, which she spoke fluently; but the cook and housemaid showed more ambition than intelligence in acquiring that tongue, though Joey learnt it readily enough.

They went downstairs again, and when the dinner for the French lady and gentleman had been served and cleared away, along with Ethelberta's evening tea (which she turned into a real meal, making a dinner out of lunch when nobody was around to make things easier for her servant-sisters), they all gathered around the fire. Then the sound of a dress rustling was heard on the staircase, and squirrel-haired Ethelberta appeared in person. It was her routine to come down every free evening to teach Joey and her sisters something, mostly French, which she spoke fluently; however, the cook and housemaid showed more eagerness than skill in learning that language, while Joey picked it up easily.

There was consternation in the camp for a moment or two, on account of poor Picotee, Ethelberta being not without firmness in matters of discipline. Her eye instantly lighted upon her disobedient sister, now looking twice as disobedient as she really was.

There was confusion in the camp for a moment or two because of poor Picotee, and Ethelberta was quite firm when it came to discipline. Her gaze quickly fell on her disobedient sister, who now seemed twice as disobedient as she actually was.

'O, you are here, Picotee? I am glad to see you,' said the mistress of the house quietly.

'O, you’re here, Picotee? I’m happy to see you,' said the mistress of the house softly.

This was altogether to Picotee's surprise, for she had expected a round rating at least, in her freshness hardly being aware that this reserve of feeling was an acquired habit of Ethelberta's, and that civility stood in town for as much vexation as a tantrum represented in Wessex.

This completely caught Picotee off guard because she had anticipated at least a friendly response, not realizing that Ethelberta's emotional restraint was a learned behavior and that being polite in the city often masked as much frustration as a tantrum would in Wessex.

Picotee lamely explained her outward reasons for coming, and soon began to find that Ethelberta's opinions on the matter would not be known by the tones of her voice. But innocent Picotee was as wily as a religionist in sly elusions of the letter whilst infringing the spirit of a dictum; and by talking very softly and earnestly about the wondrous good she could do by remaining in the house as governess to the children, and playing the part of lady's-maid to her sister at show times, she so far coaxed Ethelberta out of her intentions that she almost accepted the plan as a good one. It was agreed that for the present, at any rate, Picotee should remain. Then a visit was made to Mrs. Chickerel's room, where the remainder of the evening was passed; and harmony reigned in the household.

Picotee awkwardly explained her reasons for coming, and soon realized that Ethelberta's true feelings on the subject wouldn't be revealed by how she spoke. But naive Picotee was just as clever as a devoted follower who discreetly skirts the rules while breaking the spirit of them; by speaking very softly and sincerely about the incredible good she could do by staying in the house as the children's governess, and taking on the role of lady's maid to her sister during social events, she managed to persuade Ethelberta away from her original plans to the point where she nearly agreed it was a good idea. They decided that for now, at least, Picotee would stay. Then they visited Mrs. Chickerel's room, where they spent the rest of the evening, and harmony filled the household.

19. ETHELBERTA'S DRAWING-ROOM

Picotee's heart was fitfully glad. She was near the man who had enlarged her capacity from girl's to woman's, a little note or two of young feeling to a whole diapason; and though nearness was perhaps not in itself a great reason for felicity when viewed beside the complete realization of all that a woman can desire in such circumstances, it was much in comparison with the outer darkness of the previous time.

Picotee's heart was intermittently happy. She was close to the man who had expanded her feelings from those of a girl to those of a woman, turning a few youthful emotions into a full range of feelings; and although being close to him might not seem like a significant reason for happiness compared to experiencing everything a woman could dream of in such a situation, it was a lot better than the emptiness of her past.

It became evident to all the family that some misunderstanding had arisen between Ethelberta and Mr. Julian. What Picotee hoped in the centre of her heart as to the issue of the affair it would be too complex a thing to say. If Christopher became cold towards her sister he would not come to the house; if he continued to come it would really be as Ethelberta's lover-altogether, a pretty game of perpetual check for Picotee.

It was clear to everyone in the family that some sort of misunderstanding had occurred between Ethelberta and Mr. Julian. What Picotee secretly hoped for in her heart regarding the situation was too complicated to express. If Christopher started to treat her sister coldly, he would stop visiting the house; if he kept coming around, it would really be as Ethelberta's boyfriend—definitely a tricky situation for Picotee.

He did not make his appearance for several days. Picotee, being a presentable girl, and decidedly finer-natured than her sisters below stairs, was allowed to sit occasionally with Ethelberta in the afternoon, when the teaching of the little ones had been done for the day; and thus she had an opportunity of observing Ethelberta's emotional condition with reference to Christopher, which Picotee did with an interest that the elder sister was very far from suspecting.

He didn't show up for several days. Picotee, who was a presentable girl and definitely kinder than her sisters downstairs, was sometimes allowed to sit with Ethelberta in the afternoon, after the little ones' lessons were done for the day. This gave her a chance to notice Ethelberta's feelings about Christopher, which Picotee observed with an interest that the older sister was completely unaware of.

At first Ethelberta seemed blithe enough without him. One more day went, and he did not come, and then her manner was that of apathy. Another day passed, and from fanciful elevations of the eyebrow, and long breathings, it became apparent that Ethelberta had decidedly passed the indifferent stage, and was getting seriously out of sorts about him. Next morning she looked all hope. He did not come that day either, and Ethelberta began to look pale with fear.

At first, Ethelberta seemed cheerful enough without him. Another day passed, and he still hadn’t shown up, and then her mood turned apathetic. A further day went by, and from her raised eyebrows and deep sighs, it became clear that Ethelberta had definitely moved past indifference and was becoming genuinely upset about him. The next morning, she looked full of hope. He didn’t show up that day either, and Ethelberta started to look pale with worry.

'Why don't you go out?' said Picotee timidly.

'Why don't you go out?' Picotee said shyly.

'I can hardly tell: I have been expecting some one.'

'I can hardly say: I've been waiting for someone.'

'When she comes I must run up to mother at once, must I not?' said clever Picotee.

'When she arrives, I need to go talk to mom right away, don’t I?' said clever Picotee.

'It is not a lady,' said Ethelberta blandly. She came then and stood by Picotee, and looked musingly out of the window. 'I may as well tell you, perhaps,' she continued. 'It is Mr. Julian. He is-I suppose-my lover, in plain English.'

'It's not a lady,' Ethelberta said casually. She then walked over and stood next to Picotee, gazing thoughtfully out the window. 'I might as well tell you,' she continued. 'It's Mr. Julian. He is—I guess—my boyfriend, in simple terms.'

'Ah!' said Picotee.

'Oh!' said Picotee.

'Whom I am not going to marry until he gets rich.'

'I'm not going to marry him until he gets rich.'

'Ah-how strange! If I had him-such a lover, I mean-I would marry him if he continued poor.'

'Oh, how strange! If I had him—such a lover, I mean—I would marry him even if he stayed poor.'

'I don't doubt it, Picotee; just as you come to London without caring about consequences, or would do any other crazy thing and not mind in the least what came of it. But somebody in the family must take a practical view of affairs, or we should all go to the dogs.'

'I have no doubt about it, Picotee; you come to London without a care for the consequences, and you'd do any other wild thing without worrying about what happens next. But someone in the family has to take a sensible approach to things, or we would all end up in trouble.'

Picotee recovered from the snubbing which she felt that she deserved, and charged gallantly by saying, with delicate showings of indifference, 'Do you love this Mr. What's-his-name of yours?'

Picotee got over the teasing that she thought she deserved and boldly asked, showing a touch of indifference, 'Do you love this Mr. What's-his-name of yours?'

'Mr. Julian? O, he's a very gentlemanly man. That is, except when he is rude, and ill-uses me, and will not come and apologize!'

'Mr. Julian? Oh, he's a very gentlemanly man. That is, except when he's rude, treats me poorly, and refuses to come and apologize!'

'If I had him-a lover, I would ask him to come if I wanted him to.'

'If I had a boyfriend, I would ask him to come over whenever I wanted.'

Ethelberta did not give her mind to this remark; but, drawing a long breath, said, with a pouting laugh, which presaged unreality, 'The idea of his getting indifferent now! I have been intending to keep him on until I got tired of his attentions, and then put an end to them by marrying him; but here is he, before he has hardly declared himself, forgetting my existence as much as if he had vowed to love and cherish me for life. 'Tis an unnatural inversion of the manners of society.'

Ethelberta didn’t really pay attention to that comment; instead, she took a deep breath and said with a sulky laugh that hinted at insincerity, “The thought of him becoming indifferent now! I had planned to keep him around until I got tired of his attention, and then end it by marrying him; but here he is, hardly having declared his feelings, forgetting I exist as if he promised to love and cherish me forever. It’s an unnatural twist of social norms.”

'When did you first get to care for him, dear Berta?'

'When did you first start caring for him, dear Berta?'

'O-when I had seen him once or twice.'

'Goodness-how quick you were!'

'Wow, you were so quick!'

'Yes-if I am in the mind for loving I am not to be hindered by shortness of acquaintanceship.'

'Yes—if I'm in the mood for love, I shouldn’t be held back by how long we’ve known each other.'

'Nor I neither!' sighed Picotee.

'Me neither!' sighed Picotee.

'Nor any other woman. We don't need to know a man well in order to love him. That's only necessary when we want to leave off.'

'Nor any other woman. We don’t need to know a man well to love him. That’s only important when we want to break things off.'

'O Berta-you don't believe that!'

'Oh Berta—you don't believe that!'

'If a woman did not invariably form an opinion of her choice before she has half seen him, and love him before she has half formed an opinion, there would be no tears and pining in the whole feminine world, and poets would starve for want of a topic. I don't believe it, do you say? Ah, well, we shall see.'

'If a woman didn’t always have an opinion of her choice before she’s even seen him halfway, and love him before she’s even fully formed that opinion, there would be no tears and longing in the entire world of women, and poets would struggle to find something to write about. You don't believe that, do you? Well, we’ll see.'

Picotee did not know what to say to this; and Ethelberta left the room to see about her duties as public story-teller, in which capacity she had undertaken to appear again this very evening.

Picotee didn't know what to say to this, and Ethelberta left the room to take care of her responsibilities as a public storyteller, a role she had committed to taking on again that very evening.

20. THE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF THE HALL-THE ROAD HOME

London was illuminated by the broad full moon. The pavements looked white as if mantled with snow; ordinary houses were sublimated to the rank of public buildings, public buildings to palaces, and the faces of women walking the streets to those of calendared saints and guardian-angels, by the pure bleaching light from the sky.

London was lit up by the big full moon. The sidewalks appeared white as if covered in snow; regular houses seemed to take on the importance of public buildings, public buildings became like palaces, and the faces of women walking the streets resembled those of cherished saints and guardian angels, all because of the bright, pure light coming from the sky.

In the quiet little street where opened the private door of the Hall chosen by Ethelberta for her story-telling, a brougham was waiting. The time was about eleven o'clock; and presently a lady came out from the building, the moonbeams forthwith flooding her face, which they showed to be that of the Story-teller herself. She hastened across to the carriage, when a second thought arrested her motion: telling the man-servant and a woman inside the brougham to wait for her, she wrapped up her features and glided round to the front of the house, where she paused to observe the carriages and cabs driving up to receive the fashionable crowd stepping down from the doors. Standing here in the throng which her own talent and ingenuity had drawn together, she appeared to enjoy herself by listening for a minute or two to the names of several persons of more or less distinction as they were called out, and then regarded attentively the faces of others of lesser degree: to scrutinize the latter was, as the event proved, the real object of the journey from round the corner. When nearly every one had left the doors, she turned back disappointed. Ethelberta had been fancying that her alienated lover Christopher was in the back rows to-night, but, as far as could now be observed, the hopeful supposition was a false one.

In the quiet little street where the private door of the Hall chosen by Ethelberta for her storytelling opened, a carriage was waiting. It was around eleven o'clock, and soon a lady stepped out from the building, the moonlight illuminating her face, revealing that it was the Storyteller herself. She hurried to the carriage, but then paused: she told the man-servant and a woman inside the carriage to wait for her, wrapped up her face, and glided to the front of the house. There, she stopped to watch the carriages and cabs arriving to pick up the fashionable crowd stepping down from the doors. Standing there in the crowd that her own talent and creativity had attracted, she seemed to enjoy listening for a minute or two to the names of several notable people as they were announced, before closely observing the faces of others of lesser status. Scrutinizing these individuals was, as it turned out, the real reason for her trip from around the corner. When almost everyone had left the doors, she turned back, feeling disappointed. Ethelberta had been hoping that her estranged lover Christopher was in the back rows tonight, but as far as could be seen now, that hopeful thought was mistaken.

When she got round to the back again, a man came forward. It was Ladywell, whom she had spoken to already that evening. 'Allow me to bring you your note-book, Mrs. Petherwin: I think you had forgotten it,' he said. 'I assure you that nobody has handled it but myself.'

When she made it back to the back again, a man stepped up. It was Ladywell, the one she had already talked to that evening. 'Let me return your notebook, Mrs. Petherwin: I believe you left it behind,' he said. 'I promise that no one else has touched it except for me.'

Ethelberta thanked him, and took the book. 'I use it to look into between the parts, in case my memory should fail me,' she explained. 'I remember that I did lay it down, now you remind me.'

Ethelberta thanked him and took the book. "I use it to check between the sections, just in case my memory lets me down," she explained. "I remember that I did set it down, now that you mention it."

Ladywell had apparently more to say, and moved by her side towards the carriage; but she declined the arm he offered, and said not another word till he went on, haltingly:

Ladywell seemed to have more to say and walked alongside her toward the carriage; however, she rejected the arm he offered and remained silent until he started speaking again, hesitantly:

'Your triumph to-night was very great, and it was as much a triumph to me as to you; I cannot express my feeling-I cannot say half that I would. If I might only-'

'Your victory tonight was significant, and it meant as much to me as it did to you; I can't put my feelings into words—I can't convey even half of what I want to say. If only I could-'

'Thank you much,' said Ethelberta, with dignity. 'Thank you for bringing my book, but I must go home now. I know that you will see that it is not necessary for us to be talking here.'

'Thank you so much,' said Ethelberta, with dignified composure. 'Thanks for bringing my book, but I really have to head home now. I trust you understand that it's not necessary for us to keep talking here.'

'Yes-you are quite right,' said the repressed young painter, struck by her seriousness. 'Blame me; I ought to have known better. But perhaps a man-well, I will say it-a lover without indiscretion is no lover at all. Circumspection and devotion are a contradiction in terms. I saw that, and hoped that I might speak without real harm.'

'Yes, you’re absolutely right,' said the reserved young painter, taken aback by her seriousness. 'Blame me; I should have known better. But maybe a man—well, I’ll say it—a lover lacking passion isn’t a lover at all. Being careful and devoted just don’t mix. I realized that, and hoped I could speak freely without causing any real trouble.'

'You calculated how to be uncalculating, and are natural by art!' she said, with the slightest accent of sarcasm. 'But pray do not attend me further-it is not at all necessary or desirable. My maid is in the carriage.' She bowed, turned, and entered the vehicle, seating herself beside Picotee.

"You figured out how to be spontaneous, and you're natural at it!" she said, with a hint of sarcasm. "But please, you don't need to see me off—it's neither necessary nor welcome. My maid is in the carriage." She bowed, turned, and got into the vehicle, sitting next to Picotee.

'It was harsh!' said Ladywell to himself, as he looked after the retreating carriage. 'I was a fool; but it was harsh. Yet what man on earth likes a woman to show too great a readiness at first? She is right: she would be nothing without repulse!' And he moved away in an opposite direction.

'That was rough!' Ladywell said to himself as he watched the carriage drive away. 'I was an idiot; but it was rough. Still, what guy wants a woman to be too eager right off the bat? She’s right: she wouldn’t be anything without a little pushback!' And he walked away in the opposite direction.

'What man was that?' said Picotee, as they drove along.

'Who was that guy?' Picotee asked as they drove along.

'O-a mere Mr. Ladywell: a painter of good family, to whom I have been sitting for what he calls an Idealization. He is a dreadful simpleton.'

'O-a mere Mr. Ladywell: a painter from a respectable background, who I have been posing for what he refers to as an Idealization. He is a terrible simpleton.'

'Why did you choose him?'

'Why did you pick him?'

'I did not: he chose me. But his silliness of behaviour is a hopeful sign for the picture. I have seldom known a man cunning with his brush who was not simple with his tongue; or, indeed, any skill in particular that was not allied to general stupidity.'

'I didn’t choose him; he chose me. But his foolish behavior is a good sign for the painting. I've rarely known a man who's clever with a paintbrush to be anything but straightforward with his words; or, really, any specific talent that wasn’t connected to general cluelessness.'

'Your own skill is not like that, is it, Berta?'

'Your skill isn't like that, is it, Berta?'

'In men-in men. I don't mean in women. How childish you are!'

'In men—in men. I don’t mean in women. How immature you are!'

The slight depression at finding that Christopher was not present, which had followed Ethelberta's public triumph that evening, was covered over, if not removed, by Ladywell's declaration, and she reached home serene in spirit. That she had not the slightest notion of accepting the impulsive painter made little difference; a lover's arguments being apt to affect a lady's mood as much by measure as by weight. A useless declaration like a rare china teacup with a hole in it, has its ornamental value in enlarging a collection.

The slight disappointment of realizing Christopher wasn't there, which had come after Ethelberta's public success that evening, was masked, if not erased, by Ladywell's declaration, and she returned home feeling calm. The fact that she had no intention of accepting the impulsive painter didn't matter much; a lover's arguments tend to influence a woman's mood as much by intensity as by importance. A pointless declaration, like a rare china teacup with a hole in it, has its aesthetic value in adding to a collection.

No sooner had they entered the house than Mr. Julian's card was discovered; and Joey informed them that he had come particularly to speak with Ethelberta, quite forgetting that it was her evening for tale-telling.

No sooner had they entered the house than they found Mr. Julian's card; and Joey told them that he had come specifically to talk to Ethelberta, completely forgetting that it was her night for telling stories.

This was real delight, for between her excitements Ethelberta had been seriously sick-hearted at the horrible possibility of his never calling again. But alas! for Christopher. There being nothing like a dead silence for getting one's off-hand sweetheart into a corner, there is nothing like prematurely ending it for getting into that corner one's self.

This was a real joy, because amid her excitement, Ethelberta had been seriously worried about the horrible chance that he might never call her again. But unfortunately for Christopher. There's nothing quite like a complete silence to push an off-hand sweetheart into a corner, and there's nothing like wrapping things up too soon to corner yourself instead.

'Now won't I punish him for daring to stay away so long!' she exclaimed as soon as she got upstairs. 'It is as bad to show constancy in your manners as fickleness in your heart at such a time as this.'

'Now I’m definitely going to punish him for having the nerve to stay away so long!' she exclaimed as soon as she got upstairs. 'Showing persistence in your behavior is just as bad as being inconsistent in your feelings at a time like this.'

'But I thought honesty was the best policy?' said Picotee.

'But I thought honesty was the best approach?' said Picotee.

'So it is, for the man's purpose. But don't you go believing in sayings, Picotee: they are all made by men, for their own advantages. Women who use public proverbs as a guide through events are those who have not ingenuity enough to make private ones as each event occurs.'

'That’s how it is for a man’s purpose. But don’t fall for sayings, Picotee: they’re all created by men for their own benefit. Women who rely on public proverbs to navigate life are those who lack the cleverness to come up with their own for each situation as it arises.'

She sat down, and rapidly wrote a line to Mr. Julian:-

She sat down and quickly wrote a note to Mr. Julian: -

'EXONBURY CRESCENT.

'I return from Mayfair Hall to find that you've called. I hope you'll forgive me for saying something that might seem unfriendly, but the details of my unusual situation make it necessary. I'm asking you not to visit me for a little while, as unfortunately, the frequency of your kind visits has been noticed. I'm now worried that we might be talked about in a negative way, which could harm both of us. A certain part of the town has focused its attention on me in a way I didn’t expect at all, and I'm sure you can see how important it is for me to be careful. -Yours sincerely,

E. PETHERWIN.'

21. A STREET-NEIGH'S ROOMS-CHRISTOPHER'S ROOMS

As soon as Ethelberta had driven off from the Hall, Ladywell turned back again; and, passing the front entrance, overtook his acquaintance Mr. Neigh, who had been one of the last to emerge. The two were going in the same direction, and they walked a short distance together.

As soon as Ethelberta left the Hall, Ladywell turned back again and, after passing the front entrance, caught up with his friend Mr. Neigh, who had been one of the last to leave. They were heading in the same direction and walked a short distance together.

'Has anything serious happened?' said Neigh, noticing an abstraction in his companion. 'You don't seem in your usual mood to-night.'

'Is everything okay?' Neigh asked, noticing his friend was lost in thought. 'You don't seem like yourself tonight.'

'O, it is only that affair between us,' said Ladywell.

'O, it's just that issue between us,' said Ladywell.

'Affair? Between you and whom?'

'Affair? With who exactly?'

'Her and myself, of course. It will be in every fellow's mouth now, I suppose!'

'Her and me, of course. It'll be on everyone's lips now, I guess!'

'But-not anything between yourself and Mrs. Petherwin?'

'But is there nothing between you and Mrs. Petherwin?'

'A mere nothing. But surely you started, Neigh, when you suspected it just this moment?'

'A total nothing. But didn’t you flinch, Neigh, when you realized it just now?'

'No-you merely fancied that.'

'No, you just imagined that.'

'Did she not speak well to-night! You were in the room, I believe?'

'Did she not speak well tonight! You were in the room, right?'

'Yes, I just turned in for half-an-hour: it seems that everybody does, so I thought I must. But I had no idea that you were feeble that way.'

'Yeah, I just took a quick break for half an hour: it seems like everyone does, so I figured I should too. But I had no idea you were weak like that.'

'It is very kind of you, Neigh-upon my word it is-very kind; and of course I appreciate the delicacy which-which-'

'What's kind?'

'What's kind of?'

'I mean your well-intentioned plan for making me believe that nothing is known of this. But stories will of course get wind; and if our attachment has made more noise in the world than I intended it should, and causes any public interest, why-ha-ha!-it must. There is some little romance in it perhaps, and people will talk of matters of that sort between individuals of any repute-little as that is with one of the pair.'

'I mean your well-meaning plan to make me think that no one knows about this. But stories will definitely get out; and if our relationship attracts more attention than I intended and sparks any public interest, well—ha-ha!—it will have to. There’s a bit of romance in it, I guess, and people will always talk about those kinds of things between individuals of any standing—however little that may be for one of us.'

'Of course they will-of course. You are a rising man, remember, whom some day the world will delight to honour.'

'Of course they will - of course. You are an up-and-coming person, remember, whom the world will one day be excited to honor.'

'Thank you for that, Neigh. Thank you sincerely.'

'Thanks for that, Neigh. I really appreciate it.'

'Not at all. It is merely justice to say it, and one must he generous to deserve thanks.'

'Not at all. It's only fair to say it, and you have to be generous to earn gratitude.'

'Ha-ha!-that's very nicely put, and undeserved I am sure. And yet I need a word of that sort sometimes!'

'Ha-ha! That’s very well said, and I’m sure I don’t deserve it. Still, I do need a word like that every now and then!'

'Genius is proverbially modest.'

Genius is typically modest.

'Pray don't, Neigh-I don't deserve it, indeed. Of course it is well meant in you to recognize any slight powers, but I don't deserve it. Certainly, my self-assurance was never too great. 'Tis the misfortune of all children of art that they should be so dependent upon any scraps of praise they can pick up to help them along.'

'Please don’t, Neigh—I really don’t deserve it at all. I appreciate the gesture on your part to acknowledge even the slightest talents, but I don’t deserve it. Honestly, my confidence has never been very high. It’s the unfortunate fate of all artists that they become so reliant on any bits of praise they can gather to help them progress.'

'And when that child gets so deep in love that you can only see the whites of his eyes-'

'And when that kid falls so deep in love that all you can see are the whites of his eyes-'

'Ah-now, Neigh-don't, I say!'

'Oh no, Neigh-don't, I say!'

'But why did-'

'But why did you-'

'Why did I love her?'

'Yes, why did you love her?'

'Ah, if I could only turn self-vivisector, and watch the operation of my heart, I should know!'

'Ah, if I could just look inward and observe the workings of my heart, I would understand!'

'My dear fellow, you must be very bad indeed to talk like that. A poet himself couldn't be cleaner gone.'

'My dear friend, you must be really awful to talk like that. A poet himself couldn’t have expressed it more clearly.'

'Now, don't chaff, Neigh; do anything, but don't chaff. You know that I am the easiest man in the world for taking it at most times. But I can't stand it now; I don't feel up to it. A glimpse of paradise, and then perdition. What would you do, Neigh?'

'Now, don't joke around, Neigh; do anything, but don’t mess with me. You know that I'm usually pretty easygoing about it. But I can't take it right now; I'm not in the mood. A glimpse of paradise, and then a fall into hell. What would you do, Neigh?'

'She has refused you, then?'

'She turned you down, huh?'

'Well-not positively refused me; but it is so near it that a dull man couldn't tell the difference. I hardly can myself.'

'Well—not exactly refused me; but it's so close that a dull person couldn't tell the difference. I can hardly tell myself.'

'How do you really stand with her?' said Neigh, with an anxiety ill-concealed.

'How do you actually feel about her?' Neigh asked, barely hiding his anxiety.

'Off and on-neither one thing nor the other. I was determined to make an effort the last time she sat to me, and so I met her quite coolly, and spoke only of technicalities with a forced smile-you know that way of mine for drawing people out, eh, Neigh?'

'Now and then—neither here nor there. I was set on making an effort the last time she sat with me, so I approached her pretty coolly and only talked about the technical stuff with a forced smile—you know that way I have of getting people to open up, right, Neigh?'

'Quite, quite.'

'Totally.'

'A forced smile, as much as to say, "I am obliged to entertain you, but as a mere model for art purposes." But the deuce a bit did she care. And then I frequently looked to see what time it was, as the end of the sitting drew near-rather a rude thing to do, as a rule.'

'A forced smile, as if to say, "I have to entertain you, but I’m just here as a model for art." But she really didn't care at all. Then, I often glanced at the time as the sitting came to an end—something that’s usually considered rude.'

'Of course. But that was your finesse. Ha-ha!-capital! Yet why not struggle against such slavery? It is regularly pulling you down. What's a woman's beauty, after all?'

'Of course. But that was your skill. Ha-ha! Perfect! Yet why not fight against such oppression? It's constantly dragging you down. What’s a woman's beauty, after all?'

'Well you may say so! A thing easier to feel than define,' murmured Ladywell. 'But it's no use, Neigh-I can't help it as long as she repulses me so exquisitely! If she would only care for me a little, I might get to trouble less about her.'

'Well, you might say that! It's easier to feel than to explain,' Ladywell murmured. 'But it’s pointless, Neigh—I can't help it as long as she pushes me away so skillfully! If only she would care about me a bit, I might worry less about her.'

'And love her no more than one ordinarily does a girl by the time one gets irrevocably engaged to her. But I suppose she keeps you back so thoroughly that you carry on the old adoration with as much vigour as if it were a new fancy every time?'

'And love her no more than one usually does a girl by the time one becomes completely engaged to her. But I guess she holds you back so completely that you maintain the old admiration with as much intensity as if it were a new crush every time?'

'Partly yes, and partly no! It's very true, and it's not true!'

'Partly yes, and partly no! It's true, and it's not true!'

''Tis to be hoped she won't hate you outright, for then you would absolutely die of idolizing her.'

It's hoped she won't completely hate you, because if she does, you would totally be crushed by how much you admire her.

'Don't, Neigh!-Still there's some truth in it-such is the perversity of our hearts. Fancy marrying such a woman!'

'Don't, Neigh! Still, there's some truth in it—such is the strange nature of our hearts. Imagine marrying a woman like that!'

'We should feel as eternally united to her after years and years of marriage as to a dear new angel met at last night's dance.'

'We should feel just as connected to her after so many years of marriage as we do to a beloved new friend we met at last night's dance.'

'Exactly-just what I should have said. But did I hear you say "We," Neigh? You didn't say "WE should feel?"'

'Exactly—just what I should have said. But did I hear you say "We," Neigh? You didn't say "WE should feel?"'

'Say "we"?-yes-of course-putting myself in your place just in the way of speaking, you know.'

'Say "we"?-yes-of course-putting myself in your shoes just in the way of speaking, you know.'

'Of course, of course; but one is such a fool at these times that one seems to detect rivalry in every trumpery sound! Were you never a little touched?'

'Of course, of course; but you can be such a fool during these times that you start to hear competition in every silly sound! Were you never a little affected?'

'Not I. My heart is in the happy position of a country which has no history or debt.'

'Not me. My heart is in the fortunate place of a country that has no history or debt.'

'I suppose I should rejoice to hear it,' said Ladywell. 'But the consciousness of a fellow-sufferer being in just such another hole is such a relief always, and softens the sense of one's folly so very much.'

"I guess I should be happy to hear that," said Ladywell. "But knowing that someone else is in a similar situation is such a relief, and it really eases the feeling of my own foolishness."

'There's less Christianity in that sentiment than in your confessing to it, old fellow. I know the truth of it nevertheless, and that's why married men advise others to marry. Were all the world tied up, the pleasantly tied ones would be equivalent to those at present free. But what if your fellow-sufferer is not only in another such a hole, but in the same one?'

'There's less Christianity in that sentiment than in your admitting it, my friend. I know it's true, and that's why married men recommend marriage to others. If everyone were tied down, those who are happily tied would be just like those who are currently free. But what if your fellow sufferer is not only stuck in another situation but in the same one?'

'No, Neigh-never! Don't trifle with a friend who-'

'No, never! Don't mess with a friend who-'

'That is, refused like yourself, as well as in love.'

'That is, refused like you, as well as in love.'

'Ah, thanks, thanks! It suddenly occurred to me that we might be dead against one another as rivals, and a friendship of many long-days be snapped like a-like a reed.'

'Oh, thanks, thanks! It just hit me that we could end up being rivals, and a friendship that’s been built over so many days could break apart like a reed.'

'No-no-only a jest,' said Neigh, with a strangely accelerated speech. 'Love-making is an ornamental pursuit that matter-of-fact fellows like me are quite unfit for. A man must have courted at least half-a-dozen women before he's a match for one; and since triumph lies so far ahead, I shall keep out of the contest altogether.'

'No, no, just a joke,' said Neigh, speaking strangely fast. 'Romance is a fancy thing that practical guys like me aren't cut out for. A man should have dated at least six women before he’s ready for one; and since success is so far off, I think I’ll just sit this one out.'

'Your life would be pleasanter if you were engaged. It is a nice thing, after all.'

'Your life would be more enjoyable if you were in a relationship. It really is a great thing, after all.'

'It is. The worst of it would be that, when the time came for breaking it off, a fellow might get into an action for breach-women are so fond of that sort of thing now; and I hate love-affairs that don't end peaceably!'

'It is. The worst part would be that when it’s time to break it off, a guy could get into legal trouble for breach—women really love that kind of thing these days; and I can't stand love affairs that don't end smoothly!'

'But end it by peaceably marrying, my dear fellow!'

'But just wrap it up by getting married peacefully, my dear friend!'

'It would seem so singular. Besides, I have a horror of antiquity: and you see, as long as a man keeps single, he belongs in a measure to the rising generation, however old he may be; but as soon as he marries and has children, he belongs to the last generation, however young he may be. Old Jones's son is a deal younger than young Brown's father, though they are both the same age.'

'It seems so unique. Plus, I really dislike anything old-fashioned: and you see, as long as a man stays single, he somewhat belongs to the younger generation, no matter how old he is; but as soon as he gets married and has kids, he belongs to the previous generation, no matter how young he may be. Old Jones's son is much younger than young Brown's father, even though they are both the same age.'

'At any rate, honest courtship cures a man of many evils he had no power to stem before.'

'In any case, genuine courtship helps a man overcome many issues he couldn't tackle before.'

'By substituting an incurable matrimony!'

'By replacing an unfixable marriage!'

'Ah-two persons must have a mind for that before it can happen!' said Ladywell, sorrowfully shaking his head.

'Ah, two people need to agree on that before it can happen!' said Ladywell, sadly shaking his head.

'I think you'll find that if one has a mind for it, it will be quite sufficient. But here we are at my rooms. Come in for half-an-hour?'

'I think you'll see that if you're open to it, it will be plenty enough. But here we are at my place. Want to come in for half an hour?'

'Not to-night, thanks!'

'Not tonight, thanks!'

They parted, and Neigh went in. When he got upstairs he murmured in his deepest chest note, 'O, lords, that I should come to this! But I shall never be such a fool as to marry her! What a flat that poor young devil was not to discover that we were tarred with the same brush. O, the deuce, the deuce!' he continued, walking about the room as if passionately stamping, but not quite doing it because another man had rooms below.

They separated, and Neigh went inside. When he got upstairs, he murmured in his lowest voice, 'Oh man, how did I end up here! But I’ll never be silly enough to marry her! What an idiot that poor guy was for not realizing we’re cut from the same cloth. Oh, for crying out loud, oh, for crying out loud!' he continued, pacing the room as if he wanted to stomp around, but held back because another guy was living downstairs.

Neigh drew from his pocket-book an envelope embossed with the name of a fashionable photographer, and out of this pulled a portrait of the lady who had, in fact, enslaved his secret self equally with his frank young friend the painter. After contemplating it awhile with a face of cynical adoration, he murmured, shaking his head, 'Ah, my lady; if you only knew this, I should be snapped up like a snail! Not a minute's peace for me till I had married you. I wonder if I shall!-I wonder.'

Neigh took out from his wallet an envelope featuring the name of a trendy photographer, and from it, he pulled out a portrait of the woman who had, in reality, captivated his hidden self just like his open young friend, the painter. After gazing at it for a while with a look of sarcastic admiration, he murmured, shaking his head, "Ah, my lady; if you only knew this, I would be caught like a snail! Not a moment's peace for me until I've married you. I wonder if I will! I wonder."

Neigh was a man of five-and-thirty-Ladywell's senior by ten years; and, being of a phlegmatic temperament, he had glided thus far through the period of eligibility with impunity. He knew as well as any man how far he could go with a woman and yet keep clear of having to meet her in church without her bonnet; but it is doubtful if his mind that night were less disturbed with the question how to guide himself out of the natural course which his passion for Ethelberta might tempt him into, than was Ladywell's by his ardent wish to secure her.

Neigh was a man of thirty-five, ten years older than Ladywell; and, with his calm nature, he had navigated the dating scene without any issues. He understood, just like any man, how far he could go with a woman without having to face her in church to get married, but it’s uncertain if his thoughts that night were any less troubled by how to control himself against the natural pull of his feelings for Ethelberta than Ladywell's were with his strong desire to win her over.

About the time at which Neigh and Ladywell parted company, Christopher Julian was entering his little place in Bloomsbury. The quaint figure of Faith, in her bonnet and cloak, was kneeling on the hearth-rug endeavouring to stir a dull fire into a bright one.

About the time when Neigh and Ladywell said goodbye, Christopher Julian was arriving at his small home in Bloomsbury. The charming sight of Faith, in her bonnet and cloak, was kneeling on the hearth rug trying to turn a dull fire into a bright one.

'What-Faith! you have never been out alone?' he said.

'What the heck! You've never gone out by yourself?' he said.

Faith's soft, quick-shutting eyes looked unutterable things, and she replied, 'I have been to hear Mrs. Petherwin's story-telling again.'

Faith's gentle, quickly closing eyes revealed deep emotions, and she answered, 'I've been to hear Mrs. Petherwin tell stories again.'

'And walked all the way home through the streets at this time of night, I suppose!'

'And walked all the way home through the streets at this time of night, I guess!'

'Well, nobody molested me, either going or coming back.'

'Well, nobody bothered me, either on the way there or on the way back.'

'Faith, I gave you strict orders not to go into the streets after two o'clock in the day, and now here you are taking no notice of what I say at all!'

'Faith, I specifically told you not to go into the streets after two o'clock in the afternoon, and now here you are ignoring everything I say!'

'The truth is, Kit, I wanted to see with my spectacles what this woman was really like, and I went without them last time. I slipped in behind, and nobody saw me.'

'The truth is, Kit, I wanted to see through my glasses what this woman was really like, and I didn't have them with me last time. I snuck in from behind, and nobody noticed me.'

'I don't think much of her after what I have seen tonight,' said Christopher, moodily recurring to a previous thought.

'I don't think much of her after what I saw tonight,' Christopher said, moody as he returned to a previous thought.

'Why? What is the matter?'

'Why? What's wrong?'

'I thought I would call on her this afternoon, but when I got there I found she had left early for the performance. So in the evening, when I thought it would be all over, I went to the private door of the Hall to speak to her as she came out, and ask her flatly a question or two which I was fool enough to think I must ask her before I went to bed. Just as I was drawing near she came out, and, instead of getting into the brougham that was waiting for her, she went round the corner. When she came back a man met her and gave her something, and they stayed talking together two or three minutes. The meeting may certainly not have been intentional on her part; but she has no business to be going on so coolly when-when-in fact, I have come to the conclusion that a woman's affection is not worth having. The only feeling which has any dignity or permanence or worth is family affection between close blood-relations.'

'I thought I would visit her this afternoon, but when I arrived, I found out she had left early for the performance. So, in the evening, when I assumed it would all be over, I went to the private entrance of the Hall to talk to her as she came out and to directly ask her a question or two that I was foolish enough to think I needed to ask before going to bed. Just as I was getting close, she came out, and instead of getting into the waiting brougham, she turned the corner. When she returned, a man met her and handed her something, and they chatted for two or three minutes. The meeting might not have been intentional on her part, but she shouldn’t be acting so casually when—when—in fact, I've come to the conclusion that a woman's affection isn't worth having. The only feeling that has any dignity, permanence, or value is family love among close relatives.'

'And yet you snub me sometimes, Mr. Kit.'

'And yet you ignore me sometimes, Mr. Kit.'

'And, for the matter of that, you snub me. Still, you know what I mean-there's none of that off-and-on humbug between us. If we grumble with one another we are united just the same: if we don't write when we are parted, we are just the same when we meet-there has been some rational reason for silence; but as for lovers and sweethearts, there is nothing worth a rush in what they feel!'

'And, about that, you ignore me. Still, you know what I mean—there's no back-and-forth nonsense between us. If we complain to each other, we’re still on the same team: if we don’t write when we’re apart, we’re still the same when we get together—there was some reasonable cause for not communicating; but when it comes to lovers and sweethearts, there’s nothing worth paying attention to in what they feel!'

Faith said nothing in reply to this. The opinions she had formed upon the wisdom of her brother's pursuit of Ethelberta would have come just then with an ill grace. It must, however, have been evident to Christopher, had he not been too preoccupied for observation, that Faith's impressions of Ethelberta were not quite favourable as regarded her womanhood, notwithstanding that she greatly admired her talents.

Faith remained silent in response to this. Her thoughts about her brother's choice to pursue Ethelberta would have sounded harsh at that moment. However, it should have been clear to Christopher, if he weren't too distracted to notice, that Faith didn't have a very positive opinion of Ethelberta as a woman, even though she admired her skills a lot.

22. ETHELBERTA'S HOUSE

Ethelberta came indoors one day from the University boat-race, and sat down, without speaking, beside Picotee, as if lost in thought.

Ethelberta came inside one day from the University boat race and sat down, without saying a word, next to Picotee, as if she were deep in thought.

'Did you enjoy the sight?' said Picotee.

"Did you like what you saw?" Picotee asked.

'I scarcely know. We couldn't see at all from Mrs. Belmaine's carriage, so two of us-very rashly-agreed to get out and be rowed across to the other side where the people were quite few. But when the boatman had us in the middle of the river he declared he couldn't land us on the other side because of the barges, so there we were in a dreadful state-tossed up and down like corks upon great waves made by steamers till I made up my mind for a drowning. Well, at last we got back again, but couldn't reach the carriage for the crowd; and I don't know what we should have done if a gentleman hadn't come-sent by Mrs. Belmaine, who was in a great fright about us; then he was introduced to me, and-I wonder how it will end!'

"I barely know. We couldn't see anything from Mrs. Belmaine's carriage, so two of us—very carelessly—decided to get out and be rowed across to the other side where there were hardly any people. But when the boatman had us in the middle of the river, he said he couldn’t land us on the other side because of the barges, so there we were, in a terrible situation—tossed up and down like corks on huge waves created by steamers until I thought I was going to drown. Well, eventually we made it back, but we couldn't get to the carriage because of the crowd; and I don't know what we would have done if a gentleman hadn’t come—sent by Mrs. Belmaine, who was really worried about us; then he was introduced to me, and—I wonder how this will all turn out!"

'Was there anything so wonderful in the beginning, then?'

'Was there anything so amazing in the beginning, then?'

'Yes. One of the coolest and most practised men in London was ill-mannered towards me from sheer absence of mind-and could there be higher flattery? When a man of that sort does not give you the politeness you deserve, it means that in his heart he is rebelling against another feeling which his pride suggests that you do not deserve. O, I forgot to say that he is a Mr. Neigh, a nephew of Mr. Doncastle's, who lives at ease about Piccadilly and Pall Mall, and has a few acres somewhere-but I don't know much of him. The worst of my position now is that I excite this superficial interest in many people and a deep friendship in nobody. If what all my supporters feel could be collected into the hearts of two or three they would love me better than they love themselves; but now it pervades all and operates in none.'

'Yes. One of the coolest and most well-connected guys in London was rude to me just because he was lost in thought—and can there be a bigger compliment than that? When a guy like him doesn’t show you the courtesy you deserve, it really means that deep down he’s struggling with another emotion that his pride tells him you don’t deserve. Oh, I forgot to mention that he’s Mr. Neigh, a nephew of Mr. Doncastle's, who enjoys a comfortable life around Piccadilly and Pall Mall, and has a few acres somewhere—but I don’t know much about him. The worst part of my situation now is that I attract a lot of shallow interest from many people but no deep friendships from anyone. If all the support I get could be bottled up in the hearts of just two or three people, they would love me more than they love themselves; but instead, it’s all spread out and doesn’t really affect anyone.'

'But it must operate in this gentleman?'

'But it has to work on this gentleman?'

'Well, yes-just for the present. But men in town have so many contrivances for getting out of love that you can't calculate upon keeping them in for two days together. However, it is all the same to me. There's only-but let that be.'

'Well, yeah—just for now. But the guys in town have so many ways to escape love that you can't count on keeping them around for more than two days. Anyway, it doesn’t really matter to me. There's just—but let's leave that out.'

'What is there only?' said Picotee coaxingly.

'What else is there?' said Picotee sweetly.

'Only one man,' murmured Ethelberta, in much lower tones. 'I mean, whose wife I should care to be; and the very qualities I like in him will, I fear, prevent his ever being in a position to ask me.'

'Only one man,' Ethelberta whispered, her voice barely above a murmur. 'I mean, he’s the only one whose wife I would want to be; and the very traits I admire in him will, I’m afraid, keep him from ever being able to ask me.'

'Is he the man you punished the week before last by forbidding him to come?'

'Is he the guy you punished the week before last by telling him he couldn't come?'

'Perhaps he is: but he does not want civility from me. Where there's much feeling there's little ceremony.'

'Maybe he is, but he doesn't want politeness from me. Where there are strong emotions, there's not much formality.'

'It certainly seems that he does not want civility from you to make him attentive to you,' said Picotee, stifling a sigh; 'for here is a letter in his handwriting, I believe.'

'It definitely looks like he doesn't want any politeness from you to pay attention to you,' said Picotee, holding back a sigh; 'because here’s a letter in his handwriting, I think.'

'You might have given it to me at once,' said Ethelberta, opening the envelope hastily. It contained very few sentences: they were to the effect that Christopher had received her letter forbidding him to call; that he had therefore at first resolved not to call or even see her more, since he had become such a shadow in her path. Still, as it was always best to do nothing hastily, he had on second thoughts decided to ask her to grant him a last special favour, and see him again just once, for a few minutes only that afternoon, in which he might at least say Farewell. To avoid all possibility of compromising her in anybody's eyes, he would call at half-past six, when other callers were likely to be gone, knowing that from the peculiar constitution of the household the hour would not interfere with her arrangements. There being no time for an answer, he would assume that she would see him, and keep the engagement; the request being one which could not rationally be objected to.

"You could have just given it to me right away," Ethelberta said, quickly opening the envelope. It had only a few sentences: Christopher had received her letter asking him not to come by; consequently, he had initially decided not to visit or even see her anymore since he felt like such a burden in her life. However, after thinking it over, he decided to ask her for one last special favor: to meet with him just once that afternoon for a few minutes so he could at least say goodbye. To make sure there was no chance of compromising her reputation in anyone's eyes, he planned to stop by at six-thirty, when other visitors were likely gone, knowing that this time would fit her schedule. Since there was no time for a response, he would assume she would agree to see him and keep the appointment, as the request was one that she couldn't reasonably refuse.

'There-read it!' said Ethelberta, with glad displeasure. 'Did you ever hear such audacity? Fixing a time so soon that I cannot reply, and thus making capital out of a pretended necessity, when it is really an arbitrary arrangement of his own. That's real rebellion-forcing himself into my house when I said strictly he was not to come; and then, that it cannot rationally be objected to-I don't like his "rationally."'

'Read it again!' said Ethelberta, with a mix of happiness and annoyance. 'Have you ever heard such nerve? Setting a time so soon that I can't respond, and making a big deal out of a fake need when it's really just his own random choice. That's real defiance—showing up at my house after I clearly said he wasn't welcome; and then, acting like there can't be any reasonable objections—I really don't like his idea of "reasonable."'

'Where there's much love there's little ceremony, didn't you say just now?' observed innocent Picotee.

'Where there's a lot of love, there's not much need for formalities, didn’t you just say?' noted innocent Picotee.

'And where there's little love, no ceremony at all. These manners of his are dreadful, and I believe he will never improve.'

'And where there's not much love, there's no celebration at all. His behavior is terrible, and I doubt he'll ever change.'

'It makes you care not a bit about him, does it not, Berta?' said Picotee hopefully.

"It doesn't make you care about him at all, does it, Berta?" Picotee said hopefully.

'I don't answer for that,' said Ethelberta. 'I feel, as many others do, that a want of ceremony which is produced by abstraction of mind is no defect in a poet or musician, fatal as it may be to an ordinary man.'

'I can't speak to that,' said Ethelberta. 'I believe, like many others, that a lack of formality caused by being lost in thought isn't a flaw in a poet or musician, even if it might be a problem for an everyday person.'

'Mighty me! You soon forgive him.'

'Mighty me! You’ll forgive him quickly.'

'Picotee, don't you be so quick to speak. Before I have finished, how do you know what I am going to say? I'll never tell you anything again, if you take me up so. Of course I am going to punish him at once, and make him remember that I am a lady, even if I do like him a little.'

'Picotee, don't rush to speak. How do you know what I'm going to say before I've finished? I won't tell you anything again if you keep interrupting me like that. Of course, I'm going to punish him right away and make sure he remembers that I'm a lady, even if I do like him a little.'

'How do you mean to punish him?' said Picotee, with interest.

'How do you plan to punish him?' said Picotee, intrigued.

'By writing and telling him that on no account is he to come.'

'By writing and telling him that he is not to come under any circumstances.'

'But there is not time for a letter-'

'But there isn't time for a letter-'

'That doesn't matter. It will show him that I did not mean him to come.'

'That doesn't matter. It will show him that I didn't intend for him to come.'

At hearing the very merciful nature of the punishment, Picotee sighed without replying; and Ethelberta despatched her note. The hour of appointment drew near, and Ethelberta showed symptoms of unrest. Six o'clock struck and passed. She walked here and there for nothing, and it was plain that a dread was filling her: her letter might accidentally have had, in addition to the moral effect which she had intended, the practical effect which she did not intend, by arriving before, instead of after, his purposed visit to her, thereby stopping him in spite of all her care.

Upon hearing about the very lenient nature of the punishment, Picotee sighed without answering, and Ethelberta sent off her note. The time for their meeting was approaching, and Ethelberta began to show signs of anxiety. Six o'clock came and went. She paced around aimlessly, and it was clear that fear was creeping in: her letter might have accidentally had, in addition to the moral effect she intended, the unintended practical effect of arriving before, instead of after, his planned visit to her, possibly interrupting him despite all her precautions.

'How long are letters going to Bloomsbury?' she said suddenly.

'How long are letters taking to get to Bloomsbury?' she asked suddenly.

'Two hours, Joey tells me,' replied Picotee, who had already inquired on her own private account.

'Two hours, Joey tells me,' replied Picotee, who had already asked for her own reasons.

'There!' exclaimed Ethelberta petulantly. 'How I dislike a man to misrepresent things! He said there was not time for a reply!'

'There!' Ethelberta said irritably. 'I really dislike it when someone misrepresents things! He claimed there wasn’t time for a reply!'

'Perhaps he didn't know,' said Picotee, in angel tones; 'and so it happens all right, and he has got it, and he will not come after all.'

'Maybe he didn't know,' said Picotee in a sweet voice; 'and so it all works out, and he has it, and he won't come after all.'

They waited and waited, but Christopher did not appear that night; the true case being that his declaration about insufficient time for a reply was merely an ingenious suggestion to her not to be so cruel as to forbid him. He was far from suspecting when the letter of denial did reach him-about an hour before the time of appointment-that it was sent by a refinement of art, of which the real intention was futility, and that but for his own misstatement it would have been carefully delayed.

They waited and waited, but Christopher didn’t show up that night; the truth was that his claim of not having enough time to respond was just a clever way to hint to her not to be so mean as to turn him down. He had no idea when the rejection letter finally arrived—about an hour before their meeting—that it was sent with a purpose that was ultimately pointless, and if it weren’t for his own mistake, it would have been held back carefully.

The next day another letter came from the musician, decidedly short and to the point. The irate lover stated that he would not be made a fool of any longer: under any circumstances he meant to come that self-same afternoon, and should decidedly expect her to see him.

The next day, another letter arrived from the musician, clearly brief and direct. The angry lover declared that he wouldn't be made a fool any longer: no matter what, he planned to come that very afternoon and definitely expected her to meet him.

'I will not see him!' said Ethelberta. 'Why did he not call last night?'

'I won't see him!' said Ethelberta. 'Why didn't he call last night?'

'Because you told him not to,' said Picotee.

'Good gracious, as if a woman's words are to be translated as literally as Homer! Surely he is aware that more often than not "No" is said to a man's importunities because it is traditionally the correct modest reply, and for nothing else in the world. If all men took words as superficially as he does, we should die of decorum in shoals.'

'Good grief, as if a woman's words should be taken literally like Homer! He must know that most of the time "No" is just the polite response to a man's advances and nothing more. If all men interpreted words as shallowly as he does, we would drown in politeness.'

'Ah, Berta! how could you write a letter that you did not mean should be obeyed?'

'Ah, Berta! How could you write a letter that you didn’t mean for anyone to follow?'

'I did in a measure mean it, although I could have shown Christian forgiveness if it had not been. Never mind; I will not see him. I'll plague my heart for the credit of my sex.'

'I partly meant it, although I could have shown Christian forgiveness if it weren’t for that. Never mind; I won’t see him. I’ll torment myself for the sake of my gender.'

To ensure the fulfilment of this resolve, Ethelberta determined to give way to a headache that she was beginning to be aware of, go to her room, disorganize her dress, and ruin her hair by lying down; so putting it out of her power to descend and meet Christopher on any momentary impulse.

To make sure she stuck to her decision, Ethelberta decided to let a headache she was starting to feel get the best of her. She went to her room, messed up her dress, and ruined her hair by lying down, making it impossible for her to go downstairs and meet Christopher on a whim.

Picotee sat in the room with her, reading, or pretending to read, and Ethelberta pretended to sleep. Christopher's knock came up the stairs, and with it the end of the farce.

Picotee sat in the room with her, reading, or pretending to read, and Ethelberta pretended to sleep. Christopher's knock came up the stairs, and with it the end of the act.

'I'll tell you what,' said Ethelberta in the prompt and broadly-awake tone of one who had been concentrated on the expectation of that sound for a length of time, 'it was a mistake in me to do this! Joey will be sure to make a muddle of it.'

"I'll tell you what," Ethelberta said in a lively and alert tone, like someone who had been eagerly waiting for that sound for a while, "it was a mistake for me to do this! Joey is definitely going to mess it up."

Joey was heard coming up the stairs. Picotee opened the door, and said, with an anxiety transcending Ethelberta's, 'Well?'

Joey was heard coming up the stairs. Picotee opened the door and said, with an anxiety greater than Ethelberta's, 'Well?'

'O, will you tell Mrs. Petherwin that Mr. Julian says he'll wait.'

'O, could you please tell Mrs. Petherwin that Mr. Julian said he'll wait.'

'You were not to ask him to wait,' said Ethelberta, within.

'You shouldn't ask him to wait,' said Ethelberta from inside.

'I know that,' said Joey, 'and I didn't. He's doing that out of his own head.'

'I know that,' Joey said, 'but I didn't. He's doing that on his own.'

'Then let Mr. Julian wait, by all means,' said Ethelberta. 'Allow him to wait if he likes, but tell him it is uncertain if I shall be able to come down.'

'Then let Mr. Julian wait, for sure,' said Ethelberta. 'He can wait if he wants, but let him know it’s uncertain whether I’ll be able to come down.'

Joey then retired, and the two sisters remained in silence.

Joey then left, and the two sisters stayed quiet.

'I wonder if he's gone,' Ethelberta said, at the end of a long time.

"I wonder if he’s left," Ethelberta said after a long while.

'I thought you were asleep,' said Picotee. 'Shall we ask Joey? I have not heard the door close.'

'I thought you were asleep,' said Picotee. 'Should we ask Joey? I haven’t heard the door close.'

Joey was summoned, and after a leisurely ascent, interspersed by various gymnastic performances over the handrail here and there, appeared again.

Joey was called, and after a relaxed climb, with some gymnastics over the handrail here and there, he showed up again.

'He's there jest the same: he don't seem to be in no hurry at all,' said Joey.

'He's still there: he doesn't seem to be in a hurry at all,' said Joey.

'What is he doing?' inquired Picotee solicitously.

"What’s he doing?" Picotee asked with concern.

'O, only looking at his watch sometimes, and humming tunes, and playing rat-a-tat-tat upon the table. He says he don't mind waiting a bit.'

'O, just glancing at his watch occasionally, humming tunes, and tapping on the table. He says he doesn’t mind waiting a little.'

'You must have made a mistake in the message,' said Ethelberta, within.

'You must have made a mistake in the message,' Ethelberta said internally.

'Well, no. I am correct as a jineral thing. I jest said perhaps you would be engaged all the evening, and perhaps you wouldn't.'

'Well, no. I'm right in general. I just said maybe you would be busy all evening, and maybe you wouldn't.'

When Joey had again retired, and they had waited another ten minutes, Ethelberta said, 'Picotee, do you go down and speak a few words to him. I am determined he shall not see me. You know him a little; you remember when he came to the Lodge?'

When Joey had gone back to bed, and they had waited another ten minutes, Ethelberta said, 'Picotee, why don't you go down and say a few words to him? I’m set on not letting him see me. You know him a bit; remember when he came to the Lodge?'

'What must I say to him?'

'What should I say to him?'

Ethelberta paused before replying. 'Try to find out if-if he is much grieved at not seeing me, and say-give him to understand that I will forgive him, Picotee.'

Ethelberta paused before responding. "Try to find out if he's really upset about not seeing me, and let him know that I'll forgive him, Picotee."

'Very well.'

'All good.'

'And Picotee-'

'Yes.'

Yes.

'If he says he must see me-I think I will get up. But only if he says must: you remember that.'

'If he says he has to see me—I think I’ll get up. But only if he says must: you remember that.'

Picotee departed on her errand. She paused on the staircase trembling, and thinking between the thrills how very far would have been the conduct of her poor slighted self from proud recalcitration had Mr. Julian's gentle request been addressed to her instead of to Ethelberta; and she went some way in the painful discovery of how much more tantalizing it was to watch an envied situation that was held by another than to be out of sight of it altogether. Here was Christopher waiting to bestow love, and Ethelberta not going down to receive it: a commodity unequalled in value by any other in the whole wide world was being wantonly wasted within that very house. If she could only have stood to-night as the beloved Ethelberta, and not as the despised Picotee, how different would be this going down! Thus she went along, red and pale moving in her cheeks as in the Northern Lights at their strongest time.

Picotee left to run her errand. She stopped on the staircase, shaking, and thought about how different her behavior would have been if Mr. Julian's kind request had been directed at her instead of Ethelberta. She slowly realized how much more frustrating it was to watch someone else have what she envied than to be completely unaware of it. Here was Christopher ready to offer love, while Ethelberta didn’t come down to accept it: a treasure more valuable than anything else in the world was being carelessly wasted right there in the house. If only she could be seen tonight as the beloved Ethelberta, not the overlooked Picotee, how different this moment would feel! She continued down the stairs, her cheeks flushing with a mix of red and pale like the Northern Lights at their brightest.

Meanwhile Christopher had sat waiting minute by minute till the evening shades grew browner, and the fire sank low. Joey, finding himself not particularly wanted upon the premises after the second inquiry, had slipped out to witness a nigger performance round the corner, and Julian began to think himself forgotten by all the household. The perception gradually cooled his emotions and enabled him to hold his hat quite steadily.

Meanwhile, Christopher sat waiting minute by minute until the evening shadows grew darker and the fire burned low. Joey, realizing he was not especially wanted around after the second time he was asked, had slipped out to catch a performance nearby, and Julian started to feel forgotten by everyone in the house. This realization gradually calmed his emotions and allowed him to hold his hat steadily.

When Picotee gently thrust open the door she was surprised to find the room in darkness, the fire gone completely out, and the form of Christopher only visible by a faint patch of light, which, coming from a lamp on the opposite side of the way and falling upon the mirror, was thrown as a pale nebulosity upon his shoulder. Picotee was too flurried at sight of the familiar outline to know what to do, and, instead of going or calling for a light, she mechanically advanced into the room. Christopher did not turn or move in any way, and then she perceived that he had begun to doze in his chair.

When Picotee quietly opened the door, she was taken aback to find the room completely dark, the fire extinguished, and Christopher barely visible in a faint glow. The light from a lamp across the way reflected off the mirror, creating a soft haze on his shoulder. Picotee was so flustered by the sight of his familiar shape that she didn't know what to do, and instead of leaving or calling for light, she instinctively walked into the room. Christopher didn't turn or make any movement, and then she realized that he had started to doze off in his chair.

Instantly, with the precipitancy of the timorous, she said, 'Mr. Julian!' and touched him on the shoulder-murmuring then, 'O, I beg pardon, I-I will get a light.'

Instantly, with the quickness of someone nervous, she said, 'Mr. Julian!' and touched him on the shoulder, murmuring then, 'Oh, I’m so sorry, I-I’ll get a light.'

Christopher's consciousness returned, and his first act, before rising, was to exclaim, in a confused manner, 'Ah-you have come-thank you, Berta!' then impulsively to seize her hand, as it hung beside his head, and kiss it passionately. He stood up, still holding her fingers.

Christopher regained consciousness, and his first action, before getting up, was to say, in a dazed way, 'Ah—you’re here—thank you, Berta!' Then, he instinctively grabbed her hand, which was resting next to his head, and kissed it passionately. He stood up, still holding her fingers.

Picotee gasped out something, but was completely deprived of articulate utterance, and in another moment being unable to control herself at this sort of first meeting with the man she had gone through fire and water to be near, and more particularly by the overpowering kiss upon her hand, burst into hysterical sobbing. Julian, in his inability to imagine so much emotion-or at least the exhibition of it-in Ethelberta, gently drew Picotee further forward by the hand he held, and utilized the solitary spot of light from the mirror by making it fall upon her face. Recognizing the childish features, he at once, with an exclamation, dropped her hand and started back. Being in point of fact a complete bundle of nerves and nothing else, his thin figure shook like a harp-string in painful excitement at a contretemps which would scarcely have quickened the pulse of an ordinary man.

Picotee gasped something out, but couldn’t find the words to express herself. In another moment, overwhelmed by the emotional weight of meeting the man she had gone through so much to be near, and particularly by the intense kiss on her hand, she broke down in hysterical sobs. Julian, unable to comprehend so much emotion—or at least the display of it—in Ethelberta, gently pulled Picotee forward by the hand he was holding and used the single beam of light from the mirror to illuminate her face. Recognizing her youthful features, he gasped, released her hand, and stepped back. Being, in reality, a complete bundle of nerves and nothing more, his thin figure trembled like a harp string from the painful excitement of a situation that would hardly have affected an ordinary man.

Poor Picotee, feeling herself in the wind of a civil d—-, started back also, sobbing more than ever. It was a little too much that the first result of his discovery of the mistake should be absolute repulse. She leant against the mantelpiece, when Julian, much bewildered at her superfluity of emotion, assisted her to a seat in sheer humanity. But Christopher was by no means pleased when he again thought round the circle of circumstances.

Poor Picotee, feeling caught in the middle of a civil disaster, stepped back as she sobbed even more. It was really too much that the first outcome of his realization of the mistake was complete rejection. She leaned against the mantel, and when Julian, confused by her overwhelming emotions, kindly helped her to a seat out of sheer compassion. But Christopher was definitely not pleased when he reconsidered the whole situation.

'How could you allow such an absurd thing to happen?' he said, in a stern, though trembling voice. 'You knew I might mistake. I had no idea you were in the house: I thought you were miles away, at Sandbourne or somewhere! But I see: it is just done for a joke, ha-ha!'

'How could you let something so ridiculous happen?' he said, in a serious, though shaky voice. 'You knew I might make a mistake. I didn't realize you were in the house; I thought you were far away, at Sandbourne or somewhere! But I get it: this was just a joke, ha-ha!'

This made Picotee rather worse still. 'O-O-O-O!' she replied, in the tone of pouring from a bottle. 'What shall I do-o-o-o! It is-not done for a-joke at all-l-l-l!'

This made Picotee even more upset. 'O-O-O-O!' she responded, sounding like something pouring from a bottle. 'What am I supposed to do-o-o-o! This is definitely not a joke at all-l-l-l!'

'Not done for a joke? Then never mind-don't cry, Picotee. What was it done for, I wonder?'

'Not done as a joke? Then forget it—don't cry, Picotee. What was it done for, I wonder?'

Picotee, mistaking the purport of his inquiry, imagined him to refer to her arrival in the house, quite forgetting, in her guilty sense of having come on his account, that he would have no right or thought of asking questions about a natural visit to a sister, and she said: 'When you-went away from-Sandbourne, I-I-I didn't know what to do, and then I ran away, and came here, and then Ethelberta-was angry with me; but she says I may stay; but she doesn't know that I know you, and how we used to meet along the road every morning-and I am afraid to tell her-O, what shall I do!'

Picotee, misunderstanding what he meant, thought he was asking about her coming to the house, completely forgetting, due to her guilty feelings about visiting him, that he wouldn't think to ask about her normal visit to a sister. She said, "When you left Sandbourne, I didn't know what to do, so I just ran away, came here, and then Ethelberta got mad at me. But she says I can stay. She doesn’t know that I know you and how we used to meet along the road every morning, and I'm scared to tell her—oh, what should I do!"

'Never mind it,' said Christopher, a sense of the true state of her case dawning upon him with unpleasant distinctness, and bringing some irritation at his awkward position; though it was impossible to be long angry with a girl who had not reasoning foresight enough to perceive that doubtful pleasure and certain pain must be the result of any meeting whilst hearts were at cross purposes in this way.

'Don't worry about it,' Christopher said, realizing the true nature of her situation with an uncomfortable clarity, which stirred a bit of irritation about his awkward position. However, it was hard to stay mad at a girl who didn’t have the foresight to see that uncertain pleasure and definite pain would come from any meeting while their feelings were so misaligned.

'Where is your sister?' he asked.

"Where's your sister?" he asked.

'She wouldn't come down, unless she MUST,' said Picotee. 'You have vexed her, and she has a headache besides that, and I came instead.'

'She won't come down unless she has to,' said Picotee. 'You've annoyed her, plus she has a headache, so I came instead.'

'So that I mightn't be wasted altogether. Well, it's a strange business between the three of us. I have heard of one-sided love, and reciprocal love, and all sorts, but this is my first experience of a concatenated affection. You follow me, I follow Ethelberta, and she follows-Heaven knows who!'

'So that I won’t be completely wasted. It’s a strange situation between the three of us. I’ve heard of one-sided love, mutual love, and all kinds of things, but this is my first experience of a tangled affection. You follow me, I follow Ethelberta, and she follows—who knows who!'

'Mr. Ladywell!' said the mortified Picotee.

'Mr. Ladywell!' said the embarrassed Picotee.

'Good God, if I didn't think so!' said Christopher, feeling to the soles of his feet like a man in a legitimate drama.

'Good God, if I didn't believe that!' said Christopher, feeling at the soles of his feet like someone in a real play.

'No, no, no!' said the frightened girl hastily. 'I am not sure it is Mr. Ladywell. That's altogether a mistake of mine!'

'No, no, no!' said the frightened girl quickly. 'I’m not sure it’s Mr. Ladywell. That’s completely my mistake!'

'Ah, yes, you want to screen her,' said Christopher, with a withering smile at the spot of light. 'Very sisterly, doubtless; but none of that will do for me. I am too old a bird by far-by very far! Now are you sure she does not love Ladywell?'

'Oh, right, you want to check her out,' Christopher said with a sarcastic smile at the glimmer of light. 'Very sisterly, for sure; but that won't work for me. I'm way too experienced for that—way too experienced! So, are you really sure she doesn't have feelings for Ladywell?'

'Yes!'

'Absolutely!'

'Well, perhaps I blame her wrongly. She may have some little good faith-a woman has, here and there. How do you know she does not love Ladywell?'

'Well, maybe I'm blaming her unfairly. She might have a bit of good faith—women do, now and then. How do you know she doesn't love Ladywell?'

'Because she would prefer Mr. Neigh to him, any day.'

'Because she would choose Mr. Neigh over him any day.'

'Ha!'

'No, no-you mistake, sir-she doesn't love either at all-Ethelberta doesn't. I meant that she cannot love Mr. Ladywell because he stands lower in her opinion than Mr. Neigh, and him she certainly does not care for. She only loves you. If you only knew how true she is you wouldn't be so suspicious about her, and I wish I had not come here-yes, I do!'

'No, no—you’re mistaken, sir—she doesn’t love either of them at all—Ethelberta doesn’t. I meant that she can't love Mr. Ladywell because she thinks he’s beneath her compared to Mr. Neigh, and she definitely doesn’t care about him. She only loves you. If you only knew how genuine she is, you wouldn’t be so suspicious of her, and I wish I hadn’t come here—yes, I do!'

'I cannot tell what to think of it. Perhaps I don't know much of this world after all, or what girls will do. But you don't excuse her to me, Picotee.'

'I can't figure out what to think about it. Maybe I don't really understand this world or what girls will do. But you can't justify her actions to me, Picotee.'

Before this time Picotee had been simulating haste in getting a light; but in her dread of appearing visibly to Christopher's eyes, and showing him the precise condition of her tear-stained face, she put it off moment after moment, and stirred the fire, in hope that the faint illumination thus produced would be sufficient to save her from the charge of stupid conduct as entertainer.

Before this moment, Picotee had been pretending to hurry to get a light; but in her fear of being seen by Christopher and revealing her tear-stained face, she delayed it time and again, tending to the fire in the hope that the dim light it provided would be enough to prevent her from looking like a bad host.

Fluttering about on the horns of this dilemma, she was greatly relieved when Christopher, who read her difficulty, and the general painfulness of the situation, said that since Ethelberta was really suffering from a headache he would not wish to disturb her till to-morrow, and went off downstairs and into the street without further ceremony.

Fluttering about on the horns of this dilemma, she was greatly relieved when Christopher, who understood her struggle and the overall awkwardness of the situation, said that since Ethelberta was actually dealing with a headache, he didn’t want to disturb her until tomorrow, and then he went downstairs and out into the street without any more fuss.

Meanwhile other things had happened upstairs. No sooner had Picotee left her sister's room, than Ethelberta thought it would after all have been much better if she had gone down herself to speak to this admirably persistent lover. Was she not drifting somewhat into the character of coquette, even if her ground of offence-a word of Christopher's about somebody else's mean parentage, which was spoken in utter forgetfulness of her own position, but had wounded her to the quick nevertheless-was to some extent a tenable one? She knew what facilities in suffering Christopher always showed; how a touch to other people was a blow to him, a blow to them his deep wound, although he took such pains to look stolid and unconcerned under those inflictions, and tried to smile as if he had no feelings whatever. It would be more generous to go down to him, and be kind. She jumped up with that alertness which comes so spontaneously at those sweet bright times when desire and duty run hand in hand.

Meanwhile, other things were happening upstairs. No sooner had Picotee left her sister's room than Ethelberta thought it would have been much better if she had gone down herself to talk to this admirably persistent suitor. Was she not drifting somewhat into the role of a flirt, even if her reason for being upset—a remark from Christopher about someone else's low parentage, which he said without realizing her own situation, but still hurt her deeply—was somewhat justified? She knew how sensitive Christopher always was; what might just be a small issue for others felt like a blow to him, and their struggles weighed heavily on him, even though he tried hard to seem calm and indifferent under such pressures and forced a smile as if he had no feelings at all. It would be kinder to go down to him and show some compassion. She jumped up with the energy that often comes at those sweet moments when desire and duty go hand in hand.

She hastily set her hair and dress in order-not such matchless order as she could have wished them to be in, but time was precious-and descended the stairs. When on the point of pushing open the drawing-room door, which wanted about an inch of being closed, she was astounded to discover that the room was in total darkness, and still more to hear Picotee sobbing inside. To retreat again was the only action she was capable of at that moment: the clash between this picture and the anticipated scene of Picotee and Christopher sitting in frigid propriety at opposite sides of a well-lighted room was too great. She flitted upstairs again with the least possible rustle, and flung herself down on the couch as before, panting with excitement at the new knowledge that had come to her.

She quickly fixed her hair and dress—not quite as perfectly as she would have liked, but time was short—and went down the stairs. Just as she was about to push open the drawing-room door, which was almost closed but had about an inch to go, she was shocked to find the room completely dark and even more surprised to hear Picotee sobbing inside. Retreating was the only thing she could do at that moment; the contrast between this scene and the expected image of Picotee and Christopher sitting stiffly at opposite sides of a bright room was too much to handle. She quickly slipped back upstairs with minimal noise and threw herself down on the couch as before, breathing heavily with excitement at the new information she had just received.

There was only one possible construction to be put upon this in Ethelberta's rapid mind, and that approximated to the true one. She had known for some time that Picotee once had a lover, or something akin to it, and that he had disappointed her in a way which had never been told. No stranger, save in the capacity of the one beloved, could wound a woman sufficiently to make her weep, and it followed that Christopher was the man of Picotee's choice. As Ethelberta recalled the conversations, conclusion after conclusion came like pulsations in an aching head. 'O, how did it happen, and who is to blame?' she exclaimed. 'I cannot doubt his faith, and I cannot doubt hers; and yet how can I keep doubting them both?'

There was only one way to interpret this in Ethelberta's quick mind, and it was close to the truth. She had known for a while that Picotee once had a boyfriend, or something similar, and that he had let her down in a way that no one had ever explained. No one other than the one she loved could hurt a woman enough to make her cry, so it seemed clear that Christopher was the man Picotee had chosen. As Ethelberta thought back on their conversations, conclusion after conclusion hit her like thumps in a throbbing head. 'Oh, how did this happen, and who is at fault?' she exclaimed. 'I can’t doubt his loyalty, and I can’t doubt hers; and yet how can I continue to doubt both of them?'

It was characteristic of Ethelberta's jealous motherly guard over her young sisters that, amid these contending inquiries, her foremost feeling was less one of hope for her own love than of championship for Picotee's.

It was typical of Ethelberta's jealous motherly protection of her younger sisters that, amid these conflicting questions, her main feeling was less about hope for her own love and more about support for Picotee's.

23. ETHELBERTA'S HOUSE (continued)

Picotee was heard on the stairs: Ethelberta covered her face.

'Is he waiting?' she said faintly, on finding that Picotee did not begin to speak.

'Is he waiting?' she said softly, realizing that Picotee didn't start talking.

'No; he is gone,' said Picotee.

'No; he's gone,' Picotee said.

'Ah, why is that?' came quickly from under the handkerchief. 'He has forgotten me-that's what it is!'

'Oh, why is that?' came quickly from under the handkerchief. 'He’s forgotten me—that’s what it is!'

'O no, he has not!' said Picotee, just as bitterly.

'O no, he hasn’t!' Picotee said, just as bitterly.

Ethelberta had far too much heroism to let much in this strain escape her, though her sister was prepared to go any lengths in the same. 'I suppose,' continued Ethelberta, in the quiet way of one who had only a headache the matter with her, 'that he remembered you after the meeting at Anglebury?'

Ethelberta had way too much courage to let anything like this slip by her, even though her sister was ready to go to any lengths in the same situation. "I guess," Ethelberta continued, in the calm manner of someone who was just dealing with a headache, "that he remembered you after the meeting in Anglebury?"

'Yes, he remembered me.'

'Yeah, he remembered me.'

'Did you tell me you had seen him before that time?'

'Did you tell me you had seen him before then?'

'I had seen him at Sandbourne. I don't think I told you.'

'I saw him at Sandbourne. I don't think I mentioned it to you.'

'At whose house did you meet him?'

'At nobody's. I only saw him sometimes,' replied Picotee, in great distress.

'At nobody's. I only saw him sometimes,' Picotee replied, very upset.

Ethelberta, though of all women most miserable, was brimming with compassion for the throbbing girl so nearly related to her, in whom she continually saw her own weak points without the counterpoise of her strong ones. But it was necessary to repress herself awhile: the intended ways of her life were blocked and broken up by this jar of interests, and she wanted time to ponder new plans. 'Picotee, I would rather be alone now, if you don't mind,' she said. 'You need not leave me any light; it makes my eyes ache, I think.'

Ethelberta, though the most miserable woman of all, was filled with compassion for the struggling girl so closely related to her, in whom she constantly recognized her own weaknesses without the balance of her strengths. But she needed to hold back for a bit: her intended path in life was disrupted by this clash of interests, and she wanted time to think of new plans. 'Picotee, I’d prefer to be alone right now, if that's okay with you,' she said. 'You don't need to leave me any light; it hurts my eyes, I think.'

Picotee left the room. But Ethelberta had not long been alone and in darkness when somebody gently opened the door, and entered without a candle.

Picotee left the room. But Ethelberta had not been alone in the dark for long when someone quietly opened the door and came in without a candle.

'Berta,' said the soft voice of Picotee again, 'may I come in?'

'Berta,' called Picotee's gentle voice again, 'can I come in?'

'O yes,' said Ethelberta. 'Has everything gone right with the house this evening?'

'O yes,' said Ethelberta. 'Did everything go smoothly with the house tonight?'

'Yes; and Gwendoline went out just now to buy a few things, and she is going to call round upon father when he has got his dinner cleared away.'

'Yeah, and Gwendoline just stepped out to pick up a few things, and she's planning to drop by to see Dad once he's finished with dinner.'

'I hope she will not stay and talk to the other servants. Some day she will let drop something or other before father can stop her.'

'I hope she won't stick around and chat with the other servants. One day, she'll accidentally say something before Dad can stop her.'

'O Berta!' said Picotee, close beside her. She was kneeling in front of the couch, and now flinging her arm across Ethelberta's shoulder and shaking violently, she pressed her forehead against her sister's temple, and breathed out upon her cheek:

'O Berta!' said Picotee, right next to her. She was kneeling in front of the couch, and now, throwing her arm around Ethelberta's shoulder and shaking her vigorously, she pressed her forehead against her sister's temple and exhaled onto her cheek:

'I came in again to tell you something which I ought to have told you just now, and I have come to say it at once because I am afraid I shan't be able to to-morrow. Mr. Julian was the young man I spoke to you of a long time ago, and I should have told you all about him, but you said he was your young man too, and-and I didn't know what to do then, because I thought it was wrong in me to love your young man; and Berta, he didn't mean me to love him at all, but I did it myself, though I did not want to do it, either; it would come to me! And I didn't know he belonged to you when I began it, or I would not have let him meet me at all; no I wouldn't!'

'I came back to tell you something I should have mentioned earlier, and I wanted to say it right away because I’m worried I won’t be able to tomorrow. Mr. Julian was the young man I told you about a while ago, and I should have shared everything about him, but you mentioned that he was your young man too, and I didn’t know what to do then, because I thought it was wrong for me to love your young man; and Berta, he didn’t mean for me to fall for him, but I did anyway, even though I didn’t want to; it just happened! And I didn’t know he was yours when it all started, or I wouldn’t have agreed to meet him at all; no, I wouldn't!'

'Meet you? You don't mean to say he used to meet you?' whispered Ethelberta.

'Meet you? Are you really saying he used to meet you?' whispered Ethelberta.

'Yes,' said Picotee; 'but he could not help it. We used to meet on the road, and there was no other road unless I had gone ever so far round. But it is worse than that, Berta! That was why I couldn't bide in Sandbourne, and-and ran away to you up here; it was not because I wanted to see you, Berta, but because I-I wanted-'

'Yeah,' said Picotee; 'but he couldn't help it. We used to meet on the road, and there wasn't any other way unless I went really far out of my way. But it’s worse than that, Berta! That’s why I couldn’t stay in Sandbourne, and-and ran away to you up here; it wasn’t because I wanted to see you, Berta, but because I-I wanted-'

'Yes, yes, I know,' said Ethelberta hurriedly.

'Yeah, yeah, I get it,' Ethelberta said quickly.

'And then when I went downstairs he mistook me for you for a moment, and that caused-a confusion!'

'Then when I went downstairs, he mistook me for you for a second, and that caused some confusion!'

'O, well, it does not much matter,' said Ethelberta, kissing Picotee soothingly. 'You ought not of course to have come to London in such a manner; but, since you have come, we will make the best of it. Perhaps it may end happily for you and for him. Who knows?'

'Oh, well, it doesn't really matter,' said Ethelberta, kissing Picotee gently. 'You definitely shouldn't have come to London like this; but since you're here, let's make the most of it. Maybe it will turn out well for you and him. Who knows?'

'Then don't you want him, Berta?'

'So you don’t want him, Berta?'

'O no; not at all!'

'Oh no; not at all!'

'What-and don't you really want him, Berta?' repeated Picotee, starting up.

'What—and don't you really want him, Berta?' Picotee repeated, getting up suddenly.

'I would much rather he paid his addresses to you. He is not the sort of man I should wish to-think it best to marry, even if I were to marry, which I have no intention of doing at present. He calls to see me because we are old friends, but his calls do not mean anything more than that he takes an interest in me. It is not at all likely that I shall see him again! and I certainly never shall see him unless you are present.'

'I would much rather he expressed interest in you. He’s not the kind of guy I would want to marry, even if I were thinking about it, which I’m not right now. He visits me because we’re old friends, but his visits only mean he cares about me. It’s very unlikely that I’ll see him again! I definitely won’t see him unless you’re there.'

'That will be very nice.'

'That will be awesome.'

'Yes. And you will be always distant towards him, and go to leave the room when he comes, when I will call you back; but suppose we continue this to-morrow? I can tell you better then what to do.'

'Yes. And you'll always keep your distance from him and leave the room when he arrives, even when I call you back; but what if we continue this tomorrow? I can give you better advice then on what to do.'

When Picotee had left her the second time, Ethelberta turned over upon her breast and shook in convulsive sobs which had little relationship with tears. This abandonment ended as suddenly as it had begun-not lasting more than a minute and a half altogether-and she got up in an unconsidered and unusual impulse to seek relief from the stinging sarcasm of this event-the unhappy love of Picotee-by mentioning something of it to another member of the family, her eldest sister Gwendoline, who was a woman full of sympathy.

When Picotee left her for the second time, Ethelberta turned onto her stomach and shook with sobs that had little to do with tears. This feeling of abandonment ended as suddenly as it started, lasting no more than a minute and a half in total. She got up with an impulsive and unexpected urge to find relief from the sharp sting of this situation—the unrequited love of Picotee—by discussing it with another family member, her eldest sister Gwendoline, who was a woman full of sympathy.

Ethelberta descended to the kitchen, it being now about ten o'clock. The room was empty, Gwendoline not having yet returned, and Cornelia, being busy about her own affairs upstairs. The French family had gone to the theatre, and the house on that account was very quiet to-night. Ethelberta sat down in the dismal place without turning up the gas, and in a few minutes admitted Gwendoline.

Ethelberta went down to the kitchen; it was around ten o'clock. The room was empty since Gwendoline hadn’t returned yet and Cornelia was occupied with her own tasks upstairs. The French family had gone to the theater, which made the house very quiet tonight. Ethelberta sat down in the gloomy space without turning on the gas, and a few minutes later, Gwendoline arrived.

The round-faced country cook floundered in, untying her bonnet as she came, laying it down on a chair, and talking at the same time. 'Such a place as this London is, to be sure!' she exclaimed, turning on the gas till it whistled. 'I wish I was down in Wessex again. Lord-a-mercy, Berta, I didn't see it was you! I thought it was Cornelia. As I was saying, I thought that, after biding in this underground cellar all the week, making up messes for them French folk, and never pleasing 'em, and never shall, because I don't understand that line, I thought I would go out and see father, you know.'

The round-faced country cook stumbled in, untying her bonnet as she entered, setting it down on a chair, and talking at the same time. "What a place this London is, for sure!" she exclaimed, turning on the gas until it whistled. "I wish I was back in Wessex again. Goodness, Berta, I didn’t realize it was you! I thought it was Cornelia. Like I was saying, I figured that after being stuck in this underground cellar all week, making meals for those French folks and never satisfying them—and I never will because I don’t get that style—I thought I’d go out and see my father, you know."

'Is he very well?' said Ethelberta.

'Is he doing okay?' said Ethelberta.

'Yes; and he is going to call round when he has time. Well, as I was a-coming home-along I thought, "Please the Lord I'll have some chippols for supper just for a plain trate," and I went round to the late greengrocer's for 'em; and do you know they sweared me down that they hadn't got such things as chippols in the shop, and had never heard of 'em in their lives. At last I said, "Why, how can you tell me such a brazen story?-here they be, heaps of 'em!" It made me so vexed that I came away there and then, and wouldn't have one-no, not at a gift.'

'Yeah, and he’s going to drop by when he gets the chance. Well, as I was on my way home, I thought, "God willing, I’ll have some chippols for dinner as a simple treat," so I went to the old greengrocer’s for them. And can you believe they insisted they didn’t have any chippols in the store and had never even heard of them? Finally, I said, "How can you tell me such a bold-faced lie? Here they are, tons of them!" It made me so mad that I left right then and there and wouldn’t take one—not even for free.'

'They call them young onions here,' said Ethelberta quietly; 'you must always remember that. But, Gwendoline, I wanted-'

'They call them young onions here,' Ethelberta said quietly; 'you need to always remember that. But, Gwendoline, I wanted-'

Ethelberta felt sick at heart, and stopped. She had come down on the wings of an impulse to unfold her trouble about Picotee to her hard-headed and much older sister, less for advice than to get some heart-ease by interchange of words; but alas, she could proceed no further. The wretched homeliness of Gwendoline's mind seemed at this particular juncture to be absolutely intolerable, and Ethelberta was suddenly convinced that to involve Gwendoline in any such discussion would simply be increasing her own burden, and adding worse confusion to her sister's already confused existence.

Ethelberta felt a heavy sadness and stopped. She had come with the impulse to share her worries about Picotee with her practical and much older sister, not so much for advice but to find some comfort in conversation. However, she couldn't go any further. Gwendoline's stubborn mindset seemed completely unbearable at that moment, and Ethelberta suddenly realized that involving Gwendoline in this discussion would only add to her own troubles and complicate her sister's already chaotic life even more.

'What were you going to say?' said the honest and unsuspecting Gwendoline.

"What were you going to say?" asked the genuine and naive Gwendoline.

'I will put it off until to-morrow,' Ethelberta murmured gloomily; 'I have a bad headache, and I am afraid I cannot stay with you after all.'

'I’ll put it off until tomorrow,' Ethelberta said sadly; 'I have a bad headache, and I’m afraid I can’t stay with you after all.'

As she ascended the stairs, Ethelberta ached with an added pain not much less than the primary one which had brought her down. It was that old sense of disloyalty to her class and kin by feeling as she felt now which caused the pain, and there was no escaping it. Gwendoline would have gone to the ends of the earth for her: she could not confide a thought to Gwendoline!

As she climbed the stairs, Ethelberta felt an additional pain, almost as intense as the original one that had brought her down. It was that familiar feeling of disloyalty to her own class and family for feeling the way she did now that caused the hurt, and there was no way to avoid it. Gwendoline would have gone anywhere for her: she couldn't share a single thought with Gwendoline!

'If she only knew of that unworthy feeling of mine, how she would grieve,' said Ethelberta miserably.

'If she only knew about that unworthy feeling of mine, how upset she would be,' said Ethelberta miserably.

She next went up to the servants' bedrooms, and to where Cornelia slept. On Ethelberta's entrance Cornelia looked up from a perfect wonder of a bonnet, which she held in her hands. At sight of Ethelberta the look of keen interest in her work changed to one of gaiety.

She then went upstairs to the servants' bedrooms and where Cornelia was sleeping. When Ethelberta walked in, Cornelia looked up from a stunning bonnet she was holding. At the sight of Ethelberta, her expression of focused interest in her work changed to one of joy.

'I am so glad-I was just coming down,' Cornelia said in a whisper; whenever they spoke as relations in this house it was in whispers. 'Now, how do you think this bonnet will do? May I come down, and see how I look in your big glass?' She clapped the bonnet upon her head. 'Won't it do beautiful for Sunday afternoon?'

'I’m so glad—I was just coming down,' Cornelia whispered; whenever they talked as family in this house, it was in whispers. 'So, what do you think of this bonnet? Can I come down and check how I look in your big mirror?' She placed the bonnet on her head. 'Doesn’t it look great for Sunday afternoon?'

'It looks very attractive, as far as I can see by this light,' said Ethelberta. 'But is it not rather too brilliant in colour-blue and red together, like that? Remember, as I often tell you, people in town never wear such bright contrasts as they do in the country.'

'It looks really appealing, from what I can see in this light,' said Ethelberta. 'But isn't it a bit too vibrant in color—blue and red together like that? Remember, as I often tell you, people in the city never wear such bright contrasts like they do in the countryside.'

'O Berta!' said Cornelia, in a deprecating tone; 'don't object. If there's one thing I do glory in it is a nice flare-up about my head o' Sundays-of course if the family's not in mourning, I mean.' But, seeing that Ethelberta did not smile, she turned the subject, and added docilely: 'Did you come up for me to do anything? I will put off finishing my bonnet if I am wanted.'

'O Berta!' Cornelia said, with a hint of modesty. 'Don't complain. If there's one thing I really love, it's having a good fuss around my head on Sundays—of course, if the family's not in mourning, that is.' But when she noticed that Ethelberta didn't smile, she changed the subject and added obediently, 'Did you come up to ask me to do something? I can postpone finishing my hat if you need me.'

'I was going to talk to you about family matters, and Picotee,' said Ethelberta. 'But, as you are busy, and I have a headache, I will put it off till to-morrow.'

'I was going to talk to you about family issues and Picotee,' Ethelberta said. 'But since you’re busy and I have a headache, I’ll postpone it until tomorrow.'

Cornelia seemed decidedly relieved, for family matters were far from attractive at the best of times; and Ethelberta went down to the next floor, and entered her mother's room.

Cornelia looked quite relieved, since family issues were never appealing, even at their best; and Ethelberta went down to the next floor and entered her mother's room.

After a short conversation Mrs. Chickerel said, 'You say you want to ask me something?'

After a brief chat, Mrs. Chickerel said, 'You mentioned you wanted to ask me something?'

'Yes: but nothing of importance, mother. I was thinking about Picotee, and what would be the best thing to do-'

'Yes, but nothing major, Mom. I was thinking about Picotee and what would be the best thing to do-'

'Ah, well you may, Berta. I am so uneasy about this life you have led us into, and full of fear that your plans may break down; if they do, whatever will become of us? I know you are doing your best; but I cannot help thinking that the coming to London and living with you was wild and rash, and not well weighed afore we set about it. You should have counted the cost first, and not advised it. If you break down, and we are all discovered living so queer and unnatural, right in the heart of the aristocracy, we should be the laughing-stock of the country: it would kill me, and ruin us all-utterly ruin us!'

'Oh, you might feel that way, Berta. I'm really anxious about the life you’ve led us into, and I’m afraid your plans might fall apart; if they do, what will happen to us? I know you’re trying your hardest, but I can’t help thinking that moving to London and living with you was impulsive and careless, and we didn’t think it through before we started. You should have considered the consequences first and not suggested it. If things go wrong and we’re found out living in such a strange and unnatural way, right in the middle of the upper class, we would be the joke of the country: it would devastate me, and completely ruin us!'

'O mother, I know all that so well!' exclaimed Ethelberta, tears of anguish filling her eyes. 'Don't depress me more than I depress myself by such fears, or you will bring about the very thing we strive to avoid! My only chance is in keeping in good spirits, and why don't you try to help me a little by taking a brighter view of things?'

'O mom, I know all that so well!' Ethelberta exclaimed, tears of anguish filling her eyes. 'Don't make me feel worse than I already do with those kinds of fears, or you'll end up causing exactly what we're trying to avoid! My only chance is to stay in good spirits, so why can’t you help me a bit by looking at things more positively?'

'I know I ought to, my dear girl, but I cannot. I do so wish that I never let you tempt me and the children away from the Lodge. I cannot think why I allowed myself to be so persuaded-cannot think! You are not to blame-it is I. I am much older than you, and ought to have known better than listen to such a scheme. This undertaking seems too big-the bills frighten me. I have never been used to such wild adventure, and I can't sleep at night for fear that your tale-telling will go wrong, and we shall all be exposed and shamed. A story-teller seems such an impossible castle-in-the-air sort of a trade for getting a living by-I cannot think how ever you came to dream of such an unheard-of thing.'

'I know I should, my dear, but I just can’t. I really wish I had never let you and the kids pull me away from the Lodge. I can’t understand why I let myself be talked into it—I just can’t! It's not your fault; it’s mine. I'm a lot older than you, and I should have known better than to go along with such a plan. This whole thing feels too overwhelming—the costs scare me. I’ve never been used to such wild adventures, and I can’t sleep at night worrying that your storytelling will go wrong, and we’ll all be exposed and embarrassed. Being a storyteller seems like such an unrealistic, sky-high dream for making a living—I can’t believe you ever thought of something so outlandish.'

'But it is not a castle in the air, and it does get a living!' said Ethelberta, her lip quivering.

'But it's not just a pipe dream, and it actually makes a living!' said Ethelberta, her lip trembling.

'Well, yes, while it is just a new thing; but I am afraid it cannot last-that's what I fear. People will find you out as one of a family of servants, and their pride will be stung at having gone to hear your romancing; then they will go no more, and what will happen to us and the poor little ones?'

'Well, yes, it's just something new; but I'm afraid it can't last - that's what I'm worried about. People will figure out that you're from a family of servants, and their pride will be hurt for having come to listen to your stories; then they won't come anymore, and what will happen to us and the poor little ones?'

'We must all scatter again!'

'We all have to split again!'

'If we could get as we were once, I wouldn't mind that. But we shall have lost our character as simple country folk who know nothing, which are the only class of poor people that squires will give any help to; and I much doubt if the girls would get places after such a discovery-it would be so awkward and unheard-of.'

'If we could go back to how we were before, I wouldn’t mind that at all. But we would have lost our identity as simple country people who know nothing, and they’re the only kind of poor folks that the squires will help; and I seriously doubt the girls would find jobs after such a revelation—it would be so embarrassing and unconventional.'

'Well, all I can say is,' replied Ethelberta, 'that I will do my best. All that I have is theirs and yours as much as mine, and these arrangements are simply on their account. I don't like my relations being my servants; but if they did not work for me, they would have to work for others, and my service is much lighter and pleasanter than any other lady's would be for them, so the advantages are worth the risk. If I stood alone, I would go and hide my head in any hole, and care no more about the world and its ways. I wish I was well out of it, and at the bottom of a quiet grave-anybody might have the world for me then! But don't let me disturb you longer; it is getting late.'

'Well, all I can say is,' Ethelberta replied, 'that I'll do my best. Everything I have belongs to them and to you as much as it does to me, and these arrangements are just for their sake. I don't like my family being my servants; but if they weren't working for me, they'd have to work for someone else, and my job is much easier and more pleasant than what any other lady would give them, so the benefits outweigh the risks. If I were on my own, I'd just want to hide away and not care about the world and its problems. I wish I could be far away from it all and resting in a quiet grave—then anyone could have the world for me! But I won’t keep you any longer; it's getting late.'

Ethelberta then wished her mother good-night, and went away. To attempt confidences on such an ethereal matter as love was now absurd; her hermit spirit was doomed to dwell apart as usual; and she applied herself to deep thinking without aid and alone. Not only was there Picotee's misery to disperse; it became imperative to consider how best to overpass a more general catastrophe.

Ethelberta then said goodnight to her mother and left. Trying to confide in someone about something as intangible as love felt pointless now; her independent nature was destined to keep her isolated as usual, and she focused on her deep thoughts by herself. Not only did she have to deal with Picotee's pain, but she also needed to figure out how to navigate a wider disaster.

24. ETHELBERTA'S HOUSE (continued)-THE BRITISH MUSEUM

Mrs. Chickerel, in deploring the risks of their present speculative mode of life, was far from imagining that signs of the foul future so much dreaded were actually apparent to Ethelberta at the time the lament was spoken. Hence the daughter's uncommon sensitiveness to prophecy. It was as if a dead-reckoner poring over his chart should predict breakers ahead to one who already beheld them.

Mrs. Chickerel, while lamenting the dangers of their current risky lifestyle, had no idea that the signs of the grim future she feared were already clear to Ethelberta when she expressed her concerns. This explains the daughter’s unusual sensitivity to predictions. It’s like a navigator studying his map warning someone about the rocks ahead while that person is already seeing them.

That her story-telling would prove so attractive Ethelberta had not ventured to expect for a moment; that having once proved attractive there should be any falling-off until such time had elapsed as would enable her to harvest some solid fruit was equally a surprise. Future expectations are often based without hesitation upon one happy accident, when the only similar condition remaining to subsequent sets of circumstances is that the same person forms the centre of them. Her situation was so peculiar, and so unlike that of most public people, that there was hardly an argument explaining this triumphant opening which could be used in forecasting the close; unless, indeed, more strategy were employed in the conduct of the campaign than Ethelberta seemed to show at present.

Ethelberta never expected her storytelling to be so appealing; it was also a surprise that, after gaining that initial interest, there should be any decline until enough time passed for her to reap some real benefits. People often build future hopes on one lucky break, relying solely on the fact that the same person is at the center of the circumstances. Her situation was so unique and different from most public figures that there wasn’t really any argument explaining this successful start that could be used to predict the ending—unless, of course, more strategy was used in managing the situation than Ethelberta appeared to have at the moment.

There was no denying that she commanded less attention than at first: the audience had lessened, and, judging by appearances, might soon be expected to be decidedly thin. In excessive lowness of spirit, Ethelberta translated these signs with the bias that a lingering echo of her mother's dismal words naturally induced, reading them as conclusive evidence that her adventure had been chimerical in its birth. Yet it was very far less conclusive than she supposed. Public interest might without doubt have been renewed after a due interval, some of the falling-off being only an accident of the season. Her novelties had been hailed with pleasure, the rather that their freshness tickled than that their intrinsic merit was appreciated; and, like many inexperienced dispensers of a unique charm, Ethelberta, by bestowing too liberally and too frequently, was destroying the very element upon which its popularity depended. Her entertainment had been good in its conception, and partly good in its execution; yet her success had but little to do with that goodness. Indeed, what might be called its badness in a histrionic sense-that is, her look sometimes of being out of place, the sight of a beautiful woman on a platform, revealing tender airs of domesticity which showed her to belong by character to a quiet drawing-room-had been primarily an attractive feature. But alas, custom was staling this by improving her up to the mark of an utter impersonator, thereby eradicating the pretty abashments of a poetess out of her sphere; and more than one well-wisher who observed Ethelberta from afar feared that it might some day come to be said of her that she had

There was no denying that she was attracting less attention than before: the audience had dwindled, and judging by appearances, it might soon be expected to be very small. In a deep low mood, Ethelberta interpreted these signs through the lens of her mother's gloomy words, seeing them as proof that her adventure had been a wild fantasy from the start. However, it was far from being as conclusive as she thought. Public interest could definitely have been revived after some time, with some of the drop in attendance just being a seasonal issue. Her new ideas had been received with enthusiasm, largely because their freshness excited rather than because their actual quality was truly appreciated; and, like many inexperienced purveyors of a unique appeal, Ethelberta, by giving too generously and too often, was undermining the very element that supported her popularity. Her show had been well-conceived and partly well-executed; yet her success had little to do with that quality. In fact, what could be seen as its shortcomings in a theatrical sense—like how she sometimes seemed out of place, the sight of a beautiful woman on stage revealing gentle traits of domesticity that suggested she rightly belonged in a quiet living room—had initially been a captivating aspect. But sadly, the routine was dulling this by transforming her into a full impersonator, thereby removing the charming awkwardness of a poetess in a setting beyond her norm; and more than one supporter who watched Ethelberta from a distance worried that one day it might be said of her that she had

'She committed herself to fame:  
That, being constantly under the gaze of men,  
They became overwhelmed by too much sweetness,  
And started to hate the flavor of it,  
As too much of a good thing is just too much.'

But this in its extremity was not quite yet.

But this, at its peak, wasn't quite there yet.

We discover her one day, a little after this time, sitting before a table strewed with accounts and bills from different tradesmen of the neighbourhood, which she examined with a pale face, collecting their totals on a blank sheet. Picotee came into the room, but Ethelberta took no notice whatever of her. The younger sister, who subsisted on scraps of notice and favour, like a dependent animal, even if these were only an occasional glance of the eye, could not help saying at last, 'Berta, how silent you are. I don't think you know I am in the room.'

We find her one day, a little after this time, sitting at a table covered with bills and accounts from local tradespeople, which she was looking over with a pale face, adding up the totals on a blank sheet. Picotee walked into the room, but Ethelberta didn’t acknowledge her at all. The younger sister, who relied on small bits of attention and favor like a dependent animal, even if it was just an occasional glance, couldn’t help but finally say, “Berta, you’re so quiet. I don’t think you even realize I’m in the room.”

'I did not observe you,' said Ethelberta. 'I am very much engaged: these bills have to be paid.'

"I didn't see you," Ethelberta said. "I'm really busy right now; these bills need to be paid."

'What, and cannot we pay them?' said Picotee, in vague alarm.

'What, can't we pay them?' said Picotee, with vague concern.

'O yes, I can pay them. The question is, how long shall I be able to do it?'

'O yes, I can pay them. The question is, how long will I be able to do it?'

'That is sad; and we are going on so nicely, too. It is not true that you have really decided to leave off story-telling now the people don't crowd to hear it as they did?'

'That's too bad; and we were getting along so well, too. Is it really true that you’ve decided to stop telling stories now that people don’t gather to listen like they used to?'

'I think I shall leave off.'

"I think I'm done now."

'And begin again next year?'

'And start over next year?'

'That is very doubtful.'

'That's really doubtful.'

'I'll tell you what you might do,' said Picotee, her face kindling with a sense of great originality. 'You might travel about to country towns and tell your story splendidly.'

"I'll tell you what you could do," said Picotee, her face lighting up with a feeling of great originality. "You could travel to small towns and share your story in style."

'A man in my position might perhaps do it with impunity; but I could not without losing ground in other domains. A woman may drive to Mayfair from her house in Exonbury Crescent, and speak from a platform there, and be supposed to do it as an original way of amusing herself; but when it comes to starring in the provinces she establishes herself as a woman of a different breed and habit. I wish I were a man! I would give up this house, advertise it to be let furnished, and sally forth with confidence. But I am driven to think of other ways to manage than that.'

'A man in my position could probably get away with it; but I can’t without losing credibility in other areas. A woman can drive to Mayfair from her house in Exonbury Crescent, speak from a platform there, and be seen as doing it for fun; but when she starts performing in the provinces, she’s seen as someone quite different. I wish I were a man! I’d sell this house, put it up for rent furnished, and go out with confidence. But I have to think of other ways to handle this.'

Picotee fell into a conjectural look, but could not guess.

Picotee looked thoughtful but couldn't figure it out.

'The way of marriage,' said Ethelberta. 'Otherwise perhaps the poetess may live to become what Dryden called himself when he got old and poor-a rent-charge on Providence. . . . . Yes, I must try that way,' she continued, with a sarcasm towards people out of hearing. I must buy a "Peerage" for one thing, and a "Baronetage," and a "House of Commons," and a "Landed Gentry," and learn what people are about me. 'I must go to Doctors' Commons and read up wills of the parents of any likely gudgeons I may know. I must get a Herald to invent an escutcheon of my family, and throw a genealogical tree into the bargain in consideration of my taking a few second-hand heirlooms of a pawnbroking friend of his. I must get up sham ancestors, and find out some notorious name to start my pedigree from. It does not matter what his character was; either villain or martyr will do, provided that he lived five hundred years ago. It would be considered far more creditable to make good my descent from Satan in the age when he went to and fro on the earth than from a ministering angel under Victoria.'

"The way of marriage," Ethelberta said. "Otherwise, maybe the poetess will end up like Dryden described himself when he got older and poorer—a burden on Providence. . . . Yes, I need to try that route," she continued, sarcastically addressing those who couldn’t hear her. "I need to buy a 'Peerage,' a 'Baronetage,' a 'House of Commons,' and a 'Landed Gentry,' and figure out what everyone is saying about me. I have to go to Doctors' Commons and look up the wills of any potential suitors I might know. I need to hire a Herald to create a family crest and throw in a genealogical tree in exchange for taking a few second-hand heirlooms from a pawnbroker friend of his. I need to come up with fake ancestors and discover some notorious name to kick off my family line. It doesn’t matter what their reputation was; either a villain or a martyr will work, as long as they lived five hundred years ago. It would be seen as much more respectable to trace my lineage back to Satan in the days when he roamed the earth than to a ministering angel under Queen Victoria."

'But, Berta, you are not going to marry any stranger who may turn up?' said Picotee, who had creeping sensations of dread when Ethelberta talked like this.

'But, Berta, you’re not planning to marry some random stranger who shows up, right?' said Picotee, who felt a creeping sense of dread whenever Ethelberta talked like this.

'I had no such intention. But, having once put my hand to the plough, how shall I turn back?'

'I didn't mean to do that. But now that I've started, how can I stop?'

'You might marry Mr. Ladywell,' said Picotee, who preferred to look at things in the concrete.

'You might marry Mr. Ladywell,' said Picotee, who liked to think about things in practical terms.

'Yes, marry him villainously; in cold blood, without a moment to prepare himself.'

'Yes, marry him ruthlessly; in cold blood, with no time to get ready.'

'Ah, you won't!'

'Oh, you won't!'

'I am not so sure about that. I have brought mother and the children to town against her judgment and against my father's; they gave way to my opinion as to one who from superior education has larger knowledge of the world than they. I must prove my promises, even if Heaven should fall upon me for it, or what a miserable future will theirs be! We must not be poor in London. Poverty in the country is a sadness, but poverty in town is a horror. There is something not without grandeur in the thought of starvation on an open mountain or in a wide wood, and your bones lying there to bleach in the pure sun and rain; but a back garret in a rookery, and the other starvers in the room insisting on keeping the window shut-anything to deliver us from that!'

'I’m not so sure about that. I brought my mom and the kids to town against her judgment and my dad’s; they went along with my opinion because I have more experience and knowledge about the world than they do. I need to keep my promises, even if it brings me down, or what a miserable future will they have! We can’t be poor in London. Poverty in the countryside is sad, but poverty in the city is a nightmare. There’s something kind of grand about the idea of starving on an open mountain or in a vast forest, with your bones left to bleach in the sun and rain; but living in a cramped attic in a rundown area, with other starving people in the room insisting on keeping the window shut—anything to escape that!'

'How gloomy you can be, Berta! It will never be so dreadful. Why, I can take in plain sewing, and you can do translations, and mother can knit stockings, and so on. How much longer will this house be yours?'

'How gloomy you can be, Berta! It will never be that bad. I can do plain sewing, you can handle translations, and mom can knit stockings, and so on. How much longer will this house be yours?'

'Two years. If I keep it longer than that I shall have to pay rent at the rate of three hundred a year. The Petherwin estate provides me with it till then, which will be the end of Lady Petherwin's term.'

'Two years. If I hold onto it longer than that, I’ll have to pay rent at the rate of three hundred a year. The Petherwin estate covers it for me until then, which marks the end of Lady Petherwin's term.'

'I see it; and you ought to marry before the house is gone, if you mean to marry high,' murmured Picotee, in an inadequate voice, as one confronted by a world so tragic that any hope of her assisting therein was out of the question.

'I see it; and you should get married before the house is gone, if you plan to marry someone of high status,' Picotee murmured in a faint voice, as if faced with a world so tragic that any hope of her being able to help was out of the question.

It was not long after this exposition of the family affairs that Christopher called upon them; but Picotee was not present, having gone to think of superhuman work on the spur of Ethelberta's awakening talk. There was something new in the way in which Ethelberta received the announcement of his name; passion had to do with it, so had circumspection; the latter most, for the first time since their reunion.

It wasn't long after sharing the family's news that Christopher visited them; however, Picotee was not there, as she had gone off to contemplate higher ambitions inspired by Ethelberta's recent conversation. Ethelberta's reaction to hearing Christopher's name felt different this time; there was a mix of passion and careful thought, with the latter being more prominent for the first time since they had reunited.

'I am going to leave this part of England,' said Christopher, after a few gentle preliminaries. 'I was one of the applicants for the post of assistant-organist at Melchester Cathedral when it became vacant, and I find I am likely to be chosen, through the interest of one of my father's friends.'

'I’m going to leave this part of England,' said Christopher, after a few polite exchanges. 'I was one of the candidates for the assistant-organist position at Melchester Cathedral when it opened up, and it looks like I’m going to be selected, thanks to the support of one of my dad's friends.'

'I congratulate you.'

'Congrats!'

'No, Ethelberta, it is not worth that. I did not originally mean to follow this course at all; but events seemed to point to it in the absence of a better.'

'No, Ethelberta, it’s not worth it. I didn’t originally plan to go down this path at all; but circumstances seemed to lead in that direction in the absence of a better option.'

'I too am compelled to follow a course I did not originally mean to take.' After saying no more for a few moments, she added, in a tone of sudden openness, a richer tincture creeping up her cheek, 'I want to put a question to you boldly-not exactly a question-a thought. Have you considered whether the relations between us which have lately prevailed are-are the best for you-and for me?'

'I also feel forced to take a path I never intended to follow.' After pausing for a moment, she said, in a tone of unexpected honesty, a deeper color rising in her cheeks, 'I want to ask you something directly—not exactly a question—a thought. Have you thought about whether the way we've been relating to each other recently is the best for you—and for me?'

'I know what you mean,' said Christopher, hastily anticipating all that she might be going to say; 'and I am glad you have given me the opportunity of speaking upon that subject. It has been very good and considerate in you to allow me to share your society so frequently as you have done since I have been in town, and to think of you as an object to exist for and strive for. But I ought to have remembered that, since you have nobody at your side to look after your interests, it behoved me to be doubly careful. In short, Ethelberta, I am not in a position to marry, nor can I discern when I shall be, and I feel it would be an injustice to ask you to be bound in any way to one lower and less talented than you. You cannot, from what you say, think it desirable that the engagement should continue. I have no right to ask you to be my betrothed, without having a near prospect of making you my wife. I don't mind saying this straight out-I have no fear that you will doubt my love; thank Heaven, you know what that is well enough! However, as things are, I wish you to know that I cannot conscientiously put in a claim upon your attention.'

"I get what you're saying," Christopher said, quickly anticipating everything she might say. "I'm really glad you gave me the chance to talk about this. It's been kind and thoughtful of you to let me spend so much time with you since I've been in town, and I appreciate having you to care about and strive for. But I should have remembered that since you have no one else to look out for your interests, I needed to be extra careful. In short, Ethelberta, I'm not in a position to get married, and I can't tell when I will be. I think it would be unfair to ask you to commit to someone who is less capable and accomplished than you. From what you’ve said, it seems you don't think it’s a good idea for our engagement to continue. I have no right to ask you to be my fiancée without being able to see a near future where I can make you my wife. I’ll be straightforward about this—I’m not worried that you’ll question my love; thankfully, you know exactly what that is! However, given the circumstances, I want you to know that I can't in good conscience claim your attention."

A second meaning was written in Christopher's look, though he scarcely uttered it. A woman so delicately poised upon the social globe could not in honour be asked to wait for a lover who was unable to set bounds to the waiting period. Yet he had privily dreamed of an approach to that position-an unreserved, ideally perfect declaration from Ethelberta that time and practical issues were nothing to her; that she would stand as fast without material hopes as with them; that love was to be an end with her henceforth, having utterly ceased to be a means. Therefore this surreptitious hope of his, founded on no reasonable expectation, was like a guilty thing surprised when Ethelberta answered, with a predominance of judgment over passion still greater than before:

A second meaning was evident in Christopher's expression, even though he barely spoke it. A woman so delicately positioned in society couldn't be expected to wait for a lover who couldn't set a timeline for that wait. Yet he secretly fantasized about reaching that point—an open, perfectly ideal declaration from Ethelberta that time and practical matters didn't matter to her; that she would remain steadfast without material hopes as much as with them; that love would now be an end for her, having completely stopped being a means to an end. So this hidden hope of his, based on no realistic expectation, felt like something shameful caught off guard when Ethelberta responded, her judgment overshadowing her passion more than ever before:

'It is unspeakably generous in you to put it all before me so nicely, Christopher. I think infinitely more of you for being so unreserved, especially since I too have been thinking much on the indefiniteness of the days to come. We are not numbered among the blest few who can afford to trifle with the time. Yet to agree to anything like a positive parting will be quite unnecessary. You did not mean that, did you? for it is harsh if you did.' Ethelberta smiled kindly as she said this, as much as to say that she was far from really upbraiding him. 'Let it be only that we will see each other less. We will bear one another in mind as deeply attached friends if not as definite lovers, and keep up friendly remembrances of a sort which, come what may, will never have to be ended by any painful process termed breaking off. Different persons, different natures; and it may be that marriage would not be the most favourable atmosphere for our old affection to prolong itself in. When do you leave London?'

"It’s incredibly generous of you to lay it all out for me so nicely, Christopher. I think so much more of you for being so open, especially since I’ve been thinking a lot about how uncertain the future is. We're not among the lucky few who can afford to waste time. But agreeing to a final goodbye feels unnecessary. You didn’t mean that, did you? Because that would be harsh if you did." Ethelberta smiled kindly as she said this, implying that she wasn’t really scolding him. "Let’s just say we’ll see each other less. We’ll remember each other as deeply connected friends rather than as definite lovers, and keep up friendly memories that, no matter what happens, won’t have to end in a painful breakup. Different people, different natures; and maybe marriage wouldn’t be the best environment for our old feelings to continue. When do you leave London?"

The disconnected query seemed to be subjoined to disperse the crude effect of what had gone before.

The disconnected question seemed to be added to soften the harsh impact of what had come before.

'I hardly know,' murmured Christopher. 'I suppose I shall not call here again.'

'I barely know,' murmured Christopher. 'I guess I won't come by here again.'

Whilst they were silent somebody entered the room softly, and they turned to discover Picotee.

While they were silent, someone quietly entered the room, and they turned to find Picotee.

'Come here, Picotee,' said Ethelberta.

"Come here, Picotee," Ethelberta said.

Picotee came with an abashed bearing to where the other two were standing, and looked down steadfastly.

Picotee approached the other two with a shy demeanor and looked down steadily.

'Mr. Julian is going away,' she continued, with determined firmness. 'He will not see us again for a long time.' And Ethelberta added, in a lower tone, though still in the unflinching manner of one who had set herself to say a thing, and would say it-'He is not to be definitely engaged to me any longer. We are not thinking of marrying, you know, Picotee. It is best that we should not.'

'Mr. Julian is leaving,' she continued, with firm determination. 'He won't be seeing us for a long time.' And Ethelberta added, in a softer tone, though still with the unwavering resolve of someone who had decided to speak the truth and would do so, 'He is no longer definitely engaged to me. We are not considering marriage, you know, Picotee. It’s better this way.'

'Perhaps it is,' said Christopher hurriedly, taking up his hat. 'Let me now wish you good-bye; and, of course, you will always know where I am, and how to find me.'

'Maybe it is,' Christopher said quickly, grabbing his hat. 'Now, let me say good-bye; and, of course, you'll always know where I am and how to reach me.'

It was a tender time. He inclined forward that Ethelberta might give him her hand, which she did; whereupon their eyes met. Mastered by an impelling instinct she had not reckoned with, Ethelberta presented her cheek. Christopher kissed it faintly. Tears were in Ethelberta's eyes now, and she was heartfull of many emotions. Placing her arm round Picotee's waist, who had never lifted her eyes from the carpet, she drew the slight girl forward, and whispered quickly to him-'Kiss her, too. She is my sister, and I am yours.'

It was a warm moment. He leaned in so Ethelberta would give him her hand, which she did; their eyes locked. Driven by a feeling she hadn’t anticipated, Ethelberta turned her cheek towards him. Christopher kissed it lightly. Tears filled Ethelberta's eyes now, and she was overwhelmed with so many emotions. Wrapping her arm around Picotee's waist, who hadn’t taken her eyes off the carpet, she pulled the shy girl forward and whispered quickly to him, “Kiss her, too. She’s my sister, and I’m yours.”

It seemed all right and natural to their respective moods and the tone of the moment that free old Wessex manners should prevail, and Christopher stooped and dropped upon Picotee's cheek likewise such a farewell kiss as he had imprinted upon Ethelberta's.

It felt perfectly fine and fitting for their moods and the vibe of the moment that the relaxed manners of old Wessex should take over, and Christopher leaned down and placed on Picotee's cheek a goodbye kiss similar to the one he had given Ethelberta.

'Care for us both equally!' said Ethelberta.

'Take care of us both equally!' said Ethelberta.

'I will,' said Christopher, scarcely knowing what he said.

"I will," said Christopher, barely realizing what he was saying.

When he had reached the door of the room, he looked back and saw the two sisters standing as he had left them, and equally tearful. Ethelberta at once said, in a last futile struggle against letting him go altogether, and with thoughts of her sister's heart:

When he got to the door of the room, he turned back and saw the two sisters just as he had left them, both in tears. Ethelberta immediately said, in a final, pointless attempt to keep him from leaving completely, and thinking of her sister's feelings:

'I think that Picotee might correspond with Faith; don't you, Mr. Julian?'

'I think Picotee might be in touch with Faith; don't you think so, Mr. Julian?'

'My sister would much like to do so,' said he.

'My sister would really like to do that,' he said.

'And you would like it too, would you not, Picotee?'

'And you would like it too, wouldn’t you, Picotee?'

'O yes,' she replied. 'And I can tell them all about you.'

'O yes,' she replied. 'And I can tell them everything about you.'

'Then it shall be so, if Miss Julian will.' She spoke in a settled way, as if something intended had been set in train; and Christopher having promised for his sister, he went out of the house with a parting smile of misgiving.

'Then it will be so, if Miss Julian agrees.' She spoke firmly, as if something planned had already been set in motion; and after Christopher promised for his sister, he left the house with a lingering smile of uncertainty.

He could scarcely believe as he walked along that those late words, yet hanging in his ears, had really been spoken, that still visible scene enacted. He could not even recollect for a minute or two how the final result had been produced. Did he himself first enter upon the long-looming theme, or did she? Christopher had been so nervously alive to the urgency of setting before the hard-striving woman a clear outline of himself, his surroundings and his fears, that he fancied the main impulse to this consummation had been his, notwithstanding that a faint initiative had come from Ethelberta. All had completed itself quickly, unceremoniously, and easily. Ethelberta had let him go a second time; yet on foregoing mornings and evenings, when contemplating the necessity of some such explanation, it had seemed that nothing less than Atlantean force could overpower their mutual gravitation towards each other.

He could hardly believe as he walked along that those recent words, still ringing in his ears, had actually been spoken, that the scene he had just witnessed was real. He couldn't even remember for a minute or two how it had all come about. Did he start the long-looming conversation, or did she? Christopher had been so anxiously focused on presenting a clear picture of himself, his life, and his fears to the hard-working woman that he imagined the main drive behind this moment had been his, though he acknowledged a slight initiation from Ethelberta. Everything had wrapped up quickly, without formalities, and easily. Ethelberta had let him go a second time; yet on previous mornings and evenings, when thinking about the need for such an explanation, it had felt like nothing less than immense force could overpower their mutual attraction to each other.

On his reaching home Faith was not in the house, and, in the restless state which demands something to talk at, the musician went off to find her, well knowing her haunt at this time of the day. He entered the spiked and gilded gateway of the Museum hard by, turned to the wing devoted to sculptures, and descended to a particular basement room, which was lined with bas-reliefs from Nineveh. The place was cool, silent, and soothing; it was empty, save of a little figure in black, that was standing with its face to the wall in an innermost nook. This spot was Faith's own temple; here, among these deserted antiques, Faith was always happy. Christopher looked on at her for some time before she noticed him, and dimly perceived how vastly differed her homely suit and unstudied contour-painfully unstudied to fastidious eyes-from Ethelberta's well-arranged draperies, even from Picotee's clever bits of ribbon, by which she made herself look pretty out of nothing at all. Yet this negligence was his sister's essence; without it she would have been a spoilt product. She had no outer world, and her rusty black was as appropriate to Faith's unseen courses as were Ethelberta's correct lights and shades to her more prominent career.

When he got home, Faith wasn't there, and in his restless mood that craved conversation, the musician set out to find her, knowing exactly where she would be at this time of day. He went through the spiked and gilded entrance of the nearby Museum, headed to the wing dedicated to sculptures, and went down to a specific basement room lined with bas-reliefs from Nineveh. The space was cool, quiet, and calming; it was empty except for a small figure in black, standing with its back to the wall in a secluded corner. This place was Faith's personal sanctuary; here, among these old artifacts, Faith always felt at peace. Christopher watched her for a while before she noticed him, and he quietly recognized how dramatically different her simple outfit and natural appearance—painfully unrefined to critical eyes—were compared to Ethelberta's well-styled garments, even compared to Picotee's clever use of ribbons to make herself look pretty with minimal effort. Yet this casualness was the essence of his sister; without it, she would have been spoiled. She had no external world, and her worn black attire suited Faith's hidden journeys just as Ethelberta's carefully chosen colors and styles suited her more public life.

'Look, Kit,' said Faith, as soon as she knew who was approaching. 'This is a thing I never learnt before; this person is really Sennacherib, sitting on his throne; and these with fluted beards and hair like plough-furrows, and fingers with no bones in them, are his warriors-really carved at the time, you know. Only just think that this is not imagined of Assyria, but done in Assyrian times by Assyrian hands. Don't you feel as if you were actually in Nineveh; that as we now walk between these slabs, so walked Ninevites between them once?'

'Look, Kit,' Faith said as soon as she recognized who was coming. 'This is something I never learned before; this person is actually Sennacherib, sitting on his throne; and those with fluted beards and hair like plow furrows, and fingers that seem boneless, are his warriors—really carved at that time, you know. Just think, this isn't just a representation of Assyria; it's made in Assyrian times by Assyrian hands. Don’t you feel like you’re actually in Nineveh? That as we walk between these slabs now, the Ninevites once walked between them too?'

'Yes. . . . Faith, it is all over. Ethelberta and I have parted.'

'Yeah... Faith, it's all over. Ethelberta and I have split up.'

'Indeed. And so my plan is to think of verses in the Bible about Sennacherib and his doings, which resemble these; this verse, for instance, I remember: "Now in the fourteenth year of King Hezekiah did Sennacherib, King of Assyria, come up against all the fenced cities of Judah and took them. And Hezekiah, King of Judah, sent to the King of Assyria to Lachish," and so on. Well, there it actually is, you see. There's Sennacherib, and there's Lachish. Is it not glorious to think that this is a picture done at the time of those very events?'

'Definitely. So my plan is to think of verses in the Bible about Sennacherib and his actions that are similar to these; like this verse, for example, that I remember: "Now in the fourteenth year of King Hezekiah, Sennacherib, King of Assyria, came up against all the fortified cities of Judah and captured them. And Hezekiah, King of Judah, sent to the King of Assyria in Lachish," and so on. Well, there it is, you see. There’s Sennacherib, and there’s Lachish. Isn’t it amazing to think that this is a depiction from the time of those very events?'

'Yes. We did not quarrel this time, Ethelberta and I. If I may so put it, it is worse than quarrelling. We felt it was no use going on any longer, and so-Come, Faith, hear what I say, or else tell me that you won't hear, and that I may as well save my breath!'

'Yes. Ethelberta and I didn’t fight this time. If I can say it that way, it’s worse than fighting. We realized it was pointless to keep going, and so—Come on, Faith, listen to what I’m saying, or just tell me you won’t listen, and then I can save my breath!'

'Yes, I will really listen,' she said, fluttering her eyelids in her concern at having been so abstracted, and excluding Sennacherib there and then from Christopher's affairs by the first settlement of her features to a present-day aspect, and her eyes upon his face. 'You said you had seen Ethelberta. Yes, and what did she say?'

'Yes, I’ll really listen,' she said, fluttering her eyelids as she worried about having been so distant, momentarily pushing Sennacherib aside from Christopher's matters by settling her expression into a modern look and focusing her eyes on his face. 'You mentioned you had seen Ethelberta. So, what did she say?'

'Was there ever anybody so provoking! Why, I have just told you!'

'Was there ever anyone so annoying! Seriously, I just told you!'

'Yes, yes; I remember now. You have parted. The subject is too large for me to know all at once what I think of it, and you must give me time, Kit. Speaking of Ethelberta reminds me of what I have done. I just looked into the Academy this morning-I thought I would surprise you by telling you about it. And what do you think I saw? Ethelberta-in the picture painted by Mr. Ladywell.'

'Yeah, I remember now. You've split up. It’s too big of a topic for me to figure out what I think about it all at once, so just give me some time, Kit. Speaking of Ethelberta makes me think about what I’ve done. I checked out the Academy this morning—I thought I’d surprise you by mentioning it. And guess what I saw? Ethelberta—in the painting by Mr. Ladywell.'

'It is never hung?' said he, feeling that they were at one as to a topic at last.

'It's never hung?' he said, realizing that they finally had a shared topic to discuss.

'Yes. And the subject is an Elizabethan knight parting from a lady of the same period-the words explaining the picture being-

'Yes. And the subject is an Elizabethan knight saying goodbye to a lady from the same time period—the words explaining the picture being—

"Goodbye! You're too precious for me to own, and you probably know your worth."

The lady is Ethelberta, to the shade of a hair-her living face; and the knight is-'

The lady is Ethelberta, down to the last detail of her living face; and the knight is—

'Not Ladywell?'

'I think so; I am not sure.'

'I think so; I'm not sure.'

'No wonder I am dismissed! And yet she hates him. Well, come along, Faith. Women allow strange liberties in these days.'

'It's no surprise I'm overlooked! And yet she can't stand him. Alright, let's go, Faith. Women are pretty lenient these days.'

25. THE ROYAL ACADEMY-THE FARNFIELD ESTATE

Ethelberta was a firm believer in the kindly effects of artistic education upon the masses. She held that defilement of mind often arose from ignorance of eye; and her philanthropy being, by the simple force of her situation, of that sort which lingers in the neighbourhood of home, she concentrated her efforts in this kind upon Sol and Dan. Accordingly, the Academy exhibition having now just opened, she ordered the brothers to appear in their best clothes at the entrance to Burlington House just after noontide on the Saturday of the first week, this being the only day and hour at which they could attend without 'losing a half' and therefore it was necessary to put up with the inconvenience of arriving at a crowded and enervating time.

Ethelberta strongly believed in the positive impact of artistic education on the general public. She thought that mental corruption often came from a lack of understanding of what to appreciate visually; and since her charitable nature was naturally focused on her local community, she directed her efforts toward Sol and Dan. With the Academy exhibition just opening, she told the brothers to dress in their best clothes and meet her at the entrance of Burlington House just after noon on the Saturday of the first week. This was the only time they could go without "losing a half," so they had to deal with the inconvenience of arriving when it was crowded and hectic.

When Ethelberta was set down in the quadrangle she perceived the faithful pair, big as the Zamzummims of old time, standing like sentinels in the particular corner that she had named to them: for Sol and Dan would as soon have attempted petty larceny as broken faith with their admired lady-sister Ethelberta. They welcomed her with a painfully lavish exhibition of large new gloves, and chests covered with broad triangular areas of padded blue silk, occupying the position that the shirt-front had occupied in earlier days, and supposed to be lineally descended from the tie of a neckerchief.

When Ethelberta was dropped off in the courtyard, she noticed the devoted pair, as big as the legendary Zamzummims, standing like guards in the specific corner she had named for them. Sol and Dan would sooner try stealing than betray their beloved sister Ethelberta. They greeted her with an exaggerated display of trendy new gloves and chests covered with large triangular patches of padded blue silk, a replacement for the shirt-fronts of the past and thought to have evolved from the design of a neckerchief.

The dress of their sister for to-day was exactly that of a respectable workman's relative who had no particular ambition in the matter of fashion-a black stuff gown, a plain bonnet to match. A veil she wore for obvious reasons: her face was getting well known in London, and it had already appeared at the private view in an uncovered state, when it was scrutinized more than the paintings around. But now homely and useful labour was her purpose.

The dress of their sister today was just like that of a decent working-class family member who didn't care much about fashion—a simple black dress and a matching plain bonnet. She wore a veil for obvious reasons: her face was becoming quite recognizable in London, having already been seen at a private view without it, where it drew more attention than the artwork around her. But for now, her focus was on practical and productive work.

Catalogue in hand she took the two brothers through the galleries, teaching them in whispers as they walked, and occasionally correcting them-first, for too reverential a bearing towards the well-dressed crowd, among whom they persisted in walking with their hats in their hands and with the contrite bearing of meek people in church; and, secondly, for a tendency which they too often showed towards straying from the contemplation of the pictures as art to indulge in curious speculations on the intrinsic nature of the delineated subject, the gilding of the frames, the construction of the skylights overhead, or admiration for the bracelets, lockets, and lofty eloquence of persons around them.

With the catalogue in hand, she guided the two brothers through the galleries, teaching them in whispers as they walked, and occasionally correcting them—first, for being too deferential toward the well-dressed crowd, as they walked with their hats in their hands and the humble demeanor of people in church; and secondly, for their frequent tendency to wander from appreciating the paintings as art to engaging in curious speculation about the nature of the depicted subjects, the gilding of the frames, the structure of the skylights above, or admiring the bracelets, lockets, and eloquent conversations of those around them.

'Now,' said Ethelberta, in a warning whisper, 'we are coming near the picture which was partly painted from myself. And, Dan, when you see it, don't you exclaim "Hullo!" or "That's Berta to a T," or anything at all. It would not matter were it not dangerous for me to be noticed here to-day. I see several people who would recognize me on the least provocation.'

'Now,' Ethelberta said in a hushed warning, 'we're getting close to the painting that has parts inspired by me. And, Dan, when you see it, don’t say “Wow!” or “That looks just like Berta,” or anything at all. It wouldn’t be a big deal if it weren’t risky for me to be spotted here today. I can see several people who would recognize me at the slightest hint.'

'Not a word,' said Dan. 'Don't you be afeard about that. I feel that I baint upon my own ground to-day; and wouldn't do anything to cause an upset, drown me if I would. Would you, Sol?'

'Not a word,' said Dan. 'Don’t you worry about that. I feel like I’m not on my own turf today; I wouldn’t do anything to cause a scene, I swear. Would you, Sol?'

In this temper they all pressed forward, and Ethelberta could not but be gratified at the reception of Ladywell's picture, though it was accorded by critics not very profound. It was an operation of some minutes to get exactly opposite, and when side by side the three stood there they overheard the immediate reason of the pressure. 'Farewell, thou art too dear for my possessing' had been lengthily discoursed upon that morning by the Coryphaeus of popular opinion; and the spirit having once been poured out sons and daughters could prophesy. But, in truth, Ladywell's work, if not emphatically original, was happily centred on a middle stratum of taste, and apart from this adventitious help commanded, and deserved to command, a wide area of appreciation.

In this mood, they all moved forward eagerly, and Ethelberta couldn't help but feel pleased with the reception of Ladywell's painting, even if it was judged by critics who weren't particularly insightful. It took a few minutes to position themselves exactly opposite, and when the three stood side by side, they overheard the reason for the crowd's excitement. 'Farewell, you are too precious for my possession' had been extensively discussed that morning by the leading voice of popular opinion; once that spirit was unleashed, everyone could predict the outcome. But truthfully, Ladywell's work, while not strikingly original, was well-placed within a balanced range of taste, and despite this external boost, it rightly attracted and deserved a broad audience of appreciation.

While they were standing here in the very heart of the throng Ethelberta's ears were arrested by two male voices behind her, whose words formed a novel contrast to those of the other speakers around.

While they were standing here in the midst of the crowd, Ethelberta's ears caught the attention of two male voices behind her, whose words created a striking contrast to what everyone else was saying around her.

'Some men, you see, with extravagant expectations of themselves, coolly get them gratified, while others hope rationally and are disappointed. Luck, that's what it is. And the more easily a man takes life the more persistently does luck follow him.'

'Some men, you see, have huge expectations of themselves and manage to get what they want without a fuss, while others have realistic hopes and end up disappointed. It's all about luck. The easier a man approaches life, the more luck seems to be on his side.'

'Of course; because, if he's industrious he does not want luck's assistance. Natural laws will help him instead.'

'Of course; because if he's hardworking, he doesn't need luck's help. Natural laws will support him instead.'

'Well, if it is true that Ladywell has painted a good picture he has done it by an exhaustive process. He has painted every possible bad one till nothing more of that sort is left for him. You know what lady's face served as the original to this, I suppose?'

'Well, if it’s true that Ladywell has painted a good picture, he’s done it through a thorough process. He has painted every possible bad one until there’s nothing more of that kind left for him. You know which lady's face was the original for this, right?'

'Mrs. Petherwin's, I hear.'

'Mrs. Petherwin's, I’ve heard.'

'Yes, Mrs. Alfred Neigh that's to be.'

'Yes, Mrs. Alfred Neigh-to-be.'

'What, that elusive fellow caught at last?'

'What, that tricky guy finally caught?'

'So it appears; but she herself is hardly so well secured as yet, it seems, though he takes the uncertainty as coolly as possible. I knew nothing about it till he introduced the subject as we were standing here on Monday, and said, in an off-hand way, "I mean to marry that lady." I asked him how. "Easily," he said; "I will have her if there are a hundred at her heels." You will understand that this was quite in confidence.'

'So it seems; but she's not exactly as secure as she thinks, even though he’s handling the uncertainty as casually as he can. I had no idea about it until he brought it up while we were standing here on Monday and said, in a nonchalant way, "I plan to marry that lady." I asked him how. "Easily," he replied; "I'll have her even if there are a hundred people after her." You should know this was said quite in confidence.'

'Of course, of course.' Then there was a slight laugh, and the companions proceeded to other gossip.

'Of course, of course.' Then there was a small laugh, and the friends moved on to other gossip.

Ethelberta, calm and compressed in manner, sidled along to extricate herself, not daring to turn round, and Dan and Sol followed, till they were all clear of the spot. The brothers, who had heard the words equally well with Ethelberta, made no remark to her upon them, assuming that they referred to some peculiar system of courtship adopted in high life, with which they had rightly no concern.

Ethelberta, composed and restrained in her behavior, discreetly maneuvered to free herself, avoiding eye contact, while Dan and Sol followed until they all got away from the situation. The brothers, who had heard the same words as Ethelberta, said nothing to her about it, assuming that they referred to some unique way of dating used in upper-class society, which they rightly had no interest in.

Ethelberta ostensibly continued her business of tutoring the young workmen just as before, though every emotion in her had been put on the alert by this discovery. She had known that Neigh admired her; yet his presumption in uttering such a remark as he was reported to have uttered, confidentially or otherwise, nearly took away her breath. Perhaps it was not altogether disagreeable to have her breath so taken away.

Ethelberta seemingly kept up her tutoring business with the young workers just like before, even though every part of her was on high alert from this revelation. She had realized that Neigh admired her; however, his boldness in saying something he was said to have said, whether privately or not, almost left her breathless. Maybe it wasn’t entirely unpleasant to feel that way.

'I mean to marry that lady.' She whispered the words to herself twenty times in the course of the afternoon. Sol and Dan were left considerably longer to their private perceptions of the false and true in art than they had been earlier in the day.

'I plan to marry that woman.' She whispered the words to herself twenty times throughout the afternoon. Sol and Dan spent quite a bit longer in their own thoughts about what’s real and what’s not in art than they had earlier in the day.

When she reached home Ethelberta was still far removed in her reflections; and it was noticed afterwards that about this time in her career her openness of manner entirely deserted her. She mostly was silent as to her thoughts, and she wore an air of unusual stillness. It was the silence and stillness of a starry sky, where all is force and motion. This deep undecipherable habit sometimes suggested, though it did not reveal, Ethelberta's busy brain to her sisters, and they said to one another, 'I cannot think what's coming to Berta: she is not so nice as she used to be.'

When Ethelberta got home, she was still lost in her thoughts; and it was later noticed that around this time in her life, she completely stopped being open. She mostly kept her thoughts to herself and seemed unusually calm. It was the calmness of a starry night, where everything is full of energy and motion. This deep, unreadable behavior sometimes hinted, though it didn’t fully show, Ethelberta's busy mind to her sisters, and they said to each other, 'I can’t figure out what’s happening to Berta: she isn’t as nice as she used to be.'

The evening under notice was passed desultorily enough after the discovery of Neigh's self-assured statement. Among other things that she did after dark, while still musingly examining the probabilities of the report turning out true, was to wander to the large attic where the children slept, a frequent habit of hers at night, to learn if they were snug and comfortable. They were talking now from bed to bed, the person under discussion being herself. Herself seemed everywhere to-day.

The evening in question was spent somewhat aimlessly after Neigh's confident claim was revealed. Among other things she did after dark, while still thoughtfully considering the chances of the report being true, was to wander up to the large attic where the kids slept, a habit of hers at night, to check if they were cozy and comfortable. They were now chatting from bed to bed, with the subject of their conversation being her. She felt like she was everywhere today.

'I know that she is a fairy,' Myrtle was insisting, 'because she must be, to have such pretty things in her house, and wear silk dresses such as mother and we and Picotee haven't got, and have money to give us whenever we want it.'

'I know she's a fairy,' Myrtle kept saying, 'because she has to be, to have such pretty things in her house, and wear silk dresses that Mom, we, and Picotee don't have, and have money to give us whenever we need it.'

'Emmeline says perhaps she knows the fairy's godmother, and is not a fairy herself, because Berta is too tall for a real fairy.'

'Emmeline says maybe she knows the fairy's godmother and isn't actually a fairy herself, because Berta is too tall to be a real fairy.'

'She must be one; for when there was a notch burnt in the hem of my pretty blue frock she said it should be gone in the morning if I would go to bed and not cry; and in the morning it was gone, and all nice and straight as new.'

'She must be the one; because when there was a burn mark on the hem of my pretty blue dress, she said it would be gone by morning if I went to bed and didn’t cry. And in the morning, it was gone, looking neat and new again.'

Ethelberta was recalling to mind how she had sat up and repaired the damage alluded to by cutting off half an inch of the skirt all round and hemming it anew, when the breathing of the children became regular, and they fell asleep. Here were bright little minds ready for a training, which without money and influence she could never give them. The wisdom which knowledge brings, and the power which wisdom may bring, she had always assumed would be theirs in her dreams for their social elevation. By what means were these things to be ensured to them if her skill in bread-winning should fail her? Would not a well-contrived marriage be of service? She covered and tucked in one more closely, lifted another upon the pillow and straightened the soft limbs to an easy position; then sat down by the window and looked out at the flashing stars. Thoughts of Neigh's audacious statement returned again upon Ethelberta. He had said that he meant to marry her. Of what standing was the man who had uttered such an intention respecting one to whom a politic marriage had become almost a necessity of existence?

Ethelberta was remembering how she had stayed up to fix the damage by cutting half an inch off the skirt all the way around and hemming it again, when the children's breathing became steady, and they fell asleep. Here were bright little minds ready for an education that, without money and influence, she could never provide. She had always dreamed that the knowledge and wisdom they gained would empower them for a better social standing. By what means could she ensure this for them if she failed to provide for them? Wouldn't a well-planned marriage help? She covered one child more snugly, lifted another onto the pillow, and adjusted their soft limbs into a comfortable position; then she sat down by the window and gazed out at the shining stars. Thoughts of Neigh's bold claim came back to Ethelberta. He had said he planned to marry her. What was the standing of a man who made such a declaration about someone for whom a strategic marriage had almost become a matter of survival?

She had often heard Neigh speak indefinitely of some estate-'my little place' he had called it-which he had purchased no very long time ago. All she knew was that its name was Farnfield, that it lay thirty or forty miles out of London in a south-westerly direction, a railway station in the district bearing the same name, so that there was probably a village or small town adjoining. Whether the dignity of this landed property was that of domain, farmstead, allotment, or garden-plot, Ethelberta had not the slightest conception. She was almost certain that Neigh never lived there, but that might signify nothing. The exact size and value of the estate would, she mused, be curious, interesting, and almost necessary information to her who must become mistress of it were she to allow him to carry out his singularly cool and crude, if tender, intention. Moreover, its importance would afford a very good random sample of his worldly substance throughout, from which alone, after all, could the true spirit and worth and seriousness of his words be apprehended. Impecuniosity may revel in unqualified vows and brim over with confessions as blithely as a bird of May, but such careless pleasures are not for the solvent, whose very dreams are negotiable, and are expressed with due care accordingly.

She had often heard Neigh talk endlessly about some estate—'my little place' he called it—that he had bought not too long ago. All she knew was that it was named Farnfield, located about thirty or forty miles out of London to the southwest, with a railway station in the area sharing the same name, suggesting there was likely a village or small town nearby. Ethelberta had no idea whether the estate was a domain, a farm, a small plot, or just a garden. She was fairly certain Neigh never lived there, but that didn't necessarily mean much. She thought it would be interesting and almost essential to know the exact size and value of the estate, especially if she were to become its mistress, should she allow him to pursue his oddly bold yet caring plan. Furthermore, understanding its significance would provide a good glimpse into his overall wealth, from which the true meaning and value of his intentions could be understood. Someone without money might freely make promises and share feelings as easily as a spring bird, but such carefree indulgences are not for those with financial stability, whose very dreams are tangible and are expressed with careful consideration.

That Neigh had used the words she had far more than prima-facie appearances for believing. Neigh's own conduct towards her, though peculiar rather than devoted, found in these words alone a reasonable key. But, supposing the estate to be such a verbal hallucination as, for instance, hers had been at Arrowthorne, when her poor, unprogressive, hopelessly impracticable Christopher came there to visit her, and was so wonderfully undeceived about her social standing: what a fiasco, and what a cuckoo-cry would his utterances about marriage seem then. Christopher had often told her of his expectations from 'Arrowthorne Lodge,' and of the blunders that had resulted in consequence. Had not Ethelberta's affection for Christopher partaken less of lover's passion than of old-established tutelary tenderness she might have been reminded by this reflection of the transcendent fidelity he had shown under that trial-as severe a trial, considering the abnormal, almost morbid, development of the passion for position in present-day society, as can be prepared for men who move in the ordinary, unheroic channels of life.

That Neigh had used the words she had far more than obvious reasons to believe. Neigh's own behavior towards her, while strange rather than devoted, found in these words alone a reasonable explanation. But, if we assume the situation was just a verbal illusion as hers had been at Arrowthorne, when her poor, stagnant, completely impractical Christopher came to visit her and was so shockingly clear-headed about her social status: what a disaster, and what a ridiculous situation his comments about marriage would seem then. Christopher had often told her about his expectations from 'Arrowthorne Lodge' and the mistakes that had come from it. If Ethelberta's feelings for Christopher were less about passionate love and more about long-established caring, she might have been reminded by this thought of the extraordinary loyalty he had shown under that challenge—quite a tough challenge, considering the extreme, almost unhealthy, obsession with status in today’s society, as can be expected of people who go through regular, unremarkable lives.

By the following evening the consideration of this possibility, that Neigh's position might furnish scope for such a disillusive discovery by herself as hers had afforded to Christopher, decoyed Ethelberta into a curious little scheme. She was piqued into a practical undertaking by the man who could say to his friend with such sangfroid, 'I mean to marry that lady.'

By the next evening, the idea that Neigh's situation could lead to a similar disillusioning discovery for her as Christopher's had for him intrigued Ethelberta and led her into a little scheme. She was motivated to take action by the man who could casually tell his friend, "I plan to marry that lady."

Merely telling Picotee to prepare for an evening excursion, of which she was to talk to no one, Ethelberta made ready likewise, and they left the house in a cab about half-an-hour before sunset, and drove to the Waterloo Station.

Merely telling Picotee to get ready for an evening outing, which she should mention to no one, Ethelberta also got ready, and they left the house in a cab about half an hour before sunset, driving to Waterloo Station.

With the decline and departure of the sun a fog gathered itself out of the low meadow-land that bordered the railway as they went along towards the west, stretching over it like a placid lake, till at the end of the journey, the mist became generally pervasive, though not dense. Avoiding observation as much as they conveniently could, the two sisters walked from the long wooden shed which formed the station here, into the rheumy air and along the road to the open country. Picotee occasionally questioned Ethelberta on the object of the strange journey: she did not question closely, being satisfied that in such sure hands as Ethelberta's she was safe.

As the sun set, a fog rolled in from the low meadows by the railway as they traveled west, spreading out like a calm lake. By the end of their journey, the mist was everywhere, though it wasn’t thick. The two sisters tried to go unnoticed as they walked from the long wooden shed that served as the station into the chilly air and along the road to the countryside. Picotee occasionally asked Ethelberta about the purpose of their unusual trip, but she didn’t press for details, feeling secure in Ethelberta’s capable hands.

Deeming it unwise to make any inquiry just yet beyond the simple one of the way to Farnfield, Ethelberta led her companion along a newly-fenced road across a heath. In due time they came to an ornamental gate with a curved sweep of wall on each side, signifying the entrance to some enclosed property or other. Ethelberta, being quite free from any digested plan for encouraging Neigh in his resolve to wive, was startled to find a hope in her that this very respectable beginning before their eyes was the entrance to the Farnfield property: that she hoped it was nevertheless unquestionable. Just beyond lay a turnpike-house, where was dimly visible a woman in the act of putting up a shutter to the front window.

Thinking it unwise to ask anything more than the simple question of how to get to Farnfield, Ethelberta guided her companion along a newly-fenced road across a heath. Eventually, they arrived at an ornamental gate with a curved wall on either side, marking the entrance to some kind of enclosed property. Ethelberta, having no specific plan to encourage Neigh in his intent to marry, was surprised to feel a hope that this respectable beginning in front of them was the entrance to the Farnfield property: a hope that felt solid nonetheless. Just beyond the gate was a tollhouse, where a woman could be seen dimly putting a shutter up on the front window.

Compelled by this time to come to special questions, Ethelberta instructed Picotee to ask of this person if the place they had just passed was the entrance to Farnfield Park. The woman replied that it was. Directly she had gone indoors Ethelberta turned back again towards the park gate.

Compelled by the circumstances to address specific questions, Ethelberta told Picotee to ask the woman if the place they had just passed was the entrance to Farnfield Park. The woman confirmed that it was. As soon as she went inside, Ethelberta headed back towards the park gate.

'What have we come for, Berta?' said Picotee, as she turned also.

'What are we here for, Berta?' Picotee asked as she turned as well.

'I'll tell you some day,' replied her sister.

"I'll tell you someday," her sister replied.

It was now much past eight o'clock, and, from the nature of the evening, dusk. The last stopping up-train was about ten, so that half-an-hour could well be afforded for looking round. Ethelberta went to the gate, which was found to be fastened by a chain and padlock.

It was now well past eight o'clock, and, given the evening's atmosphere, it was dark. The last up-train would leave around ten, so there was plenty of time to look around. Ethelberta went to the gate, which turned out to be locked with a chain and padlock.

'Ah, the London season,' she murmured.

'Oh, the London season,' she said quietly.

There was a wicket at the side, and they entered. An avenue of young fir trees three or four feet in height extended from the gate into the mist, and down this they walked. The drive was not in very good order, and the two women were frequently obliged to walk on the grass to avoid the rough stones in the carriage-way. The double line of young firs now abruptly terminated, and the road swept lower, bending to the right, immediately in front being a large lake, calm and silent as a second sky. They could hear from somewhere on the margin the purl of a weir, and around were clumps of shrubs, araucarias and deodars being the commonest.

There was a gate on the side, and they went in. A row of young fir trees, about three or four feet tall, stretched from the gate into the mist, and they walked down this path. The road wasn’t in great shape, so the two women often had to walk on the grass to avoid the rough stones in the driveway. The double row of young firs suddenly ended, and the path sloped down to the right, revealing a large, still lake that reflected the sky. They could hear the gentle sound of a weir from somewhere along the shore, and surrounding them were clusters of shrubs, with araucarias and deodars being the most common.

Ethelberta could not resist being charmed with the repose of the spot, and hastened on with curiosity to reach the other side of the pool, where, by every law of manorial topography, the mansion would be situate. The fog concealed all objects beyond a distance of twenty yards or thereabouts, but it was nearly full moon, and though the orb was hidden, a pale diffused light enabled them to see objects in the foreground. Reaching the other side of the lake the drive enlarged itself most legitimately to a large oval, as for a sweep before a door, a pile of rockwork standing in the midst.

Ethelberta couldn't help but be captivated by the tranquility of the place and hurried on with curiosity to get to the other side of the pool, where, according to all the rules of estate layout, the mansion would be located. The fog obscured everything beyond about twenty yards, but it was almost a full moon, and even though the moon was hidden, a faint, diffused light allowed them to see objects in the foreground. When they reached the other side of the lake, the drive expanded into a large oval, as if it was meant for a turn in front of a door, with a pile of rockwork standing in the center.

But where should have been the front door of a mansion was simply a rough rail fence, about four feet high. They drew near and looked over.

But where the front door of a mansion should have been, there was just a rough rail fence, about four feet high. They approached and looked over.

In the enclosure, and on the site of the imaginary house, was an extraordinary group. It consisted of numerous horses in the last stage of decrepitude, the animals being such mere skeletons that at first Ethelberta hardly recognized them to be horses at all; they seemed rather to be specimens of some attenuated heraldic animal, scarcely thick enough through the body to throw a shadow: or enlarged castings of the fire-dog of past times. These poor creatures were endeavouring to make a meal from herbage so trodden and thin that scarcely a wholesome blade remained; the little that there was consisted of the sourer sorts common on such sandy soils, mingled with tufts of heather and sprouting ferns.

In the enclosure, at the site of the imaginary house, there was an incredible group. It was made up of several horses in the final stage of decay, so thin that at first Ethelberta hardly recognized them as horses at all; they looked more like some skeletal heraldic creature, barely thick enough to cast a shadow: or oversized versions of the fire-dogs from the past. These poor animals were trying to eat from the grass that had been trampled and was so sparse that hardly any healthy blades remained; what little there was included the sour types common in sandy areas, mixed with clumps of heather and young ferns.

'Why have we come here, dear Berta?' said Picotee, shuddering.

'Why are we here, dear Berta?' said Picotee, shivering.

'I hardly know,' said Ethelberta.

"I barely know," said Ethelberta.

Adjoining this enclosure was another and smaller one, formed of high boarding, within which appeared to be some sheds and outhouses. Ethelberta looked through the crevices, and saw that in the midst of the yard stood trunks of trees as if they were growing, with branches also extending, but these were sawn off at the points where they began to be flexible, no twigs or boughs remaining. Each torso was not unlike a huge hat-stand, and suspended to the pegs and prongs were lumps of some substance which at first she did not recognize; they proved to be a chronological sequel to the previous scene. Horses' skulls, ribs, quarters, legs, and other joints were hung thereon, the whole forming a huge open-air larder emitting not too sweet a smell.

Next to this enclosure was a smaller one made of tall boards, where it looked like there were some sheds and outbuildings. Ethelberta peered through the gaps and saw that in the middle of the yard stood tree trunks as if they were still alive, with branches reaching out, but those branches were cut off where they started to bend, leaving no twigs or smaller limbs. Each trunk resembled a giant coat rack, and hanging from the hooks and branches were pieces of something she didn't recognize at first; they turned out to be a continuation of the previous scene. Horse skulls, ribs, quarters, legs, and other body parts were displayed there, creating a large open-air storage area that gave off a rather unpleasant smell.

But what Stygian sound was this? There had arisen at the moment upon the mute and sleepy air a varied howling from a hundred tongues. It had burst from a spot close at hand-a low wooden building by a stream which fed the lake-and reverberated for miles. No further explanation was required.

But what dark sound was this? At that moment, a varied howling from a hundred voices broke the quiet, sleepy air. It came from a nearby low wooden building by a stream that fed the lake and echoed for miles. No further explanation was needed.

'We are close to a kennel of hounds,' said Ethelberta, as Picotee held tightly to her arm. 'They cannot get out, so you need not fear. They have a horrid way of suddenly beginning thus at different hours of the night, for no apparent reason: though perhaps they hear us. These poor horses are waiting to be killed for their food.'

'We're near a kennel of hounds,' Ethelberta said, as Picotee clung tightly to her arm. 'They can't get out, so you don't have to worry. They have this awful habit of suddenly barking at different times during the night for no obvious reason; maybe they can hear us. These poor horses are just waiting to be put down for their food.'

The experience altogether, from its intense melancholy, was very depressing, almost appalling to the two lone young women, and they quickly retraced their footsteps. The pleasant lake, the purl of the weir, the rudimentary lawns, shrubberies, and avenue, had changed their character quite. Ethelberta fancied at that moment that she could not have married Neigh, even had she loved him, so horrid did his belongings appear to be. But for many other reasons she had been gradually feeling within this hour that she would not go out of her way at a beck from a man whose interest was so unimpassioned.

The whole experience, with its intense sadness, was very depressing, almost shocking to the two isolated young women, and they quickly retraced their steps. The pleasant lake, the sound of the weir, the simple lawns, bushes, and path had completely changed their vibe. Ethelberta thought at that moment that she couldn’t have married Neigh, even if she had loved him, as his family seemed so awful. But for many other reasons, she had been gradually feeling during this hour that she wouldn’t go out of her way at the request of a man whose interest felt so indifferent.

Thinking no more of him as a possible husband she ceased to be afraid to make inquiries about the peculiarities of his possessions. In the high-road they came on a local man, resting from wheeling a wheelbarrow, and Ethelberta asked him, with the air of a countrywoman, who owned the estate across the road.

Thinking of him as a potential husband was no longer on her mind, so she stopped being afraid to ask about the quirks of his belongings. On the main road, they encountered a local man taking a break from pushing a wheelbarrow, and Ethelberta, with the demeanor of a countrywoman, asked him who owned the estate across the road.

'The man owning that is one of the name of Neigh,' said the native, wiping his face. ''Tis a family that have made a very large fortune by the knacker business and tanning, though they be only sleeping partners in it now, and live like lords. Mr. Neigh was going to pull down the old huts here, and improve the place and build a mansion-in short, he went so far as to have the grounds planted, and the roads marked out, and the fish-pond made, and the place christened Farnfield Park; but he did no more. "I shall never have a wife," he said, "so why should I want a house to put her in?" He's a terrible hater of women, I hear, particularly the lower class.'

'The guy who owns that is named Neigh,' said the local, wiping his face. 'It's a family that has made a huge fortune from the knacker business and tanning, even though they're just silent partners in it now, living like royalty. Mr. Neigh was planning to tear down the old huts here, improve the place, and build a mansion—in short, he even had the grounds planted, the roads laid out, and the fish pond created, calling the place Farnfield Park; but he never went further than that. "I’ll never have a wife," he said, "so why would I need a house to put her in?" I hear he really dislikes women, especially from the lower class.'

'Indeed!'

Absolutely!

'Yes, and since then he has let half the land to the Honourable Mr. Mountclere, a brother of Lord Mountclere's. Mr. Mountclere wanted the spot for a kennel, and as the land is too poor and sandy for cropping, Mr. Neigh let him have it. 'Tis his hounds that you hear howling.'

'Yes, and since then he has leased half the land to the Honorable Mr. Mountclere, a brother of Lord Mountclere. Mr. Mountclere wanted the place for a kennel, and since the land is too poor and sandy for farming, Mr. Neigh let him use it. Those are his hounds you hear howling.'

They passed on. 'Berta, why did we come down here?' said Picotee.

They continued on. "Berta, why did we come down here?" Picotee asked.

'To see the nakedness of the land. It was a whim only, and as it will end in nothing, it is not worth while for me to make further explanation.'

'To see the bare land. It was just a whim, and since it will lead to nothing, it’s not worth going into more detail.'

It was with a curious sense of renunciation that Ethelberta went homeward. Neigh was handsome, grim-natured, rather wicked, and an indifferentist; and these attractions interested her as a woman. But the news of this evening suggested to Ethelberta that herself and Neigh were too nearly cattle of one colour for a confession on the matter of lineage to be well received by him; and without confidence of every sort on the nature of her situation, she was determined to contract no union at all. The sympathy of unlikeness might lead the scion of some family, hollow and fungous with antiquity, and as yet unmarked by a mesalliance, to be won over by her story; but the antipathy of resemblance would be ineradicable.

Ethelberta headed home with a strange feeling of letting go. Neigh was attractive, serious, a bit wicked, and indifferent; these traits intrigued her as a woman. However, the news from that evening made Ethelberta think that she and Neigh were too similar for him to accept a confession about her background. With no confidence in her situation, she decided against entering any union. The sympathy that comes from being different might persuade someone from an old, prestigious family, untouched by a lowly match, to be drawn to her story. But the dislike that comes from similarity would be impossible to overcome.

26. ETHELBERTA'S DRAWING-ROOM

While Ethelberta during the next few days was dismissing that evening journey from her consideration, as an incident altogether foreign to the organized course of her existence, the hidden fruit thereof was rounding to maturity in a species unforeseen.

While Ethelberta spent the next few days ignoring that evening trip as something completely unrelated to her structured life, the hidden outcomes of it were unexpectedly coming to fruition.

Inferences unassailable as processes, are, nevertheless, to be suspected, from the almost certain deficiency of particulars on some side or other. The truth in relation to Neigh's supposed frigidity was brought before her at the end of the following week, when Dan and Sol had taken Picotee, Cornelia, and the young children to Kew for the afternoon.

Inferences that seem solid as processes should still be questioned because there's likely a lack of specific details somewhere. The truth about Neigh's alleged coldness was revealed to her at the end of the following week when Dan and Sol took Picotee, Cornelia, and the little kids to Kew for the afternoon.

Early that morning, hours before it was necessary, there had been such a chatter of preparation in the house as was seldom heard there. Sunday hats and bonnets had been retrimmed with such cunning that it would have taken a milliner's apprentice at least to discover that any thread in them was not quite new. There was an anxious peep through the blind at the sky at daybreak by Georgina and Myrtle, and the perplexity of these rural children was great at the weather-signs of the town, where atmospheric effects had nothing to do with clouds, and fair days and foul came apparently quite by chance. Punctually at the hour appointed two friendly human shadows descended across the kitchen window, followed by Sol and Dan, much to the relief of the children's apprehensions that they might forget the day.

Early that morning, hours before it was necessary, there was a buzz of activity in the house that was rarely heard. Sunday hats and bonnets had been updated so skillfully that it would have taken a milliner's apprentice to notice that any thread in them was not completely new. Georgina and Myrtle anxiously peeked through the blind at the sky at dawn, and the confusion of these country kids was intense as they tried to make sense of the weather in the town, where atmospheric conditions had nothing to do with clouds, and good and bad weather seemed to happen randomly. Right on time, two familiar silhouettes appeared in the kitchen window, followed by Sol and Dan, which relieved the children’s worries that they might forget the day.

The brothers were by this time acquiring something of the airs and manners of London workmen; they were less spontaneous and more comparative; less genial, but smarter; in obedience to the usual law by which the emotion that takes the form of humour in country workmen becomes transmuted to irony among the same order in town. But the fixed and dogged fidelity to one another under apparent coolness, by which this family was distinguished, remained unshaken in these members as in all the rest, leading them to select the children as companions in their holiday in preference to casual acquaintance. At last they were ready, and departed, and Ethelberta, after chatting with her mother awhile, proceeded to her personal duties.

The brothers were starting to adopt some of the attitudes and behaviors of London workers; they were less spontaneous and more analytical; less friendly, but sharper; reflecting the typical shift where the humor found in rural workers turns into irony among the same group in the city. However, their strong and steadfast loyalty to one another remained intact, just like in the rest of the family, leading them to choose their children as companions for their holiday instead of casual acquaintances. Finally, they were ready and set off, while Ethelberta, after chatting with her mother for a bit, went on to take care of her own responsibilities.

The house was very silent that day, Gwendoline and Joey being the only ones left below stairs. Ethelberta was wishing that she had thrown off her state and gone to Kew to have an hour of childhood over again in a romp with the others, when she was startled by the announcement of a male visitor-none other than Mr. Neigh.

The house was really quiet that day, with Gwendoline and Joey being the only ones left downstairs. Ethelberta was regretting that she hadn’t let go of her responsibilities and gone to Kew to relive an hour of childhood playing with the others, when she was surprised by the arrival of a male visitor—none other than Mr. Neigh.

Ethelberta's attitude on receipt of this information sufficiently expressed a revived sense that the incidence of Mr. Neigh on her path might have a meaning after all. Neigh had certainly said he was going to marry her, and now here he was come to her house-just as if he meant to do it forthwith. She had mentally discarded him; yet she felt a shock which was scarcely painful, and a dread which was almost exhilarating. Her flying visit to Farnfield she thought little of at this moment. From the fact that the mind prefers imaginings to recapitulation, conjecture to history, Ethelberta had dwelt more upon Neigh's possible plans and anticipations than upon the incidents of her evening journey; and the former assumed a more distinct shape in her mind's eye than anything on the visible side of the curtain.

Ethelberta's reaction upon receiving this news clearly showed that she felt a renewed sense that Mr. Neigh's presence in her life might actually mean something. Neigh had definitely said he was going to marry her, and now here he was at her house—just like he intended to do it right away. She had mentally moved on from him, yet she felt a surprise that wasn’t exactly painful and a worry that was almost exciting. She didn’t think much about her brief trip to Farnfield at that moment. Since the mind tends to favor fantasies over reality, imagination over facts, Ethelberta focused more on Neigh's possible plans and expectations than on what had happened during her evening journey; and those thoughts took on a clearer shape in her mind than anything visible on stage.

Neigh was perhaps not quite so placidly nonchalant as in ordinary; still, he was by far the most trying visitor that Ethelberta had lately faced, and she could not get above the stage-not a very high one for the mistress of a house-of feeling her personality to be inconveniently in the way of his eyes. He had somewhat the bearing of a man who was going to do without any fuss what gushing people would call a philanthropic action.

Neigh was probably not as calmly indifferent as usual; still, he was definitely the most challenging visitor that Ethelberta had dealt with lately, and she couldn’t shake the sensation—nothing very elevated for a homeowner—that her presence was awkwardly in the way of his gaze. He had a bit of the demeanor of someone who was going to carry out what excited people would call a charitable act, without making a big deal out of it.

'I have been intending to write a line to you,' said Neigh; 'but I felt that I could not be sure of writing my meaning in a way which might please you. I am not bright at a letter-never was. The question I mean is one that I hope you will be disposed to answer favourably, even though I may show the awkwardness of a fellow-person who has never put such a question before. Will you give me a word of encouragement-just a hope that I may not be unacceptable as a husband to you? Your talents are very great; and of course I know that I have nothing at all in that way. Still people are happy together sometimes in spite of such things. Will you say "Yes," and settle it now?'

'I’ve been meaning to write you a note,' said Neigh, 'but I wasn’t sure I could express myself in a way that would make you happy. I’ve never been great at writing letters. The question I have is one I hope you’ll be willing to answer positively, even if I come across as a bit awkward since I’ve never asked anything like this before. Will you give me a word of encouragement—just a glimmer of hope that I might not be seen as unacceptable as a husband to you? Your talents are remarkable, and I know I don’t have anything like that. Still, people can be happy together sometimes regardless of such differences. Will you say "Yes," and put this to rest now?'

'I was not expecting you had come upon such an errand as this,' said she, looking up a little, but mostly looking down. 'I cannot say what you wish, Mr. Neigh.

'I didn't expect you'd come on such a mission as this,' she said, glancing up briefly but mostly looking down. 'I can't tell what you want, Mr. Neigh.

'Perhaps I have been too sudden and presumptuous. Yes, I know I have been that. However, directly I saw you I felt that nobody ever came so near my idea of what is desirable in a lady, and it occurred to me that only one obstacle should stand in the way of the natural results, which obstacle would be your refusal. In common kindness consider. I daresay I am judged to be a man of inattentive habits-I know that's what you think of me; but under your influence I should be very different; so pray do not let your dislike to little matters influence you.'

'Maybe I've been too direct and forward. I admit that I have. But the moment I saw you, I felt you were exactly what I’ve always imagined a desirable woman to be, and it struck me that the only thing that could get in the way of what should naturally happen is if you decide to refuse me. Out of kindness, please consider this. I know you probably see me as someone who lacks focus—I get that impression from you—but I would be completely different under your influence. So please, don’t let your dislike of minor things affect your decision.'

'I would not indeed. But believe me there can be no discussion of marriage between us,' said Ethelberta decisively.

'I definitely wouldn’t. But trust me, there can’t be any conversation about marriage between us,' Ethelberta stated firmly.

'If that's the case I may as well say no more. To burden you with my regrets would be out of place, I suppose,' said Neigh, looking calmly out of the window.

'If that's how it is, I might as well say no more. It wouldn't be right to burden you with my regrets, I guess,' said Neigh, looking out the window calmly.

'Apart from personal feeling, there are considerations which would prevent what you contemplated,' she murmured. 'My affairs are too lengthy, intricate, and unpleasant for me to explain to anybody at present. And that would be a necessary first step.'

'Apart from personal feelings, there are reasons that would stop what you’re thinking of,' she said quietly. 'My situation is too complicated, involved, and uncomfortable for me to explain to anyone right now. And that would be an essential first step.'

'Not at all. I cannot think that preliminary to be necessary at all. I would put my lawyer in communication with yours, and we would leave the rest to them: I believe that is the proper way. You could say anything in confidence to your family-man; and you could inquire through him anything you might wish to know about my-about me. All you would need to say to myself are just the two little words-"I will," in the church here at the end of the Crescent.'

'Not at all. I don’t think that preliminary is necessary at all. I would have my lawyer get in touch with yours, and we would leave the rest to them: I believe that’s the right way to do it. You could share anything in confidence with your family man; and you could ask him anything you’d like to know about me. All you would need to say to me are just the two little words—"I will," in the church here at the end of the Crescent.'

'I am sorry to pain you, Mr. Neigh-so sorry,' said Ethelberta. 'But I cannot say them.' She was rather distressed that, despite her discouraging words, he still went on with his purpose, as if he imagined what she so distinctly said to be no bar, but rather a stimulant, usual under the circumstances.

'I’m really sorry to hurt you, Mr. Neigh—so sorry,' said Ethelberta. 'But I can’t say those things.' She felt quite upset that, despite her discouraging words, he continued with his intention, as if he thought what she clearly stated was not a barrier but rather an encouragement, which was typical in this situation.

'It does not matter about paining me,' said Neigh. 'Don't take that into consideration at all. But I did not expect you to leave me so entirely without help-to refuse me absolutely as far as words go-after what you did. If it had not been for that I should never have ventured to call. I might otherwise have supposed your interest to be fixed in another quarter; but your acting in that manner encouraged me to think you could listen to a word.'

"It doesn't hurt me," Neigh said. "Don't worry about that at all. But I didn't expect you to leave me completely without help—to reject me outright in terms of words—after what you did. If it hadn't been for that, I would never have dared to call. I might have thought your interest was directed elsewhere, but your behavior made me feel like you could be open to listening."

'What do you allude to?' said Ethelberta. 'How have I acted?'

'What are you referring to?' said Ethelberta. 'How have I behaved?'

Neigh appeared reluctant to go any further; but the allusion soon became sufficiently clear. 'I wish my little place at Farnfield had been worthier of you,' he said brusquely. 'However, that's a matter of time only. It is useless to build a house there yet. I wish I had known that you would be looking over it at that time of the evening. A single word, when we were talking about it the other day, that you were going to be in the neighbourhood, would have been sufficient. Nothing could have given me so much delight as to have driven you round.'

Neigh seemed hesitant to continue, but the implication quickly became clear. "I wish my little place at Farnfield had been more deserving of you," he said bluntly. "But that's just a matter of time. It's pointless to build a house there right now. I wish I had known you’d be checking it out at that time of the evening. Just a single word when we were discussing it the other day, saying you’d be around, would have been enough. Nothing would have made me happier than to show you around."

He knew that she had been to Farnfield: that knowledge was what had inspired him to call upon her to-day! Ethelberta breathed a sort of exclamation, not right out, but stealthily, like a parson's damn. Her face did not change, since a face must be said not to change while it preserves the same pleasant lines in the mobile parts as before; but anybody who has preserved his pleasant lines under the half-minute's peer of the invidious camera, and found what a wizened, starched kind of thing they stiffen to towards the end of the time, will understand the tendency of Ethelberta's lovely features now.

He knew that she had been to Farnfield; that knowledge was what had motivated him to visit her today! Ethelberta let out a sort of quiet exclamation, not openly, but stealthily, like a priest's curse. Her face didn't change, since you could say a face doesn’t change if it keeps the same nice features in the moving parts as before; but anyone who has held their pleasant expressions under the relentless gaze of a judgmental camera for too long, and realized how stiff and awkward they can become, will understand how Ethelberta's beautiful features appeared now.

'Yes; I walked round,' said Ethelberta faintly.

'Yeah, I walked around,' Ethelberta said softly.

Neigh was decidedly master of the position at last; but he spoke as if he did not value that. His knowledge had furnished him with grounds for calling upon her, and he hastened to undeceive her from supposing that he could think ill of any motive of hers which gave him those desirable grounds.

Neigh was definitely in control of the situation at last; but he spoke as if he didn't care about that. His understanding had given him reasons to reach out to her, and he quickly set out to correct her assumption that he could think poorly of any of her motives that provided him with those appealing reasons.

'I supposed you, by that, to give some little thought to me occasionally,' he resumed, in the same slow and orderly tone. 'How could I help thinking so? It was your doing that which encouraged me. Now, was it not natural-I put it to you?'

'I thought that meant you occasionally thought about me,' he continued in the same slow and organized way. 'How could I not think that? It was your actions that encouraged me. Wasn’t it natural—I ask you?'

Ethelberta was almost exasperated at perceiving the awful extent to which she had compromised herself with this man by her impulsive visit. Lightly and philosophically as he seemed to take it-as a thing, in short, which every woman would do by nature unless hindered by difficulties-it was no trifle to her as long as he was ignorant of her justification; and this she determined that he should know at once, at all hazards.

Ethelberta was almost frustrated to realize how much she had compromised herself with this man by her impulsive visit. Even though he seemed to take it lightly and philosophically—as if it were just something every woman would do by nature unless faced with obstacles—it was no small matter to her as long as he remained unaware of her reasoning; and she decided that he needed to know the truth right away, no matter the cost.

'It was through you in the first place that I did look into your grounds!' she said excitedly. 'It was your presumption that caused me to go there. I should not have thought of such a thing else. If you had not said what you did say I never should have thought of you or Farnfield either-Farnfield might have been in Kamtschatka for all I cared.'

"It was because of you that I first looked into your property!" she said eagerly. "Your arrogance made me go there. I wouldn't have even considered it otherwise. If you hadn't said what you did, I wouldn't have thought about you or Farnfield at all—Farnfield could have been in Kamtschatka for all I cared."

'I hope sincerely that I never said anything to disturb you?'

'I truly hope that I never said anything to upset you?'

'Yes, you did-not to me, but to somebody,' said Ethelberta, with her eyes over-full of retained tears.

'Yes, you did—not to me, but to someone else,' Ethelberta said, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.

'What have I said to somebody that can be in the least objectionable to you?' inquired Neigh, with much concern.

"What have I said to someone that could possibly bother you?" Neigh asked, sounding quite worried.

'You said-you said, you meant to marry me-just as if I had no voice in the matter! And that annoyed me, and made me go there out of curiosity.'

'You said—you said you were going to marry me—like I had no say in it! That irritated me and made me go there out of curiosity.'

Neigh changed colour a little. 'Well, I did say it: I own that I said it,' he replied at last. Probably he knew enough of her nature not to feel long disconcerted by her disclosure, however she might have become possessed of the information. The explanation was certainly a great excuse to her curiosity; but if Ethelberta had tried she could not have given him a better ground for making light of her objections to his suit. 'I felt that I must marry you, that we were predestined to marry ages ago, and I feel it still!' he continued, with listless ardour. 'You seem to regret your interest in Farnfield; but to me it is a charm, and has been ever since I heard of it.'

Neigh changed color a bit. "Well, I did say it: I admit I said it," he finally replied. He probably understood her well enough not to stay unsettled by her revelation, no matter how she found out. Her explanation certainly satisfied her curiosity, but if Ethelberta had tried, she couldn’t have given him a better reason to brush off her concerns about his proposal. "I felt that I had to marry you, that we were meant to be together ages ago, and I still feel that way!" he continued, with a lackluster passion. "You seem to regret your interest in Farnfield, but to me, it’s enchanting, and it has been ever since I first heard about it."

'If you only knew all!' she said helplessly, showing, without perceiving it, an unnecessary humility in the remark, since there was no more reason just then that she should go into details about her life than that he should about his. But melancholy and mistaken thoughts of herself as a counterfeit had brought her to this.

'If you only knew everything!' she said helplessly, showing, without realizing it, an unnecessary humility in her words, since there was no reason at that moment for her to go into details about her life any more than he should about his. But sadness and misguided thoughts of herself as a fraud had led her to this.

'I do not wish to know more,' said Neigh.

'I don't want to know more,' said Neigh.

'And would you marry any woman off-hand, without being thoroughly acquainted with her circumstances?' she said, looking at him curiously, and with a little admiration, for his unconscionably phlegmatic treatment of her motives in going to Farnfield had a not unbecoming daring about it in Ethelberta's eye.

'Would you really marry any woman just like that, without knowing her situation at all?' she asked, looking at him with curiosity and a hint of admiration. His incredibly calm attitude towards her reasons for going to Farnfield had a certain boldness that Ethelberta found somewhat appealing.

'I would marry a woman off-hand when that woman is you. I would make you mine this moment did I dare; or, to speak with absolute accuracy, within twenty-four hours. Do assent to it, dear Mrs. Petherwin, and let me be sure of you for ever. I'll drive to Doctors' Commons this minute, and meet you to-morrow morning at nine in the church just below. It is a simple impulse, but I would adhere to it in the coolest moment. Shall it be arranged in that way, instead of our waiting through the ordinary routine of preparation? I am not a youth now, but I can see the bliss of such an act as that, and the contemptible nature of methodical proceedings beside it!'

'I would marry a woman right away if that woman is you. I would make you mine this very moment if I could; or, to be completely honest, within the next twenty-four hours. Please say yes, dear Mrs. Petherwin, and let me be sure of you forever. I’ll head to Doctors' Commons right now and we can meet tomorrow morning at nine in the church just down the street. It’s a simple urge, but I would stick to it even in the calmest moments. Can we arrange it this way instead of going through the usual preparations? I'm not a young man anymore, but I can see the joy in such an act, and how pointless it seems to follow the regular procedures!'

He had taken her hand. Ethelberta gave it a subtle movement backwards to imply that he was not to retain the prize, and said, 'One whose inner life is almost unknown to you, and whom you have scarcely seen except at other people's houses!'

He took her hand. Ethelberta gently pulled it back to suggest that he shouldn’t hold on to it, and said, "One whose inner life you barely know and whom you've hardly seen except at other people's houses!"

'We know each other far better than we may think at first,' said Neigh. 'We are not people to love in a hurry, and I have not done so in this case. As for worldly circumstances, the most important items in a marriage contract are the persons themselves, and, as far as I am concerned, if I get a lady fair and wise I care for nothing further. I know you are beautiful, for all London owns it; I know you are talented, for I have read your poetry and heard your romances; and I know you are politic and discreet-'

"We know each other much better than we might think at first," Neigh said. "We’re not the type to fall in love quickly, and I definitely haven't in this case. When it comes to worldly matters, the most important aspects of a marriage are the people involved, and for me, if I find a woman who is both beautiful and wise, I don't care about anything else. I know you're beautiful; everyone in London says so. I know you’re talented because I’ve read your poetry and heard your stories; and I know you are diplomatic and discreet—"

'For I have examined your property,' said she, with a weak smile.

'I've checked out your place,' she said, giving a faint smile.

Neigh bowed. 'And what more can I wish to know? Come, shall it be?'

Neigh bowed. "And what else do I want to know? Come on, is it happening?"

'Certainly not to-morrow.'

'Definitely not tomorrow.'

'I would be entirely in your hands in that matter. I will not urge you to be precipitate-I could not expect you to be ready yet. My suddenness perhaps offended you; but, having thought deeply of this bright possibility, I was apt to forget the forbearance that one ought to show at first in mentioning it. If I have done wrong forgive me.'

'I would completely rely on you in that matter. I won’t push you to rush into anything—I can't expect you to be ready yet. My impulsiveness may have upset you; however, after thinking seriously about this exciting possibility, I tended to overlook the patience one should show when first bringing it up. If I’ve made a mistake, please forgive me.'

'I will think of that,' said Ethelberta, with a cooler manner. 'But seriously, all these words are nothing to the purpose. I must remark that I prize your friendship, but it is not for me to marry now. You have convinced me of your goodness of heart and freedom from unworthy suspicions; let that be enough. The best way in which I in my turn can convince you of my goodness of heart is by asking you to see me in private no more.'

'I’ll keep that in mind,' Ethelberta replied, her tone more composed. 'But honestly, all this talk doesn’t really matter. I appreciate your friendship, but I can’t marry right now. You’ve shown me your kind heart and that you don’t have any baseless doubts; let that be enough. The best way I can show you my good intentions is by asking you not to meet with me in private anymore.'

'And do you refuse to think of me as —-. Why do you treat me like that, after all?' said Neigh, surprised at this want of harmony with his principle that one convert to matrimony could always find a second ready-made.

'And do you refuse to think of me as —-. Why do you treat me like that, after all?' said Neigh, surprised at this lack of consistency with his belief that anyone who got married could easily find a second partner already prepared.

'I cannot explain, I cannot explain,' said she, impatiently. 'I would and I would not-explain I mean, not marry. I don't love anybody, and I have no heart left for beginning. It is only honest in me to tell you that I am interested in watching another man's career, though that is not to the point either, for no close relationship with him is contemplated. But I do not wish to speak of this any more. Do not press me to it.'

"I can't explain, I can't explain," she said, feeling impatient. "I would and I wouldn't—explain, I mean, not marry. I don't love anyone, and I have no heart left for starting something new. It's only fair to tell you that I'm interested in following another man's career, although that's not really the issue either, since I don't plan on having any close relationship with him. But I don't want to talk about this anymore. Please don't push me on it."

'Certainly I will not,' said Neigh, seeing that she was distressed and sorrowful. 'But do consider me and my wishes; I have a right to ask it for it is only asking a continuance of what you have already begun to do. To-morrow I believe I shall have the happiness of seeing you again.'

'Of course I won’t,' Neigh said, noticing that she looked upset and sad. 'But please think about me and what I want; I have the right to ask because it’s just a request to continue what you’ve already started. Tomorrow, I believe I’ll have the joy of seeing you again.'

She did not say no, and long after the door had closed upon him she remained fixed in thought. 'How can he be blamed for his manner,' she said, 'after knowing what I did!'

She didn't say no, and long after he had walked out the door, she stayed lost in thought. 'How can anyone blame him for how he acted,' she said, 'after knowing what I did!'

Ethelberta as she sat felt herself much less a Petherwin than a Chickerel, much less a poetess richly freighted with fancy than an adventuress with a nebulous prospect. Neigh was one of the few men whose presence seemed to attenuate her dignity in some mysterious way to its very least proportions; and that act of espial, which had so quickly and inexplicably come to his knowledge, helped his influence still more. She knew little of the nature of the town bachelor; there were opaque depths in him which her thoughts had never definitely plumbed. Notwithstanding her exaltation to the atmosphere of the Petherwin family, Ethelberta was very far from having the thoroughbred London woman's knowledge of sets, grades, coteries, cliques, forms, glosses, and niceties, particularly on the masculine side. Setting the years from her infancy to her first look into town against those HANDlinking that epoch with the present, the former period covered not only the greater time, but contained the mass of her most vivid impressions of life and its ways. But in recognizing her ignorance of the ratio between words to women and deeds to women in the ethical code of the bachelor of the club, she forgot that human nature in the gross differs little with situation, and that a gift which, if the germs were lacking, no amount of training in clubs and coteries could supply, was mother-wit like her own.

Ethelberta, as she sat there, felt much less like a Petherwin and more like a Chickerel, much less like a poetess filled with imagination and more like an adventurer with an unclear future. Neigh was one of the few men whose presence seemed to diminish her dignity in a mysterious way, reducing it to its barest form; and that act of observation which he had quickly and inexplicably learned about only strengthened his influence. She knew little about the nature of the town bachelor; there were deep parts of him her thoughts had never fully explored. Despite her elevated status in the Petherwin family, Ethelberta was far from having the deep understanding of social circles and nuances that a sophisticated London woman would possess, especially when it came to men. Comparing the years from her childhood to her first experiences in the city with the present era, that earlier time not only lasted longer but also held her most vivid impressions of life and its workings. However, while recognizing her ignorance about the balance of words to women and actions to women in the ethical code of the club bachelor, she overlooked that human nature doesn’t change much with circumstance and that a talent which cannot develop without its foundational elements, such as common sense like her own, couldn’t be gained through any amount of training in clubs and social groups.

27. MRS. BELMAINE'S-CRIPPLEGATE CHURCH

Neigh's remark that he believed he should see Ethelberta again the next day referred to a contemplated pilgrimage of an unusual sort which had been arranged for that day by Mrs. Belmaine upon the ground of an incidental suggestion of Ethelberta's. One afternoon in the week previous they had been chatting over tea at the house of the former lady, Neigh being present as a casual caller, when the conversation was directed upon Milton by somebody opening a volume of the poet's works that lay on a table near.

Neigh's comment about wanting to see Ethelberta again the next day was about a unique outing that Mrs. Belmaine had planned based on a casual suggestion from Ethelberta. One afternoon the week before, they were having tea at Mrs. Belmaine's house, and Neigh was there as a casual visitor when the conversation turned to Milton after someone picked up a book of the poet's works lying on a nearby table.

'Milton! You should be alive right now: England needs you-'

said Mrs. Belmaine with the degree of flippancy which is considered correct for immortal verse, the Bible, God, etc., in these days. And Ethelberta replied, lit up by a quick remembrance, 'It is a good time to talk of Milton; for I have been much impressed by reading the "Life;" and I have decided to go and see his tomb. Could we not all go? We ought to quicken our memories of the great, and of where they lie, by such a visit occasionally.'

said Mrs. Belmaine with the kind of casualness that's seen as acceptable for timeless works, like the Bible, God, and so on, nowadays. And Ethelberta replied, sparked by a sudden memory, 'It's a great time to talk about Milton; I’ve been really struck by reading his "Life," and I've decided to visit his tomb. Could we all go together? We should occasionally refresh our memories of the great and where they rest with visits like this.'

'We ought,' said Mrs. Belmaine.

"We should," said Mrs. Belmaine.

'And why shouldn't we?' continued Ethelberta, with interest.

'And why shouldn't we?' Ethelberta asked, intrigued.

'To Westminster Abbey?' said Mr. Belmaine, a common man of thirty, younger than his wife, who had lately come into the room.

"To Westminster Abbey?" Mr. Belmaine said, a regular guy in his thirties, younger than his wife, who had just walked into the room.

'No; to where he lies comparatively alone-Cripplegate Church.'

'No; to where he lies relatively alone—Cripplegate Church.'

'I always thought that Milton was buried in Poet's Corner,' said Mr. Belmaine.

'So did I,' said Neigh; 'but I have such an indifferent head for places that my thinking goes for nothing.'

'Me too,' said Neigh; 'but I have such a poor memory for places that my thoughts don't really help.'

'Well, it would be a pretty thing to do,' said Mrs. Belmaine, 'and instructive to all of us. If Mrs. Petherwin would like to go, I should. We can take you in the carriage and call round for Mrs. Doncastle on our way, and set you both down again coming back.'

'Well, that would be a lovely thing to do,' said Mrs. Belmaine, 'and it would be educational for all of us. If Mrs. Petherwin wants to go, I’m in. We can take you in the car and pick up Mrs. Doncastle on our way, and drop you both off again on the way back.'

'That would be excellent,' said Ethelberta. 'There is nowhere I like going to so much as the depths of the city. The absurd narrowness of world-renowned streets is so surprising-so crooked and shady as they are too, and full of the quaint smells of old cupboards and cellars. Walking through one of them reminds me of being at the bottom of some crevasse or gorge, the proper surface of the globe being the tops of the houses.'

"That sounds great," Ethelberta said. "There's nowhere I enjoy going more than the heart of the city. The ridiculously narrow, world-famous streets are so surprising—so twisted and shaded, and full of the quirky smells of old cupboards and cellars. Strolling through one of them feels like being at the bottom of a crevasse or gorge, with the actual surface of the earth being the rooftops of the buildings."

'You will come to take care of us, John? And you, Mr. Neigh, would like to come? We will tell Mr. Ladywell that he may join us if he cares to,' said Mrs. Belmaine.

'Are you going to take care of us, John? And you, Mr. Neigh, would you like to come? We'll let Mr. Ladywell know that he can join us if he wants to,' Mrs. Belmaine said.

'O yes,' said her husband quietly; and Neigh said he should like nothing better, after a faint aspect of apprehension at the remoteness of the idea from the daily track of his thoughts. Mr. Belmaine observing this, and mistaking it for an indication that Neigh had been dragged into the party against his will by his over-hasty wife, arranged that Neigh should go independently and meet them there at the hour named if he chose to do so, to give him an opportunity of staying away. Ethelberta also was by this time doubting if she had not been too eager with her proposal. To go on such a sentimental errand might be thought by her friends to be simply troublesome, their adherence having been given only in the regular course of complaisance. She was still comparatively an outsider here, her life with Lady Petherwin having been passed chiefly in alternations between English watering-places and continental towns. However, it was too late now to muse on this, and it may be added that from first to last Ethelberta never discovered from the Belmaines whether her proposal had been an infliction or a charm, so perfectly were they practised in sustaining that complete divorce between thinking and saying which is the hall-mark of high civilization.

"Oh yes," her husband said softly, and Neigh mentioned he wouldn’t mind at all, even though he seemed a bit uneasy about how far removed this idea was from his usual thoughts. Mr. Belmaine noticed this and misinterpreted it as a sign that Neigh had been pressured into the invitation by his overly eager wife, so he suggested that Neigh could come on his own and meet them at the agreed time if he wanted, giving him a chance to opt out. By then, Ethelberta was also starting to wonder if she had been too quick with her suggestion. Going on such an emotional mission might be seen by her friends as just a hassle, since they had only agreed out of politeness. She still felt somewhat like an outsider here, having spent most of her time with Lady Petherwin moving between English resorts and continental cities. However, it was too late to dwell on that now. It's worth noting that from beginning to end, Ethelberta never figured out from the Belmaines whether her proposal had been a burden or a pleasure, as they were exceptionally skilled at maintaining that complete separation between thought and speech that is a hallmark of high society.

But, however she might doubt the Belmaines, she had no doubt as to Neigh's true sentiments: the time had come when he, notwithstanding his air of being oppressed by almost every lively invention of town and country for charming griefs to rest, would not be at all oppressed by a quiet visit to the purlieus of St Giles's, Cripplegate, since she was the originator, and was going herself.

But even though she might have doubts about the Belmaines, she was completely sure about Neigh's true feelings: the moment had arrived when he, despite appearing to be weighed down by all the colorful distractions of the city and the countryside meant to ease sorrow, would not feel burdened at all by a calm visit to the outskirts of St Giles’s, Cripplegate, especially since she was the one initiating it and would be going herself.

It was a bright hope-inspiring afternoon in this mid-May time when the carriage containing Mr. and Mrs. Belmaine, Mrs. Doncastle, and Ethelberta, crept along the encumbered streets towards Barbican; till turning out of that thoroughfare into Redcross Street they beheld the bold shape of the old tower they sought, clothed in every neutral shade, standing clear against the sky, dusky and grim in its upper stage, and hoary grey below, where every corner of every stone was completely rounded off by the waves of wind and storm.

It was a bright and hopeful afternoon in mid-May when the carriage with Mr. and Mrs. Belmaine, Mrs. Doncastle, and Ethelberta slowly made its way along the crowded streets toward Barbican. Turning off that busy road onto Redcross Street, they caught sight of the impressive old tower they were looking for, dressed in every neutral shade, standing out against the sky—dark and grim at the top and a weathered grey below, where the edges of each stone had been smoothed out by the wind and storms.

All people were busy here: our visitors seemed to be the only idle persons the city contained; and there was no dissonance-there never is-between antiquity and such beehive industry; for pure industry, in failing to observe its own existence and aspect, partakes of the unobtrusive nature of material things. This intra-mural stir was a flywheel transparent by excessive motion, through which Milton and his day could be seen as if nothing intervened. Had there been ostensibly harmonious accessories, a crowd of observing people in search of the poetical, conscious of the place and the scene, what a discord would have arisen there! But everybody passed by Milton's grave except Ethelberta and her friends, and for the moment the city's less invidious conduct appeared to her more respectful as a practice than her own.

Everyone was busy here: our visitors seemed to be the only people not engaged in something in the city; and there was no clash—there never is—between ancient history and such bustling activity; because pure productivity, by not recognizing its own existence and nature, shares the unassuming quality of physical objects. This inner-city bustle was like a flywheel, so transparent from constant movement that you could see Milton and his time as if nothing was in the way. If there had been evidently harmonious elements, a crowd of onlookers seeking something poetic, aware of the place and the scene, what a clash that would have created! But everyone passed by Milton's grave except Ethelberta and her friends, and for a moment, the city's less resentful behavior seemed to her more respectful as a practice than her own.

But she was brought out of this rumination by the halt at the church door, and completely reminded of the present by finding the church open, and Neigh-the, till yesterday, unimpassioned Neigh-waiting in the vestibule to receive them, just as if he lived there. Ladywell had not arrived. It was a long time before Ethelberta could get back to Milton again, for Neigh was continuing to impend over her future more and more visibly. The objects along the journey had distracted her mind from him; but the moment now was as a direct renewal and prolongation of the declaration-time yesterday, and as if in furtherance of the conclusion of the episode.

But she was pulled out of her thoughts by the stop at the church door and completely reminded of the present when she noticed the church was open, with Neigh—who until yesterday had been so unenthusiastic—waiting in the foyer to greet them, as if he lived there. Ladywell had not arrived yet. It took Ethelberta a long time to return to Milton, as Neigh was becoming more and more looming over her future. The sights along the journey had helped distract her from him, but now it felt like a direct continuation of yesterday's declaration time, as if it was leading to the conclusion of this chapter.

They all alighted and went in, the coachman being told to take the carriage to a quiet nook further on, and return in half-an-hour. Mrs. Belmaine and her carriage some years before had accidentally got jammed crosswise in Cheapside through the clumsiness of the man in turning up a side street, blocking that great artery of the civilized world for the space of a minute and a half, when they were pounced upon by half-a-dozen policemen and forced to back ignominiously up a little slit between the houses where they did not mean to go, amid the shouts of the hindered drivers; and it was her nervous recollection of that event which caused Mrs. Belmaine to be so precise in her directions now.

They all got out and went inside, telling the driver to take the carriage to a quiet spot further along and come back in half an hour. A few years earlier, Mrs. Belmaine and her carriage had accidentally gotten stuck sideways in Cheapside because the driver clumsily turned up a side street, blocking that major route for about a minute and a half. They were immediately surrounded by half a dozen policemen and had to awkwardly back up into a narrow space between the houses where they didn’t intend to go, all while the drivers behind them shouted in frustration. It was this nerve-wracking memory that made Mrs. Belmaine so particular about her directions now.

By the time that they were grouped around the tomb the visit had assumed a much more solemn complexion than any one among them had anticipated. Ashamed of the influence that she discovered Neigh to be exercising over her, and opposing it steadily, Ethelberta drew from her pocket a small edition of Milton, and proposed that she should read a few lines from 'Paradise Lost.' The responsibility of producing a successful afternoon was upon her shoulders; she was, moreover, the only one present who could properly manage blank verse, and this was sufficient to justify the proposal.

By the time they gathered around the tomb, the visit had become much more serious than anyone had expected. Feeling embarrassed about the hold Neigh seemed to have over her and actively resisting it, Ethelberta pulled a small edition of Milton from her pocket and suggested that she read a few lines from 'Paradise Lost.' The responsibility of making the afternoon enjoyable rested on her, and she was also the only one there who could handle blank verse well, which was enough reason to make the suggestion.

She stood with her head against the marble slab just below the bust, and began a selected piece, Neigh standing a few yards off on her right looking into his hat in order to listen accurately, Mr. and Mrs. Belmaine and Mrs. Doncastle seating themselves in a pew directly facing the monument. The ripe warm colours of afternoon came in upon them from the west, upon the sallow piers and arches, and the infinitely deep brown pews beneath, the aisle over Ethelberta's head being in misty shade through which glowed a lurid light from a dark-stained window behind. The sentences fell from her lips in a rhythmical cadence one by one, and she could be fancied a priestess of him before whose image she stood, when with a vivid suggestiveness she delivered here, not many yards from the central money-mill of the world, yet out from the very tomb of their author, the passage containing the words:

She stood with her head against the marble slab just below the bust and began a selected piece, Neigh standing a few yards off to her right, looking into his hat to listen closely. Mr. and Mrs. Belmaine and Mrs. Doncastle seated themselves in a pew directly facing the monument. The warm, rich colors of the afternoon flooded in from the west, illuminating the pale piers and arches and the deep brown pews below. The aisle above Ethelberta's head was shrouded in misty shade, through which a lurid light glowed from a dark-stained window behind. The words flowed from her lips in a rhythmic cadence, one by one, and she could be envisioned as a priestess before the image she faced. With vivid imagery, she delivered a passage containing the words, just a few yards from the central money-mill of the world, yet straight from the very tomb of their author.

          'Mammon guided them;  
    Mammon, the lowest spirit that descended  
    from heaven.'

When she finished reading Ethelberta left the monument, and then each one present strayed independently about the building, Ethelberta turning to the left along the passage to the south door. Neigh-from whose usually apathetic face and eyes there had proceeded a secret smouldering light as he listened and regarded her-followed in the same direction and vanished at her heels into the churchyard, whither she had now gone. Mr. and Mrs. Belmaine exchanged glances, and instead of following the pair they went with Mrs. Doncastle into the vestry to inquire of the person in charge for the register of the marriage of Oliver Cromwell, which was solemnized here. The church was now quite empty, and its stillness was as a vacuum into which an occasional noise from the street overflowed and became rarefied away to nothing.

When she finished reading, Ethelberta left the monument, and everyone else wandered around the building on their own, with Ethelberta heading to the left along the passage to the south door. Neigh—who had shown a hidden spark of interest in her despite his usually indifferent expression—followed her in the same direction and disappeared behind her into the churchyard, where she had now gone. Mr. and Mrs. Belmaine exchanged looks, and instead of following the pair, they accompanied Mrs. Doncastle into the vestry to ask the person in charge about the marriage register of Oliver Cromwell, which was solemnized here. The church was now completely empty, and its silence felt like a vacuum, occasionally interrupted by distant noises from the street that faded away to nothing.

Something like five minutes had passed when a hansom stopped outside the door, and Ladywell entered the porch. He stood still, and, looking inquiringly round for a minute or two, sat down in one of the high pews, as if under the impression that the others had not yet arrived.

Something like five minutes went by when a cab pulled up outside the door, and Ladywell walked into the porch. He paused, looking around for a minute or two, then sat down in one of the tall pews, thinking that the others hadn’t shown up yet.

While he sat here Neigh reappeared at the south door opposite, and came slowly in. Ladywell, in rising to go to him, saw that Neigh's attention was engrossed by something he held in his hand. It was his pocket-book, and Neigh was looking at a few loose flower-petals which had been placed between the pages. When Ladywell came forward Neigh looked up, started, and closed the book quickly, so that some of the petals fluttered to the ground between the two men. They were striped, red and white, and appeared to be leaves of the Harlequin rose.

While he sat there, Neigh walked in slowly through the south door opposite. As Ladywell stood up to approach him, he noticed that Neigh was focused on something in his hand. It was his pocketbook, and Neigh was examining a few loose flower petals that had been tucked between the pages. When Ladywell moved closer, Neigh glanced up, startled, and quickly closed the book, causing some petals to fall to the ground between them. They were striped red and white and seemed to be leaves from the Harlequin rose.

'Ah! here you are, Ladywell,' he said, recovering himself. 'We had given you up: my aunt said that you would not care to come. They are all in the vestry.' How it came to pass that Neigh designated those in the vestry as 'all,' when there was one in the churchyard, was a thing that he himself could hardly have explained, so much more had it to do with instinct than with calculation.

'Oh! There you are, Ladywell,' he said, getting himself together. 'We had almost given up on you: my aunt thought you wouldn’t want to come. They’re all in the vestry.' How Neigh referred to those in the vestry as 'all,' when there was one person in the churchyard, was something he couldn’t really explain; it had more to do with instinct than with reason.

'Never mind them-don't interrupt them,' said Ladywell. 'The plain truth is that I have been very greatly disturbed in mind; and I could not appear earlier by reason of it. I had some doubt about coming at all.'

'Forget them—don’t interrupt,' said Ladywell. 'The honest truth is that I’ve been really troubled in my mind, and I couldn’t show up earlier because of it. I was actually unsure about coming at all.'

'I am sorry to hear that.'

'Sorry to hear that.'

'Neigh-I may as well tell you and have done with it. I have found that a lady of my acquaintance has two strings to her bow, or I am very much in error.'

'Well, I might as well just tell you and get it over with. I've discovered that a lady I know has more than one option, or I'm completely mistaken.'

'What-Mrs. Petherwin?' said Neigh uneasily. 'But I thought that-that fancy was over with you long ago. Even your acquaintance with her was at an end, I thought.'

'What about Mrs. Petherwin?' Neigh said uneasily. 'But I thought that fancy was over for you long ago. I thought your acquaintance with her had ended too.'

'In a measure it is at an end. But let me tell you that what you call a fancy has been anything but a fancy with me, to be over like a spring shower. To speak plainly, Neigh, I consider myself badly used by that woman; damn badly used.'

'In a way, it's over. But let me tell you that what you call a whim has been anything but that for me, not something that passes quickly like a spring shower. To be straightforward, Neigh, I feel really mistreated by that woman; really mistreated.'

'Badly used?' said Neigh mechanically, and wondering all the time if Ladywell had been informed that Ethelberta was to be one of the party to-day.

"Badly used?" Neigh asked mechanically, constantly wondering if Ladywell had been told that Ethelberta was going to be part of the group today.

'Well, I ought not to talk like that,' said Ladywell, adopting a lighter tone. 'All is fair in courtship, I suppose, now as ever. Indeed, I mean to put a good face upon it: if I am beaten, I am. But it is very provoking, after supposing matters to be going on smoothly, to find out that you are quite mistaken.'

'Well, I shouldn't talk like that,' said Ladywell, taking on a lighter tone. 'Everything's fair in dating, I guess, just like always. Honestly, I plan to stay positive about it: if I lose, I lose. But it's really frustrating to think things are going well only to realize you're totally wrong.'

'I told you you were quite mistaken in supposing she cared for you.'

"I told you, you were really wrong to think she cared about you."

'That is just the point I was not mistaken in,' said Ladywell warmly. 'She did care for me, and I stood as well with her as any man could stand until this fellow came, whoever he is. I sometimes feel so disturbed about it that I have a good mind to call upon her and ask his name. Wouldn't you, Neigh? Will you accompany me?'

'That's exactly the point I was right about,' Ladywell said passionately. 'She did care for me, and I was on good terms with her, just like any man could be until this guy showed up, whoever he is. Sometimes I get so upset about it that I'm seriously thinking of going to see her and asking for his name. Wouldn't you agree, Neigh? Will you come with me?'

'I would in a moment, but, but- I strongly advise you not to go,' said Neigh earnestly. 'It would be rash, you know, and rather unmannerly; and would only hurt your feelings.'

'I would in a moment, but, but— I really think you should not go,' Neigh said seriously. 'It would be reckless, you know, and quite rude; and it would just end up hurting your feelings.'

'Well, I am always ready to yield to a friend's arguments. . . . A sneaking scamp, that's what he is. Why does he not show himself?'

'Well, I’m always willing to listen to a friend’s arguments. . . . A sneaky little rascal, that’s what he is. Why doesn’t he just come out and show himself?'

'Don't you really know who he is?' said Neigh, in a pronounced and exceptional tone, on purpose to give Ladywell a chance of suspecting, for the position was getting awkward. But Ladywell was blind as Bartimeus in that direction, so well had indifference to Ethelberta's charms been feigned by Neigh until he thought seriously of marrying her. Yet, unfortunately for the interests of calmness, Ladywell was less blind with his outward eye. In his reflections his glance had lingered again upon the pocket-book which Neigh still held in his hand, and upon the two or three rose-leaves on the floor, until he said idly, superimposing humorousness upon misery, as men in love can:

"Don't you really know who he is?" Neigh said in a distinct and unusual tone, purposely giving Ladywell a chance to suspect, since the situation was getting awkward. But Ladywell was as blind as a bat in that regard, as Neigh had so well pretended to be indifferent to Ethelberta's charms until he seriously considered marrying her. Unfortunately for the sake of calm, Ladywell wasn't as blind with his physical eye. As he thought, his gaze lingered again on the pocket-book Neigh still held in his hand, and on the two or three rose leaves on the floor, until he spoke idly, mixing humor with his misery, like men in love often do:

'Rose-leaves, Neigh? I thought you did not care for flowers. What makes you amuse yourself with such sentimental objects as those, only fit for women, or painters like me? If I had not observed you with my own eyes I should have said that you were about the last man in the world to care for things of that sort. Whatever makes you keep rose-leaves in your pocket-book?'

'Rose leaves, really? I thought you weren't into flowers. What’s got you entertained with such sentimental items that are only suitable for women or artists like me? If I hadn't seen you myself, I would have said you were the last guy in the world to care about stuff like that. What makes you carry rose leaves in your wallet?'

'The best reason on earth,' said Neigh. 'A woman gave them to me.'

'The best reason ever,' said Neigh. 'A woman gave them to me.'

'That proves nothing unless she is a great deal to you,' said Ladywell, with the experienced air of a man who, whatever his inferiority in years to Neigh, was far beyond him in knowledge of that sort, by virtue of his recent trials.

"That doesn’t mean anything unless she means a lot to you," said Ladywell, with the knowing demeanor of someone who, despite being younger than Neigh, had much more insight in that area because of his recent experiences.

'She is a great deal to me.'

'She means a lot to me.'

'If I did not know you to be such a confirmed misogynist I should say that this is a serious matter.'

'If I didn't know you were such a hardcore misogynist, I would say that this is a big deal.'

'It is serious,' said Neigh quietly. 'The probability is that I shall marry the woman who gave me these. Anyhow I have asked her the question, and she has not altogether said no.'

'It's serious,' Neigh said quietly. 'There's a good chance I'll marry the woman who gave me these. Anyway, I asked her the question, and she hasn't completely said no.'

'I am glad to hear it, Neigh,' said Ladywell heartily. 'I am glad to hear that your star is higher than mine.'

'I’m really happy to hear that, Neigh,' said Ladywell warmly. 'I’m glad to know that your star is shining brighter than mine.'

Before Neigh could make further reply Ladywell was attracted by the glow of green sunlight reflected through the south door by the grass of the churchyard, now in all its spring freshness and luxuriance. He bent his steps thither, followed anxiously by Neigh.

Before Neigh could say anything else, Ladywell was drawn in by the bright green sunlight shining through the south door, reflecting off the vibrant grass of the churchyard, now full of spring freshness and abundance. He headed that way, anxiously followed by Neigh.

'I had no idea there was such a lovely green spot in the city,' Ladywell continued, passing out. 'Trees too, planted in the manner of an orchard. What a charming place!'

'I had no idea there was such a beautiful green space in the city,' Ladywell continued, stepping outside. 'And trees too, planted like an orchard. What a lovely place!'

The place was truly charming just at that date. The untainted leaves of the lime and plane trees and the newly-sprung grass had in the sun a brilliancy of beauty that was brought into extraordinary prominence by the sable soil showing here and there, and the charcoaled stems and trunks out of which the leaves budded: they seemed an importation, not a produce, and their delicacy such as would perish in a day.

The place was really charming at that time. The fresh leaves of the lime and plane trees and the newly grown grass shimmered in the sunlight with a beauty that was made even more striking by the dark soil showing through in spots, and the charred stems and trunks that the leaves sprouted from: they seemed like they were brought in from somewhere else, not grown there, and their delicacy was such that it would fade away in a day.

'What is this round tower?' Ladywell said again, walking towards the iron-grey bastion, partly covered with ivy and Virginia creeper, which stood obtruding into the enclosure.

'What is this round tower?' Ladywell asked again, walking towards the iron-grey bastion, partly covered with ivy and Virginia creeper, which stood intrusively in the enclosure.

'O, didn't you know that was here? That's a piece of the old city wall,' said Neigh, looking furtively around at the same time. Behind the bastion the churchyard ran into a long narrow strip, grassed like the other part, but completely hidden from it by the cylinder of ragged masonry. On rounding this projection, Ladywell beheld within a few feet of him a lady whom he knew too well.

'O, didn’t you know that was here? That’s a part of the old city wall,' said Neigh, glancing around cautiously at the same time. Behind the bastion, the churchyard extended into a long narrow strip, covered in grass like the other area but completely concealed from it by the rough cylinder of stone. As he rounded this projection, Ladywell saw a lady he recognized all too well just a few feet away.

'Mrs. Petherwin here!' exclaimed he, proving how ignorant he had been of the composition of the party he was to meet, and accounting at the same time for his laxity in attending it.

'Mrs. Petherwin is here!' he exclaimed, showing just how unaware he had been of the makeup of the group he was about to meet, which also explained why he had been so casual about attending.

'I forgot to tell you,' said Neigh awkwardly, behind him, 'that Mrs. Petherwin was to come with us.'

'I forgot to mention,' Neigh said awkwardly from behind him, 'that Mrs. Petherwin was supposed to come with us.'

Ethelberta's look was somewhat blushful and agitated, as if from some late transaction: she appeared to have been secluding herself there till she should have recovered her equanimity. However, she came up to him and said, 'I did not see you before this moment: we had been thinking you would not come.'

Ethelberta looked a bit flushed and nervous, as if she had just gone through something intense. It seemed like she had been hiding away until she felt calm again. Still, she approached him and said, 'I didn't see you until now: we thought you weren't going to show up.'

While these words were being prettily spoken, Ladywell's face became pale as death. On Ethelberta's bosom were the stem and green calyx of a rose, almost all its flower having disappeared. It had been a Harlequin rose, for two or three of its striped leaves remained to tell the tale.

While these words were being beautifully spoken, Ladywell's face turned as pale as death. On Ethelberta's chest was the stem and green calyx of a rose, with almost all its petals gone. It had been a Harlequin rose, as two or three of its striped leaves were left to tell the story.

She could not help noticing his fixed gaze, and she said quickly, 'Yes, I have lost my pretty rose: this may as well go now,' and she plucked the stem from its fastening in her dress and flung it away.

She couldn't help but notice his intense stare, and she said quickly, 'Yeah, I’ve lost my pretty rose: this might as well go too,' and she pulled the stem out from where it was secured in her dress and tossed it away.

Poor Ladywell turned round to meet Mr. and Mrs. Belmaine, whose voices were beginning to be heard just within the church door, leaving Neigh and Ethelberta together. It was a graceful act of young Ladywell's that, in the midst of his own pain at the strange tale the rose-leaves suggested-Neigh's rivalry, Ethelberta's mutability, his own defeat-he was not regardless of the intense embarrassment which might have been caused had he remained.

Poor Ladywell turned to greet Mr. and Mrs. Belmaine, whose voices were starting to be heard just inside the church door, leaving Neigh and Ethelberta together. It was a kind gesture from young Ladywell that, despite his own pain at the strange story the rose petals suggested—Neigh's competition, Ethelberta's unreliability, his own failure—he didn't overlook the deep discomfort that might have arisen if he had stayed.

The two were silent at first, and it was evident that Ethelberta's mood was one of anger at something that had gone before. She turned aside from him to follow the others, when Neigh spoke in a tone somewhat bitter and somewhat stern.

The two were quiet at first, and it was clear that Ethelberta was angry about something that had happened earlier. She turned away from him to join the others when Neigh spoke in a tone that was a mix of bitterness and sternness.

'What-going like that! After being compromised together, why don't you close with me? Ladywell knows all: I had already told him that the rose-leaves were given me by my intended wife. We seem to him to be practising deceptions all of a piece, and what folly it is to play off so! As to what I did, that I ask your forgiveness for.'

'What’s going on like this? After everything we’ve been through together, why don’t you just agree with me? Ladywell knows everything: I already told him that the rose petals were given to me by my future wife. To him, it looks like we’re just playing games, and how foolish it is to act like that! About what I did, I’m asking for your forgiveness for it.'

Ethelberta looked upon the ground and maintained a compressed lip. Neigh resumed: 'If I showed more feeling than you care for, I insist that it was not more than was natural under the circumstances, if not quite proper. Opinions may differ, but my experience goes to prove that conventional squeamishness at such times as these is more talked and written about than practised. Plain behaviour must be expected when marriage is the question. Nevertheless, I do say-and I cannot say more-that I am sincerely sorry to have offended you by exceeding my privileges. I will never do so again.'

Ethelberta looked down at the ground and kept her lips pressed together. Neigh continued, "If I showed more emotion than you’d like, I want to make it clear that it was nothing more than what’s natural in this situation, if not completely appropriate. People may have different views, but my experience shows that people talk and write about being overly polite in moments like these more than they actually practice it. You should expect straightforward behavior when it comes to marriage. Still, I must say—and I can't say more than this—that I'm truly sorry for upsetting you by crossing the line. I won’t do it again."

'Don't say privileges. You have none.'

'Don't talk about privileges. You don't have any.'

'I am sorry that I thought otherwise, and that others will think so too. Ladywell is, at any rate, bent on thinking so. . . . It might have been made known to him in a gentle way-but God disposes.'

'I’m sorry that I thought differently, and that others will think the same. Ladywell is definitely determined to believe that. . . . It could have been communicated to him in a kind manner—but God has other plans.'

'There is nothing to make known-I don't understand,' said Ethelberta, going from him.

'There's nothing to share—I don't get it,' said Ethelberta, walking away from him.

By this time Ladywell had walked round the gravel walks with the two other ladies and Mr. Belmaine, and they were all turning to come back again. The young painter had deputed his voice to reply to their remarks, but his understanding continued poring upon other things. When he came up to Ethelberta, his agitation had left him: she too was free from constraint; while Neigh was some distance off, carefully examining nothing in particular in an old fragment of wall.

By this time, Ladywell had walked around the gravel paths with the two other ladies and Mr. Belmaine, and they were all turning to head back. The young painter had assigned his voice to respond to their comments, but his mind was occupied with other thoughts. When he approached Ethelberta, his nervousness had faded; she was also relaxed, while Neigh was some distance away, deliberately studying nothing in particular on an old wall fragment.

The little party was now united again as to its persons; though in spirit far otherwise. They went through the church in general talk, Ladywell sad but serene, and Ethelberta keeping far-removed both from him and from Neigh. She had at this juncture entered upon that Sphinx-like stage of existence in which, contrary to her earlier manner, she signified to no one of her ways, plans, or sensations, and spoke little on any subject at all. There were occasional smiles now which came only from the face, and speeches from the lips merely.

The small group was now together again as far as its members went; but in spirit, it was quite the opposite. They walked through the church chatting casually, with Ladywell looking sad but calm, while Ethelberta kept her distance from both him and Neigh. At this moment, she had entered that mysterious phase of life where, unlike before, she revealed nothing about her thoughts, plans, or feelings, and hardly talked about anything at all. There were now occasional smiles that came only from her face, and words that came merely from her lips.

The journey home was performed as they had come, Ladywell not accepting the seat in Neigh's cab which was phlegmatically offered him. Mrs. Doncastle's acquaintance with Ethelberta had been slight until this day; but the afternoon's proceeding had much impressed the matron with her younger friend. Before they parted she said, with the sort of affability which is meant to signify the beginning of permanent friendship: 'A friend of my husband's, Lord Mountclere, has been anxious for some time to meet you. He is a great admirer of the poems, and more still of the story-telling invention, and your power in it. He has been present many times at the Mayfair Hall to hear you. When will you dine with us to meet him? I know you will like him. Will Thursday be convenient?'

The journey home was made in the same way they had arrived, with Ladywell declining the seat in Neigh's cab that was calmly offered to him. Mrs. Doncastle's acquaintance with Ethelberta had been minimal until that day; however, the afternoon's events had greatly impressed the matron with her younger friend. Before they parted, she said, with a friendliness that suggested the start of a lasting friendship: "A friend of my husband's, Lord Mountclere, has wanted to meet you for a while now. He's a huge fan of your poems, and even more so of your storytelling talent and ability. He has attended many of your readings at the Mayfair Hall. When can you come over for dinner to meet him? I know you'll like him. Will Thursday work for you?"

Ethelberta stood for a moment reflecting, and reflecting hoped that Mrs. Doncastle had not noticed her momentary perplexity. Crises were becoming as common with her as blackberries; and she had foreseen this one a long time. It was not that she was to meet Lord Mountclere, for he was only a name and a distant profile to her: it was that her father would necessarily be present at the meeting, in the most anomalous position that human nature could endure.

Ethelberta paused for a moment, thinking, and hoped that Mrs. Doncastle hadn't noticed her brief confusion. Crises were becoming as common for her as blackberries, and she had seen this one coming a long time ago. It wasn't that she was going to meet Lord Mountclere, since he was just a name and a distant figure to her; it was that her father would definitely be at the meeting, in the most awkward position that anyone could handle.

However, having often proved in her disjointed experience that the shortest way out of a difficulty lies straight through it, Ethelberta decided to dine at the Doncastles', and, as she murmured that she should have great pleasure in meeting any friend of theirs, set about contriving how the encounter with her dearest relative might be made safe and unsuspected. She bade them adieu blithely; but the thoughts engendered by the invitation stood before her as sorrowful and rayless ghosts which could not be laid. Often at such conjunctures as these, when the futility of her great undertaking was more than usually manifest, did Ethelberta long like a tired child for the conclusion of the whole matter; when her work should be over, and the evening come; when she might draw her boat upon the shore, and in some thymy nook await eternal night with a placid mind.

However, having often learned from her chaotic experiences that the quickest way to solve a problem is to face it head-on, Ethelberta decided to have dinner at the Doncastles'. As she softly mentioned that she would be delighted to meet any of their friends, she began to think of how to make her meeting with her closest relative safe and unnoticeable. She cheerfully said goodbye to them; but the thoughts generated by the invitation loomed in her mind like sorrowful, shadowy figures that she couldn’t shake off. Often, in moments like these, when the hopelessness of her grand plan became particularly clear, Ethelberta wished, like a weary child, for everything to be over; for her work to be done, for the evening to arrive; so she could pull her boat onto the shore and wait in a peaceful spot for eternal rest.

28. ETHELBERTA'S-MR. CHICKEREL'S ROOM

The question of Neigh or no Neigh had reached a pitch of insistence which no longer permitted of dallying, even by a popular beauty. His character was becoming defined to Ethelberta as something very differently composed from that of her first imagining. She had set him down to be a man whose external in excitability owed nothing to self-repression, but stood as the natural surface of the mass within. Neigh's urban torpor, she said, might have been in the first instance produced by art, but, were it thus, it had gone so far as to permeate him. This had been disproved, first surprisingly, by his reported statement; wondrously, in the second place, by his call upon her and sudden proposal; thirdly, to a degree simply astounding, by what had occurred in the city that day. For Neigh, before the fervour had subsided which was produced in him by her look and general power while reading 'Paradise Lost,' found himself alone with her in a nook outside the church, and there had almost demanded her promise to be his wife. She had replied by asking for time, and idly offering him the petals of her rose, that had shed themselves in her hand. Neigh, in taking them, pressed her fingers more warmly than she thought she had given him warrant for, which offended her. It was certainly a very momentary affair, and when it was over seemed to surprise himself almost as much as it had vexed her; but it had reminded her of one truth which she was in danger of forgetting. The town gentleman was not half so far removed from Sol and Dan, and the hard-handed order in general, in his passions as in his philosophy. He still continued to be the male of his species, and when the heart was hot with a dream Pall Mall had much the same aspect as Wessex.

The question of whether to say yes or no had reached a point where there was no more room for hesitation, even from a popular beauty. Ethelberta was starting to see Neigh's character as something very different from her initial impression. She had seen him as a man whose outward excitement was completely genuine, a reflection of what was inside. Ethelberta thought Neigh's urban indifference might have been put on at first, but if that was the case, it had become ingrained in him. This was first disproven, surprisingly, by something he reportedly said; then, astonishingly, by his unexpected visit and sudden proposal; and lastly, simply shocking, by what had happened in the city that day. Before the excitement he felt from her gaze and presence while reading 'Paradise Lost' had died down, Neigh found himself alone with her in a corner outside the church and almost demanded that she promise to be his wife. She responded by asking for time, casually offering him the fallen petals of her rose that had dropped into her hand. As he took them, Neigh squeezed her fingers more warmly than she felt he had the right to, which upset her. It was definitely a brief encounter, and when it ended, it seemed to surprise him almost as much as it had annoyed her; but it reminded her of one truth she was at risk of forgetting. The town gentleman was not so different from Sol and Dan, and the generally hard-working types, in his feelings as he was in his beliefs. He was still very much a man, and when passions ran high, Pall Mall looked much the same as Wessex.

Well, she had not accepted him yet; indeed, for the moment they were in a pet with one another. Yet that might soon be cleared off, and then recurred the perpetual question, would the advantage that might accrue to her people by her marriage be worth the sacrifice? One palliative feature must be remembered when we survey the matrimonial ponderings of the poetess and romancer. What she contemplated was not meanly to ensnare a husband just to provide incomes for her and her family, but to find some man she might respect, who would maintain her in such a stage of comfort as should, by setting her mind free from temporal anxiety, enable her to further organize her talent, and provide incomes for them herself. Plenty of saleable originality was left in her as yet, but it was getting crushed under the rubbish of her necessities.

Well, she hadn’t accepted him yet; in fact, for the moment, they were in a spat with each other. But that could change soon, and then the same old question would arise: would the benefits that her marriage might bring to her family be worth the sacrifice? One comforting aspect to keep in mind when we think about the marital musings of the poet and storyteller is that she wasn’t just trying to trap a husband to secure an income for herself and her family. Instead, she wanted to find a man she could respect, someone who would support her in a way that would lift her burden of financial worries, allowing her to focus on developing her talent and generating her own income. She still had plenty of marketable creativity within her, but it was being stifled by the weight of her needs.

She was not sure that Neigh would stand the test of her revelations. It would be possible to lead him to marry her without revealing anything-the events of the last few days had shown her that-yet Ethelberta's honesty shrank from the safe course of holding her tongue. It might be pleasant to many a modern gentleman to find himself allied with a lady, none of whose ancestors had ever pandered to a court, lost an army, taken a bribe, oppressed a community, or broken a bank; but the added disclosure that, in avoiding these stains, her kindred had worked and continued to work with their hands for bread, might lead such an one to consider that the novelty was dearly purchased.

She wasn't sure if Neigh could handle her revelations. It would be possible to persuade him to marry her without telling him anything—the events of the past few days had proven that to her—but Ethelberta's honesty made her reluctant to take the easy route of staying quiet. It might be appealing to many modern gentlemen to connect with a woman whose ancestors had never catered to a court, lost an army, accepted a bribe, oppressed a community, or gone bankrupt; however, the additional revelation that, in avoiding these taints, her family had worked and continued to work with their hands to earn a living, might lead him to think that the uniqueness came at a high price.

Ethelberta was, upon the whole, dissatisfied with her progress thus far. She had planned many things and fulfilled few. Had her father been by this time provided for and made independent of the world, as she had thought he might be, not only would her course with regard to Neigh be quite clear, but the impending awkwardness of dining with her father behind her chair could not have occurred. True, that was a small matter beside her regret for his own sake that he was still in harness; and a mere change of occupation would be but a tribute to a fastidiousness which he did not himself share. She had frequently tried to think of a vocation for him that would have a more dignified sound, and be less dangerously close to her own path: the post of care-taker at some provincial library, country stationer, registrar of births and deaths, and many others had been discussed and dismissed in face of the unmanageable fact that her father was serenely happy and comfortable as a butler, looking with dread at any hint of change short of perfect retirement. Since, then, she could not offer him this retirement, what right had she to interfere with his mode of life at all? In no other social groove on earth would he thrive as he throve in his present one, to which he had been accustomed from boyhood, and where the remuneration was actually greater than in professions ten times as stately in name.

Ethelberta was generally unhappy with her progress so far. She had planned a lot but accomplished very little. If her father had been taken care of and made independent of the world by now, as she thought he might be, it would have been much clearer how to handle things with Neigh. Plus, the awkwardness of having her father dining behind her would have been avoided. True, that was a minor issue compared to her regret that he was still working; simply changing jobs would just be giving in to a sense of refinement he didn’t share. She had often tried to think of a more respectable job for him that wouldn’t be too close to her own path: roles like caretaker at a local library, country stationer, or registrar of births and deaths had all been considered but ultimately dismissed because of the undeniable fact that her father was perfectly happy and comfortable as a butler, dreading any suggestion of change short of complete retirement. Since she couldn’t provide him with that retirement, what right did she have to interfere with his way of life? He wouldn’t thrive in any other role on earth as he did in this one, to which he had been accustomed since childhood, and where the pay was actually better than in jobs that were ten times as prestigious in name.

For the rest, too, Ethelberta had indulged in hopes, the high education of the younger ones being the chief of these darling wishes. Picotee wanted looking to badly enough. Sol and Dan required no material help; they had quickly obtained good places of work under a Pimlico builder; for though the brothers scarcely showed as yet the light-fingered deftness of London artizans, the want was in a measure compensated by their painstaking, and employers are far from despising country hands who bring with them strength, industry, and a desire to please. But their sister had other lines laid down for them than those of level progress; to start them some day as masters instead of men was a long-cherished wish of Ethelberta's.

For the rest, Ethelberta had entertained hopes, with the higher education of the younger ones being the main of these cherished wishes. Picotee needed looking after quite a bit. Sol and Dan didn't need any financial support; they quickly found good jobs with a builder in Pimlico. Although the brothers didn't yet have the skilled finesse of London workers, their hard work somewhat made up for it, and employers don’t look down on country workers who bring strength, dedication, and a willingness to please. But their sister had bigger plans for them than just steady jobs; her long-held desire was to someday set them up as masters instead of laborers.

Thus she had quite enough machinery in her hands to keep decently going, even were she to marry a man who would take a kindly view of her peculiar situation, and afford her opportunities of strengthening her powers for her kindred's good. But what would be the result if, eighteen months hence-the date at which her occupation of the house in Exonbury Crescent came to an end-she were still a widow, with no accumulated capital, her platform talents grown homely and stunted through narrow living, and her tender vein of poesy completely dispersed by it? To calmly relinquish the struggle at that point would have been the act of a stoic, but not of a woman, particularly when she considered the children, the hopes of her mother for them, and her own condition-though this was least-under the ironical cheers which would greet a slip back into the mire.

So she had more than enough resources to keep herself decently afloat, even if she married a man who would be understanding of her unique situation and give her chances to build up her abilities for the benefit of her family. But what would happen if, eighteen months from now—the time when her lease at the house on Exonbury Crescent expired—she was still a widow, with no savings, her talents faded and stunted from a limited lifestyle, and her passion for poetry completely extinguished? Walking away from the struggle at that point would have been the choice of a stoic, but not of a woman, especially when she thought about the children, her mother’s hopes for them, and her own situation—though that was the least of her worries—under the ironic applause that would come from slipping back into the mud.

It here becomes necessary to turn for a moment to Master Joey Chickerel, Ethelberta's troublesome page and brother. The face of this juvenile was that of a Graeco-Roman satyr to the furthest degree of completeness. Viewed in front, the outer line of his upper lip rose in a double arch nearly to his little round nostrils, giving an expression of a jollity so delicious to himself as to compel a perpetual drawing in of his breath. During half-laughs his lips parted in the middle, and remained closed at the corners, which were small round pits like his nostrils, the same form being repeated as dimples a little further back upon his cheek. The opening for each eye formed a sparkling crescent, both upper and under lid having the convexity upwards.

It’s important now to take a moment to talk about Master Joey Chickerel, Ethelberta's troublesome page and brother. This kid’s face looked like a complete Graeco-Roman satyr. From the front, the outline of his upper lip rose in a double curve almost to his little round nostrils, giving him a joyfully self-satisfied expression that made him constantly intake his breath. When he half-laughed, his lips parted in the center while the corners stayed closed, creating small round indentations like his nostrils, and that same shape appeared as dimples a bit further back on his cheek. His eyes formed sparkling crescents, with both the upper and lower lids curving upward.

But during some few days preceding the dinner-party at the Doncastles' all this changed. The luxuriant curves departed, a compressed lineality was to be observed everywhere, the pupils of his eyes seemed flattened, and the carriage of his head was limp and sideways. This was a feature so remarkable and new in him that Picotee noticed it, and was lifted from the melancholy current of her own affairs in contemplating his.

But in the days leading up to the dinner party at the Doncastles', everything changed. The lush curves disappeared, and there was a noticeable flatness everywhere; his eyes seemed sunken, and his head drooped to the side. This was such a striking and unfamiliar change in him that Picotee noticed it, and it distracted her from her own concerns as she pondered his situation.

'Well, what's the matter?' said Picotee.

'Well, what's going on?' said Picotee.

'O-nothing,' said Joey.

"Nothing," said Joey.

'Nothing? How can you say so?'

'Nothing? How can you say that?'

'The world's a holler mockery-that's what I say.'

'The world is a loud joke—that's what I think.'

'Yes, so it is, to some; but not to you,' said Picotee, sighing.

'Yes, that’s true for some people; but not for you,' said Picotee, sighing.

'Don't talk argument, Picotee. I only hope you'll never feel what I feel now. If it wasn't for my juties here I know what I'd do; I'd 'list, that's what I'd do. But having my position to fill here as the only responsible man-servant in the house, I can't leave.'

'Don't argue, Picotee. I just hope you never experience what I’m feeling right now. If it weren’t for my duties here, I know what I would do; I’d join up, that’s what I’d do. But with my position as the only responsible male servant in the house, I can’t leave.'

'Has anybody been beating you?'

'Has anyone been hitting you?'

'Beating! Do I look like a person who gets beatings? No, it is a madness,' said Joey, putting his hand upon his chest. 'The case is, I am in love.'

'Beating! Do I look like someone who gets beaten? No, that's just insane,' said Joey, placing his hand on his chest. 'The thing is, I'm in love.'

'O Joey, a boy no bigger than you are!' said Picotee reprovingly. Her personal interest in the passion, however, provoked her to inquire, in the next breath, 'Who is it? Do tell, Joey.'

'O Joey, a boy no bigger than you!' Picotee said with a hint of disapproval. However, her curiosity about the matter led her to ask right away, 'Who is it? Come on, Joey, tell me.'

'No bigger than I! What hev bigness to do with it? That's just like your old-fashioned notions. Bigness is no more wanted in courting nowadays than in soldiering or smoking or any other duty of man. Husbands is rare; and a promising courter who means business will fetch his price in these times, big or small, I assure ye. I might have been engaged a dozen times over as far as the bigness goes. You should see what a miserable little fellow my rival is afore you talk like that. Now you know I've got a rival, perhaps you'll own there must be something in it.'

'Not bigger than me! What does size have to do with it? That’s just like your outdated ideas. Size isn’t needed in dating nowadays any more than in being a soldier or smoking or any other duty of a man. Good husbands are hard to find; and a serious suitor will get his price these days, no matter his size, I promise you. I could have been engaged a dozen times based on size alone. You should see what a pathetic little guy my rival is before you talk like that. Now that you know I have a rival, you might admit there’s something to it.'

'Yes, that seems like the real thing. But who is the young woman?'

'Yes, that looks like the real deal. But who is the young woman?'

'Well, I don't mind telling you, Picotee. It is Mrs. Doncastle's new maid. I called to see father last night, and had supper there; and you should have seen how lovely she were-eating sparrowgrass sideways, as if she were born to it. But, of course, there's a rival-there always is-I might have known that, and I will crush him!'

'Well, I don’t mind telling you, Picotee. It’s Mrs. Doncastle’s new maid. I went to see my dad last night and had dinner there; and you should have seen how beautifully she was eating asparagus sideways, like she was born to do it. But, of course, there’s a rival—there always is—I should have guessed that, and I will take him down!'

'But Mrs. Doncastle's new maid-if that was she I caught a glimpse of the other day-is ever so much older than you-a dozen years.'

'But Mrs. Doncastle's new maid—if that was her I saw the other day—is way older than you—about twelve years.'

'What's that to a man in love? Pooh-I wish you would leave me, Picotee; I wants to be alone.'

'What does that matter to someone in love? Ugh—I wish you would just leave me, Picotee; I want to be alone.'

A short time after this Picotee was in the company of Ethelberta, and she took occasion to mention Joey's attachment. Ethelberta grew exceedingly angry directly she heard of it.

A little while later, Picotee was with Ethelberta, and she brought up Joey's feelings for her. Ethelberta became extremely angry as soon as she heard about it.

'What a fearful nuisance that boy is becoming,' she said. 'Does father know anything of this?'

"What a annoying trouble that boy is becoming," she said. "Does dad know anything about this?"

'I think not,' said Picotee. 'O no, he cannot; he would not allow any such thing to go on; she is so much older than Joey.'

'I think not,' Picotee said. 'Oh no, he can't; he wouldn't allow anything like that to happen; she's much older than Joey.'

'I should think he wouldn't allow it! The fact is I must be more strict about this growing friendliness between you all and the Doncastle servants. There shall be absolutely no intimacy or visiting of any sort. When father wants to see any of you he must come here, unless there is a most serious reason for your calling upon him. Some disclosure or reference to me otherwise than as your mistress, will certainly be made else, and then I am ruined. I will speak to father myself about Joey's absurd nonsense this evening. I am going to see him on another matter.' And Ethelberta sighed. 'I am to dine there on Thursday,' she added.

'I doubt he would allow it! The truth is I need to be more strict about this growing friendliness between all of you and the Doncastle servants. There will be absolutely no closeness or visiting at all. When Father wants to see any of you, he has to come here, unless there's a really serious reason for you to go see him. Otherwise, some mention of me as anything other than your mistress will definitely come up, and then I’m done for. I’ll talk to Father myself about Joey's ridiculous antics this evening. I’m visiting him for another reason.' And Ethelberta sighed. 'I'm set to have dinner there on Thursday,' she added.

'To dine there, Berta? Well, that is a strange thing! Why, father will be close to you!'

'To eat there, Berta? That's unusual! Why, your dad will be right next to you!'

'Yes,' said Ethelberta quietly.

“Yes,” Ethelberta said quietly.

'How I should like to see you sitting at a grand dinner-table, among lordly dishes and shining people, and father about the room unnoticed! Berta, I have never seen a dinner-party in my life, and father said that I should some day; he promised me long ago.'

'How I would love to see you sitting at a fancy dinner table, surrounded by luxurious dishes and glamorous people, while Dad moves around the room unnoticed! Berta, I’ve never been to a dinner party in my life, and Dad said that I would someday; he promised me that a long time ago.'

'How will he be able to carry out that, my dear child?' said Ethelberta, drawing her sister gently to her side.

'How will he be able to do that, my dear child?' said Ethelberta, drawing her sister gently to her side.

'Father says that for an hour and a half the guests are quite fixed in the dining-room, and as unlikely to move as if they were trees planted round the table. Do let me go and see you, Berta,' Picotee added coaxingly. 'I would give anything to see how you look in the midst of elegant people talking and laughing, and you my own sister all the time, and me looking on like puss-in-the-corner.'

'Dad says the guests stay in the dining room for an hour and a half, just as still as trees planted around the table. Please let me come see you, Berta,' Picotee urged sweetly. 'I would do anything to see how you look among all those fancy people chatting and laughing, while you're my own sister the whole time, and I'm just watching like a wallflower.'

Ethelberta could hardly resist the entreaty, in spite of her recent resolution.

Ethelberta could barely resist the plea, despite her recent decision.

'We will leave that to be considered when I come home to-night,' she said. 'I must hear what father says.'

'We'll think about that when I get home tonight,' she said. 'I need to hear what Dad says.'

After dark the same evening a woman, dressed in plain black and wearing a hood, went to the servants' entrance of Mr. Doncastle's house, and inquired for Mr. Chickerel. Ethelberta found him in a room by himself, and on entering she closed the door behind her, and unwrapped her face.

After dark that same evening, a woman dressed in simple black and wearing a hood went to the servants' entrance of Mr. Doncastle's house and asked for Mr. Chickerel. Ethelberta found him in a room alone, and when she entered, she closed the door behind her and took off her hood.

'Can you sit with me a few minutes, father?' she said.

'Can you sit with me for a few minutes, Dad?' she said.

'Yes, for a quarter of an hour or so,' said the butler. 'Has anything happened? I thought it might be Picotee.'

'Yeah, for about fifteen minutes or so,' said the butler. 'Did something happen? I thought it might be Picotee.'

'No. All's well yet. But I thought it best to see you upon one or two matters which are harassing me a little just now. The first is, that stupid boy Joey has got entangled in some way with the lady's-maid at this house; a ridiculous affair it must be by all account, but it is too serious for me to treat lightly. She will worm everything out of him, and a pretty business it will be then.'

'No. Everything’s fine for now. But I thought it best to talk to you about a couple of things that are bothering me a bit right now. The first is that foolish boy Joey has gotten mixed up with the lady’s maid in this house; it must be a ridiculous situation from what I hear, but it's too serious for me to ignore. She will get all the details out of him, and then it will be quite a mess.'

'God bless my soul! why, the woman is old enough to be his mother! I have never heard a sound of it till now. What do you propose to do?'

'God bless my soul! Why, that woman is old enough to be his mother! I’ve never heard about this until now. What are you planning to do?'

'I have hardly thought: I cannot tell at all. But we will consider that after I have done. The next thing is, I am to dine here Thursday-that is, to-morrow.'

'I hardly thought about it: I can't say for sure. But we'll figure that out after I'm done. The next thing is, I'm having dinner here on Thursday—that is, tomorrow.'

'You going to dine here, are you?' said her father in surprise. 'Dear me, that's news. We have a dinner-party to-morrow, but I was not aware that you knew our people.'

'Are you going to eat here?' her father said, surprised. 'Wow, that's news. We have a dinner party tomorrow, but I didn't know you knew our friends.'

'I have accepted the invitation,' said Ethelberta. 'But if you think I had better stay away, I will get out of it by some means. Heavens! what does that mean-will anybody come in?' she added, rapidly pulling up her hood and jumping from the seat as the loud tones of a bell clanged forth in startling proximity.

"I've accepted the invitation," Ethelberta said. "But if you think I should stay away, I can find a way to back out of it. Oh my gosh! What does that mean—will anyone come in?" she added, quickly pulling up her hood and jumping off the seat as the loud sound of a bell rang out unexpectedly close by.

'O no-it is all safe,' said her father. 'It is the area door-nothing to do with me. About the dinner: I don't see why you may not come. Of course you will take no notice of me, nor shall I of you. It is to be rather a large party. Lord What's-his-name is coming, and several good people.'

'O no, it's all fine,' her father said. 'It's the side door—not my problem. As for dinner, I don't see why you can't come. Of course, you won't pay attention to me, and I won't to you. It's going to be a pretty big gathering. Lord What's-his-name is coming, along with several decent folks.'

'Yes; he is coming to meet me, it appears. But, father,' she said more softly and slowly, 'how wrong it will be for me to come so close to you, and never recognize you! I don't like it. I wish you could have given up service by this time; it would have been so much less painful for us all round. I thought we might have been able to manage it somehow.'

'Yes, he’s coming to meet me, it seems. But, dad,' she said more gently and slowly, 'how wrong it will be for me to get so close to you and never acknowledge you! I don’t like it. I wish you could have retired by now; it would have been so much easier for all of us. I thought we might have figured it out somehow.'

'Nonsense, nonsense,' said Mr. Chickerel crossly. 'There is not the least reason why I should give up. I want to save a little money first. If you don't like me as I am, you must keep away from me. Don't be uneasy about my comfort; I am right enough, thank God. I can mind myself for many a year yet.'

'Nonsense, nonsense,' Mr. Chickerel said irritably. 'There’s no reason for me to give up. I want to save a bit of money first. If you don't like me as I am, you should just stay away from me. Don't worry about my comfort; I'm doing fine, thank God. I can take care of myself for many years to come.'

Ethelberta looked at him with tears in her eyes, but she did not speak. She never could help crying when she met her father here.

Ethelberta looked at him with tears in her eyes, but she didn't say anything. She always found it hard not to cry when she saw her father here.

'I have been in service now for more than seven-and-thirty years,' her father went on. 'It is an honourable calling; and why should you maintain me because you can earn a few pounds by your gifts, and an old woman left you her house and a few sticks of furniture? If she had left you any money it would have been a different thing, but as you have to work for every penny you get, I cannot think of it. Suppose I should agree to come and live with you, and then you should be ill, or such like, and I no longer able to help myself? O no, I'll stick where I am, for here I am safe as to food and shelter at any rate. Surely, Ethelberta, it is only right that I, who ought to keep you all, should at least keep your mother and myself? As to our position, that we cannot help; and I don't mind that you are unable to own me.'

'I have been serving for more than thirty-seven years,' her father continued. 'It’s a respectable job; and why should you support me just because you can make a bit of money with your talents, and an elderly woman left you her house and some furniture? If she had left you any cash, that would be different, but since you have to earn every penny, I can’t agree to it. What if I decided to move in with you, and then you got sick or something, and I couldn’t take care of myself anymore? Oh no, I’ll stay put where I am, because at least here I have food and shelter. Surely, Ethelberta, it’s only fair that I, who should care for all of you, should at least take care of your mother and myself? As for our situation, we can’t change that; and I don’t mind that you can’t claim me as your own.'

'I wish I could own you-all of you.'

'I wish I could own you— all of you.'

'Well, you chose your course, my dear; and you must abide by it. Having put your hand to the plough, it will be foolish to turn back.'

'Well, you chose your path, my dear; and you have to stick with it. Now that you've set things in motion, it'll be pointless to turn back.'

'It would, I suppose. Yet I wish I could get a living by some simple humble occupation, and drop the name of Petherwin, and be Berta Chickerel again, and live in a green cottage as we used to do when I was small. I am miserable to a pitiable degree sometimes, and sink into regrets that I ever fell into such a groove as this. I don't like covert deeds, such as coming here to-night, and many are necessary with me from time to time. There is something without which splendid energies are a drug; and that is a cold heart. There is another thing necessary to energy, too-the power of distinguishing your visions from your reasonable forecasts when looking into the future, so as to allow your energy to lay hold of the forecasts only. I begin to have a fear that mother is right when she implies that I undertook to carry out visions and all. But ten of us are so many to cope with. If God Almighty had only killed off three-quarters of us when we were little, a body might have done something for the rest; but as we are it is hopeless!'

'I guess so. But I really wish I could make a living with some simple, humble job, drop the name Petherwin, be Berta Chickerel again, and live in a green cottage like we did when I was little. Sometimes I feel downright miserable and get lost in regrets about falling into this lifestyle. I don't like sneaky things, like coming here tonight, but those are necessary for me from time to time. There’s something that makes all the amazing energy feel pointless, and that’s having a cold heart. There’s also something else you need for energy—the ability to tell your dreams apart from realistic predictions when looking at the future so you can focus your energy on what’s actually possible. I’m starting to worry that my mother is right when she suggests that I took on too much. But having ten of us is just too much to handle. If God had just taken out three-quarters of us when we were kids, maybe the rest could’ve done something meaningful, but as it stands, it's hopeless!'

'There is no use in your going into high doctrine like that,' said Chickerel. 'As I said before, you chose your course. You have begun to fly high, and you had better keep there.'

'There's no point in getting all caught up in complicated ideas like that,' Chickerel said. 'Like I mentioned before, you picked your path. You've started to aim high, and you might as well stick with it.'

'And to do that there is only one way-that is, to do it surely, so that I have some groundwork to enable me to keep up to the mark in my profession. That way is marriage.'

'And to do that there’s only one way—namely, to do it confidently, so that I have a solid foundation to help me stay on top in my career. That way is marriage.'

'Marriage? Who are you going to marry?'

'God knows. Perhaps Lord Mountclere. Stranger things have happened.'

'God knows. Maybe Lord Mountclere. Stranger things have happened.'

'Yes, so they have; though not many wretcheder things. I would sooner see you in your grave, Ethelberta, than Lord Mountclere's wife, or the wife of anybody like him, great as the honour would be.'

'Yes, they have; though not many more miserable things. I'd rather see you in your grave, Ethelberta, than as Lord Mountclere's wife or the wife of anyone like him, no matter how great the honor would be.'

'Of course that was only something to say; I don't know the man even.'

'Of course, that was just something to say; I don't even know the guy.'

'I know his valet. However, marry who you may, I hope you'll be happy, my dear girl. You would be still more divided from us in that event; but when your mother and I are dead, it will make little difference.'

'I know his valet. But no matter who you marry, I hope you'll be happy, my dear girl. It would mean you'd be even more separated from us in that case; but when your mother and I are gone, it won't matter much.'

Ethelberta placed her hand upon his shoulder, and smiled cheerfully. 'Now, father, don't despond. All will be well, and we shall see no such misfortune as that for many a year. Leave all to me. I am a rare hand at contrivances.'

Ethelberta put her hand on his shoulder and smiled brightly. "Now, Dad, don't worry. Everything will turn out fine, and we won't face any trouble like that for a long time. Just leave it all to me. I'm great at finding solutions."

'You are indeed, Berta. It seems to me quite wonderful that we should be living so near together and nobody suspect the relationship, because of the precautions you have taken.'

'You really are, Berta. I find it amazing that we live so close to each other and no one suspects our connection, thanks to the precautions you've taken.'

'Yet the precautions were rather Lady Petherwin's than mine, as you know. Consider how she kept me abroad. My marriage being so secret made it easy to cut off all traces, unless anybody had made it a special business to search for them. That people should suspect as yet would be by far the more wonderful thing of the two. But we must, for one thing, have no visiting between our girls and the servants here, or they soon will suspect.'

'Yet the precautions were more for Lady Petherwin than for me, as you know. Consider how she kept me away. My marriage being so secret made it easy to eliminate all evidence, unless someone had gone out of their way to look for it. That people should suspect us at this point would be much more surprising. But we must, for one thing, avoid any visiting between our girls and the staff here, or they will quickly start to suspect.'

Ethelberta then laid down a few laws on the subject, and, explaining the other details of her visit, told her father soon that she must leave him.

Ethelberta then established a few rules regarding the matter and, while explaining the other details of her visit, informed her father shortly that she needed to leave him.

He took her along the passage and into the area. They were standing at the bottom of the steps, saying a few parting words about Picotee's visit to see the dinner, when a female figure appeared by the railing above, slipped in at the gate, and flew down the steps past the father and daughter. At the moment of passing she whispered breathlessly to him, 'Is that you, Mr. Chickerel?'

He led her down the hallway and into the area. They were at the bottom of the steps, exchanging a few last words about Picotee's visit for dinner, when a woman appeared by the railing above, slipped through the gate, and rushed down the steps past the father and daughter. As she passed, she whispered breathlessly to him, "Is that you, Mr. Chickerel?"

'Yes,' said the butler.

"Yeah," said the butler.

She tossed into his arms a quantity of wearing apparel, and adding, 'Please take them upstairs for me-I am late,' rushed into the house.

She threw a bunch of clothes into his arms and said, 'Please take these upstairs for me—I’m running late,' before hurrying into the house.

'Good heavens, what does that mean?' said Ethelberta, holding her father's arm in her uneasiness.

'Oh my gosh, what does that even mean?' said Ethelberta, gripping her father's arm in her anxiety.

'That's the new lady's-maid, just come in from an evening walk-that young scamp's sweetheart, if what you tell me is true. I don't yet know what her character is, but she runs neck and neck with time closer than any woman I ever met. She stays out at night like this till the last moment, and often throws off her dashing courting-clothes in this way, as she runs down the steps, to save a journey to the top of the house to her room before going to Mrs. Doncastle's, who is in fact at this minute waiting for her. Only look here.' Chickerel gathered up a hat decked with feathers and flowers, a parasol, and a light muslin train-skirt, out of the pocket of the latter tumbling some long golden tresses of hair.

'That's the new lady's maid, just back from an evening walk—that young troublemaker's girlfriend, if what you're telling me is true. I don't know much about her character yet, but she definitely keeps up with time better than any woman I've ever met. She stays out late like this until the last possible second and often tosses off her fancy date clothes like that as she rushes down the steps, to avoid the trip to her room at the top of the house before heading to Mrs. Doncastle's, who is actually waiting for her right now. Just look at this.' Chickerel picked up a hat adorned with feathers and flowers, a parasol, and a light muslin train skirt, spilling some long golden hair from the pocket of the skirt.

'What an extraordinary woman,' said Ethelberta. 'A perfect Cinderella. The idea of Joey getting desperate about a woman like that; no doubt she has just come in from meeting him.'

'What an incredible woman,' said Ethelberta. 'A total Cinderella. The thought of Joey getting desperate over someone like her; no doubt she just came in from seeing him.'

'No doubt-a blockhead. That's his taste, is it! I'll soon see if I can't cure his taste if it inclines towards Mrs. Menlove.'

'No doubt—a fool. That's what he likes, huh! I'll quickly find a way to change his preference if he's into Mrs. Menlove.'

'Mrs. what?'

'Mrs. Who?'

'Menlove; that's her name. She came about a fortnight ago.'

'Menlove; that's her name. She came about two weeks ago.'

'And is that Menlove-what shall we do!' exclaimed Ethelberta. 'The idea of the boy singling out her-why it is ruin to him, to me, and to us all!'

'And is that Menlove—what are we going to do!' Ethelberta exclaimed. 'The thought of that boy picking her out—it's a disaster for him, for me, and for all of us!'

She hastily explained to her father that Menlove had been Lady Petherwin's maid and her own at some time before the death of her mother-in-law, that she had only stayed with them through a three months' tour because of her flightiness, and hence had learnt nothing of Ethelberta's history, and probably had never thought at all about it. But nevertheless they were as well acquainted as a lady and her maid well could be in the time. 'Like all such doubtful characters,' continued Ethelberta, 'she was one of the cleverest and lightest-handed women we ever had about us. When she first came, my hair was getting quite weak; but by brushing it every day in a peculiar manner, and treating it as only she knew how, she brought it into splendid condition.'

She quickly told her father that Menlove had been Lady Petherwin's maid and her own at some point before her mother-in-law died. She had only stayed with them during a three-month trip because of her unpredictable nature, and so she hadn’t learned anything about Ethelberta's background and probably had never even thought about it. However, they were as familiar with each other as any lady and her maid could be at the time. 'Like all such questionable characters,' Ethelberta continued, 'she was one of the smartest and most skilled women we ever had around us. When she first arrived, my hair was getting pretty weak; but by brushing it every day in a special way and treating it in a manner only she knew how, she got it into great shape.'

'Well, this is the devil to pay, upon my life!' said Mr. Chickerel, with a miserable gaze at the bundle of clothes and the general situation at the same time. 'Unfortunately for her friendship, I have snubbed her two or three times already, for I don't care about her manner. You know she has a way of trading on a man's sense of honour till it puts him into an awkward position. She is perfectly well aware that, whatever scrape I find her out in, I shall not have the conscience to report her, because I am a man, and she is a defenceless woman; and so she takes advantage of one's feeling by making me, or either of the menservants, her bottle-holder, as you see she has done now.'

'Well, this is a real mess, I swear!' said Mr. Chickerel, with a pained look at the pile of clothes and the overall situation. 'Unfortunately for our friendship, I’ve turned her down a few times already because I’m not a fan of her attitude. You know she has a way of exploiting a guy’s sense of honor until it puts him in a tough spot. She knows very well that no matter the trouble I catch her in, I won’t have the heart to report her, because I’m a man and she’s a vulnerable woman; so she takes advantage of that by making me, or one of the male servants, her go-to guy, just like she has now.'

'This is all simply dreadful,' said Ethelberta. 'Joey is shrewd and trustworthy; but in the hands of such a woman as that! I suppose she did not recognize me.'

'This is just terrible,' said Ethelberta. 'Joey is smart and reliable; but in the care of a woman like that! I guess she didn't recognize me.'

'There was no chance of that in the dark.'

'There was no way that was happening in the dark.'

'Well, I cannot do anything in it,' said she. 'I cannot manage Joey at all.'

'Well, I can't do anything about it,' she said. 'I can't handle Joey at all.'

'I will see if I can,' said Mr. Chickerel. 'Courting at his age, indeed-what shall we hear next!'

'I’ll see if I can,' said Mr. Chickerel. 'Dating at his age, really—what will we hear next!'

Chickerel then accompanied his daughter along the street till an empty cab passed them, and putting her into it he returned to the house again.

Chickerel then walked his daughter down the street until an empty cab passed by. He helped her into it and then headed back to the house.

29. ETHELBERTA'S DRESSING-ROOM-MR. DONCASTLE'S HOUSE

The dressing of Ethelberta for the dinner-party was an undertaking into which Picotee threw her whole skill as tirewoman. Her energies were brisker that day than they had been at any time since the Julians first made preparations for departure from town; for a letter had come to her from Faith, telling of their arrival at the old cathedral city, which was found to suit their inclinations and habits infinitely better than London; and that she would like Picotee to visit them there some day. Picotee felt, and so probably felt the writer of the letter, that such a visit would not be very practicable just now; but it was a pleasant idea, and for fastening dreams upon was better than nothing.

The task of getting Ethelberta ready for the dinner party was something Picotee dedicated all her skills as a dressmaker to. Her energy that day was more vibrant than it had been since the Julians first began preparing to leave town; a letter had arrived from Faith, informing her of their arrival at the old cathedral city, which suited their tastes and lifestyle much better than London. Faith also mentioned she would love for Picotee to visit them there someday. Picotee sensed, and the letter's writer probably felt too, that such a visit was not very feasible right now; still, it was a nice idea, and better than nothing for fueling her dreams.

Such musings were encouraged also by Ethelberta's remarks as the dressing went on.

Such thoughts were also prompted by Ethelberta's comments as the dressing continued.

'We will have a change soon,' she said; 'we will go out of town for a few days. It will do good in many ways. I am getting so alarmed about the health of the children; their faces are becoming so white and thin and pinched that an old acquaintance would hardly know them; and they were so plump when they came. You are looking as pale as a ghost, and I daresay I am too. A week or two at Knollsea will see us right.'

'We’ll be having a change soon,' she said; 'we’re going to head out of town for a few days. It’ll be good for us in many ways. I'm getting really concerned about the kids' health; their faces have become so white, thin, and drawn that an old friend wouldn't even recognize them; they were so chubby when they arrived. You look as pale as a ghost, and I probably do too. A week or two at Knollsea will set us straight.'

'O, how charming!' said Picotee gladly.

'O, how charming!' Picotee said happily.

Knollsea was a village on the coast, not very far from Melchester, the new home of Christopher; not very far, that is to say, in the eye of a sweetheart; but seeing that there was, as the crow flies, a stretch of thirty-five miles between the two places, and that more than one-third the distance was without a railway, an elderly gentleman might have considered their situations somewhat remote from each other.

Knollsea was a village by the coast, not too far from Melchester, Christopher's new home; at least, not too far in the eyes of a sweetheart. However, considering there was a distance of thirty-five miles between the two places, and that more than one-third of that distance had no railway access, an older gentleman might have thought their locations were quite distant from one another.

'Why have you chosen Knollsea?' inquired Picotee.

'Why did you choose Knollsea?' Picotee asked.

'Because of aunt's letter from Rouen-have you seen it?'

'Have you seen the letter from my aunt in Rouen?'

'I did not read it through.'

'I didn't read it all the way through.'

'She wants us to get a copy of the register of her baptism; and she is not absolutely certain which of the parishes in and about Knollsea they were living in when she was born. Mother, being a year younger, cannot tell of course. First I thought of writing to the clergyman of each parish, but that would be troublesome, and might reveal the secret of my birth; but if we go down there for a few days, and take some lodgings, we shall be able to find out all about it at leisure. Gwendoline and Joey can attend to mother and the people downstairs, especially as father will look in every evening until he goes out of town, to see if they are getting on properly. It will be such a weight off my soul to slip away from acquaintances here.'

'She wants us to get a copy of her baptism record, but she isn't exactly sure which parish in and around Knollsea they lived in when she was born. Mom, being a year younger, can't tell either. At first, I thought about writing to the clergyman of each parish, but that would be a hassle and could expose the secret of my birth. Instead, if we go down there for a few days and find a place to stay, we can figure everything out at our own pace. Gwendoline and Joey can look after Mom and the people downstairs, especially since Dad will stop by every evening until he leaves town to check if they're doing okay. It'll be such a relief to get away from my acquaintances here.'

'Will it?'

'Yes. At the same time I ought not to speak so, for they have been very kind. I wish we could go to Rouen afterwards; aunt repeats her invitation as usual. However, there is time enough to think of that.'

'Yes. At the same time, I shouldn’t talk like that since they’ve been really nice. I wish we could go to Rouen later; my aunt keeps inviting us like always. But there’s plenty of time to think about that.'

Ethelberta was dressed at last, and, beholding the lonely look of poor Picotee when about to leave the room, she could not help having a sympathetic feeling that it was rather hard for her sister to be denied so small an enjoyment as a menial peep at a feast when she herself was to sit down to it as guest.

Ethelberta was finally ready, and seeing the sad expression on her sister Picotee’s face as she was about to leave the room, she couldn’t help but feel sympathetic. It seemed unfair for her sister to be denied even the small pleasure of a glance at the feast while she herself got to sit down and enjoy it as a guest.

'If you still want to go and see the procession downstairs you may do so,' she said reluctantly; 'provided that you take care of your tongue when you come in contact with Menlove, and adhere to father's instructions as to how long you may stay. It may be in the highest degree unwise; but never mind, go.'

'If you still want to go and see the procession downstairs, you can,' she said hesitantly; 'as long as you watch what you say around Menlove and follow Dad's instructions about how long you can stay. It might be very unwise, but whatever, go ahead.'

Then Ethelberta departed for the scene of action, just at the hour of the sun's lowest decline, when it was fading away, yellow and mild as candle-light, and when upper windows facing north-west reflected to persons in the street dissolving views of tawny cloud with brazen edges, the original picture of the same being hidden from sight by soiled walls and slaty slopes.

Then Ethelberta left for the scene of action, right at the time when the sun was just about to set, glowing yellow and soft like candlelight. The upper windows facing northwest showed people in the street fading images of tawny clouds with bright edges, while the actual view was blocked from sight by grimy walls and gray slopes.

Before entering the presence of host and hostess, Ethelberta contrived to exchange a few words with her father.

Before stepping into the presence of the hosts, Ethelberta managed to exchange a few words with her father.

'In excellent time,' he whispered, full of paternal pride at the superb audacity of her situation here in relation to his. 'About half of them are come.'

'Right on time,' he whispered, filled with paternal pride at her boldness in this situation compared to his. 'About half of them have arrived.'

'Mr. Neigh?'

'Not yet; he's coming.'

'Not yet; he's on the way.'

'Lord Mountclere?'

'Yes. He came absurdly early; ten minutes before anybody else, so that Mrs. D. could hardly get on her bracelets and things soon enough to scramble downstairs and receive him; and he's as nervous as a boy. Keep up your spirits, dear, and don't mind me.'

'Yes. He arrived ridiculously early; ten minutes before anyone else, so Mrs. D. could barely put on her bracelets and other stuff quickly enough to rush downstairs and greet him; and he's as anxious as a teenager. Stay positive, dear, and don't worry about me.'

'I will, father. And let Picotee see me at dinner if you can. She is very anxious to look at me. She will be here directly.'

'I will, Dad. And if you can, let Picotee see me at dinner. She really wants to see me. She'll be here soon.'

And Ethelberta, having been announced, joined the chamberful of assembled guests, among whom for the present we lose sight of her.

And Ethelberta, once announced, entered the room filled with guests, among whom we currently lose track of her.

Meanwhile the evening outside the house was deepening in tone, and the lamps began to bHANDlink up. Her sister having departed, Picotee hastily arrayed herself in a little black jacket and chip hat, and tripped across the park to the same point. Chickerel had directed a maid-servant known as Jane to receive his humbler daughter and make her comfortable; and that friendly person, who spoke as if she had known Picotee five-and-twenty years, took her to the housekeeper's room, where the visitor deposited her jacket and hat, and rested awhile.

Meanwhile, the evening outside the house grew darker, and the lamps started to flicker on. After her sister left, Picotee quickly put on a little black jacket and chip hat and walked across the park to the same spot. Chickerel had instructed a maid named Jane to welcome his younger daughter and help her feel at home; this welcoming person, who talked as if she had known Picotee for twenty-five years, led her to the housekeeper's room, where Picotee took off her jacket and hat and rested for a bit.

A quick-eyed, light-haired, slight-built woman came in when Jane had gone. 'Are you Miss Chickerel?' she said to Picotee.

A sharp-eyed, light-haired, slender woman walked in after Jane left. 'Are you Miss Chickerel?' she asked Picotee.

'Yes,' said Picotee, guessing that this was Menlove, and fearing her a little.

'Yes,' said Picotee, sensing that this was Menlove, and feeling a bit apprehensive about her.

'Jane tells me that you have come to visit your father, and would like to look at the company going to dinner. Well, they are not much to see, you know; but such as they are you are welcome to the sight of. Come along with me.'

'Jane told me that you’re here to visit your dad and want to check out the company going to dinner. Well, they’re not much to look at, you know; but if you want to see them, you’re welcome to. Come on with me.'

'I think I would rather wait for father, if you will excuse me, please.'

"I'd prefer to wait for dad, if you don't mind."

'Your father is busy now; it is no use for you to think of saying anything to him.'

'Your dad is busy right now; there's no point in trying to say anything to him.'

Picotee followed her guide up a back staircase to the height of several flights, and then, crossing a landing, they descended to the upper part of the front stairs.

Picotee followed her guide up a back staircase for several flights, and then, crossing a landing, they came down to the upper part of the front stairs.

'Now look over the balustrade, and you will see them all in a minute,' said Mrs. Menlove. 'O, you need not be timid; you can look out as far as you like. We are all independent here; no slavery for us: it is not as it is in the country, where servants are considered to be of different blood and bone from their employers, and to have no eyes for anything but their work. Here they are coming.'

'Now look over the railing, and you'll see them all in just a second,' said Mrs. Menlove. 'Oh, you don't have to be shy; you can look out as far as you want. We’re all independent here; there’s no slavery for us: it’s not like in the country, where servants are seen as different from their employers and can only focus on their work. Here they come.'

Picotee then had the pleasure of looking down upon a series of human crowns-some black, some white, some strangely built upon, some smooth and shining-descending the staircase in disordered column and great discomfort, their owners trying to talk, but breaking off in the midst of syllables to look to their footing. The young girl's eyes had not drooped over the handrail more than a few moments when she softly exclaimed, 'There she is, there she is! How lovely she looks, does she not?'

Picotee then enjoyed watching a group of people coming down the stairs—some with black crowns, some with white, some oddly shaped, and others smooth and shiny—moving in a messy line and clearly uncomfortable, their owners trying to chat but stopping mid-sentence to watch their step. The young girl had barely leaned over the handrail for a few moments when she softly exclaimed, 'There she is, there she is! She looks so lovely, doesn’t she?'

'Who?' said Mrs. Menlove.

"Who?" asked Mrs. Menlove.

Picotee recollected herself, and hastily drew in her impulses. 'My dear mistress,' she said blandly. 'That is she on Mr. Doncastle's arm. And look, who is that funny old man the elderly lady is helping downstairs?'

Picotee composed herself and quickly reined in her impulses. 'My dear mistress,' she said sweetly. 'That's her on Mr. Doncastle's arm. And look, who is that quirky old man the elderly lady is assisting downstairs?'

'He is our honoured guest, Lord Mountclere. Mrs. Doncastle will have him all through the dinner, and after that he will devote himself to Mrs. Petherwin, your "dear mistress." He keeps looking towards her now, and no doubt thinks it a nuisance that she is not with him. Well, it is useless to stay here. Come a little further-we'll follow them.' Menlove began to lead the way downstairs, but Picotee held back.

'He is our esteemed guest, Lord Mountclere. Mrs. Doncastle will have him the entire dinner, and afterward, he will focus on Mrs. Petherwin, your "dear mistress." He keeps glancing in her direction now, and undoubtedly finds it annoying that she isn't with him. Well, there's no point in staying here. Let's move a bit further—we'll catch up with them.' Menlove started to lead the way downstairs, but Picotee hesitated.

'Won't they see us?' she said.

'Won't they see us?' she asked.

'No. And if they do, it doesn't matter. Mrs. Doncastle would not object in the least to the daughter of her respected head man being accidentally seen in the hall.'

'No. And if they do, it doesn't matter. Mrs. Doncastle wouldn't mind at all if the daughter of her respected leader was accidentally seen in the hall.'

They descended to the bottom and stood in the hall. 'O, there's father!' whispered Picotee, with childlike gladness, as Chickerel became visible to her by the door. The butler nodded to his daughter, and became again engrossed in his duties.

They went down to the bottom and stood in the hall. "Oh, there's dad!" whispered Picotee, feeling a childlike joy as Chickerel appeared by the door. The butler nodded to his daughter and went back to his work.

'I wish I could see her-my mistress-again,' said Picotee.

"I wish I could see her—my mistress—again," said Picotee.

'You seem mightily concerned about your mistress,' said Menlove. 'Do you want to see if you have dressed her properly?'

'You seem really worried about your girlfriend,' said Menlove. 'Do you want to check if you've dressed her right?'

'Yes, partly; and I like her, too. She is very kind to me.'

'Yeah, a bit; and I like her, too. She’s really nice to me.'

'You will have a chance of seeing her soon. When the door is nicely open you can look in for a moment. I must leave you now for a few minutes, but I will come again.'

'You'll have a chance to see her soon. When the door is wide open, you can peek in for a moment. I have to leave you for a few minutes now, but I'll be back.'

Menlove departed, and Picotee stood waiting. She wondered how Ethelberta was getting on, and whether she enjoyed herself as much as it seemed her duty to do in such a superbly hospitable place. Picotee then turned her attention to the hall, every article of furniture therein appearing worthy of scrutiny to her unaccustomed eyes. Here she walked and looked about for a long time till an excellent opportunity offered itself of seeing how affairs progressed in the dining-room.

Menlove left, and Picotee stood there waiting. She thought about how Ethelberta was doing and if she was having as much fun as she was expected to in such a wonderfully welcoming place. Picotee then focused on the hall, with every piece of furniture looking interesting to her unfamiliar eyes. She walked around and looked for a long time until a great chance came up to see how things were going in the dining room.

Through the partly-opened door there became visible a sideboard which first attracted her attention by its richness. It was, indeed, a noticeable example of modern art-workmanship, in being exceptionally large, with curious ebony mouldings at different stages; and, while the heavy cupboard doors at the bottom were enriched with inlays of paler wood, other panels were decorated with tiles, as if the massive composition had been erected on the spot as part of the solid building. However, it was on a space higher up that Picotee's eyes and thoughts were fixed. In the great mirror above the middle ledge she could see reflected the upper part of the dining-room, and this suggested to her that she might see Ethelberta and the other guests reflected in the same way by standing on a chair, which, quick as thought, she did.

Through the partly-opened door, a sideboard became visible that caught her attention with its richness. It was a striking example of modern craftsmanship, being unusually large with unique ebony moldings at various points. The heavy cupboard doors at the bottom were adorned with lighter wood inlays, while other panels featured decorative tiles, as if the substantial piece had been constructed on-site as part of the solid building. However, it was the area higher up that kept Picotee's eyes and thoughts captivated. In the large mirror above the middle shelf, she could see the upper part of the dining room, which made her think she could also see Ethelberta and the other guests reflected similarly by standing on a chair, which she quickly did.

To Picotee's dazed young vision her beautiful sister appeared as the chief figure of a glorious pleasure-parliament of both sexes, surrounded by whole regiments of candles grouped here and there about the room. She and her companions were seated before a large flowerbed, or small hanging garden, fixed at about the level of the elbow, the attention of all being concentrated rather upon the uninteresting margin of the bed, and upon each other, than on the beautiful natural objects growing in the middle, as it seemed to Picotee. In the ripple of conversation Ethelberta's clear voice could occasionally be heard, and her young sister could see that her eyes were bright, and her face beaming, as if divers social wants and looming penuriousness had never been within her experience. Mr. Doncastle was quite absorbed in what she was saying. So was the queer old man whom Menlove had called Lord Mountclere.

To Picotee's dazed young eyes, her beautiful sister looked like the main attraction in a wonderful gathering of people, surrounded by countless candles placed around the room. She and her friends were sitting in front of a large flowerbed or a small hanging garden, positioned around elbow height, and everyone seemed more focused on the uninteresting edge of the bed and each other than on the beautiful plants growing in the center, as it appeared to Picotee. In the flow of conversation, Ethelberta's clear voice could be heard occasionally, and her younger sister noticed that her eyes were bright and her face radiant, as if she had never faced any social struggles or financial worries. Mr. Doncastle was fully engaged in what she was saying. The strange old man that Menlove had called Lord Mountclere was just as captivated.

'The dashing widow looks very well, does she not?' said a person at Picotee's elbow.

'The stylish widow looks great, doesn’t she?' said someone next to Picotee.

It was her conductor Menlove, now returned again, whom Picotee had quite forgotten.

It was her conductor Menlove, who had now come back, that Picotee had completely forgotten.

'She will do some damage here to-night you will find,' continued Menlove. 'How long have you been with her?'

'She’s going to cause some trouble here tonight, you'll see,' Menlove continued. 'How long have you been with her?'

'O, a long time-I mean rather a short time,' stammered Picotee.

'O, a long time—I mean a short time,' stammered Picotee.

'I know her well enough. I was her maid once, or rather her mother-in-law's, but that was long before you knew her. I did not by any means find her so lovable as you seem to think her when I had to do with her at close quarters. An awful flirt-awful. Don't you find her so?'

'I know her well enough. I was her maid once, or rather her mother-in-law's, but that was long before you knew her. I definitely didn’t find her as lovable as you seem to think when I had to deal with her up close. An awful flirt—just awful. Don’t you think so?'

'I don't know.'

"I have no idea."

'If you don't yet you will know. But come down from your perch-the dining-room door will not be open again for some time-and I will show you about the rooms upstairs. This is a larger house than Mrs. Petherwin's, as you see. Just come and look at the drawing-rooms.'

'If you don't know yet, you will. But come down from your high horse—the dining-room door won't be open again for a while—and I’ll show you the rooms upstairs. This house is bigger than Mrs. Petherwin's, as you can see. Just come and check out the drawing-rooms.'

Wishing much to get rid of Menlove, yet fearing to offend her, Picotee followed upstairs. Dinner was almost over by this time, and when they entered the front drawing-room a young man-servant and maid were there rekindling the lights.

Wishing to get rid of Menlove but afraid of hurting her feelings, Picotee followed her upstairs. Dinner was nearly finished by this point, and when they entered the front drawing room, a young male servant and a maid were there relighting the lamps.

'Now let's have a game of cat-and-mice,' said the maid-servant cheerily. 'There's plenty of time before they come up.'

'Now let's play a game of cat-and-mice,' said the maid cheerfully. 'There's plenty of time before they come upstairs.'

'Agreed,' said Menlove promptly. 'You will play, will you not, Miss Chickerel?'

'Agreed,' said Menlove quickly. 'You will join us, right, Miss Chickerel?'

'No, indeed,' said Picotee, aghast.

'No way,' said Picotee, shocked.

'Never mind, then; you look on.'

'Never mind, then; you just keep watching.'

Away then ran the housemaid and Menlove, and the young footman started at their heels. Round the room, over the furniture, under the furniture, through the furniture, out of one window, along the balcony, in at another window, again round the room-so they glided with the swiftness of swallows and the noiselessness of ghosts.

Away ran the housemaid and Menlove, and the young footman followed right behind them. They zipped around the room, over the furniture, under the furniture, through the furniture, out of one window, along the balcony, in at another window, and back around the room—gliding as swiftly as swallows and as silently as ghosts.

Then the housemaid drew a jew's-harp from her pocket, and struck up a lively waltz sotto voce. The footman seized Menlove, who appeared nothing loth, and began spinning gently round the room with her, to the time of the fascinating measure

Then the maid took a jew's-harp from her pocket and started playing a lively waltz quietly. The footman grabbed Menlove, who seemed more than happy to join him, and they began to spin gently around the room to the rhythm of the enchanting tune.

'Which fashion comes from countesses to queens,  
And maids and valets dance behind the scenes.'

Picotee, who had been accustomed to unceiled country cottages all her life, wherein the scamper of a mouse is heard distinctly from floor to floor, exclaimed in a terrified whisper, at viewing all this, 'They'll hear you underneath, they'll hear you, and we shall all be ruined!'

Picotee, who had grown up in country cottages without ceilings, where you could clearly hear a mouse scurrying from one floor to another, gasped in a frightened whisper upon seeing all of this, "They'll hear you down below, they'll hear you, and we’ll all be in trouble!"

'Not at all,' came from the cautious dancers. 'These are some of the best built houses in London-double floors, filled in with material that will deaden any row you like to make, and we make none. But come and have a turn yourself, Miss Chickerel.'

'Not at all,' responded the cautious dancers. 'These are some of the best-built houses in London—double floors, filled with materials that will soundproof any noise you want to make, and we make none. But come and take a turn yourself, Miss Chickerel.'

The young man relinquished Menlove, and on the spur of the moment seized Picotee. Picotee flounced away from him in indignation, backing into a corner with ruffled feathers, like a pullet trying to appear a hen.

The young man let go of Menlove, and on a whim grabbed Picotee. Picotee huffed and turned away from him in anger, retreating into a corner with her feathers all ruffled, like a young chicken trying to look like a grown hen.

'How dare you touch me!' she said, with rounded eyes. 'I'll tell somebody downstairs of you, who'll soon see about it!'

'How dare you touch me!' she said, her eyes wide. 'I’ll tell someone downstairs about you, and they'll take care of it!'

'What a baby; she'll tell her father.'

'What a baby; she’ll tell her dad.'

'No I shan't; somebody you are all afraid of, that's who I'll tell.'

'No, I won't; I'll tell someone you all are afraid of, that's who.'

'Nonsense,' said Menlove; 'he meant no harm.'

'Nonsense,' said Menlove; 'he didn't mean any harm.'

Playtime was now getting short, and further antics being dangerous on that account, the performers retired again downstairs, Picotee of necessity following. Her nerves were screwed up to the highest pitch of uneasiness by the grotesque habits of these men and maids, who were quite unlike the country servants she had known, and resembled nothing so much as pixies, elves, or gnomes, peeping up upon human beings from their shady haunts underground, sometimes for good, sometimes for ill-sometimes doing heavy work, sometimes none; teasing and worrying with impish laughter half suppressed, and vanishing directly mortal eyes were bent on them. Separate and distinct from overt existence under the sun, this life could hardly be without its distinctive pleasures, all of them being more or less pervaded by thrills and titillations from games of hazard, and the perpetual risk of sensational surprises.

Playtime was coming to an end, and any further antics could be dangerous, so the performers went back downstairs, with Picotee having to follow. Her nerves were on edge from the bizarre behavior of these men and women, who were nothing like the country servants she was used to and seemed more like pixies, elves, or gnomes, peeking at humans from their hidden underground spots. Sometimes they meant well, sometimes they didn’t; sometimes they worked hard, and sometimes they didn’t do anything at all; they teased and bothered everyone with half-suppressed giggles, disappearing as soon as anyone mortal looked their way. This hidden life, separate from the bright light of day, must have had its own unique pleasures, all tinged with the excitement and thrill of risky games and the constant chance of unexpected surprises.

Long before this time Picotee had begun to be anxious to get home again, but Menlove seemed particularly to desire her company, and pressed her to sit awhile, telling her young friend, by way of entertainment, of various extraordinary love adventures in which she had figured as heroine when travelling on the Continent. These stories had one and all a remarkable likeness in a certain point-Menlove was always unwilling to love the adorer, and the adorer was always unwilling to live afterwards on account of it.

Long before this time, Picotee had started to feel anxious about getting home again, but Menlove seemed especially eager for her company and encouraged her to stay a little longer. To entertain her young friend, Menlove shared various extraordinary love stories where she had played the heroine while traveling in Europe. These stories all had one striking similarity—Menlove was always reluctant to love her admirer, and the admirer was always hesitant to continue living due to it.

'Ha-ha-ha!' in men's voices was heard from the distant dining-room as the two women went on talking.

'Ha-ha-ha!' in men's voices echoed from the distant dining room as the two women continued their conversation.

'And then,' continued Menlove, 'there was that duel I was the cause of between the courier and the French valet. Dear me, what a trouble that was; yet I could do nothing to prevent it. This courier was a very handsome man-they are handsome sometimes.'

'And then,' continued Menlove, 'there was that duel I caused between the courier and the French valet. What a hassle that was; yet I couldn't do anything to stop it. This courier was a really good-looking guy—they can be good-looking sometimes.'

'Yes, they are. My aunt married one.'

'Yeah, they are. My aunt married one.'

'Did she? Where do they live?'

'They keep an hotel at Rouen,' murmured Picotee, in doubt whether this should have been told or not.

'They run a hotel in Rouen,' murmured Picotee, unsure if she should have shared this information.

'Well, he used to follow me to the English Church every Sunday regularly, and I was so determined not to give my hand where my heart could never be, that I slipped out at the other door while he stood expecting me by the one I entered. Here I met M. Pierre, when, as ill luck would have it, the other came round the corner, and seeing me talking to the valet, he challenged him at once.'

'Well, he used to follow me to the English Church every Sunday without fail, and I was so set on not giving my hand where my heart could never be, that I slipped out the other door while he stood waiting for me by the one I came in. There I ran into M. Pierre, when, as bad luck would have it, the other guy came around the corner and, seeing me talking to the valet, he confronted him right away.'

'Ha-ha-ha!' was heard again afar.

'Ha-ha-ha!' was heard again from a distance.

'Did they fight?' said Picotee.

"Did they have a fight?" said Picotee.

'Yes, I believe they did. We left Nice the next day; but I heard some time after of a duel not many miles off, and although I could not get hold of the names, I make no doubt it was between those two gentlemen. I never knew which of them fell; poor fellow, whichever it was.'

'Yes, I think they did. We left Nice the next day; but I heard later about a duel not far away, and even though I couldn't find out the names, I'm pretty sure it was between those two gentlemen. I never found out which one fell; poor guy, whoever he was.'

'Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!' came from the dining-room.

'Ha-ha-ha!' came from the dining room.

'Whatever are those boozy men laughing at, I wonder?' said Menlove. 'They are always so noisy when the ladies have gone upstairs. Upon my soul, I'll run up and find out.'

'What are those drunk guys laughing at, I wonder?' said Menlove. 'They get so loud when the ladies go upstairs. Honestly, I’ll go up and check it out.'

'No, no, don't,' entreated Picotee, putting her hand on her entertainer's arm. 'It seems wrong; it is no concern of ours.'

'No, no, don't,' Picotee pleaded, placing her hand on her host's arm. 'It feels wrong; it's not our business.'

'Wrong be hanged-anything on an impulse,' said Mrs. Menlove, skipping across the room and out of the door, which stood open, as did others in the house, the evening being sultry and oppressive.

'It's a mistake to act on a whim,' said Mrs. Menlove, skipping across the room and out the open door, as many others in the house were left open too, the evening being hot and stifling.

Picotee waited in her seat until it occurred to her that she could escape the lady's-maid by going off into her father's pantry in her absence. But before this had been put into effect Menlove appeared again.

Picotee waited in her seat until she realized that she could avoid the lady's maid by slipping into her father's pantry while she was gone. But before she could put this plan into action, Menlove showed up again.

'Such fun as they are having up there,' she said. 'Somebody asked Mr. Neigh to tell a story which he had told at some previous time, but he was very reluctant to do so, and pretended he could not recollect it. Well, then, the other man-I could not distinguish him by his voice-began telling it, to prompt Mr. Neigh's memory; and, as far as I could understand, it was about some lady who thought Mr. Neigh was in love with her, and, to find whether he was worth accepting or not, she went with her maid at night to see his estate, and wandered about and got lost, and was frightened, and I don't know what besides. Then Mr. Neigh laughed too, and said he liked such common sense in a woman. No names were mentioned, but I fancy, from the awkwardness of Mr. Neigh at being compelled to tell it, that the lady is one of those in the drawing-room. I should like to know which it was.'

"Looks like they're having a great time up there," she said. "Someone asked Mr. Neigh to share a story he had told before, but he was really hesitant to do it and pretended he couldn't remember. So, then the other guy—I couldn't tell who he was by his voice—started telling the story to jog Mr. Neigh's memory, and from what I could gather, it was about a woman who thought Mr. Neigh was in love with her. To see if he was worth it, she sneaked out with her maid at night to explore his estate, got lost, got scared, and I’m not sure what else happened. Then Mr. Neigh laughed too and said he appreciated that kind of common sense in a woman. No names were mentioned, but I suspect, from how awkward Mr. Neigh was about telling it, that the lady is one of those in the drawing room. I’d like to know who it was."

'I know-have heard something about it,' said Picotee, blushing with anger. 'It was nothing at all like that. I wonder Mr. Neigh had the audacity ever to talk of the matter, and to misrepresent it so greatly!'

'I know—I’ve heard something about it,' said Picotee, blushing with anger. 'It was nothing at all like that. I can’t believe Mr. Neigh had the nerve to even bring it up and twist the story so much!'

'Tell all about it, do,' said Menlove.

"Go ahead and tell all about it," said Menlove.

'O no,' said Picotee. 'I promised not to say a word.'

'O no,' said Picotee. 'I promised not to say anything.'

'It is your mistress, I expect.'

"Is it your girlfriend?"

'You may think what you like; but the lady is anything but a mistress of mine.'

'You can think whatever you want, but she is definitely not my mistress.'

The flighty Menlove pressed her to tell the whole story, but finding this useless the subject was changed. Presently her father came in, and, taking no notice of Menlove, told his daughter that she had been called for. Picotee very readily put on her things, and on going outside found Joey awaiting her. Mr. Chickerel followed closely, with sharp glances from the corner of his eye, and it was plain from Joey's nervous manner of lingering in the shadows of the area doorway instead of entering the house, that the butler had in some way set himself to prevent all communion between the fair lady's-maid and his son for that evening at least.

The restless Menlove urged her to share the entire story, but when that proved pointless, they changed the subject. Soon, her father walked in and, ignoring Menlove, informed his daughter that her presence was requested. Picotee quickly got ready, and when she stepped outside, she found Joey waiting for her. Mr. Chickerel trailed closely behind, stealing sharp glances from the corner of his eye, and it was clear from Joey's anxious demeanor, lingering in the shadows of the doorway instead of stepping inside, that the butler had somehow decided to keep any interaction between the pretty maid and his son off-limits for that evening at least.

He watched Picotee and her brother off the premises, and the pair went on their way towards Exonbury Crescent, very few words passing between them. Picotee's thoughts had turned to the proposed visit to Knollsea, and Joey was sulky under disappointment and the blank of thwarted purposes.

He watched Picotee and her brother leave the property, and they made their way toward Exonbury Crescent, barely speaking to each other. Picotee was thinking about the planned visit to Knollsea, while Joey was in a bad mood, feeling disappointed and frustrated by their unfulfilled plans.

30. ON THE HOUSETOP

'Picotee, are you asleep?' Ethelberta whispered softly at dawn the next morning, by the half-opened door of her sister's bedroom.

'Picotee, are you asleep?' Ethelberta whispered softly at dawn the next morning, by the half-open door of her sister's bedroom.

'No, I keep waking, it is so warm.'

'No, I keep waking up, it’s so warm.'

'So do I. Suppose we get up and see the sun rise. The east is filling with flame.'

'So do I. How about we get up and watch the sunrise? The east is lighting up like fire.'

'Yes, I should like it,' said Picotee.

'Yeah, I would like that,' said Picotee.

The restlessness which had brought Ethelberta hither in slippers and dressing-gown at such an early hour owed its origin to another cause than the warmth of the weather; but of that she did not speak as yet. Picotee's room was an attic, with windows in the roof-a chamber dismal enough at all times, and very shadowy now. While Picotee was wrapping up, Ethelberta placed a chair under the window, and mounting upon this they stepped outside, and seated themselves within the parapet.

The restlessness that had driven Ethelberta here in her slippers and robe at such an early hour had a different cause than just the warm weather, but she wasn’t ready to talk about that yet. Picotee's room was an attic, with windows in the roof—a space gloomy enough all the time, and especially dim now. While Picotee was getting ready, Ethelberta set a chair under the window, climbed up on it, and they both stepped outside to sit on the parapet.

The air was as clear and fresh as on a mountain side; sparrows chattered, and birds of a species unsuspected at later hours could be heard singing in the park hard by, while here and there on ridges and flats a cat might be seen going calmly home from the devilries of the night to resume the amiabilities of the day.

The air was as clear and fresh as on a mountainside; sparrows chattered, and birds of a type not heard later could be heard singing in the nearby park, while here and there on slopes and flat areas, a cat could be seen calmly heading home from the adventures of the night to return to the friendliness of the day.

'I am so sorry I was asleep when you reached home,' said Picotee. 'I was so anxious to tell you something I heard of, and to know what you did; but my eyes would shut, try as I might, and then I tried no longer. Did you see me at all, Berta?'

'I’m really sorry I was asleep when you got home,' Picotee said. 'I was so eager to tell you about something I heard and to find out what you did, but my eyes just wouldn’t stay open no matter how hard I tried, and then I just gave up. Did you see me at all, Berta?'

'Never once. I had an impression that you were there. I fancied you were from father's carefully vacuous look whenever I glanced at his face. But were you careful about what you said, and did you see Menlove? I felt all the time that I had done wrong in letting you come; the gratification to you was not worth the risk to me.'

'Not even once. I had a feeling you were around. I imagined you were, based on my father's deliberately blank expression whenever I looked at him. But were you careful about what you said, and did you see Menlove? I felt all along that I had made a mistake by letting you come; your enjoyment wasn’t worth the risk to me.'

'I saw her, and talked to her. But I am certain she suspected nothing. I enjoyed myself very much, and there was no risk at all.'

'I saw her and talked to her. But I’m sure she didn’t suspect anything. I had a great time, and there was no risk at all.'

'I am glad it is no worse news. However, you must not go there again: upon that point I am determined.'

'I’m glad it’s not worse news. However, you can’t go there again: I’m firm on that.'

'It was a good thing I did go, all the same. I'll tell you why when you have told me what happened to you.'

'I'm glad I went, after all. I'll explain why once you tell me what happened to you.'

'Nothing of importance happened to me.'

'Nothing important happened to me.'

'I expect you got to know the lord you were to meet?'

'I assume you got to know the lord you were supposed to meet?'

'O yes-Lord Mountclere.'

'Oh yes, Lord Mountclere.'

'And it's dreadful how fond he is of you-quite ridiculously taken up with you-I saw that well enough. Such an old man, too; I wouldn't have him for the world!'

'And it's awful how much he likes you—totally obsessed with you—I noticed that for sure. Such an old man, too; I wouldn't want him for anything!'

'Don't jump at conclusions so absurdly, Picotee. Why wouldn't you have him for the world?'

'Don't jump to such ridiculous conclusions, Picotee. Why wouldn't you want him for the world?'

'Because he is old enough to be my grandfather, and yours too.'

'Because he’s old enough to be my grandfather—and yours as well.'

'Indeed he is not; he is only middle-aged.'

'Actually, he’s not; he’s just middle-aged.'

'O Berta! Sixty-five at least.'

'O Berta! At least sixty-five.'

'He may or may not be that; and if he is, it is not old. He is so entertaining that one forgets all about age in connection with him.'

'He might be that, or he might not; and if he is, it’s not because he’s old. He’s so entertaining that you forget all about his age when you’re with him.'

'He laughs like this-"Hee-hee-hee!"' Picotee introduced as much antiquity into her face as she could by screwing it up and suiting the action to the word.

'He laughs like this—"Hee-hee-hee!"' Picotee tried to make her face as old-fashioned as possible by scrunching it up and matching her expression to the words.

'This very odd thing occurred,' said Ethelberta, to get Picotee off the track of Lord Mountclere's peculiarities, as it seemed. 'I was saying to Mr. Neigh that we were going to Knollsea for a time, feeling that he would not be likely to know anything about such an out-of-the-way place, when Lord Mountclere, who was near, said, "I shall be at Enckworth Court in a few days, probably at the time you are at Knollsea. The Imperial Archaeological Association holds its meetings in that part of Wessex this season, and Corvsgate Castle, near Knollsea, is one of the places on our list." Then he hoped I should be able to attend. Did you ever hear anything so strange? Now, I should like to attend very much, not on Lord Mountclere's account, but because such gatherings are interesting, and I have never been to one; yet there is this to be considered, would it be right for me to go without a friend to such a place? Another point is, that we shall live in menagerie style at Knollsea for the sake of the children, and we must do it economically in case we accept Aunt Charlotte's invitation to Rouen; hence, if he or his friends find us out there it will be awkward for me. So the alternative is Knollsea or some other place for us.'

"This really strange thing happened," Ethelberta said, trying to steer Picotee away from talking about Lord Mountclere's quirks. "I was telling Mr. Neigh that we were heading to Knollsea for a bit, thinking he probably wouldn’t know anything about such a remote place, when Lord Mountclere, who was nearby, said, 'I’ll be at Enckworth Court in a few days, probably while you’re at Knollsea. The Imperial Archaeological Association is having its meetings in that part of Wessex this season, and Corvsgate Castle, not far from Knollsea, is one of the sites on our list.' Then he expressed his hope that I would be able to attend. Have you ever heard anything so odd? I would really like to go, not because of Lord Mountclere, but because those gatherings are fascinating, and I’ve never been to one; however, I have to consider whether it would be proper for me to go without a friend to such an event. Another thing is, we’ll be living in a bit of chaos at Knollsea for the kids’ sake, and we need to do it on a budget in case we decide to take Aunt Charlotte up on her invitation to Rouen; so if he or his friends happen to find us there, it could get uncomfortable for me. So the choice is between Knollsea or some other place for us."

'Let it be Knollsea, now we have once settled it,' said Picotee anxiously. 'I have mentioned to Faith Julian that we shall be there.'

'Let it be Knollsea, now that we’ve settled it,' Picotee said anxiously. 'I told Faith Julian that we’ll be there.'

'Mentioned it already! You must have written instantly.'

'Mentioned it already! You must have written it right away.'

'I had a few minutes to spare, and I thought I might as well write.'

'I had a few minutes to spare, so I thought I might as well write.'

'Very well; we will stick to Knollsea,' said Ethelberta, half in doubt. 'Yes-otherwise it will be difficult to see about aunt's baptismal certificate. We will hope nobody will take the trouble to pry into our household. . . . And now, Picotee, I want to ask you something-something very serious. How would you like me to marry Mr. Neigh?'

'All right; we’ll go with Knollsea,' Ethelberta said, a bit uncertain. 'Yes—otherwise it'll be tough to track down aunt's baptismal certificate. Let’s hope nobody bothers to poke around in our home... And now, Picotee, I need to ask you something—something really important. How would you feel about me marrying Mr. Neigh?'

Ethelberta could not help laughing with a faint shyness as she asked the question under the searching east ray. 'He has asked me to marry him,' she continued, 'and I want to know what you would say to such an arrangement. I don't mean to imply that the event is certain to take place; but, as a mere supposition, what do you say to it, Picotee?' Ethelberta was far from putting this matter before Picotee for advice or opinion; but, like all people who have an innate dislike to hole-and-corner policy, she felt compelled to speak of it to some one.

Ethelberta couldn't help but laugh a little shyly as she asked the question under the probing sunlight. "He’s asked me to marry him," she continued, "and I want to know what you think about that idea. I'm not saying it's definitely going to happen, but just as a thought, what do you think, Picotee?" Ethelberta wasn’t asking Picotee for advice or her opinion; she just felt the need to talk about it with someone, as she wasn’t a fan of keeping things hidden.

'I should not like him for you at all,' said Picotee vehemently. 'I would rather you had Mr. Ladywell.'

'I really don't like him for you at all,' Picotee said passionately. 'I would rather you have Mr. Ladywell.'

'O, don't name him!'

"Oh, don't name him!"

'I wouldn't have Mr. Neigh at any price, nevertheless. It is about him that I was going to tell you.' Picotee proceeded to relate Menlove's account of the story of Ethelberta's escapade, which had been dragged from Neigh the previous evening by the friend to whom he had related it before he was so enamoured of Ethelberta as to regard that performance as a positive virtue in her. 'Nobody was told, or even suspected, who the lady of the anecdote was,' Picotee concluded; 'but I knew instantly, of course, and I think it very unfortunate that we ever went to that dreadful ghostly estate of his, Berta.'

'I wouldn't want Mr. Neigh for any amount of money, though. He's the one I was going to tell you about.' Picotee went on to share Menlove's version of Ethelberta's adventure, which had been revealed by Neigh the night before to a friend he had told it to before he became so infatuated with Ethelberta that he saw that incident as a definite virtue in her. 'No one was told, or even guessed, who the lady in the story was,' Picotee wrapped up; 'but I knew right away, of course, and I think it's really unfortunate that we ever went to that horrible, ghostly estate of his, Berta.'

Ethelberta's face heated with mortification. She had no fear that Neigh had told names or other particulars which might lead to her identification by any friend of his, and she could make allowance for bursts of confidence; but there remained the awkward fact that he himself knew her to be the heroine of the episode. What annoyed her most was that Neigh could ever have looked upon her indiscretion as a humorous incident, which he certainly must have done at some time or other to account for his telling it. Had he been angry with her, or sneered at her for going, she could have forgiven him; but to see her manoeuvre in the light of a joke, to use it as illustrating his grim theory of womankind, and neither to like nor to dislike her the more for it from first to last, this was to treat her with a cynicism which was intolerable. That Neigh's use of the incident as a stock anecdote ceased long before he had decided to ask her to marry him she had no doubt, but it showed that his love for her was of that sort in which passion makes war upon judgment, and prevails in spite of will. Moreover, he might have been speaking ironically when he alluded to the act as a virtue in a woman, which seemed the more likely when she remembered his cool bearing towards her in the drawing-room. Possibly it was an antipathetic reaction, induced by the renewed recollection of her proceeding.

Ethelberta's face flushed with embarrassment. She was not worried that Neigh had shared any names or details that could reveal her identity to any of his friends, and she could understand moments of overconfidence; but the uncomfortable truth remained that he was aware she was the main character in the story. What upset her the most was that Neigh could ever see her mistake as a funny incident, which he must have done at some point to justify telling it. If he had been angry with her or mocked her for going, she might have been able to forgive him; but to see her actions as a joke, to use it to support his grim view of women, and to neither like nor dislike her more for it throughout, this felt to her like a cynical treatment that was unbearable. She had no doubt that Neigh stopped using the incident as a go-to anecdote long before he decided to propose to her, but it indicated that his feelings for her were the kind where passion fought with reason and won despite his will. Furthermore, he could have been speaking sarcastically when he referred to the act as a virtue in a woman, which seemed more likely when she recalled his cool demeanor towards her in the drawing room. It could have been an adverse reaction sparked by his renewed memory of her actions.

'I will never marry Mr. Neigh!' she said, with decision. 'That shall settle it. You need not think over any such contingency, Picotee. He is one of those horrid men who love with their eyes, the remainder part of him objecting all the time to the feeling; and even if his objections prove the weaker, and the man marries, his general nature conquers again by the time the wedding trip is over, so that the woman is miserable at last, and had better not have had him at all.'

'I will never marry Mr. Neigh!' she said firmly. 'That settles it. You don’t need to worry about any such possibility, Picotee. He is one of those awful guys who love based on looks, while the rest of him constantly fights against it; and even if his doubts lose out, and the guy gets married, his true nature comes back to haunt him by the time the honeymoon is over, leaving the woman unhappy in the end, and she would have been better off without him altogether.'

'That applies still more to Lord Mountclere, to my thinking. I never saw anything like the look of his eyes upon you.'

'That applies even more to Lord Mountclere, in my opinion. I’ve never seen anything quite like the look in his eyes when he looks at you.'

'O no, no-you understand nothing if you say that. But one thing be sure of, there is no marriage likely to take place between myself and Mr. Neigh. I have longed for a sound reason for disliking him, and now I have got it. Well, we will talk no more of this-let us think of the nice little pleasure we have in store-our stay at Knollsea. There we will be as free as the wind. And when we are down there, I can drive across to Corvsgate Castle if I wish to attend the Imperial Association meeting, and nobody will know where I came from. Knollsea is not more than five miles from the Castle, I think.'

"Oh no, no—you really don’t understand anything if you say that. But one thing you can be sure of is that there’s no way I’m marrying Mr. Neigh. I’ve been trying to find a good reason to dislike him, and now I finally have one. Well, let’s not talk about that anymore—let’s focus on the nice little getaway we have planned—our time at Knollsea. There we’ll be as free as the wind. And when we’re down there, I can drive over to Corvsgate Castle if I want to go to the Imperial Association meeting, and nobody will know where I came from. I think Knollsea is only about five miles from the Castle."

Picotee was by this time beginning to yawn, and Ethelberta did not feel nearly so wakeful as she had felt half-an-hour earlier. Tall and swarthy columns of smoke were now soaring up from the kitchen chimneys around, spreading horizontally when at a great height, and forming a roof of haze which was turning the sun to a copper colour, and by degrees spoiling the sweetness of the new atmosphere that had rolled in from the country during the night, giving it the usual city smell. The resolve to make this rising the beginning of a long and busy day, which should set them beforehand with the rest of the world, weakened with their growing weariness, and an impulse to lie down just for a quarter of an hour before dressing, ended in a sound sleep that did not relinquish its hold upon them till late in the forenoon.

Picotee was starting to yawn, and Ethelberta didn’t feel nearly as alert as she had half an hour earlier. Tall, dark columns of smoke were now rising from the kitchen chimneys around them, spreading out horizontally at a high altitude, and creating a hazy roof that was turning the sun a copper color, gradually ruining the freshness of the clean air that had come in from the countryside overnight, replacing it with the typical city smell. Their resolve to make this early start the beginning of a long and busy day to get ahead of everyone else weakened with their growing tiredness, and the urge to lie down for just fifteen minutes before getting dressed ended up in a deep sleep that didn’t let go of them until late in the morning.

31. KNOLLSEA-A LOFTY DOWN-A RUINED CASTLE

Knollsea was a seaside village lying snug within two headlands as between a finger and thumb. Everybody in the parish who was not a boatman was a quarrier, unless he were the gentleman who owned half the property and had been a quarryman, or the other gentleman who owned the other half, and had been to sea.

Knollsea was a coastal village nestled comfortably between two headlands like a finger and thumb. Everyone in the parish who wasn't a fisherman was a stone worker, except for the gentleman who owned half the land and used to be a stone mason, or the other gentleman who owned the other half and had been a sailor.

The knowledge of the inhabitants was of the same special sort as their pursuits. The quarrymen in white fustian understood practical geology, the laws and accidents of dips, faults, and cleavage, far better than the ways of the world and mammon; the seafaring men in Guernsey frocks had a clearer notion of Alexandria, Constantinople, the Cape, and the Indies than of any inland town in their own country. This, for them, consisted of a busy portion, the Channel, where they lived and laboured, and a dull portion, the vague unexplored miles of interior at the back of the ports, which they seldom thought of.

The knowledge of the locals was unique, just like their jobs. The quarry workers in white cloth knew practical geology—understanding dips, faults, and cleavage—much better than they understood the world of money and commerce. The sailors in Guernsey outfits had a clearer idea of Alexandria, Constantinople, the Cape, and the Indies than they did of any inland town in their own country. For them, their world consisted of a busy part, the Channel, where they lived and worked, and a dull part, the vague, unexplored miles of land behind the ports, which they rarely considered.

Some wives of the village, it is true, had learned to let lodgings, and others to keep shops. The doors of these latter places were formed of an upper hatch, usually kept open, and a lower hatch, with a bell attached, usually kept shut. Whenever a stranger went in, he would hear a whispering of astonishment from a back room, after which a woman came forward, looking suspiciously at him as an intruder, and advancing slowly enough to allow her mouth to get clear of the meal she was partaking of. Meanwhile the people in the back room would stop their knives and forks in absorbed curiosity as to the reason of the stranger's entry, who by this time feels ashamed of his unwarrantable intrusion into this hermit's cell, and thinks he must take his hat off. The woman is quite alarmed at seeing that he is not one of the fifteen native women and children who patronize her, and nervously puts her hand to the side of her face, which she carries slanting. The visitor finds himself saying what he wants in an apologetic tone, when the woman tells him that they did keep that article once, but do not now; that nobody does, and probably never will again; and as he turns away she looks relieved that the dilemma of having to provide for a stranger has passed off with no worse mishap than disappointing him.

Some of the village wives, it’s true, had started offering rentals, while others opened shops. The doors of the shops usually had an upper hatch that was kept open and a lower hatch with a bell attached that was typically kept shut. Whenever a stranger entered, he would hear whispers of surprise from a back room, and then a woman would come out, eyeing him suspiciously as if he were an intruder, moving slowly enough to finish her meal. Meanwhile, the people in the back room would pause with their forks and knives, intrigued about why the stranger had come in, causing him to feel embarrassed about invading this secluded space and think he should take off his hat. The woman feels anxious seeing that he isn’t one of the fifteen local women and children who usually visit her shop, and she nervously touches the side of her face, which is tilted. The visitor finds himself asking for what he wants in an apologetic way when she informs him that they used to sell that item, but no longer do; that nobody does, and probably never will again. As he turns to leave, she looks relieved that the situation of having to cater to a stranger ended without any major issues other than disappointing him.

A cottage which stood on a high slope above this townlet and its bay resounded one morning with the notes of a merry company. Ethelberta had managed to find room for herself and her young relations in the house of one of the boatmen, whose wife attended upon them all. Captain Flower, the husband, assisted her in the dinner preparations, when he slipped about the house as lightly as a girl and spoke of himself as cook's mate. The house was so small that the sailor's rich voice, developed by shouting in high winds during a twenty years' experience in the coasting trade, could be heard coming from the kitchen between the chirpings of the children in the parlour. The furniture of this apartment consisted mostly of the painting of a full-rigged ship, done by a man whom the captain had specially selected for the purpose because he had been seven-and-twenty years at sea before touching a brush, and thereby offered a sufficient guarantee that he understood how to paint a vessel properly.

A cottage perched on a high slope overlooking this little town and its bay echoed one morning with the sounds of a cheerful group. Ethelberta had found space for herself and her younger relatives in the home of one of the boatmen, whose wife took care of them all. Captain Flower, her husband, helped her with the dinner preparations, moving around the house as gracefully as a girl and calling himself the cook's assistant. The house was so small that the sailor's booming voice, honed from shouting in strong winds over twenty years in the coastal trade, could be heard coming from the kitchen amid the children's laughter in the living room. The furniture in this room consisted mostly of a painting of a fully-rigged ship, created by a man the captain had specifically chosen for the job because he had spent twenty-seven years at sea before picking up a paintbrush, which ensured he knew how to paint a ship properly.

Before this picture sat Ethelberta in a light linen dress, and with tightly-knotted hair-now again Berta Chickerel as of old-serving out breakfast to the rest of the party, and sometimes lifting her eyes to the outlook from the window, which presented a happy combination of grange scenery with marine. Upon the irregular slope between the house and the quay was an orchard of aged trees wherein every apple ripening on the boughs presented its rubicund side towards the cottage, because that building chanced to lie upwards in the same direction as the sun. Under the trees were a few Cape sheep, and over them the stone chimneys of the village below: outside these lay the tanned sails of a ketch or smack, and the violet waters of the bay, seamed and creased by breezes insufficient to raise waves; beyond all a curved wall of cliff, terminating in a promontory, which was flanked by tall and shining obelisks of chalk rising sheer from the trembling blue race beneath.

Before this picture sat Ethelberta in a light linen dress, with her hair neatly tied up—now once again Berta Chickerel as she used to be—serving breakfast to the rest of the group, occasionally glancing out the window at a beautiful view that mixed countryside scenery with the sea. On the uneven slope between the house and the quay was an orchard of old trees, where every apple ripening on the branches faced towards the cottage since it happened to be positioned in the same direction as the sun. Under the trees were a few Cape sheep, and above them were the stone chimneys of the village below; outside of this scene lay the sun-bleached sails of a ketch or smack, and the violet waters of the bay, gently stirred by a breeze that was too light to create waves; beyond it all was a curved cliff wall, ending in a promontory, which was bordered by tall, shining chalk cliffs rising straight up from the shimmering blue water below.

By one sitting in the room that commanded this prospect, a white butterfly among the apple-trees might be mistaken for the sails of a yacht far away on the sea; and in the evening when the light was dim, what seemed like a fly crawling upon the window-pane would turn out to be a boat in the bay.

By someone sitting in the room with this view, a white butterfly among the apple trees might be confused for the sails of a yacht far off at sea; and in the evening when the light was low, what looked like a fly crawling on the windowpane would actually be a boat in the bay.

When breakfast was over, Ethelberta sat leaning on the window-sill considering her movements for the day. It was the time fixed for the meeting of the Imperial Association at Corvsgate Castle, the celebrated ruin five miles off, and the meeting had some fascinations for her. For one thing, she had never been present at a gathering of the kind, although what was left in any shape from the past was her constant interest, because it recalled her to herself and fortified her mind. Persons waging a harassing social fight are apt in the interest of the combat to forget the smallness of the end in view; and the hints that perishing historical remnants afforded her of the attenuating effects of time even upon great struggles corrected the apparent scale of her own. She was reminded that in a strife for such a ludicrously small object as the entry of drawing-rooms, winning, equally with losing, is below the zero of the true philosopher's concern.

When breakfast was over, Ethelberta sat leaning on the window sill, thinking about her plans for the day. It was the time set for the meeting of the Imperial Association at Corvsgate Castle, the famous ruins five miles away, and she found the meeting intriguing. For one thing, she had never attended an event like this before, even though what remains from the past always fascinated her, as it brought her back to herself and strengthened her mind. People engaged in a frustrating social battle often forget how trivial their goals really are; and the reminders from decaying historical remnants about how time diminishes even the greatest struggles put her own challenges into perspective. She realized that in a fight for something as laughably small as gaining access to drawing-rooms, winning or losing is far beneath what a true philosopher cares about.

There could never be a more excellent reason than this for going to view the meagre stumps remaining from flourishing bygone centuries, and it had weight with Ethelberta this very day; but it would be difficult to state the whole composition of her motive. The approaching meeting had been one of the great themes at Mr. Doncastle's dinner-party, and Lord Mountclere, on learning that she was to be at Knollsea, had recommended her attendance at some, if not all of the meetings, as a desirable and exhilarating change after her laborious season's work in town. It was pleasant to have won her way so far in high places that her health of body and mind should be thus considered-pleasant, less as personal gratification, than that it casually reflected a proof of her good judgment in a course which everybody among her kindred had condemned by calling a foolhardy undertaking.

There could never be a better reason than this for going to see the sparse stumps left from thriving centuries past, and it meant a lot to Ethelberta today; however, it would be hard to explain all the layers of her motive. The upcoming meeting had been a major topic at Mr. Doncastle's dinner party, and Lord Mountclere, upon finding out that she would be at Knollsea, had suggested she attend some, if not all, of the meetings as a refreshing and enjoyable break after her busy work season in the city. It was nice to have made her way into high society to the point where her physical and mental health was considered—nice, not so much for personal satisfaction, but because it casually demonstrated that she had good judgment in pursuing a path that everyone in her family had criticized as a reckless venture.

And she might go without the restraint of ceremony. Unconventionality-almost eccentricity-was de rigueur for one who had been first heard of as a poetess; from whose red lips magic romance had since trilled for weeks to crowds of listeners, as from a perennial spring.

And she could skip the formalities. Being unconventional—almost eccentric—was the norm for someone who was first known as a poet; from whose red lips enchanting stories had flowed for weeks to crowds of listeners, like a never-ending spring.

So Ethelberta went, after a considerable pondering how to get there without the needless sacrifice either of dignity or cash. It would be inconsiderate to the children to spend a pound on a brougham when as much as she could spare was wanted for their holiday. It was almost too far too walk. She had, however, decided to walk, when she met a boy with a donkey, who offered to lend it to her for three shillings. The animal was rather sad-looking, but Ethelberta found she could sit upon the pad without discomfort. Considering that she might pull up some distance short of the castle, and leave the ass at a cottage before joining her four-wheeled friends, she struck the bargain and rode on her way.

So Ethelberta went after thinking for a long time about how to get there without wasting either her dignity or money. It would be unfair to the kids to spend a pound on a carriage when she needed every bit she could spare for their holiday. It was almost too far to walk. However, she had decided to walk when she met a boy with a donkey who offered to lend it to her for three shillings. The donkey looked a bit sad, but Ethelberta found she could sit comfortably on the saddle. Considering that she might stop a bit short of the castle and leave the donkey at a cottage before joining her friends in their carriage, she made the deal and rode on her way.

This was, first by a path on the shore where the tide dragged huskily up and down the shingle without disturbing it, and thence up the steep crest of land opposite, whereon she lingered awhile to let the ass breathe. On one of the spires of chalk into which the hill here had been split was perched a cormorant, silent and motionless, with wings spread out to dry in the sun after his morning's fishing, their white surface shining like mail. Retiring without disturbing him and turning to the left along the lofty ridge which ran inland, the country on each side lay beneath her like a map, domains behind domains, parishes by the score, harbours, fir-woods, and little inland seas mixing curiously together. Thence she ambled along through a huge cemetery of barrows, containing human dust from prehistoric times.

She took a path along the shore, where the tide moved slowly up and down the pebbles without causing much disruption, and then climbed the steep hill across from her, pausing for a moment to let the donkey catch its breath. On one of the chalk cliffs that jutted out from the hill, a cormorant sat silently and still, wings spread to dry in the sun after its morning of fishing, their white surface gleaming like armor. Moving quietly to avoid disturbing it, she turned left along the high ridge that stretched inland, with the landscape on either side spread out beneath her like a map—properties behind properties, numerous parishes, harbors, pine forests, and small inland lakes blending together in a curious way. From there, she wandered through a large cemetery of burial mounds, holding the remains of people from prehistoric times.

Standing on the top of a giant's grave in this antique land, Ethelberta lifted her eyes to behold two sorts of weather pervading Nature at the same time. Far below on the right hand it was a fine day, and the silver sunbeams lighted up a many-armed inland sea which stretched round an island with fir-trees and gorse, and amid brilliant crimson heaths wherein white paths and roads occasionally met the eye in dashes and zigzags like flashes of lightning. Outside, where the broad Channel appeared, a berylline and opalized variegation of ripples, currents, deeps, and shallows, lay as fair under the sun as a New Jerusalem, the shores being of gleaming sand. Upon the radiant heather bees and butterflies were busy, she knew, and the birds on that side were just beginning their autumn songs.

Standing on top of a giant's grave in this ancient land, Ethelberta lifted her eyes to see two kinds of weather affecting Nature at the same time. Far below on her right, it was a beautiful day, and the silver sunbeams lit up a many-armed inland sea that wrapped around an island with fir trees and gorse, amid vibrant crimson heaths where white paths and roads occasionally caught the eye in dashes and zigzags like flashes of lightning. Outside, where the wide Channel appeared, a mix of ripples, currents, deep areas, and shallows sparkled under the sun like a New Jerusalem, with shores of shining sand. On the radiant heather, bees and butterflies were busy, and she knew the birds on that side were just starting their autumn songs.

On the left, quite up to her position, was dark and cloudy weather, shading a valley of heavy greens and browns, which at its further side rose to meet the sea in tall cliffs, suggesting even here at their back how terrible were their aspects seaward in a growling southwest gale. Here grassed hills rose like knuckles gloved in dark olive, and little plantations between them formed a still deeper and sadder monochrome. A zinc sky met a leaden sea on this hand, the low wind groaned and whined, and not a bird sang.

On the left, right up to her position, was dark and stormy weather, casting shade over a valley of deep greens and browns. On the far side, it rose to meet the sea in tall cliffs, hinting at how fierce their faces looked towards the ocean during a roaring southwest gale. Here, grassy hills stood like knuckles covered in dark olive, and tiny groves between them created an even darker and more somber monochrome. A dull sky met a heavy sea on this side, the low wind moaned and whined, and not a single bird sang.

The ridge along which Ethelberta rode divided these two climates like a wall; it soon became apparent that they were wrestling for mastery immediately in her pathway. The issue long remained doubtful, and this being an imaginative hour with her, she watched as typical of her own fortunes how the front of battle swayed-now to the west, flooding her with sun, now to the east, covering her with shade: then the wind moved round to the north, a blue hole appeared in the overhanging cloud, at about the place of the north star; and the sunlight spread on both sides of her.

The ridge that Ethelberta rode along separated the two climates like a wall; it quickly became clear that they were clashing for dominance right in her path. The outcome remained uncertain for a long time, and since it was a creative moment for her, she observed how the battle’s front shifted—now to the west, bathing her in sunlight, now to the east, enveloping her in shade: then the wind shifted to the north, a blue gap appeared in the clouds above, roughly where the North Star is; and the sunlight spread out on both sides of her.

The towers of the notable ruin to be visited rose out of the furthermost shoulder of the upland as she advanced, its site being the slope and crest of a smoothly nibbled mount at the toe of the ridge she had followed. When observing the previous uncertainty of the weather on this side Ethelberta had been led to doubt if the meeting would be held here to-day, and she was now strengthened in her opinion that it would not by the total absence of human figures amid the ruins, though the time of appointment was past. This disposed of another question which had perplexed her: where to find a stable for the ass during the meeting, for she had scarcely liked the idea of facing the whole body of lords and gentlemen upon the animal's back. She now decided to retain her seat, ride round the ruin, and go home again, without troubling further about the movements of the Association or acquaintance with the members composing it.

The towers of the famous ruin rose up from the far side of the upland as she approached, located on the slope and top of a smoothly worn hill at the base of the ridge she had been following. Given the previous unpredictability of the weather in this area, Ethelberta had begun to suspect that the meeting wouldn’t take place here today, and her belief was reinforced by the complete lack of people among the ruins, even though the scheduled time had passed. This cleared up another question that had been bothering her: where to find a stable for the donkey during the meeting, as she wasn’t keen on the idea of facing the whole group of lords and gentlemen while riding it. She decided to stay in her seat, ride around the ruin, and head home again, without worrying any further about the activities of the Association or getting to know its members.

Accordingly Ethelberta crossed the bridge over the moat, and rode under the first archway into the outer ward. As she had expected, not a soul was here. The arrow-slits, portcullis-grooves, and staircases met her eye as familiar friends, for in her childhood she had once paid a visit to the spot. Ascending the green incline and through another arch into the second ward, she still pressed on, till at last the ass was unable to clamber an inch further. Here she dismounted, and tying him to a stone which projected like a fang from a raw edge of wall, performed the remainder of the ascent on foot. Once among the towers above, she became so interested in the windy corridors, mildewed dungeons, and the tribe of daws peering invidiously upon her from overhead, that she forgot the flight of time.

Ethelberta crossed the bridge over the moat and rode under the first archway into the outer courtyard. As she expected, there was no one around. The arrow slits, portcullis grooves, and staircases felt like old friends to her since she had visited this place as a child. She went up the green slope and through another arch into the second courtyard, continuing on until the donkey couldn't climb any higher. She got off and tied him to a stone that jutted out like a fang from the rough wall, then finished the climb on foot. Once among the towers above, she was so captivated by the windy hallways, moldy dungeons, and the group of jackdaws watching her from above that she lost track of time.

Nearly three-quarters of an hour passed before she came out from the immense walls, and looked from an opening to the front over the wide expanse of the outer ward, by which she had ascended.

Almost three-quarters of an hour went by before she emerged from the massive walls and looked out through an opening at the wide stretch of the outer yard that she had climbed.

Ethelberta was taken aback to see there a file of shining carriages, which had arrived during her seclusion in the keep. From these began to burst a miscellany of many-coloured draperies, blue, buff, pied, and black; they united into one, and crept up the incline like a cloud, which then parted into fragments, dived into old doorways, and lost substance behind projecting piles. Recognizing in this the ladies and gentlemen of the meeting, her first thought was how to escape, for she was suddenly overcome with dread to meet them all single-handed as she stood. She drew back and hurried round to the side, as the laughter and voices of the assembly began to be audible, and, more than ever vexed that she could not have fallen in with them in some unobtrusive way, Ethelberta found that they were immediately beneath her.

Ethelberta was surprised to see a line of shiny carriages that had arrived while she was hidden away in the keep. From these emerged a mix of colorful fabrics—blue, buff, patterned, and black—that grouped together and moved up the slope like a cloud, which then split into pieces, slipped into old doorways, and vanished behind thick piles. Recognizing that these were the ladies and gentlemen from the meeting, her first thought was how to escape, as she suddenly felt overwhelmed with fear at the thought of facing them all alone. She stepped back and hurried around to the side as the laughter and voices of the gathering began to become audible. More frustrated than ever that she hadn’t been able to join them in a casual way, Ethelberta realized they were right below her.

Venturing to peep forward again, what was her mortification at finding them gathered in a ring, round no object of interest belonging to the ruin, but round her faithful beast, who had loosened himself in some way from the stone, and stood in the middle of a plat of grass, placidly regarding them.

Venturing to look ahead again, she was mortified to find them gathered in a circle, not around anything interesting related to the ruins, but around her loyal dog, who had somehow freed himself from the stone and was standing in the middle of a patch of grass, calmly watching them.

Being now in the teeth of the Association, there was nothing to do but to go on, since, if she did not, the next few steps of their advance would disclose her. She made the best of it, and began to descend in the broad view of the assembly, from the midst of which proceeded a laugh-'Hee-hee-hee!' Ethelberta knew that Lord Mountclere was there.

Being right in the middle of the Association, there was nothing to do but keep moving forward, because if she didn't, the next few steps they took would reveal her. She made the best of the situation and started to move down into the open view of the gathering, from which a laugh echoed—'Hee-hee-hee!' Ethelberta knew that Lord Mountclere was present.

'The poor thing has strayed from its owner,' said one lady, as they all stood eyeing the apparition of the ass.

"The poor thing has wandered away from its owner," said one lady, as they all stood watching the sight of the donkey.

'It may belong to some of the villagers,' said the President in a historical voice: 'and it may be appropriate to mention that many were kept here in olden times: they were largely used as beasts of burden in victualling the castle previous to the last siege, in the year sixteen hundred and forty-five.'

'It might belong to some of the villagers,' said the President in a historical tone: 'and it’s worth noting that many were kept here in the past: they were mainly used as pack animals to supply the castle before the last siege in sixteen hundred and forty-five.'

'It is very weary, and has come a long way, I think,' said a lady; adding, in an imaginative tone, 'the humble creature looks so aged and is so quaintly saddled that we may suppose it to be only an animated relic, of the same date as the other remains.'

'It's very worn out and has traveled a long way, I think,' said a woman, adding in a whimsical tone, 'the poor thing looks so old and is so oddly saddled that we could imagine it as just an animated relic from the same time as the other remains.'

By this time Lord Mountclere had noticed Ethelberta's presence, and straightening himself to ten years younger, he lifted his hat in answer to her smile, and came up jauntily. It was a good time now to see what the viscount was really like. He appeared to be about sixty-five, and the dignified aspect which he wore to a gazer at a distance became depreciated to jocund slyness upon nearer view, when the small type could be read between the leading lines. Then it could be seen that his upper lip dropped to a point in the middle, as if impressing silence upon his too demonstrative lower one. His right and left profiles were different, one corner of his mouth being more compressed than the other, producing a deep line thence downwards to the side of his chin. Each eyebrow rose obliquely outwards and upwards, and was thus far above the little eye, shining with the clearness of a pond that has just been able to weather the heats of summer. Below this was a preternaturally fat jowl, which, by thrusting against cheeks and chin, caused the arch old mouth to be almost buried at the corners.

By this time, Lord Mountclere had noticed Ethelberta's presence, and straightening himself to appear ten years younger, he tipped his hat in response to her smile and approached cheerfully. It was a good moment to see what the viscount was really like. He seemed to be about sixty-five, and the dignified look he had from a distance faded to a cheerful slyness up close, where the finer details became clearer. It then became apparent that his upper lip tapered to a point in the center, as if trying to silence his overly expressive lower lip. His right and left profiles were different; one corner of his mouth was more compressed than the other, creating a deep line that extended downward to the side of his chin. Each eyebrow slanted outwards and upwards, sitting well above his little eye that sparkled with the clarity of a pond that had just managed to survive the heat of summer. Below this was an unusually plump jowl that, by pushing against his cheeks and chin, nearly buried the corners of his arching old mouth.

A few words of greeting passed, and Ethelberta told him how she was fearing to meet them all, united and primed with their morning's knowledge as they appeared to be.

A few exchanged greetings, and Ethelberta expressed her anxiety about facing them all, gathered and ready with their morning's insights as they seemed to be.

'Well, we have not done much yet,' said Lord Mountclere. 'As for myself, I have given no thought at all to our day's work. I had not forgotten your promise to attend, if you could possibly drive across, and-hee-hee-hee!-I have frequently looked towards the hill where the road descends. . . . Will you now permit me to introduce some of my party-as many of them as you care to know by name? I think they would all like to speak to you.'

'Well, we haven’t accomplished much yet,' said Lord Mountclere. 'I haven't really thought about our plans for the day. I didn’t forget your promise to come if you could manage to drive over, and—hee-hee-hee!—I’ve often looked towards the hill where the road comes down. . . . Can I now introduce you to some of my group—any of them you’re interested in meeting by name? I believe they would all love to talk to you.'

Ethelberta then found herself nominally made known to ten or a dozen ladies and gentlemen who had wished for special acquaintance with her. She stood there, as all women stand who have made themselves remarkable by their originality, or devotion to any singular cause, as a person freed of her hampering and inconvenient sex, and, by virtue of her popularity, unfettered from the conventionalities of manner prescribed by custom for household womankind. The charter to move abroad unchaperoned, which society for good reasons grants only to women of three sorts-the famous, the ministering, and the improper-Ethelberta was in a fair way to make splendid use of: instead of walking in protected lanes she experienced that luxury of isolation which normally is enjoyed by men alone, in conjunction with the attention naturally bestowed on a woman young and fair. Among the presentations were Mr. and Mrs. Tynn, member and member's mainspring for North Wessex; Sir Cyril and Lady Blandsbury; Lady Jane Joy; and the Honourable Edgar Mountclere, the viscount's brother. There also hovered near her the learned Doctor Yore; Mr. Small, a profound writer, who never printed his works; the Reverend Mr. Brook, rector; the Very Reverend Dr. Taylor, dean; and the undoubtedly Reverend Mr. Tinkleton, Nonconformist, who had slipped into the fold by chance.

Ethelberta found herself introduced to about ten or a dozen ladies and gentlemen who wanted to get to know her better. She stood there like any woman who has made a name for herself through her originality or commitment to a unique cause, feeling free from the restrictions typically imposed on her gender. Thanks to her popularity, she was liberated from the usual social rules expected of women at home. She was in a great position to take advantage of the society that allows only a few types of women—those who are famous, those who help others, and those who are considered improper—to move about unescorted. Instead of sticking to safe paths, she enjoyed the rare privilege of solitude usually reserved for men, along with the attention given to a young and attractive woman. Among those introduced were Mr. and Mrs. Tynn, a notable couple from North Wessex; Sir Cyril and Lady Blandsbury; Lady Jane Joy; and the Honourable Edgar Mountclere, who was the viscount's brother. Also nearby were the learned Doctor Yore; Mr. Small, a profound writer who never published his work; the Reverend Mr. Brook, rector; the Very Reverend Dr. Taylor, dean; and the undoubtedly Reverend Mr. Tinkleton, a Nonconformist who had found his way into the group by chance.

These and others looked with interest at Ethelberta: the old county fathers hard, as at a questionable town phenomenon, the county sons tenderly, as at a pretty creature, and the county daughters with great admiration, as at a lady reported by their mammas to be no better than she should be. It will be seen that Ethelberta was the sort of woman that well-rooted local people might like to look at on such a free and friendly occasion as an archaeological meeting, where, to gratify a pleasant whim, the picturesque form of acquaintance is for the nonce preferred to the useful, the spirits being so brisk as to swerve from strict attention to the select and sequent gifts of heaven, blood and acres, to consider for an idle moment the subversive Mephistophelian endowment, brains.

These people and others watched Ethelberta with interest: the older local men looked at her skeptically, like she was an unusual sight in town, the younger men viewed her fondly, as if she were a charming being, and the local women regarded her with admiration, as if she were a lady rumored by their mothers to be a bit scandalous. It was clear that Ethelberta was the kind of woman that deeply rooted locals enjoyed looking at during a relaxed and friendly event like an archaeological meeting, where, just for fun, the charming social interactions were preferred over practical concerns, and people’s spirits were vibrant enough to momentarily overlook the usual importance of social status and wealth, to consider instead the more subversive quality of intelligence.

'Our progress in the survey of the castle has not been far as yet,' Lord Mountclere resumed; 'indeed, we have only just arrived, the weather this morning being so unsettled. When you came up we were engaged in a preliminary study of the poor animal you see there: how it could have got up here we cannot understand.'

'Our progress in surveying the castle hasn’t been very far yet,' Lord Mountclere continued; 'actually, we’ve just arrived since the weather this morning has been so unpredictable. When you came over, we were in the middle of a preliminary examination of the poor animal you see over there: we can’t figure out how it could have gotten up here.'

He pointed as he spoke to the donkey which had brought Ethelberta thither, whereupon she was silent, and gazed at her untoward beast as if she had never before beheld him.

He pointed as he spoke to the donkey that had brought Ethelberta there, at which point she fell silent and stared at her stubborn animal as if she had never seen him before.

The ass looked at Ethelberta as though he would say, 'Why don't you own me, after safely bringing you over those weary hills?' But the pride and emulation which had made her what she was would not permit her, as the most lovely woman there, to take upon her own shoulders the ridicule that had already been cast upon the ass. Had he been young and gaily caparisoned, she might have done it; but his age, the clumsy trappings of rustic make, and his needy woful look of hard servitude, were too much to endure.

The donkey looked at Ethelberta as if to say, 'Why don’t you take me in, after I helped you get over those tiring hills?' But her pride and desire to stand out, which had shaped her into the stunning woman she was, wouldn’t allow her, as the most beautiful person there, to take on the ridicule that had already been thrown at the donkey. If he had been younger and dressed up proudly, she might have done it; but his age, the awkward gear from the countryside, and his sad, worn-out expression of hard labor were just too difficult to bear.

'Many come and picnic here,' she said serenely, 'and the animal may have been left till they return from some walk.'

'Lots of people come and have picnics here,' she said calmly, 'and the animal might have been left until they get back from a walk.'

'True,' said Lord Mountclere, without the slightest suspicion of the truth. The humble ass hung his head in his usual manner, and it demanded little fancy from Ethelberta to imagine that he despised her. And then her mind flew back to her history and extraction, to her father-perhaps at that moment inventing a private plate-powder in an underground pantry-and with a groan at her inconsistency in being ashamed of the ass, she said in her heart, 'My God, what a thing am I!'

'True,' said Lord Mountclere, completely unaware of the truth. The humble donkey hung his head as usual, and it required little imagination from Ethelberta to think that he looked down on her. Then her thoughts drifted back to her background and family, to her father—maybe at that moment creating a secret powder in an underground pantry—and with a sigh at her own inconsistency for being embarrassed about the donkey, she thought to herself, 'My God, what have I become!'

They then all moved on to another part of the castle, the viscount busying himself round and round her person like the head scraper at a pig-killing; and as they went indiscriminately mingled, jesting lightly or talking in earnest, she beheld ahead of her the form of Neigh among the rest.

They then all moved to another part of the castle, the viscount circling around her like a head scraper at a pig-killing; and as they walked, mixing together, joking lightly or talking seriously, she saw Neigh ahead among the crowd.

Now, there could only be one reason on earth for Neigh's presence-her remark that she might attend-for Neigh took no more interest in antiquities than in the back of the moon. Ethelberta was a little flurried; perhaps he had come to scold her, or to treat her badly in that indefinable way of his by which he could make a woman feel as nothing without any direct act at all. She was afraid of him, and, determining to shun him, was thankful that Lord Mountclere was near, to take off the edge of Neigh's manner towards her if he approached.

Now, there could only be one reason for Neigh's presence—her comment about possibly attending—because Neigh had no more interest in ancient artifacts than in the far side of the moon. Ethelberta felt a bit flustered; maybe he had come to scold her or to treat her poorly in that vague way of his, which made a woman feel insignificant without him directly doing anything. She was afraid of him and, deciding to avoid him, was grateful that Lord Mountclere was nearby to soften Neigh's attitude toward her if he came closer.

'Do you know in what part of the ruins the lecture is to be given?' she said to the viscount.

"Do you know where in the ruins the lecture is going to take place?" she asked the viscount.

'Wherever you like,' he replied gallantly. 'Do you propose a place, and I will get Dr. Yore to adopt it. Say, shall it be here, or where they are standing?'

'Anywhere you want,' he replied confidently. 'You suggest a location, and I’ll get Dr. Yore to agree to it. What do you think—right here, or over where they’re standing?'

How could Ethelberta refrain from exercising a little power when it was put into her hands in this way?

How could Ethelberta hold back from using a bit of power when it was handed to her like this?

'Let it be here,' she said, 'if it makes no difference to the meeting.'

'Let it be here,' she said, 'if it doesn't matter to the meeting.'

'It shall be,' said Lord Mountclere.

'It will be,' said Lord Mountclere.

And then the lively old nobleman skipped like a roe to the President and to Dr. Yore, who was to read the paper on the castle, and they soon appeared coming back to where the viscount's party and Ethelberta were beginning to seat themselves. The bulk of the company followed, and Dr. Yore began.

And then the spirited old nobleman bounded over to the President and Dr. Yore, who was set to present the paper on the castle, and they quickly returned to where the viscount's group and Ethelberta were starting to take their seats. The majority of the guests followed, and Dr. Yore began.

He must have had a countenance of leather-as, indeed, from his colour he appeared to have-to stand unmoved in his position, and read, and look up to give explanations, without a change of muscle, under the dozens of bright eyes that were there converged upon him, like the sticks of a fan, from the ladies who sat round him in a semicircle upon the grass. However, he went on calmly, and the women sheltered themselves from the heat with their umbrellas and sunshades, their ears lulled by the hum of insects, and by the drone of the doctor's voice. The reader buzzed on with the history of the castle, tracing its development from a mound with a few earthworks to its condition in Norman times; he related monkish marvels connected with the spot; its resistance under Matilda to Stephen, its probable shape while a residence of King John, and the sad story of the Damsel of Brittany, sister of his victim Arthur, who was confined here in company with the two daughters of Alexander, king of Scotland. He went on to recount the confinement of Edward II. herein, previous to his murder at Berkeley, the gay doings in the reign of Elizabeth, and so downward through time to the final overthrow of the stern old pile. As he proceeded, the lecturer pointed with his finger at the various features appertaining to the date of his story, which he told with splendid vigour when he had warmed to his work, till his narrative, particularly in the conjectural and romantic parts, where it became coloured rather by the speaker's imagination than by the pigments of history, gathered together the wandering thoughts of all. It was easy for him then to meet those fair concentred eyes, when the sunshades were thrown back, and complexions forgotten, in the interest of the history. The doctor's face was then no longer criticized as a rugged boulder, a dried fig, an oak carving, or a walnut shell, but became blotted out like a mountain top in a shining haze by the nebulous pictures conjured by his tale.

He must have had a face like leather—indeed, from his color he seemed to have—standing still in his spot, reading, and looking up to give explanations, without moving a muscle, under the dozens of bright eyes focused on him like the spokes of a fan, from the ladies who sat around him in a semicircle on the grass. Still, he continued calmly, while the women sheltered themselves from the heat with their umbrellas and sunshades, their ears lulled by the buzz of insects and the drone of the doctor’s voice. The reader carried on with the history of the castle, tracing its evolution from a mound with a few earthworks to its state in Norman times; he shared monkish wonders associated with the place, its resistance under Matilda to Stephen, its likely shape while being a residence of King John, and the tragic story of the Damsel of Brittany, sister of his victim Arthur, who was held here alongside the two daughters of Alexander, king of Scotland. He moved on to recount the imprisonment of Edward II here, before his murder at Berkeley, the lively happenings during Elizabeth’s reign, and down through history to the final downfall of the stern old fortress. As he continued, the lecturer pointed with his finger at various aspects related to the period of his story, which he delivered with great energy once he got into it, until his narrative, especially in the speculative and romantic sections, where it drew more from the speaker's imagination than from the facts of history, captivated all wandering thoughts. It was easy for him then to meet those beautiful, focused eyes when the sunshades were pushed back and complexions forgotten, in the interest of the story. The doctor’s face was no longer seen as a rugged boulder, a dried fig, an oak carving, or a walnut shell, but faded away like a mountain peak in a bright haze created by the vivid images conjured by his tale.

Then the lecture ended, and questions were asked, and individuals of the company wandered at will, the light dresses of the ladies sweeping over the hot grass and brushing up thistledown which had hitherto lain quiescent, so that it rose in a flight from the skirts of each like a comet's tail.

Then the lecture was over, and questions were asked, and people in the group moved around freely, the light dresses of the women gliding over the warm grass and stirring up thistledown that had been resting, so it floated up from the hems of each dress like a comet's tail.

Some of Lord Mountclere's party, including himself and Ethelberta, wandered now into a cool dungeon, partly open to the air overhead, where long arms of ivy hung between their eyes and the white sky. While they were here, Lady Jane Joy and some other friends of the viscount told Ethelberta that they were probably coming on to Knollsea.

Some members of Lord Mountclere's group, including him and Ethelberta, wandered into a cool, partly open dungeon where long strands of ivy hung down between them and the bright sky. While they were there, Lady Jane Joy and a few other friends of the viscount told Ethelberta that they were likely heading to Knollsea.

She instantly perceived that getting into close quarters in that way might be very inconvenient, considering the youngsters she had under her charge, and straightway decided upon a point that she had debated for several days-a visit to her aunt in Normandy. In London it had been a mere thought, but the Channel had looked so tempting from its brink that the journey was virtually fixed as soon as she reached Knollsea, and found that a little pleasure steamer crossed to Cherbourg once a week during the summer, so that she would not have to enter the crowded routes at all.

She quickly realized that getting too close like that could be really inconvenient, especially with the kids she was responsible for, and immediately made a decision she had been thinking about for days—a visit to her aunt in Normandy. In London, it had just been an idea, but the Channel looked so inviting from the shore that the trip became practically set as soon as she got to Knollsea and discovered that a small pleasure boat went to Cherbourg once a week during the summer, so she wouldn’t have to deal with the crowded routes at all.

'I am afraid I shall not see you in Knollsea,' she said. 'I am about to go to Cherbourg and then to Rouen.'

'I’m afraid I won’t see you in Knollsea,' she said. 'I’m about to head to Cherbourg and then to Rouen.'

'How sorry I am. When do you leave?'

'I'm so sorry. When do you leave?'

'At the beginning of next week,' said Ethelberta, settling the time there and then.

'At the start of next week,' Ethelberta said, setting the time right then and there.

'Did I hear you say that you were going to Cherbourg and Rouen?' Lord Mountclere inquired.

"Did I hear you say you're going to Cherbourg and Rouen?" Lord Mountclere asked.

'I think to do so,' said Ethelberta.

'I think I'll do that,' said Ethelberta.

'I am going to Normandy myself,' said a voice behind her, and without turning she knew that Neigh was standing there.

"I’m going to Normandy myself," said a voice behind her, and without turning, she knew that Neigh was standing there.

They next went outside, and Lord Mountclere offered Ethelberta his arm on the ground of assisting her down the burnished grass slope. Ethelberta, taking pity upon him, took it; but the assistance was all on her side; she stood like a statue amid his slips and totterings, some of which taxed her strength heavily, and her ingenuity more, to appear as the supported and not the supporter. The incident brought Neigh still further from his retirement, and she learnt that he was one of a yachting party which had put in at Knollsea that morning; she was greatly relieved to find that he was just now on his way to London, whence he would probably proceed on his journey abroad.

They went outside next, and Lord Mountclere offered Ethelberta his arm to help her down the shiny grass slope. Ethelberta, feeling a bit sorry for him, accepted it; but the support was all from her side. She stood like a statue while he slipped and wobbled, which challenged her strength and creativity to seem like the one being helped instead of the one helping. This incident drew Neigh further out of his solitude, and she discovered that he was part of a yachting group that had arrived at Knollsea that morning. She felt a sense of relief to learn that he was currently on his way to London, from where he would likely continue his journey abroad.

Ethelberta adhered as well as she could to her resolve that Neigh should not speak with her alone, but by dint of perseverance he did manage to address her without being overheard.

Ethelberta tried her best to stick to her decision that Neigh shouldn't talk to her alone, but despite her efforts, he managed to speak to her without anyone hearing.

'Will you give me an answer?' said Neigh. 'I have come on purpose.'

'Will you give me an answer?' Neigh asked. 'I've come here on purpose.'

'I cannot just now. I have been led to doubt you.'

'I can't right now. I've started to doubt you.'

'Doubt me? What new wrong have I done?'

'Doubt me? What new wrong have I committed?'

'Spoken jestingly of my visit to Farnfield.'

'Jokingly talked about my visit to Farnfield.'

'Good —-! I did not speak or think of you. When I told that incident I had no idea who the lady was-I did not know it was you till two days later, and I at once held my tongue. I vow to you upon my soul and life that what I say is true. How shall I prove my truth better than by my errand here?'

'Good —-! I didn’t talk about or think of you. When I mentioned that incident, I had no clue who the woman was—I didn’t realize it was you until two days later, and then I immediately kept quiet. I swear to you, on my soul and my life, that what I’m saying is true. How can I prove my honesty better than by being here on this errand?'

'Don't speak of this now. I am so occupied with other things. I am going to Rouen, and will think of it on my way.'

'Don't talk about this right now. I'm really busy with other stuff. I'm heading to Rouen and will think about it while I'm on my way.'

'I am going there too. When do you go?'

'I’m going there too. When are you going?'

'I shall be in Rouen next Wednesday, I hope.'

'I hope to be in Rouen next Wednesday.'

'May I ask where?'

'Can I ask where?'

'Hotel Beau Sejour.'

'Beau Sejour Hotel.'

'Will you give me an answer there? I can easily call upon you. It is now a month and more since you first led me to hope-'

'Will you give me an answer there? I can easily reach out to you. It's been over a month since you first made me hopeful-'

'I did not lead you to hope-at any rate clearly.'

'I didn’t give you a reason to hope—at least not clearly.'

'Indirectly you did. And although I am willing to be as considerate as any man ought to be in giving you time to think over the question, there is a limit to my patience. Any necessary delay I will put up with, but I won't be trifled with. I hate all nonsense, and can't stand it.'

'You kind of did. And while I'm ready to be as thoughtful as any guy should be in giving you time to think about the question, there's a limit to my patience. I can handle any necessary delay, but I won't be messed with. I can't stand all that nonsense.'

'Indeed. Good morning.'

'Absolutely. Good morning.'

'But Mrs. Petherwin-just one word.'

'But Mrs. Petherwin—just one word.'

'I have nothing to say.'

"I have nothing to say."

'I will meet you at Rouen for an answer. I would meet you in Hades for the matter of that. Remember this: next Wednesday, if I live, I shall call upon you at Rouen.'

'I will meet you at Rouen for an answer. I'd even meet you in Hades for that. Remember this: next Wednesday, if I’m still alive, I’ll come see you at Rouen.'

She did not say nay.

She didn't say no.

'May I?' he added.

"Can I?" he added.

'If you will.'

"Sure, if that's what you want."

'But say it shall be an appointment?'

'But let's say it will be an appointment?'

'Very well.'

'All good.'

Lord Mountclere was by this time toddling towards them to ask if they would come on to his house, Enckworth Court, not very far distant, to lunch with the rest of the party. Neigh, having already arranged to go on to town that afternoon, was obliged to decline, and Ethelberta thought fit to do the same, idly asking Lord Mountclere if Enckworth Court lay in the direction of a gorge that was visible where they stood.

Lord Mountclere was making his way over to them to see if they wanted to come to his place, Enckworth Court, which wasn’t too far away, for lunch with the rest of the group. Neigh, already planning to head to town later that afternoon, had to decline, and Ethelberta also decided to do the same, casually asking Lord Mountclere if Enckworth Court was in the direction of a gorge they could see from where they stood.

'No; considerably to the left,' he said. 'The opening you are looking at would reveal the sea if it were not for the trees that block the way. Ah, those trees have a history; they are half-a-dozen elms which I planted myself when I was a boy. How time flies!'

'No, it's much more to the left,' he said. 'The opening you see would show the sea if it weren't for the trees in the way. Ah, those trees have a story; they’re six elms that I planted myself when I was a kid. How time flies!'

'It is unfortunate they stand just so as to cover the blue bit of sea. That addition would double the value of the view from here.'

'It's too bad they stand just right to block the blue part of the sea. That addition would double the value of the view from here.'

'You would prefer the blue sea to the trees?'

'Would you rather have the blue sea than the trees?'

'In that particular spot I should; they might have looked just as well, and yet have hidden nothing worth seeing. The narrow slit would have been invaluable there.'

'In that exact spot, I should; they could have looked just as good, and yet concealed nothing worth seeing. The narrow slit would have been really helpful there.'

'They shall fall before the sun sets, in deference to your opinion,' said Lord Mountclere.

'They will fall before the sun sets, out of respect for your opinion,' said Lord Mountclere.

'That would be rash indeed,' said Ethelberta, laughing, 'when my opinion on such a point may be worth nothing whatever.'

"That would be pretty reckless," Ethelberta said with a laugh, "considering my opinion on that matter might not be worth anything at all."

'Where no other is acted upon, it is practically the universal one,' he replied gaily.

'Where no one else is involved, it’s pretty much the universal one,' he replied cheerfully.

And then Ethelberta's elderly admirer bade her adieu, and away the whole party drove in a long train over the hills towards the valley wherein stood Enckworth Court. Ethelberta's carriage was supposed by her friends to have been left at the village inn, as were many others, and her retiring from view on foot attracted no notice.

And then Ethelberta's older admirer said goodbye to her, and the whole group drove off in a long line over the hills toward the valley where Enckworth Court was located. Ethelberta's friends assumed her carriage had been left at the village inn, along with many others, and her leaving on foot went unnoticed.

She watched them out of sight, and she also saw the rest depart-those who, their interest in archaeology having begun and ended with this spot, had, like herself, declined the hospitable viscount's invitation, and started to drive or walk at once home again. Thereupon the castle was quite deserted except by Ethelberta, the ass, and the jackdaws, now floundering at ease again in and about the ivy of the keep.

She watched them leave, and she also saw the others head out—those whose interest in archaeology started and ended with this place, who, like her, had turned down the friendly viscount's invitation and immediately started driving or walking home. After that, the castle was completely empty except for Ethelberta, the donkey, and the jackdaws, which were now leisurely flapping around the ivy on the tower again.

Not wishing to enter Knollsea till the evening shades were falling, she still walked amid the ruins, examining more leisurely some points which the stress of keeping herself companionable would not allow her to attend to while the assemblage was present. At the end of the survey, being somewhat weary with her clambering, she sat down on the slope commanding the gorge where the trees grew, to make a pencil sketch of the landscape as it was revealed between the ragged walls. Thus engaged she weighed the circumstances of Lord Mountclere's invitation, and could not be certain if it were prudishness or simple propriety in herself which had instigated her to refuse. She would have liked the visit for many reasons, and if Lord Mountclere had been anybody but a remarkably attentive old widower, she would have gone. As it was, it had occurred to her that there was something in his tone which should lead her to hesitate. Were any among the elderly or married ladies who had appeared upon the ground in a detached form as she had done-and many had appeared thus-invited to Enckworth; and if not, why were they not? That Lord Mountclere admired her there was no doubt, and for this reason it behoved her to be careful. His disappointment at parting from her was, in one aspect, simply laughable, from its odd resemblance to the unfeigned sorrow of a boy of fifteen at a first parting from his first love; in another aspect it caused reflection; and she thought again of his curiosity about her doings for the remainder of the summer.

Not wanting to arrive in Knollsea until evening, she wandered through the ruins, taking her time to examine some details that she couldn't focus on while surrounded by others. After her exploration, feeling a bit tired from climbing, she settled on a slope overlooking the gorge where the trees grew, intending to make a pencil sketch of the landscape revealed between the worn walls. While focused on her drawing, she considered Lord Mountclere's invitation and couldn't tell if her refusal stemmed from prudishness or just good sense. She would have liked the visit for many reasons, and if Lord Mountclere had been anyone else but a particularly attentive old widower, she would have accepted. However, she sensed something in his tone that made her pause. Were any of the older or married women who had come to the area in a similar position as hers—and many had been—invited to Enckworth? If not, why not? There was no doubt that Lord Mountclere admired her, and because of this, she felt she needed to be cautious. His disappointment when they parted was, in one way, almost amusing, resembling the genuine sorrow of a fifteen-year-old saying goodbye to his first love; yet, it also prompted deeper thought as she recalled his curiosity about her plans for the rest of the summer.

While she sketched and thought thus, the shadows grew longer, and the sun low. And then she perceived a movement in the gorge. One of the trees forming the curtain across it began to wave strangely: it went further to one side, and fell. Where the tree had stood was now a rent in the foliage, and through the narrow rent could be seen the distant sea.

While she sketched and thought like this, the shadows grew longer and the sun hung low. Then she noticed some movement in the gorge. One of the trees that formed the curtain across it began to sway oddly; it moved further to one side and then fell. Where the tree had been, there was now a gap in the foliage, and through that narrow opening, the distant sea was visible.

Ethelberta uttered a soft exclamation. It was not caused by the surprise she had felt, nor by the intrinsic interest of the sight, nor by want of comprehension. It was a sudden realization of vague things hitherto dreamed of from a distance only-a sense of novel power put into her hands without request or expectation. A landscape was to be altered to suit her whim. She had in her lifetime moved essentially larger mountains, but they had seemed of far less splendid material than this; for it was the nature of the gratification rather than its magnitude which enchanted the fancy of a woman whose poetry, in spite of her necessities, was hardly yet extinguished. But there was something more, with which poetry had little to do. Whether the opinion of any pretty woman in England was of more weight with Lord Mountclere than memories of his boyhood, or whether that distinction was reserved for her alone; this was a point that she would have liked to know.

Ethelberta let out a soft gasp. It wasn't because of the surprise she felt, the inherent interest of the scene, or a lack of understanding. It was a sudden awareness of vague ideas she had only ever dreamed about from afar—a sense of new power handed to her without asking or expecting it. A landscape could be changed to match her desires. Throughout her life, she had moved much larger mountains, but they seemed far less remarkable than this one; it was the nature of the thrill, rather than its size, that captured the imagination of a woman whose creativity, despite her hardships, was not yet fully extinguished. But there was something more, something that had little to do with poetry. She wanted to know whether Lord Mountclere valued the opinion of any attractive woman in England more than the memories of his childhood, or if that privilege was hers alone.

The enjoyment of power in a new element, an enjoyment somewhat resembling in kind that which is given by a first ride or swim, held Ethelberta to the spot, and she waited, but sketched no more. Another tree-top swayed and vanished as before, and the slit of sea was larger still. Her mind and eye were so occupied with this matter that, sitting in her nook, she did not observe a thin young man, his boots white with the dust of a long journey on foot, who arrived at the castle by the valley-road from Knollsea. He looked awhile at the ruin, and, skirting its flank instead of entering by the great gateway, climbed up the scarp and walked in through a breach. After standing for a moment among the walls, now silent and apparently empty, with a disappointed look he descended the slope, and proceeded along on his way.

The thrill of power in a new experience, similar to the excitement of a first ride or swim, kept Ethelberta in place, and she waited but didn’t sketch anymore. Another treetop swayed and disappeared like before, and the strip of sea grew even larger. Her thoughts and gaze were so focused on this that, sitting in her spot, she didn’t notice a thin young man whose boots were covered in dust from a long walk, arriving at the castle via the valley road from Knollsea. He looked at the ruins for a moment and, instead of entering through the main gate, he skirted the side and climbed up the slope, walking in through a break in the walls. After standing there for a moment among the now silent and seemingly empty walls, he descended the slope with a look of disappointment and continued on his way.

Ethelberta, who was in quite another part of the castle, saw the black spot diminishing to the size of a fly as he receded along the dusty road, and soon after she descended on the other side, where she remounted the ass, and ambled homeward as she had come, in no bright mood. What, seeing the precariousness of her state, was the day's triumph worth after all, unless, before her beauty abated, she could ensure her position against the attacks of chance?

Ethelberta, who was in a completely different part of the castle, saw the black spot shrinking to the size of a fly as he walked away down the dusty road. Soon after, she went down the other side, got back on the donkey, and ambled home just like she had come, feeling far from cheerful. Given the uncertainty of her situation, what was the point of the day’s triumph after all, unless she could secure her status against the unpredictable nature of chance before her beauty faded?

       'To be like this is nothing;  
    But to be safe like this is everything.'

-she said it more than once on her journey that day.

-she mentioned it several times during her journey that day.

On entering the sitting-room of their cot up the hill she found it empty, and from a change perceptible in the position of small articles of furniture, something unusual seemed to have taken place in her absence. The dwelling being of that sort in which whatever goes on in one room is audible through all the rest, Picotee, who was upstairs, heard the arrival and came down. Picotee's face was rosed over with the brilliance of some excitement. 'What do you think I have to tell you, Berta?' she said.

Upon entering the living room of their cottage up the hill, she found it empty, and the noticeable shift in the placement of some small pieces of furniture suggested that something unusual had happened while she was gone. Since the type of home they lived in allowed sounds from one room to be heard throughout the others, Picotee, who was upstairs, heard her arrival and came down. Picotee's face was flushed with excitement. "Guess what I have to tell you, Berta?" she said.

'I have no idea,' said her sister. 'Surely,' she added, her face intensifying to a wan sadness, 'Mr. Julian has not been here?'

'I have no idea,' said her sister. 'Surely,' she added, her face turning to a pale sadness, 'Mr. Julian hasn't been here?'

'Yes,' said Picotee. 'And we went down to the sands-he, and Myrtle, and Georgina, and Emmeline, and I-and Cornelia came down when she had put away the dinner. And then we dug wriggles out of the sand with Myrtle's spade: we got such a lot, and had such fun; they are in a dish in the kitchen. Mr. Julian came to see you; but at last he could wait no longer, and when I told him you were at the meeting in the castle ruins he said he would try to find you there on his way home, if he could get there before the meeting broke up.'

'Yes,' said Picotee. 'We headed down to the beach—him, Myrtle, Georgina, Emmeline, and me—and Cornelia joined us after she finished cleaning up dinner. Then we dug wrigglers out of the sand with Myrtle's spade; we found a ton and had a blast. They're in a dish in the kitchen. Mr. Julian came by to see you, but eventually he couldn't wait anymore, and when I told him you were at the meeting in the castle ruins, he said he would try to find you there on his way home, if he could make it before the meeting wrapped up.'

'Then it was he I saw far away on the road-yes, it must have been.' She remained in gloomy reverie a few moments, and then said, 'Very well-let it be. Picotee, get me some tea: I do not want dinner.'

'Then it was him I saw far away on the road—yeah, it must have been.' She stayed lost in gloomy thought for a few moments, and then said, 'Alright—let it be. Picotee, bring me some tea: I don't want dinner.'

But the news of Christopher's visit seemed to have taken away her appetite for tea also, and after sitting a little while she flung herself down upon the couch, and told Picotee that she had settled to go and see their aunt Charlotte.

But the news of Christopher's visit seemed to have made her lose her appetite for tea as well, and after sitting for a bit, she threw herself down on the couch and told Picotee that she had decided to go see their Aunt Charlotte.

'I am going to write to Sol and Dan to ask them to meet me there,' she added. 'I want them, if possible, to see Paris. It will improve them greatly in their trades, I am thinking, if they can see the kinds of joinery and decoration practised in France. They agreed to go, if I should wish it, before we left London. You, of course, will go as my maid.'

'I’m going to write to Sol and Dan to ask them to meet me there,' she added. 'I want them to see Paris, if possible. I think it will really enhance their skills in their trades if they can check out the types of joinery and decoration done in France. They said they’d go if I wanted them to before we left London. You, of course, will come as my maid.'

Picotee gazed upon the sea with a crestfallen look, as if she would rather not cross it in any capacity just then.

Picotee looked out at the sea with a dejected expression, as if she would rather not cross it at all right now.

'It would scarcely be worth going to the expense of taking me, would it?' she said.

"It wouldn't really make sense to spend the money to take me, would it?" she said.

The cause of Picotee's sudden sense of economy was so plain that her sister smiled; but young love, however foolish, is to a thinking person far too tragic a power for ridicule; and Ethelberta forbore, going on as if Picotee had not spoken: 'I must have you with me. I may be seen there: so many are passing through Rouen at this time of the year. Cornelia can take excellent care of the children while we are gone. I want to get out of England, and I will get out of England. There is nothing but vanity and vexation here.'

The reason for Picotee's sudden focus on saving money was so obvious that her sister smiled; but young love, no matter how silly, is too serious for a thoughtful person to mock. Ethelberta held back her laughter and continued as if Picotee hadn’t said anything: "I need you with me. I might be seen there: so many people are passing through Rouen this time of year. Cornelia can take great care of the kids while we're away. I want to leave England, and I will leave England. There’s nothing here but vanity and frustration."

'I am sorry you were away when he called,' said Picotee gently.

"I’m sorry you weren’t here when he called," Picotee said gently.

'O, I don't mean that. I wish there were no different ranks in the world, and that contrivance were not a necessary faculty to have at all. Well, we are going to cross by the little steamer that puts in here, and we are going on Monday.' She added in another minute, 'What had Mr. Julian to tell us that he came here? How did he find us out?'

'O, I don't mean that. I wish there were no different social classes in the world, and that being clever wasn’t something people needed to be at all. Well, we’re going to take the little steamer that stops here, and we’re going on Monday.' She added after a moment, 'What did Mr. Julian come here to tell us? How did he find us?'

'I mentioned that we were coming here in my letter to Faith. Mr. Julian says that perhaps he and his sister may also come for a few days before the season is over. I should like to see Miss Julian again. She is such a nice girl.'

'I mentioned that we were coming here in my letter to Faith. Mr. Julian says that maybe he and his sister will come for a few days before the season ends. I’d really like to see Miss Julian again. She’s such a nice girl.'

'Yes.' Ethelberta played with her hair, and looked at the ceiling as she reclined. 'I have decided after all,' she said, 'that it will be better to take Cornelia as my maid, and leave you here with the children. Cornelia is stronger as a companion than you, and she will be delighted to go. Do you think you are competent to keep Myrtle and Georgina out of harm's way?'

'Yes.' Ethelberta played with her hair and looked at the ceiling as she lay back. 'I've decided, after all,' she said, 'that it's better to have Cornelia as my maid and leave you here with the kids. Cornelia is a stronger companion than you, and she'll be thrilled to go. Do you think you can keep Myrtle and Georgina safe?'

'O yes-I will be exceedingly careful,' said Picotee, with great vivacity. 'And if there is time I can go on teaching them a little.' Then Picotee caught Ethelberta's eye, and colouring red, sank down beside her sister, whispering, 'I know why it is! But if you would rather have me with you I will go, and not once wish to stay.'

'O yes, I'll be really careful,' said Picotee, full of energy. 'And if there's time, I can teach them a little more.' Then Picotee caught Ethelberta's eye, and blushing, sat down next to her sister, whispering, 'I know why this is! But if you'd prefer to have me with you, I'll go and won't even wish to stay.'

Ethelberta looked as if she knew all about that, and said, 'Of course there will be no necessity to tell the Julians about my departure until they have fixed the time for coming, and cannot alter their minds.'

Ethelberta seemed to know all about that and said, 'Of course, there's no need to tell the Julians about my departure until they've set a date for coming and can't change their minds.'

The sound of the children with Cornelia, and their appearance outside the window, pushing between the fuchsia bushes which overhung the path, put an end to this dialogue; they entered armed with buckets and spades, a very moist and sandy aspect pervading them as far up as the high-water mark of their clothing, and began to tell Ethelberta of the wonders of the deep.

The sound of the kids with Cornelia, and their sight outside the window, squeezing between the fuchsia bushes that draped over the path, interrupted the conversation; they came in armed with buckets and shovels, looking very wet and sandy up to the high-water line on their clothes, and started to share with Ethelberta the wonders of the ocean.

32. A ROOM IN ENCKWORTH COURT

'Are you sure the report is true?'

'I am sure that what I say is true, my lord; but it is hardly to be called a report. It is a secret, known at present to nobody but myself and Mrs. Doncastle's maid.'

'I’m confident that what I’m saying is true, my lord; but it’s barely a report. It’s a secret, known right now to no one but me and Mrs. Doncastle's maid.'

The speaker was Lord Mountclere's trusty valet, and the conversation was between him and the viscount in a dressing-room at Enckworth Court, on the evening after the meeting of archaeologists at Corvsgate Castle.

The speaker was Lord Mountclere's loyal valet, and the conversation took place between him and the viscount in a dressing room at Enckworth Court, the evening after the archaeologists' meeting at Corvsgate Castle.

'H'm-h'm; the daughter of a butler. Does Mrs. Doncastle know of this yet, or Mr. Neigh, or any of their friends?'

'H'm-h'm; the butler's daughter. Does Mrs. Doncastle know about this yet, or Mr. Neigh, or any of their friends?'

'No, my lord.'

'You are quite positive?'

'Are you sure?'

'Quite positive. I was, by accident, the first that Mrs. Menlove named the matter to, and I told her it might be much to her advantage if she took particular care it should go no further.'

'Definitely. I happened to be the first person Mrs. Menlove mentioned this to, and I advised her that it would be very beneficial for her to ensure that it doesn’t spread any further.'

'Mrs. Menlove! Who's she?'

'Mrs. Menlove! Who is she?'

'The lady's-maid at Mrs. Doncastle's, my lord.'

'The lady's maid at Mrs. Doncastle's, my lord.'

'O, ah-of course. You may leave me now, Tipman.' Lord Mountclere remained in thought for a moment. 'A clever little puss, to hoodwink us all like this-hee-hee!' he murmured. 'Her education-how finished; and her beauty-so seldom that I meet with such a woman. Cut down my elms to please a butler's daughter-what a joke-certainly a good joke! To interest me in her on the right side instead of the wrong was strange. But it can be made to change sides-hee-hee!-it can be made to change sides! Tipman!'

'O, of course. You can leave me now, Tipman.' Lord Mountclere stayed lost in thought for a moment. 'A clever little trickster, to fool us all like this—hee-hee!' he murmured. 'Her education—so impressive; and her beauty—so rare that I don't often meet a woman like her. To cut down my elms just to please a butler's daughter—what a joke—definitely a good joke! It was odd to be interested in her from the right side instead of the wrong. But it can be turned around—hee-hee!—it can be turned around! Tipman!'

Tipman came forward from the doorway.

Tipman stepped out from the doorway.

'Will you take care that that piece of gossip you mentioned to me is not repeated in this house? I strongly disapprove of talebearing of any sort, and wish to hear no more of this. Such stories are never true. Answer me-do you hear? Such stories are never true.'

'Will you make sure that the gossip you told me doesn't get repeated in this house? I really disapprove of spreading rumors, and I don't want to hear about this again. These kinds of stories are never true. Answer me—do you understand? These kinds of stories are never true.'

'I beg pardon, but I think your lordship will find this one true,' said the valet quietly.

"I’m sorry, but I think you’ll find this to be true," said the valet quietly.

'Then where did she get her manners and education? Do you know?'

'So where did she get her manners and education? Do you know?'

'I do not, my lord. I suppose she picked 'em up by her wits.'

'I don't, my lord. I guess she figured them out with her smarts.'

'Never mind what you suppose,' said the old man impatiently. 'Whenever I ask a question of you tell me what you know, and no more.'

'Forget what you think,' said the old man impatiently. 'Whenever I ask you a question, just tell me what you know, and nothing more.'

'Quite so, my lord. I beg your lordship's pardon for supposing.'

'Absolutely, my lord. I apologize for assuming, your lordship.'

'H'm-h'm. Have the fashion-books and plates arrived yet?'

'Hmm. Have the fashion books and pictures arrived yet?'

'Le Follet has, my lord; but not the others.'

'Let me have it at once. Always bring it to me at once. Are there any handsome ones this time?'

'Give it to me right away. Always bring it to me right away. Are there any good-looking ones this time?'

'They are much the same class of female as usual, I think, my lord,' said Tipman, fetching the paper and laying it before him.

'They are pretty much the same type of woman as always, I think, my lord,' said Tipman, grabbing the paper and putting it in front of him.

'Yes, they are,' said the viscount, leaning back and scrutinizing the faces of the women one by one, and talking softly to himself in a way that had grown upon him as his age increased. 'Yet they are very well: that one with her shoulder turned is pure and charming-the brown-haired one will pass. All very harmless and innocent, but without character; no soul, or inspiration, or eloquence of eye. What an eye was hers! There is not a girl among them so beautiful. . . . Tipman! Come and take it away. I don't think I will subscribe to these papers any longer-how long have I subscribed? Never mind-I take no interest in these things, and I suppose I must give them up. What white article is that I see on the floor yonder?'

'Yes, they are,' said the viscount, leaning back and examining the faces of the women one by one, talking softly to himself in a manner he had developed as he got older. 'Yet they are quite lovely: that one with her shoulder turned is pure and charming—the brown-haired one is okay. All very harmless and innocent, but lacking character; no soul, no inspiration, or expressiveness in their eyes. What an eye she has! There isn’t a girl among them as beautiful... Tipman! Come and take it away. I don't think I’ll keep subscribing to these papers any longer—how long have I been subscribed? Never mind—I’m not interested in these things, and I suppose I should just let them go. What white thing is that I see on the floor over there?'

'I can see nothing, my lord.'

'I can't see anything, my lord.'

'Yes, yes, you can. At the other end of the room. It is a white handkerchief. Bring it to me.'

'Yes, yes, you can. It's at the other end of the room. It's a white handkerchief. Bring it to me.'

'I beg pardon, my lord, but I cannot see any white handkerchief. Whereabouts does your lordship mean?'

'I’m sorry, my lord, but I don’t see any white handkerchief. Where exactly do you mean?'

'There in the corner. If it is not a handkerchief, what is it? Walk along till you come to it-that is it; now a little further-now your foot is against it.'

'There in the corner. If it’s not a handkerchief, what is it? Walk over until you reach it—that’s it; now a little further—now your foot is right against it.'

'O that-it is not anything. It is the light reflected against the skirting, so that it looks like a white patch of something-that is all.'

'O that—it’s not anything. It’s the light reflecting off the baseboard, making it look like a white patch of something—that’s all.'

'H'm-hm. My eyes-how weak they are! I am getting old, that's what it is: I am an old man.'

'H'm-hm. My eyes—how weak they are! I'm getting old, that's what it is: I'm an old man.'

'O no, my lord.'

"Oh no, my lord."

'Yes, an old man.'

'Yeah, an old guy.'

'Well, we shall all be old some day, and so will your lordship, I suppose; but as yet-'

'Well, we will all be old someday, and so will you, my lord, I guess; but for now-'

'I tell you I am an old man!'

'I’m telling you, I’m an old man!'

'Yes, my lord-I did not mean to contradict. An old man in one sense-old in a young man's sense, but not in a house-of-parliament or historical sense. A little oldish-I meant that, my lord.'

'Yes, my lord—I didn’t mean to contradict. An old man in one way—old in a young man's perspective, but not in a parliamentary or historical sense. A little oldish—I meant that, my lord.'

'I may be an old man in one sense or in another sense in your mind; but let me tell you there are men older than I-'

'I might seem like an old man to you in one way or another; but let me tell you, there are men older than me-'

'Yes, so there are, my lord.'

'Yes, there are, my lord.'

'People may call me what they please, and you may be impertinent enough to repeat to me what they say, but let me tell you I am not a very old man after all. I am not an old man.'

'People can say whatever they want about me, and you might be bold enough to tell me what they say, but let me make it clear that I'm not really that old. I'm not an old man.'

'Old in knowledge of the world I meant, my lord, not in years.'

'When I said old in knowledge of the world, my lord, I meant wise, not aged.'

'Well, yes. Experience of course I cannot be without. And I like what is beautiful. Tipman, you must go to Knollsea; don't send, but go yourself, as I wish nobody else to be concerned in this. Go to Knollsea, and find out when the steamboat for Cherbourg starts; and when you have done that, I shall want you to send Taylor to me. I wish Captain Strong to bring the Fawn round into Knollsea Bay. Next week I may want you to go to Cherbourg in the yacht with me-if the Channel is pretty calm-and then perhaps to Rouen and Paris. But I will speak of that to-morrow.'

'Well, yes. I definitely need experience. And I appreciate what’s beautiful. Tipman, you should go to Knollsea; don’t just send someone, go yourself, because I don’t want anyone else involved in this. Head to Knollsea, and find out when the steamboat for Cherbourg departs; once you’ve done that, I’ll need you to send Taylor to me. I want Captain Strong to bring the Fawn into Knollsea Bay. Next week, I might want you to come to Cherbourg with me on the yacht—if the Channel is calm enough—then maybe to Rouen and Paris. But I’ll talk about that tomorrow.'

'Very good, my lord.'

'Meanwhile I recommend that you and Mrs. Menlove repeat nothing you may have heard concerning the lady you just now spoke of. Here is a slight present for Mrs. Menlove; and accept this for yourself.' He handed money.

'In the meantime, I suggest that you and Mrs. Menlove don't repeat anything you might have heard about the lady you just talked about. Here's a little gift for Mrs. Menlove; and take this for yourself.' He handed over some cash.

'Your lordship may be sure we will not,' the valet replied.

'You can be sure we won't,' the valet replied.

33. THE ENGLISH CHANNEL-NORMANDY

On Monday morning the little steamer Speedwell made her appearance round the promontory by Knollsea Bay, to take in passengers for the transit to Cherbourg. Breezes the freshest that could blow without verging on keenness flew over the quivering deeps and shallows; and the sunbeams pierced every detail of barrow, path and rabbit-run upon the lofty convexity of down and waste which shut in Knollsea from the world to the west.

On Monday morning, the little steamer Speedwell appeared around the point by Knollsea Bay to pick up passengers for the trip to Cherbourg. The freshest breezes blew across the shimmering depths and shallows without getting too sharp; and the sunbeams highlighted every detail of the mound, path, and rabbit trail on the high, rounded hills and open land that separated Knollsea from the world to the west.

They left the pier at eight o'clock, taking at first a short easterly course to avoid a sinister ledge of limestones jutting from the water like crocodile's teeth, which first obtained notoriety in English history through being the spot whereon a formidable Danish fleet went to pieces a thousand years ago. At the moment that the Speedwell turned to enter upon the direct course, a schooner-yacht, whose sheets gleamed like bridal satin, loosed from a remoter part of the bay; continuing to bear off, she cut across the steamer's wake, and took a course almost due southerly, which was precisely that of the Speedwell. The wind was very favourable for the yacht, blowing a few points from north in a steady pressure on her quarter, and, having been built with every modern appliance that shipwrights could offer, the schooner found no difficulty in getting abreast, and even ahead, of the steamer, as soon as she had escaped the shelter of the hills.

They left the pier at eight o'clock, initially taking a short eastward route to steer clear of a dangerous ledge of limestone that jutted out of the water like crocodile teeth, which gained infamy in English history as the site where a powerful Danish fleet met its end over a thousand years ago. Just as the Speedwell turned to head directly on course, a schooner-yacht, with sails that shone like bridal satin, departed from a more distant part of the bay. As it continued on, it crossed the steamer's wake and took a path almost due south, following the same direction as the Speedwell. The wind was very favorable for the yacht, blowing steadily from the north at just the right angle on her side, and since it was built with all the latest features that shipbuilders could provide, the schooner had no trouble getting alongside and even ahead of the steamer once she was out from behind the hills.

The more or less parallel courses of the vessels continued for some time without causing any remark among the people on board the Speedwell. At length one noticed the fact, and another; and then it became the general topic of conversation in the group upon the bridge, where Ethelberta, her hair getting frizzed and her cheeks carnationed by the wind, sat upon a camp-stool looking towards the prow.

The more or less parallel paths of the boats went on for a while without attracting any attention from the people on board the Speedwell. Eventually, one person noticed it, then another; soon it became the main topic of conversation among the group on the bridge, where Ethelberta, her hair getting frizzy and her cheeks flushed by the wind, sat on a camp stool looking toward the front.

'She is bound for Guernsey,' said one. 'In half-an-hour she will put about for a more westerly course, you'll see.'

'She's headed for Guernsey,' said one. 'In half an hour, she'll turn around for a more westerly direction, you'll see.'

'She is not for Guernsey or anywhere that way,' said an acquaintance, looking through his glass. 'If she is out for anything more than a morning cruise, she is bound for our port. I should not wonder if she is crossing to get stocked, as most of them do, to save the duty on her wine and provisions.'

'She isn’t headed for Guernsey or anywhere in that direction,' said a guy, peering through his glass. 'If she's going out for anything more than a morning cruise, she's definitely coming to our port. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s making a crossing to stock up, like most of them do, to avoid the duty on her wine and supplies.'

'Do you know whose yacht it is?'

'Do you know who owns the yacht?'

'I do not.'

"I don't."

Ethelberta looked at the light leaning figure of the pretty schooner, which seemed to skate along upon her bilge and make white shavings of all the sea that touched her. She at first imagined that this might be the yacht Neigh had arrived in at the end of the previous week, for she knew that he came as one of a yachting party, and she had noticed no other boat of that sort in the bay since his arrival. But as all his party had gone ashore and not yet returned, she was surprised to see the supposed vessel here. To add to her perplexity, she could not be positive, now that it came to a real nautical query, whether the craft of Neigh's friends had one mast or two, for she had caught but a fragmentary view of the topsail over the apple-trees.

Ethelberta gazed at the sleek figure of the beautiful schooner, which appeared to glide over the water and leave behind white froth in its wake. At first, she thought this might be the yacht Neigh arrived on at the end of the previous week, since she knew he was part of a yachting party and hadn’t seen any other boat like it in the bay since he got here. But since all his friends had gone ashore and hadn’t come back yet, she was puzzled to see the supposed vessel there. To make things even more confusing, she wasn’t sure, when it came to an actual nautical question, whether Neigh's friends' boat had one mast or two, as she had only caught a glimpse of the topsail over the apple trees.

'Is that the yacht which has been lying at Knollsea for the last few days?' she inquired of the master of the Speedwell, as soon as she had an opportunity.

'Is that the yacht that’s been sitting at Knollsea for the last few days?' she asked the captain of the Speedwell, as soon as she had a chance.

The master warmed beneath his copper-coloured rind. 'O no, miss; that one you saw was a cutter-a smaller boat altogether,' he replied. 'Built on the sliding-keel principle, you understand, miss-and red below her water-line, if you noticed. This is Lord Mountclere's yacht-the Fawn. You might have seen her re'ching in round Old-Harry Rock this morning afore we started.'

The captain was warm under his copper-colored skin. "Oh no, miss; the one you saw was a cutter—a much smaller boat," he replied. "It’s designed on the sliding-keel principle, you see, miss—and it’s red below the waterline, if you noticed. This is Lord Mountclere's yacht—the Fawn. You might have seen her sailing around Old-Harry Rock this morning before we left."

'Lord Mountclere's?'

'Is this Lord Mountclere's?'

'Yes-a nobleman of this neighbourhood. But he don't do so much at yachting as he used to in his younger days. I believe he's aboard this morning, however.'

'Yes—a nobleman from this area. But he doesn't go yachting as much as he used to when he was younger. I believe he's on board this morning, though.'

Ethelberta now became more absorbed than ever in their ocean comrade, and watched its motions continually. The schooner was considerably in advance of them by this time, and seemed to be getting by degrees out of their course. She wondered if Lord Mountclere could be really going to Cherbourg: if so, why had he said nothing about the trip to her when she spoke of her own approaching voyage thither? The yacht changed its character in her eyes; losing the indefinite interest of the unknown, it acquired the charm of a riddle on motives, of which the alternatives were, had Lord Mountclere's journey anything to do with her own, or had it not? Common probability pointed to the latter supposition; but the time of starting, the course of the yacht, and recollections of Lord Mountclere's homage, suggested the more extraordinary possibility.

Ethelberta became more focused than ever on their ocean companion and kept watching its movements. By this time, the schooner was quite a bit ahead of them and seemed to be gradually veering off their course. She wondered if Lord Mountclere was actually headed to Cherbourg. If that was the case, why hadn’t he mentioned anything about the trip when she talked about her own upcoming voyage there? The yacht changed in her perception; it lost the vague intrigue of the unknown and took on the allure of a puzzle about motives, leading her to consider the options: did Lord Mountclere’s journey have anything to do with hers, or not? Common sense supported the idea that it didn’t, but the timing of his departure, the yacht’s route, and her memories of Lord Mountclere’s admiration hinted at a more extraordinary possibility.

She went across to Cornelia. 'The man who handed us on board-didn't I see him speaking to you this morning?' she said.

She walked over to Cornelia. "The guy who helped us get on board—didn’t I see him talking to you this morning?" she said.

'O yes,' said Cornelia. 'He asked if my mistress was the popular Mrs. Petherwin?

'O yes,' said Cornelia. 'He asked if my boss was the well-known Mrs. Petherwin?

'And you told him, I suppose?'

'And you told him, I guess?'

'Yes.'

'What made you do that, Cornelia?'

'I thought I might: I couldn't help it. When I went through the toll-gate, such a gentlemanly-looking man asked me if he should help me to carry the things to the end of the pier; and as we went on together he said he supposed me to be Mrs. Petherwin's maid. I said, "Yes." The two men met afterwards, so there would ha' been no good in my denying it to one of 'em.'

'I thought I might: I couldn't help it. When I passed through the toll-gate, a very polite-looking man asked me if he could help carry my things to the end of the pier; and as we walked together, he assumed I was Mrs. Petherwin's maid. I replied, "Yes." The two men ran into each other afterward, so it wouldn't have made sense for me to deny it to one of them.'

'Who was this gentlemanly person?'

'Who was this gentleman?'

'I asked the other man that, and he told me one of Lord Mountclere's upper servants. I knew then there was no harm in having been civil to him. He is well-mannered, and talks splendid language.'

'I asked the other guy that, and he told me he’s one of Lord Mountclere's upper servants. I realized then that there was no harm in being polite to him. He’s well-mannered and speaks wonderfully.'

'That yacht you see on our right hand is Lord Mountclere's property. If I do not mistake, we shall have her closer by-and-by, and you may meet your gentlemanly friend again. Be careful how you talk to him.'

'That yacht you see on our right is owned by Lord Mountclere. If I'm not mistaken, we'll get closer to her soon, and you might run into your well-mannered friend again. Just be careful how you talk to him.'

Ethelberta sat down and thought about the meeting at Corvsgate Castle, the dinner party at Mr. Doncastle's, the strange situation she had been in there, and then about her father. She suddenly felt guilty for being thoughtless because in her pocket lay a letter from him, which she had taken from the postman that morning right after coming in through the door, and in the rush of getting ready, she had forgotten about it since then. Quickly opening it, she read:

'MY DEAR ETHELBERTA, - Your letter reached me yesterday, and I stopped by Exonbury Crescent in the afternoon, as you asked. Everything is going well there, so you don’t need to worry about them. I won’t leave town for another week or two, and by the time I do, Sol and Dan will have returned from Paris if your mother and Gwendoline need any help. So, you don’t have to rush back on their account.

'I have something else to tell you, which isn’t quite as positive, and that’s why I’m writing right away; but please don’t be alarmed. It started this way. A few nights after the dinner party here, I was determined to find out if there was any truth to what you had heard about that boy, so when I saw Menlove go out as usual after dark, I followed her. Sure enough, when she got into the park, up came master Joe, smoking a cigar. As soon as they met, I approached them, and Menlove, spotting someone coming, started to back off, but the fool said, "Never mind, my love, it’s just the old man." Infuriated with both of them, even though she was really the more guilty one, I gave him some hard taps on the shoulders with my cane and told him to go home, which he did, probably with a lesson learned, the rascal. I think I’ve put an end to his flirting for a while.

'Well, Menlove then walked by me, totally relaxed, as if she were just a lady passing by casually, which annoyed me even more, knowing the whole truth. I couldn’t help but turn to her and say, "You, madam, should receive the same treatment." She responded with very proud words, and I walked away, saying I had better things to do than argue with a woman of her type at that hour of the evening. This puffed her up so much that she followed me home, barged into my pantry, and told me that if I had been more careful about my manners in calling her a bad character, it might have been better for both me and my stuck-up daughter—a crow dressed in eagle's feathers—and so on. Now it seems she must have coaxed something out of Joey about you—what boy in the world could stand up to a woman of her experience and tricks? I hope she doesn’t cause you any serious trouble; but I’m telling you everything just as it is, so you can draw your own conclusions. After all, there’s no real shame, since none of us have ever done wrong, but have worked honestly for a living. However, I’ll keep you updated if anything serious actually happens.'

This was all that her father said on the matter, the letter concluding with messages to the children and directions from their mother with regard to their clothes.

This was all her father had to say about it, and the letter ended with messages to the kids and instructions from their mother concerning their clothes.

Ethelberta felt very distinctly that she was in a strait; the old impression that, unless her position were secured soon, it never would be secured, returned with great force. A doubt whether it was worth securing would have been very strong ere this, had not others besides herself been concerned in her fortunes. She looked up from her letter, and beheld the pertinacious yacht; it led her up to a conviction that therein lay a means and an opportunity.

Ethelberta clearly sensed that she was in a tough spot; the old feeling that if her position wasn't secured soon, it never would be, came back to her strongly. A doubt about whether it was even worth securing would have been very strong by now, if not for the fact that others besides herself were involved in her future. She looked up from her letter and saw the persistent yacht; it made her believe that there was a way and an opportunity in that.

Nothing further of importance occurred in crossing. Ethelberta's head ached after a while, and Cornelia's healthy cheeks of red were found to have diminished their colour to the size of a wafer and the quality of a stain. The Speedwell entered the breakwater at Cherbourg to find the schooner already in the roadstead; and by the time the steamer was brought up Ethelberta could see the men on board the yacht clewing up and making things snug in a way from which she inferred that they were not going to leave the harbour again that day. With the aspect of a fair galleon that could easily out-manoeuvre her persevering buccaneer, Ethelberta passed alongside. Could it be possible that Lord Mountclere had on her account fixed this day for his visit across the Channel?

Nothing else of significance happened during the crossing. After a while, Ethelberta's head started to ache, and the healthy rosy color in Cornelia's cheeks faded to the shade of a wafer, looking more like a stain. The Speedwell entered the breakwater at Cherbourg, only to find the schooner already anchored in the roadstead; by the time the steamer was docked, Ethelberta could see the men on the yacht packing up and securing things, which led her to believe they weren't planning to leave the harbor again that day. Looking like a beautiful galleon that could easily outsmart her relentless pirate, Ethelberta passed by. Could it be that Lord Mountclere had planned his visit across the Channel today because of her?

'Well, I would rather be haunted by him than by Mr. Neigh,' she said; and began laying her plans so as to guard against inconvenient surprises.

'Well, I would rather be haunted by him than by Mr. Neigh,' she said; and began laying her plans to guard against any unexpected surprises.

The next morning Ethelberta was at the railway station, taking tickets for herself and Cornelia, when she saw an old yet sly and somewhat merry-faced Englishman a little way off. He was attended by a younger man, who appeared to be his valet.

The next morning, Ethelberta was at the train station, buying tickets for herself and Cornelia when she noticed an old but crafty and somewhat cheerful-looking Englishman not far away. He was accompanied by a younger man who seemed to be his servant.

'I will exchange one of these tickets,' she said to the clerk, and having done so she went to Cornelia to inform her that it would after all be advisable for them to travel separate, adding, 'Lord Mountclere is in the station, and I think he is going on by our train. Remember, you are my maid again now. Is not that the gentlemanly man who assisted you yesterday?' She signified the valet as she spoke.

"I'll trade one of these tickets," she told the clerk, and after she did, she approached Cornelia to let her know that it would be better for them to travel separately. She added, "Lord Mountclere is at the station, and I think he's taking the same train as us. Remember, you’re my maid again now. Isn't that the nice gentleman who helped you yesterday?" She indicated the valet as she spoke.

'It is,' said Cornelia.

"It is," Cornelia said.

When the passengers were taking their seats, and Ethelberta was thinking whether she might not after all enter a second-class with Cornelia instead of sitting solitary in a first because of an old man's proximity, she heard a shuffling at her elbow, and the next moment found that he was overtly observing her as if he had not done so in secret at all. She at once gave him an unsurprised gesture of recognition. 'I saw you some time ago; what a singular coincidence,' she said.

When the passengers were getting settled in their seats, and Ethelberta was considering whether she should join Cornelia in second class instead of sitting alone in first class because of an old man nearby, she heard some shuffling next to her. The next moment, she realized he was openly watching her as if he hadn’t been sneaky about it at all. She immediately gave him a casual nod of acknowledgment. "I noticed you a little while ago; what a strange coincidence,” she said.

'A charming one,' said Lord Mountclere, smiling a half-minute smile, and making as if he would take his hat off and would not quite. 'Perhaps we must not call it coincidence entirely,' he continued; 'my journey, which I have contemplated for some time, was not fixed this week altogether without a thought of your presence on the road-hee-hee! Do you go far to-day?'

'A charming one,' said Lord Mountclere, smiling for half a minute and pretending to take off his hat but not quite doing it. 'Maybe we shouldn't call it just coincidence,' he continued, 'since my trip, which I've been thinking about for a while, wasn't scheduled for this week without considering that you might be around—hee-hee! Are you traveling far today?'

'As far as Caen,' said Ethelberta.

'Regarding Caen,' said Ethelberta.

'Ah! That's the end of my day's journey, too,' said Lord Mountclere. They parted and took their respective places, Lord Mountclere choosing a compartment next to the one Ethelberta was entering, and not, as she had expected, attempting to join her.

'Ah! That's the end of my day's journey, too,' said Lord Mountclere. They parted and took their respective seats, with Lord Mountclere choosing a compartment next to the one Ethelberta was entering, and not, as she had expected, trying to join her.

Now she had instantly fancied when the viscount was speaking that there were signs of some departure from his former respectful manner towards her; and an enigma lay in that. At their earlier meetings he had never ventured upon a distinct coupling of himself and herself as he had done in his broad compliment to-day-if compliment it could be called. She was not sure that he did not exceed his license in telling her deliberately that he had meant to hover near her in a private journey which she was taking without reference to him. She did not object to the act, but to the avowal of the act; and, being as sensitive as a barometer on signs affecting her social condition, it darted upon Ethelberta for one little moment that he might possibly have heard a word or two about her being nothing more nor less than one of a tribe of thralls; hence his freedom of manner. Certainly a plain remark of that sort was exactly what a susceptible peer might be supposed to say to a pretty woman of far inferior degree. A rapid redness filled her face at the thought that he might have smiled upon her as upon a domestic whom he was disposed to chuck under the chin. 'But no,' she said. 'He would never have taken the trouble to follow and meet with me had he learnt to think me other than a lady. It is extremity of devotion-that's all.'

Now she immediately sensed when the viscount was talking that he seemed to be acting differently toward her than he had before; there was a mystery in that. In their earlier meetings, he had never openly included himself with her like he did in his broad compliment today—if it could even be called a compliment. She wasn't sure if he crossed a line by telling her outright that he intended to be close to her on a private trip she was taking without involving him. She didn’t mind the action, just the acknowledgment of it; and being as sensitive as a barometer to signs affecting her social status, it briefly struck Ethelberta that he might have heard some gossip about her being nothing more or less than one of a group of servants; hence his casual attitude. Certainly, a straightforward remark like that was exactly what a careless nobleman might say to a pretty woman of much lower status. A quick flush filled her face at the thought that he might have looked at her like a servant he might want to playfully tease. ‘But no,’ she said. ‘He wouldn’t have bothered to follow and meet me if he thought I was anything less than a lady. It’s pure devotion—that’s all.’

It was not Ethelberta's inexperience, but that her conception of self precluded such an association of ideas, which led her to dismiss the surmise that his attendance could be inspired by a motive beyond that of paying her legitimate attentions as a co-ordinate with him and his in the social field. Even if he only meant flirtation, she read it as of that sort from which courtship with an eye to matrimony differs only in degree. Hence, she thought, his interest in her was not likely, under the ordinary influences of caste feeling, to continue longer than while he was kept in ignorance of her consanguinity with a stock proscribed. She sighed at the anticipated close of her full-feathered towering when her ties and bonds should be uncovered. She might have seen matters in a different light, and sighed more. But in the stir of the moment it escaped her thought that ignorance of her position, and a consequent regard for her as a woman of good standing, would have prevented his indulgence in any course which was open to the construction of being disrespectful.

It wasn't Ethelberta's lack of experience that made her dismiss the idea that his interest could be driven by motives other than just paying her proper attention as an equal in the social scene. Even if he was only looking to flirt, she saw it as similar to courtship aimed at marriage, differing only in intensity. Therefore, she believed his interest in her wouldn't last long, especially given the societal norms that would cause him to lose interest once he found out about her connection to a disapproved family. She sighed at the thought of her status coming to an end when her background was revealed. She might have viewed things differently and sighed even more. But in that moment, she didn't consider that his ignorance about her situation and his resulting respect for her as a woman of good standing would have kept him from acting in any way that could be seen as disrespectful.

Valognes, Carentan, Isigny, Bayeux, were passed, and the train drew up at Caen. Ethelberta's intention had been to stay here for one night, but having learnt from Lord Mountclere, as previously described, that this was his destination, she decided to go on. On turning towards the carriage after a few minutes of promenading at the Caen station, she was surprised to perceive that Lord Mountclere, who had alighted as if to leave, was still there.

Valognes, Carentan, Isigny, and Bayeux were passed, and the train stopped at Caen. Ethelberta had planned to stay here for one night, but after finding out from Lord Mountclere, as mentioned before, that this was where he was headed, she decided to continue on. After a few minutes of walking around the Caen station, she was surprised to see that Lord Mountclere, who had gotten off as if to leave, was still there.

They spoke again to each other. 'I find I have to go further,' he suddenly said, when she had chatted with him a little time. And beckoning to the man who was attending to his baggage, he directed the things to be again placed in the train.

They talked to each other again. "I feel like I need to go further," he suddenly said after she had chatted with him for a while. Then, signaling to the man handling his luggage, he instructed him to put the bags back on the train.

Time passed, and they changed at the next junction. When Ethelberta entered a carriage on the branch line to take her seat for the remainder of the journey, there sat the viscount in the same division. He explained that he was going to Rouen.

Time passed, and they switched trains at the next junction. When Ethelberta got into a carriage on the branch line to take her seat for the rest of the journey, the viscount was already there in the same compartment. He explained that he was heading to Rouen.

Ethelberta came to a quick resolution. Her audacity, like that of a child getting nearer and nearer a parent's side, became wonderfully vigorous as she approached her destination; and though there were three good hours of travel to Rouen as yet, the heavier part of the journey was past. At her aunt's would be a safe refuge, play what pranks she might, and there she would to-morrow meet those bravest of defenders Sol and Dan, to whom she had sent as much money as she could conveniently spare towards their expenses, with directions that they were to come by the most economical route, and meet her at the house of her aunt, Madame Moulin, previous to their educational trip to Paris, their own contribution being the value of the week's work they would have to lose. Thus backed up by Sol and Dan, her aunt, and Cornelia, Ethelberta felt quite the reverse of a lonely female persecuted by a wicked lord in a foreign country. 'He shall pay for his weaknesses, whatever they mean,' she thought; 'and what they mean I will find out at once.'

Ethelberta made a quick decision. Her boldness, similar to a child inching closer to a parent, grew stronger as she neared her destination; and even though she still had three solid hours of travel to Rouen, the hardest part of the journey was behind her. At her aunt's house, she would have a safe haven, no matter what mischief she got up to, and there she would meet the brave defenders Sol and Dan tomorrow. She had sent them as much money as she could spare for their expenses, instructing them to take the cheapest route and meet her at her aunt Madame Moulin's house before their educational trip to Paris, with their contribution being the value of the work they would miss for the week. With Sol and Dan, her aunt, and Cornelia backing her up, Ethelberta felt anything but a lonely woman being targeted by a wicked lord in a foreign country. 'He will pay for his flaws, whatever they are,' she thought; 'and I will find out what they are right away.'

'I am going to Paris,' she said.

'I’m going to Paris,' she said.

'You cannot to-night, I think.'

'You can't tonight, I think.'

'To-morrow, I mean.'

'Tomorrow, I mean.'

'I should like to go on to-morrow. Perhaps I may. So that there is a chance of our meeting again.'

'I’d like to go tomorrow. Maybe I will. That way, there’s a chance we could meet again.'

'Yes; but I do not leave Rouen till the afternoon. I first shall go to the cathedral, and drive round the city.'

'Yes, but I won’t leave Rouen until the afternoon. I’ll go to the cathedral first and then drive around the city.'

Lord Mountclere smiled pleasantly. There seemed a sort of encouragement in her words. Ethelberta's thoughts, however, had flown at that moment to the approaching situation at her aunt's hotel: it would be extremely embarrassing if he should go there.

Lord Mountclere smiled warmly. There seemed to be a kind of encouragement in her words. Ethelberta's thoughts, however, had already shifted to the upcoming situation at her aunt's hotel: it would be really awkward if he decided to go there.

'Where do you stay, Lord Mountclere?' she said.

'Where are you staying, Lord Mountclere?' she asked.

Thus directly asked, he could not but commit himself to the name of the hotel he had been accustomed to patronize, which was one in the upper part of the city.

Thus directly asked, he couldn't help but commit to the name of the hotel he usually visited, which was located in the upper part of the city.

'Mine is not that one,' said Ethelberta frigidly.

'That's not mine,' Ethelberta said coldly.

No further remark was made under this head, and they conversed for the remainder of the daylight on scenery and other topics, Lord Mountclere's air of festivity lending him all the qualities of an agreeable companion. But notwithstanding her resolve, Ethelberta failed, for that day at least, to make her mind clear upon Lord Mountclere's intentions. To that end she would have liked first to know what were the exact limits set by society to conduct under present conditions, if society had ever set any at all, which was open to question: since experience had long ago taught her that much more freedom actually prevails in the communion of the sexes than is put on paper as etiquette, or admitted in so many words as correct behaviour. In short, everything turned upon whether he had learnt of her position when off the platform at Mayfair Hall.

No more comments were made on this topic, and they spent the rest of the day talking about the scenery and other subjects, with Lord Mountclere's cheerful demeanor making him a pleasant companion. However, despite her determination, Ethelberta couldn’t figure out Lord Mountclere's intentions that day. To clarify, she wanted to understand the exact boundaries that society sets for behavior in this situation, if society had ever established any at all, which was debatable: her experiences had taught her that there’s actually much more freedom in interactions between men and women than what is written down as etiquette or explicitly stated as acceptable behavior. Ultimately, it all depended on whether he knew about her situation when they were off the platform at Mayfair Hall.

Wearied with these surmises, and the day's travel, she closed her eyes. And then her enamoured companion more widely opened his, and traced the beautiful features opposite him. The arch of the brows-like a slur in music-the droop of the lashes, the meeting of the lips, and the sweet rotundity of the chin-one by one, and all together, they were adored, till his heart was like a retort full of spirits of wine.

Worn out by her thoughts and the day's journey, she closed her eyes. Meanwhile, her captivated companion opened his eyes wider and took in the beautiful features in front of him. The curve of the eyebrows—like a musical note—the way the lashes fell, the shape of the lips, and the sweet roundness of the chin—all were admired, one by one and all together, until his heart felt like a container filled with spirits.

It was a warm evening, and when they arrived at their journey's end distant thunder rolled behind heavy and opaque clouds. Ethelberta bade adieu to her attentive satellite, called to Cornelia, and entered a cab; but before they reached the inn the thunder had increased. Then a cloud cracked into flame behind the iron spire of the cathedral, showing in relief its black ribs and stanchions, as if they were the bars of a blazing cresset held on high.

It was a warm evening, and as they arrived at their destination, distant thunder rumbled behind thick, dark clouds. Ethelberta said goodbye to her attentive companion, called to Cornelia, and got into a cab; but before they reached the inn, the thunder grew louder. Then a cloud lit up with a flash behind the iron spire of the cathedral, highlighting its black ribs and supports, as if they were the bars of a fiery torch held up high.

'Ah, we will clamber up there to-morrow,' said Ethelberta.

'Oh, we will climb up there tomorrow,' said Ethelberta.

A wondrous stillness pervaded the streets of the city after this, though it was not late; and their arrival at M. Moulin's door was quite an event for the quay. No rain came, as they had expected, and by the time they halted the western sky had cleared, so that the newly-lit lamps on the quay, and the evening glow shining over the river, inwove their harmonious rays as the warp and woof of one lustrous tissue. Before they had alighted there appeared from the archway Madame Moulin in person, followed by the servants of the hotel in a manner signifying that they did not receive a visitor once a fortnight, though at that moment the clatter of sixty knives, forks, and tongues was audible through an open window from the adjoining dining-room, to the great interest of a group of idlers outside. Ethelberta had not seen her aunt since she last passed through the town with Lady Petherwin, who then told her that this landlady was the only respectable relative she seemed to have in the world.

A remarkable stillness filled the streets of the city afterward, even though it wasn't late; their arrival at M. Moulin's door was quite a scene for the quay. No rain came, as they had anticipated, and by the time they stopped, the western sky had cleared, allowing the newly-lit lamps on the quay and the evening glow over the river to weave their light together like a beautiful fabric. Before they got out, Madame Moulin herself appeared from the archway, followed by the hotel staff, showing that they didn't usually have visitors every other week. At that moment, the sound of sixty knives, forks, and conversations was clearly audible through an open window from the dining room, catching the attention of a group of onlookers outside. Ethelberta hadn't seen her aunt since she last passed through town with Lady Petherwin, who had told her that this landlady was the only respectable relative she seemed to have in the world.

Aunt Charlotte's face was an English outline filled in with French shades under the eyes, on the brows, and round the mouth, by the natural effect of years; she resembled the British hostess as little as well could be, no point in her causing the slightest suggestion of drops taken for the stomach's sake. Telling the two young women she would gladly have met them at the station had she known the hour of their arrival, she kissed them both without much apparent notice of a difference in their conditions; indeed, seeming rather to incline to Cornelia, whose country face and homely style of clothing may have been more to her mind than Ethelberta's finished travelling-dress, a class of article to which she appeared to be well accustomed. Her husband was at this time at the head of the table-d'hote, and mentioning the fact as an excuse for his non-appearance, she accompanied them upstairs.

Aunt Charlotte's face had a classic English shape, softened by some French tones under her eyes, on her brows, and around her mouth, thanks to the natural effects of aging. She bore little resemblance to the typical British hostess, and she didn't give off any vibes suggesting she had taken anything for her stomach. She told the two young women she would have happily met them at the station if she had known when they were arriving, and she kissed them both without really acknowledging the difference in their situations; in fact, she seemed to prefer Cornelia, whose rural features and simple clothing might have appealed to her more than Ethelberta's polished travel outfit, which she seemed quite familiar with. Her husband was currently managing the dining area, and she mentioned this as an excuse for his absence as she led them upstairs.

After the strain of keeping up smiles with Lord Mountclere, the rattle and shaking, and the general excitements of the chase across the water and along the rail, a face in which she saw a dim reflex of her mother's was soothing in the extreme, and Ethelberta went up to the staircase with a feeling of expansive thankfulness. Cornelia paused to admire the clean court and the small caged birds sleeping on their perches, the boxes of veronica in bloom, of oleander, and of tamarisk, which freshened the air of the court and lent a romance to the lamplight, the cooks in their paper caps and white blouses appearing at odd moments from an Avernus behind; while the prompt 'v'la!' of teetotums in mob caps, spinning down the staircase in answer to the periodic clang of bells, filled her with wonder, and pricked her conscience with thoughts of how seldom such transcendent nimbleness was attempted by herself in a part so nearly similar.

After the stress of keeping up appearances with Lord Mountclere, the noise and movement, and the general excitement of racing across the water and along the train tracks, a face that reminded her faintly of her mother's was extremely comforting. Ethelberta climbed the staircase feeling immensely grateful. Cornelia stopped to admire the clean courtyard and the small caged birds sleeping on their perches, the blooming boxes of veronica, oleander, and tamarisk that freshened the air of the courtyard and added a touch of romance to the lamplight, while the cooks in their paper hats and white shirts appeared at unexpected moments from behind a hidden area; meanwhile, the prompt 'v'la!' of spinning tops in mob caps descending the staircase in response to the periodic clang of bells filled her with awe and made her think about how rarely she attempted such impressive agility in a role so similar.

34. THE HOTEL BEAU SEJOUR AND SPOTS NEAR IT

The next day, to Ethelberta's surprise, there was a letter for her in her mother's distinct handwriting. She ignored everything else in the letter for these captivating sentences:

'Menlove has managed to get everything out of poor Joey, and your father is really upset about it. She had another argument with him and then threatened to expose you and us to Mrs. Doncastle and all your friends. I believe Menlove is the kind of woman who will stick to her word, and the question for you to think about is how you can best handle any truth she spreads and counter the lies she adds to it. This seems like a terrible situation, and it will probably feel that way to you too. The worst part will be that your siblings are your servants, and that your father is actually involved in the house where you dine. I’m very afraid this will be seen as a big joke for gossipers and will lead to endless laughter in society at your expense. If Menlove does spread the rumor, it will definitely stop people from attending your lectures next season because they will feel like fools, and they will be angry with themselves, you, and all of us.

'The only way I can see you getting out of this mess is to put some plan for marriage into action as soon as possible, before all these things come to light. Surely by now, given all your opportunities, you’ve been able to make some acquaintances with gentlemen that could lead to a suitable match. You see, my dear Berta, marriage is something that, once achieved, secures your position more than any personal skills can; because as you are now, every loose tooth, every combed-out hair, every new wrinkle, and every sleepless night takes away from your chances for the future, depending on how charming you can be. I know you’ve had some good offers, so please listen to me, and rekindle the interest of the best of them quickly, before your beauty fades and it’s too late.

'Mr. Ladywell came by to see you; it was just after I heard that this Menlove could cause trouble, so I thought it best to tell him that you would really like to see him and were feeling sad about why he hadn’t visited lately. I gave him your address in Rouen so he could find you if he wanted to, and hopefully propose, since he’s better than no one. I believe he mentioned that he was going abroad as soon as Joey gave him your address, but I think he will come to you because of the encouragement I gave him. If he does, you should thank me for my foresight and care for you.

'I sometimes breathe a sigh of relief knowing that I at least found a husband before this current shortage of men began. Please don’t turn him down this time, dear, or trust me, you’ll regret it—unless you’ve already gotten engaged to someone better. You won’t if you haven’t already, because the exposure is sure to come soon.'

'O, this false position!-it is ruining your nature, my too thoughtful mother! But I will not accept any of them-I'll brazen it out!' said Ethelberta, throwing the letter wherever it chose to fly, and picking it up to read again. She stood and thought it all over. 'I must decide to do something!' was her sigh again; and, feeling an irresistible need of motion, she put on her things and went out to see what resolve the morning would bring.

'O, this twisted situation! It's ruining your character, my overly concerned mother! But I won't accept any of it—I’ll face it head on!' said Ethelberta, tossing the letter wherever it landed, then picking it up to read again. She stood and went over everything in her mind. 'I have to make a decision!' she sighed again; and feeling an overwhelming urge to move, she got dressed and went outside to see what the morning would bring.

No rain had fallen during the night, and the air was now quiet in a warm heavy fog, through which old cider-smells, reminding her of Wessex, occasionally came from narrow streets in the background. Ethelberta passed up the Rue Grand-Pont into the little dusky Rue Saint-Romain, behind the cathedral, being driven mechanically along by the fever and fret of her thoughts. She was about to enter the building by the transept door, when she saw Lord Mountclere coming towards her.

No rain had come down overnight, and the air was now still in a warm, thick fog, through which faint smells of old cider, reminding her of Wessex, occasionally drifted from the narrow streets nearby. Ethelberta walked up the Rue Grand-Pont into the dim Rue Saint-Romain, behind the cathedral, being pushed forward almost instinctively by the restlessness of her thoughts. She was about to enter the building through the transept door when she noticed Lord Mountclere approaching her.

Ethelberta felt equal to him, or a dozen such, this morning. The looming spectres raised by her mother's information, the wearing sense of being over-weighted in the race, were driving her to a Hamlet-like fantasticism and defiance of augury; moreover, she was abroad.

Ethelberta felt just as capable as him, or even a dozen of him, this morning. The shadows cast by her mother's news and the exhausting feeling of being burdened in the competition were pushing her towards a Hamlet-like fancifulness and a rejection of fate; besides, she was out in the world.

'I am about to ascend to the parapets of the cathedral,' said she, in answer to a half inquiry.

'I’m about to go up to the cathedral's parapets,' she replied, in response to a half-formed question.

'I should be delighted to accompany you,' he rejoined, in a manner as capable of explanation by his knowledge of her secret as was Ethelberta's manner by her sense of nearing the end of her maying. But whether this frequent glide into her company was meant as ephemeral flirtation, to fill the half-hours of his journey, or whether it meant a serious love-suit-which were the only alternatives that had occurred to her on the subject-did not trouble her now. 'I am bound to be civil to so great a lord,' she lightly thought, and expressing no objection to his presence, she passed with him through the outbuildings, containing Gothic lumber from the shadowy pile above, and ascended the stone staircase. Emerging from its windings, they duly came to the long wooden ladder suspended in mid-air that led to the parapet of the tower. This being wide enough for two abreast, she could hardly do otherwise than wait a moment for the viscount, who up to this point had never faltered, and who amused her as they went by scraps of his experience in various countries, which, to do him justice, he told with vivacity and humour. Thus they reached the end of the flight, and entered behind a balustrade.

"I'd be happy to join you," he replied, in a way that was as understandable because of his awareness of her secret as Ethelberta's demeanor was due to her sense of the end of her festivities. But whether his frequent visits were just playful flirting to pass the time on his journey or a serious romantic interest—those were the only two possibilities that had crossed her mind—didn’t concern her now. "I have to be courteous to such a high-ranking lord," she thought lightly, and without expressing any objection to his company, she walked with him through the outbuildings filled with Gothic remnants from the shadowy structure above, and they climbed the stone staircase. After navigating its twists and turns, they finally arrived at the long wooden ladder hanging in mid-air that led to the tower's parapet. Since it was wide enough for two people, she hardly had a choice but to wait a moment for the viscount, who had not stumbled once up to this point, and who entertained her with snippets of his experiences in various countries, which, to be fair to him, he recounted with energy and humor. Thus, they reached the end of the climb and entered behind a balustrade.

'The prospect will be very lovely from this point when the fog has blown off,' said Lord Mountclere faintly, for climbing and chattering at the same time had fairly taken away his breath. He leant against the masonry to rest himself. 'The air is clearing already; I fancy I saw a sunbeam or two.'

'The view will be really beautiful from here once the fog clears up,' said Lord Mountclere faintly, as he was out of breath from climbing and talking at the same time. He leaned against the wall to catch his breath. 'The air is clearing up already; I think I saw a sunbeam or two.'

'It will be lovelier above,' said Ethelberta. 'Let us go to the platform at the base of the fleche, and wait for a view there.'

'It'll be nicer up there,' Ethelberta said. 'Let's head to the platform at the bottom of the spire and wait for a view there.'

'With all my heart,' said her attentive companion.

"With all my heart," said her attentive friend.

They passed in at a door and up some more stone steps, which landed them finally in the upper chamber of the tower. Lord Mountclere sank on a beam, and asked smilingly if her ambition was not satisfied with this goal. 'I recollect going to the top some years ago,' he added, 'and it did not occur to me as being a thing worth doing a second time. And there was no fog then, either.'

They entered through a door and climbed more stone steps, which eventually brought them to the upper room of the tower. Lord Mountclere sat on a beam and asked with a smile if her ambition was satisfied with this achievement. "I remember going to the top a few years ago," he added, "and it didn't seem worth doing again. Plus, there wasn’t any fog then, either."

'O,' said Ethelberta, 'it is one of the most splendid things a person can do! The fog is going fast, and everybody with the least artistic feeling in the direction of bird's-eye views makes the ascent every time of coming here.'

'O,' said Ethelberta, 'it's one of the most amazing things a person can do! The fog is clearing up quickly, and everyone with even a little artistic appreciation for panoramic views climbs up here every time they visit.'

'Of course, of course,' said Lord Mountclere. 'And I am only too happy to go to any height with you.'

'Of course, of course,' said Lord Mountclere. 'And I'm more than happy to go to any length with you.'

'Since you so kindly offer, we will go to the very top of the spire-up through the fog and into the sunshine,' said Ethelberta.

'Since you’re so kind to offer, we will go all the way to the top of the spire—up through the fog and into the sunshine,' said Ethelberta.

Lord Mountclere covered a grim misgiving by a gay smile, and away they went up a ladder admitting to the base of the huge iron framework above; then they entered upon the regular ascent of the cage, towards the hoped-for celestial blue, and among breezes which never descended so low as the town. The journey was enlivened with more breathless witticisms from Lord Mountclere, till she stepped ahead of him again; when he asked how many more steps there were.

Lord Mountclere hid his uneasy feelings behind a cheerful smile, and they climbed up a ladder that led to the base of the massive iron structure above. Then they began their usual ascent in the cage, heading towards the anticipated sky-blue, surrounded by breezes that never reached the town below. The trip was filled with more playful jokes from Lord Mountclere until she moved ahead of him again; he then asked how many more steps there were.

She inquired of the man in the blue blouse who accompanied them. 'Fifty-five,' she returned to Lord Mountclere a moment later.

She asked the man in the blue shirt who was with them. 'Fifty-five,' she replied to Lord Mountclere a moment later.

They went round, and round, and yet around.

They went around and around and around.

'How many are there now?' Lord Mountclere demanded this time of the man.

'How many are there now?' Lord Mountclere asked this time of the man.

'A hundred and ninety, Monsieur,' he said.

'A hundred and ninety, sir,' he said.

'But there were only fifty-five ever so long ago!'

'But there were only fifty-five a long time ago!'

'Two hundred and five, then,' said the man. 'Perhaps the mist prevented Mademoiselle hearing me distinctly?'

'Two hundred and five, then,' said the man. 'Maybe the mist kept Mademoiselle from hearing me clearly?'

'Never mind: I would follow were there five thousand more, did Mademoiselle bid me!' said the exhausted nobleman gallantly, in English.

'Never mind: I would follow even if there were five thousand more, if Mademoiselle asked me to!' said the exhausted nobleman gallantly, in English.

'Hush!' said Ethelberta, with displeasure.

"Quiet!" Ethelberta said, displeased.

'He doesn't understand a word,' said Lord Mountclere.

'He doesn't understand a thing,' said Lord Mountclere.

They paced the remainder of their spiral pathway in silence, and having at last reached the summit, Lord Mountclere sank down on one of the steps, panting out, 'Dear me, dear me!'

They walked the rest of the spiral path in silence, and finally reaching the top, Lord Mountclere sat down on one of the steps, breathlessly saying, 'Goodness, goodness!'

Ethelberta leaned and looked around, and said, 'How extraordinary this is. It is sky above, below, everywhere.'

Ethelberta leaned and looked around and said, "How amazing this is. It's sky above, below, everywhere."

He dragged himself together and stepped to her side. They formed as it were a little world to themselves, being completely ensphered by the fog, which here was dense as a sea of milk. Below was neither town, country, nor cathedral-simply whiteness, into which the iron legs of their gigantic perch faded to nothing.

He pulled himself together and stepped by her side. They created what felt like a little world just for them, completely surrounded by the fog, which was as thick as a sea of milk. Below them was neither town, countryside, nor cathedral—just pure whiteness, where the iron legs of their giant perch vanished into nothingness.

'We have lost our labour; there is no prospect for you, after all, Lord Mountclere,' said Ethelberta, turning her eyes upon him. He looked at her face as if there were, and she continued, 'Listen; I hear sounds from the town: people's voices, and carts, and dogs, and the noise of a railway-train. Shall we now descend, and own ourselves disappointed?'

"We’ve lost our work; there’s no hope for you after all, Lord Mountclere," Ethelberta said, turning her gaze to him. He looked at her face as if there were still hope, and she continued, "Listen; I can hear sounds from the town: people talking, carts moving, dogs barking, and the noise of a train. Should we go down now and admit that we’re let down?"

'Whenever you choose.'

'Anytime you want.'

Before they had put their intention in practice there appeared to be reasons for waiting awhile. Out of the plain of fog beneath, a stone tooth seemed to be upheaving itself: then another showed forth. These were the summits of the St. Romain and the Butter Towers-at the western end of the building. As the fog stratum collapsed other summits manifested their presence further off-among them the two spires and lantern of St. Ouen's; when to the left the dome of St. Madeline's caught a first ray from the peering sun, under which its scaly surface glittered like a fish. Then the mist rolled off in earnest, and revealed far beneath them a whole city, its red, blue, and grey roofs forming a variegated pattern, small and subdued as that of a pavement in mosaic. Eastward in the spacious outlook lay the hill of St. Catherine, breaking intrusively into the large level valley of the Seine; south was the river which had been the parent of the mist, and the Ile Lacroix, gorgeous in scarlet, purple, and green. On the western horizon could be dimly discerned melancholy forests, and further to the right stood the hill and rich groves of Boisguillaume.

Before they put their plans into action, it seemed like there were reasons to wait a little longer. From the fog below, a rocky peak appeared to rise up, then another one showed itself. These were the summits of the St. Romain and the Butter Towers, at the western end of the structure. As the fog began to dissipate, more peaks emerged in the distance, including the two spires and lantern of St. Ouen's. To the left, the dome of St. Madeline's caught the first rays from the emerging sun, making its scaly surface shine like a fish. Then the mist cleared away for real, revealing a whole city far beneath them, with its red, blue, and gray roofs creating a colorful pattern, small and subtle like a mosaic pavement. Eastward, in the wide view, lay the hill of St. Catherine, intruding into the vast flat valley of the Seine. To the south was the river that had given birth to the mist, along with the Ile Lacroix, vibrant with scarlet, purple, and green. On the western horizon, somber forests could be faintly seen, and further to the right stood the hill and lush groves of Boisguillaume.

Ethelberta having now done looking around, the descent was begun and continued without intermission till they came to the passage behind the parapet.

Ethelberta had finished looking around, so they started the descent and kept going without stopping until they reached the passage behind the parapet.

Ethelberta was about to step airily forward, when there reached her ear the voices of persons below. She recognized as one of them the slow unaccented tones of Neigh.

Ethelberta was about to step forward with ease when she heard voices from below. She recognized one of them as the slow, neutral tones of Neigh.

'Please wait a minute!' she said in a peremptory manner of confusion sufficient to attract Lord Mountclere's attention.

'Please wait a minute!' she said in an authoritative tone of confusion that was enough to grab Lord Mountclere's attention.

A recollection had sprung to her mind in a moment. She had half made an appointment with Neigh at her aunt's hotel for this very week, and here was he in Rouen to keep it. To meet him while indulging in this vagary with Lord Mountclere-which, now that the mood it had been engendered by was passing off, she somewhat regretted-would be the height of imprudence.

A memory flashed in her mind suddenly. She had almost scheduled a meeting with Neigh at her aunt's hotel for this week, and now he was in Rouen to keep it. Meeting him while she was caught up in this whim with Lord Mountclere—which, now that the excitement was fading, she slightly regretted—would be extremely unwise.

'I should like to go round to the other side of the parapet for a few moments,' she said, with decisive quickness. 'Come with me, Lord Mountclere.'

'I want to go over to the other side of the parapet for a few minutes,' she said quickly and firmly. 'Come with me, Lord Mountclere.'

They went round to the other side. Here she kept the viscount and their suisse until she deemed it probable that Neigh had passed by, when she returned with her companions and descended to the bottom. They emerged into the Rue Saint-Romain, whereupon a woman called from the opposite side of the way to their guide, stating that she had told the other English gentleman that the English lady had gone into the fleche.

They went around to the other side. She stayed with the viscount and their Swiss companion until she thought it was likely that Neigh had passed, then she returned with her friends and went down to the bottom. They came out onto the Rue Saint-Romain, where a woman called from across the street to their guide, saying that she had informed the other English gentleman that the English lady had gone into the fleche.

Ethelberta turned and looked up. She could just discern Neigh's form upon the steps of the fleche above, ascending toilsomely in search of her.

Ethelberta turned and looked up. She could just make out Neigh's figure on the steps of the fleche above, climbing slowly in search of her.

'What English gentleman could that have been?' said Lord Mountclere, after paying the man. He spoke in a way which showed he had not overlooked her confusion. 'It seems that he must have been searching for us, or rather for you?'

'Which English gentleman could that have been?' said Lord Mountclere, after paying the man. He spoke in a way that indicated he had noticed her confusion. 'It seems he must have been looking for us, or more specifically, for you?'

'Only Mr. Neigh,' said Ethelberta. 'He told me he was coming here. I believe he is waiting for an interview with me.'

'Only Mr. Neigh,' Ethelberta said. 'He told me he was coming here. I think he's waiting for a chance to talk to me.'

'H'm,' said Lord Mountclere.

"Hmm," said Lord Mountclere.

'Business-only business,' said she.

"Business only," she said.

'Shall I leave you? Perhaps the business is important-most important.'

'Should I leave you? Maybe the matter is important—very important.'

'Unfortunately it is.'

'Sadly, it is.'

'You must forgive me this once: I cannot help-will you give me permission to make a difficult remark?' said Lord Mountclere, in an impatient voice.

'You have to forgive me this time: I can't help it—will you let me make a tough comment?' said Lord Mountclere, in an impatient tone.

'With pleasure.'

"Gladly."

'Well, then, the business I meant was-an engagement to be married.'

'Well, then, what I meant was-an engagement to get married.'

Had it been possible for a woman to be perpetually on the alert she might now have supposed that Lord Mountclere knew all about her; a mechanical deference must have restrained such an illusion had he seen her in any other light than that of a distracting slave. But she answered quietly, 'So did I.'

Had it been possible for a woman to be always on guard, she might now have thought that Lord Mountclere knew everything about her; a forced politeness would have held back that thought if he had viewed her in any way other than as an annoying servant. But she replied calmly, "So did I."

'But how does he know-dear me, dear me! I beg pardon,' said the viscount.

'But how does he know—oh my, oh my! I’m so sorry,' said the viscount.

She looked at him curiously, as if to imply that he was seriously out of his reckoning in respect of her if he supposed that he would be allowed to continue this little play at love-making as long as he chose, when she was offered the position of wife by a man so good as Neigh.

She looked at him with curiosity, as if to suggest that he was completely wrong about her if he thought he could keep up this little game of flirting for as long as he wanted, especially now that she had been proposed to by a man as kind as Neigh.

They stood in silence side by side till, much to her ease, Cornelia appeared at the corner waiting. At the last moment he said, in somewhat agitated tones, and with what appeared to be a renewal of the respect which had been imperceptibly dropped since they crossed the Channel, 'I was not aware of your engagement to Mr. Neigh. I fear I have been acting mistakenly on that account.'

They stood in silence next to each other until, to her relief, Cornelia showed up at the corner waiting. At the last moment, he said, in a somewhat nervous tone, and with what seemed to be a return of the respect that had subtly faded since they crossed the Channel, 'I didn't realize you were engaged to Mr. Neigh. I’m afraid I’ve been acting wrongly because of that.'

'There is no engagement as yet,' said she.

'There is no engagement yet,' she said.

Lord Mountclere brightened like a child. 'Then may I have a few words in private-'

Lord Mountclere lit up like a child. "So, can I have a moment alone—"

'Not now-not to-day,' said Ethelberta, with a certain irritation at she knew not what. 'Believe me, Lord Mountclere, you are mistaken in many things. I mean, you think more of me than you ought. A time will come when you will despise me for this day's work, and it is madness in you to go further.'

‘Not now—not today,’ Ethelberta said, a bit irritated for reasons she couldn’t place. ‘Believe me, Lord Mountclere, you’re mistaken about many things. I mean, you think too highly of me. There will come a time when you’ll look down on me for what’s happening today, and it’s foolish of you to pursue this further.’

Lord Mountclere, knowing what he did know, may have imagined what she referred to; but Ethelberta was without the least proof that he had the key to her humour. 'Well, well, I'll be responsible for the madness,' he said. 'I know you to be-a famous woman, at all events; and that's enough. I would say more, but I cannot here. May I call upon you?'

Lord Mountclere, knowing what he knew, might have guessed what she was talking about; but Ethelberta had no real evidence that he understood her humor. 'Alright, I'll take the blame for the madness,' he said. 'I know you are an incredible woman, anyway; and that's enough. I'd say more, but I can't do it here. Can I visit you?'

'Not now.'

'Not right now.'

'When shall I?'

'When should I?'

'If you must, let it be a month hence at my house in town,' she said indifferently, the Hamlet mood being still upon her. 'Yes, call upon us then, and I will tell you everything that may remain to be told, if you should be inclined to listen. A rumour is afloat which will undeceive you in much, and depress me to death. And now I will walk back: pray excuse me.' She entered the street, and joined Cornelia.

'If you have to, let it be a month from now at my place in town,' she said casually, still in a Hamlet-like mood. 'Yes, come visit us then, and I’ll share everything that’s left to be said, if you want to listen. There’s a rumor going around that will clear up a lot for you and crush me completely. Now I’m going to walk back, please excuse me.' She stepped into the street and joined Cornelia.

Lord Mountclere paced irregularly along, turned the corner, and went towards his inn, nearing which his tread grew lighter, till he scarcely seemed to touch the ground. He became gleeful, and said to himself, nervously palming his hip with his left hand, as if previous to plunging it into hot water for some prize: 'Upon my life I've a good mind! Upon my life I have!. . . . I must make a straightforward thing of it, and at once; or he will have her. But he shall not, and I will-hee-hee!'

Lord Mountclere walked back and forth, turned the corner, and headed toward his inn, where his step became lighter, almost as if he barely touched the ground. He felt happy and said to himself, nervously patting his hip with his left hand, like someone getting ready to jump into hot water for a reward: 'I really am tempted! I really am!... I need to be straightforward about this, and I need to do it now; otherwise, he’ll take her. But that won’t happen, and I will—hee-hee!'

The fascinated man, screaming inwardly with the excitement, glee, and agony of his position, entered the hotel, wrote a hasty note to Ethelberta and despatched it by hand, looked to his dress and appearance, ordered a carriage, and in a quarter of an hour was being driven towards the Hotel Beau Sejour, whither his note had preceded him.

The intrigued man, filled with excitement, joy, and the stress of his situation, entered the hotel, quickly wrote a note to Ethelberta, and sent it off by hand. He checked his outfit and appearance, ordered a carriage, and in about fifteen minutes was on his way to the Hotel Beau Sejour, where his note had already gone ahead of him.

35. THE HOTEL (continued), AND THE QUAY IN FRONT

Ethelberta, having arrived there some time earlier, had gone straight to her aunt, whom she found sitting behind a large ledger in the office, making up the accounts with her husband, a well-framed reflective man with a grey beard. M. Moulin bustled, waited for her remarks and replies, and made much of her in a general way, when Ethelberta said, what she had wanted to say instantly, 'Has a gentleman called Mr. Neigh been here?'

Ethelberta, having arrived there a little while ago, went directly to her aunt, whom she found sitting behind a large ledger in the office, working on the accounts with her husband, a well-built thoughtful man with a gray beard. M. Moulin was busy, waiting for her comments and responses, and generally making a big deal out of her when Ethelberta asked what she had been eager to know, "Has a man named Mr. Neigh been here?"

'O yes-I think it is Neigh-there's a card upstairs,' replied her aunt. 'I told him you were alone at the cathedral, and I believe he walked that way. Besides that one, another has come for you-a Mr. Ladywell, and he is waiting.'

'O yes—I think it's Neigh—there's a card upstairs,' replied her aunt. 'I told him you were alone at the cathedral, and I believe he walked that way. Besides that one, another has come for you—a Mr. Ladywell, and he is waiting.'

'Not for me?'

'Yes, indeed. I thought he seemed so anxious, under a sort of assumed calmness, that I recommended him to remain till you came in.'

'Yes, definitely. I thought he looked really anxious, trying to keep calm, so I suggested he stay until you got here.'

'Goodness, aunt; why did you?' Ethelberta said, and thought how much her mother's sister resembled her mother in doings of that sort.

'Wow, Aunt, why did you?' Ethelberta said, thinking about how much her mother's sister was like her mother in that way.

'I thought he had some good reason for seeing you. Are these men intruders, then?'

'I thought he had a good reason for meeting you. Are these guys intruders, then?'

'O no-a woman who attempts a public career must expect to be treated as public property: what would be an intrusion on a domiciled gentlewoman is a tribute to me. You cannot have celebrity and sex-privilege both.' Thus Ethelberta laughed off the awkward conjuncture, inwardly deploring the unconscionable maternal meddling which had led to this, though not resentfully, for she had too much staunchness of heart to decry a parent's misdirected zeal. Had the clanship feeling been universally as strong as in the Chickerel family, the fable of the well-bonded fagot might have remained unwritten.

'O no—a woman who tries to have a public career has to accept that she will be treated like public property: what would be considered an intrusion on a woman of private means is a compliment to me. You can't have both celebrity and sexual privilege.' With that, Ethelberta laughed off the uncomfortable situation, secretly regretting the unreasonable maternal interference that had caused it, though not with resentment, because she was too strong-hearted to criticize a parent's misguided enthusiasm. If the sense of family loyalty had been as strong everywhere as it was in the Chickerel family, the story of the tightly bound bundle of sticks might never have been told.

Ladywell had sent her a letter about getting his picture of herself engraved for an illustrated paper, and she had not replied, considering that she had nothing to do with the matter, her form and feature having been given in the painting as no portrait at all, but as those of an ideal. To see him now would be vexatious; and yet it was chilly and formal to an ungenerous degree to keep aloof from him, sitting lonely in the same house. 'A few weeks hence,' she thought, 'when Menlove's disclosures make me ridiculous, he may slight me as a lackey's girl, an upstart, an adventuress, and hardly return my bow in the street. Then I may wish I had given him no personal cause for additional bitterness.' So, putting off the fine lady, Ethelberta thought she would see Ladywell at once.

Ladywell had sent her a letter about getting his picture of her engraved for an illustrated paper, and she hadn’t replied, believing it wasn’t her concern since her appearance in the painting didn’t represent her at all, but rather an ideal. Seeing him now would be annoying; yet it felt cold and overly formal to avoid him while sitting alone in the same house. 'A few weeks from now,' she thought, 'when Menlove’s revelations make me look ridiculous, he might treat me like a servant’s daughter, a social climber, an opportunist, and barely acknowledge me on the street. Then I might regret not giving him any reason for extra bitterness.' So, setting aside her high-society attitude, Ethelberta decided she would see Ladywell right away.

Ladywell was unaffectedly glad to meet her; so glad, that Ethelberta wished heartily, for his sake, there could be warm friendship between herself and him, as well as all her lovers, without that insistent courtship-and-marriage question, which sent them all scattering like leaves in a pestilent blast, at enmity with one another. She was less pleased when she found that Ladywell, after saying all there was to say about his painting, gently signified that he had been misinformed, as he believed, concerning her future intentions, which had led to his absenting himself entirely from her; the remark being of course, a natural product of her mother's injudicious message to him.

Ladywell was genuinely happy to meet her; so happy, in fact, that Ethelberta wished sincerely, for his sake, that there could be a warm friendship between them, as well as with all her suitors, without that persistent courtship-and-marriage issue that drove them all away like leaves in a toxic wind, causing friction among each other. She felt less pleased when she discovered that Ladywell, after discussing everything about his painting, subtly indicated that he had been misled, as he thought, about her future plans, which had caused him to completely distance himself from her; this comment, of course, was a natural result of her mother's thoughtless message to him.

She cut him short with terse candour. 'Yes,' she said, 'a false report is in circulation. I am not yet engaged to be married to any one, if that is your meaning.'

She interrupted him with blunt honesty. 'Yes,' she said, 'there's a false rumor going around. I'm not engaged to anyone, if that's what you're asking.'

Ladywell looked cheerful at this frank answer, and said tentatively, 'Am I forgotten?'

Ladywell smiled at this honest response and said cautiously, 'Have I been forgotten?'

'No; you are exactly as you always were in my mind.'

'No; you are exactly how I've always seen you in my mind.'

'Then I have been cruelly deceived. I was guided too much by appearances, and they were very delusive. I am beyond measure glad I came here to-day. I called at your house and learnt that you were here; and as I was going out of town, in any indefinite direction, I settled then to come this way. What a happy idea it was! To think of you now-and I may be permitted to-'

'Then I’ve been seriously misled. I was too swayed by appearances, and they were very misleading. I’m extremely glad I came here today. I stopped by your place and found out that you were here; and since I was leaving town, in some vague direction, I decided to come this way. What a great idea that was! To think of you now—and I might be allowed to—'

'Assuredly you may not. How many times I have told you that!'

'Of course you can't. How many times do I have to tell you that!'

'But I do not wish for any formal engagement,' said Ladywell quickly, fearing she might commit herself to some expression of positive denial, which he could never surmount. 'I'll wait-I'll wait any length of time. Remember, you have never absolutely forbidden my-friendship. Will you delay your answer till some time hence, when you have thoroughly considered; since I fear it may be a hasty one now?'

'But I don't want any formal commitment,' Ladywell said quickly, worried she might say something that would be hard to take back. 'I can wait—I can wait as long as needed. Remember, you’ve never completely shut me out of your life. Can you hold off on your answer for a while, until you've really thought it through? I’m concerned it might be a rushed decision right now?'

'Yes, indeed; it may be hasty.'

'Yes, it might be a bit rushed.'

'You will delay it?'

'Will you delay it?'

'Yes.'

Yes.

'When shall it be?'

'When will it be?'

'Say a month hence. I suggest that, because by that time you will have found an answer in your own mind: strange things may happen before then. "She shall follow after her lovers, but she shall not overtake them; and she shall seek them, but shall not find them; then shall she say, I will go and return to my first"-however, that's no matter.'

'Say a month from now. I suggest that by then you'll have figured things out for yourself; strange things might happen before that. "She will chase after her lovers, but she won't catch them; she will look for them, but won't find them; then she will say, I will go back to my first"—but that’s not important.'

'What-did you-?' Ladywell began, altogether bewildered by this.

'What did you-?' Ladywell started, completely confused by this.

'It is a passage in Hosea which came to my mind, as possibly applicable to myself some day,' she answered. 'It was mere impulse.'

'There’s a passage in Hosea that popped into my head, maybe relevant to me someday,' she replied. 'It was just an impulse.'

'Ha-ha!-a jest-one of your romances broken loose. There is no law for impulse: that is why I am here.'

'Ha-ha! A joke—one of your romances gone wild. There’s no rule for impulse: that’s why I’m here.'

Thus fancifully they conversed till the interview concluded. Getting her to promise that she would see him again, Ladywell retired to a sitting-room on the same landing, in which he had been writing letters before she came up. Immediately upon this her aunt, who began to suspect that something peculiar was in the wind, came to tell her that Mr. Neigh had been inquiring for her again.

Thus playfully they talked until the meeting ended. After getting her to promise that she would see him again, Ladywell went to a sitting room on the same floor, where he had been writing letters before she arrived. Right after this, her aunt, who started to suspect that something unusual was happening, came to tell her that Mr. Neigh had been asking for her again.

'Send him in,' said Ethelberta.

"Send him in," Ethelberta said.

Neigh's footsteps approached, and the well-known figure entered. Ethelberta received him smilingly, for she was getting so used to awkward juxtapositions that she treated them quite as a natural situation. She merely hoped that Ladywell would not hear them talking through the partition.

Neigh's footsteps came closer, and the familiar figure walked in. Ethelberta welcomed him with a smile, as she had grown so accustomed to awkward encounters that she considered them a normal part of life. She just hoped that Ladywell wouldn’t overhear their conversation through the partition.

Neigh scarcely said anything as a beginning: she knew his errand perfectly; and unaccountable as it was to her, the strange and unceremonious relationship between them, that had originated in the peculiar conditions of their first close meeting, was continued now as usual.

Neigh hardly said anything to start off: she understood his purpose perfectly; and as puzzling as it was to her, the unusual and informal relationship between them, which had begun under the unique circumstances of their first close encounter, continued now just like always.

'Have you been able to bestow a thought on the question between us? I hope so,' said Neigh.

'Have you been able to think about the question between us? I hope so,' said Neigh.

'It is no use,' said Ethelberta. 'Wait a month, and you will not require an answer. You will not mind speaking low, because of a person in the next room?'

'It's pointless,' said Ethelberta. 'Just wait a month, and you won't need an answer. You don't mind speaking quietly because of someone in the next room, do you?'

'Not at all.-Why will that be?'

'Not at all. Why is that?'

'I might say; but let us speak of something else.'

'I could say that, but let's talk about something else.'

'I don't see how we can,' said Neigh brusquely. 'I had no other reason on earth for calling here. I wished to get the matter settled, and I could not be satisfied without seeing you. I hate writing on matters of this sort. In fact I can't do it, and that's why I am here.'

'I don't see how we can,' Neigh said sharply. 'I had no other reason at all for coming here. I wanted to get this sorted out, and I couldn't be satisfied without seeing you. I hate writing about things like this. Honestly, I can't do it, and that's why I'm here.'

He was still speaking when an attendant entered with a note.

He was still talking when an attendant walked in with a note.

'Will you excuse me for a moment?' Ethelberta said as she stepped to the window and opened the note. It contained only these words, written in such a messy scrawl that she could barely decipher their meaning:

    'I must see you again today unless you completely shut me out, which I will take as a refusal to meet with me ever again. I will arrive exactly five minutes after you get this note. Please try to be alone if you can, and forever grateful, - Yours,

    'MOUNTCLERE.'

'If anything has happened I shall be pleased to wait,' said Neigh, seeing her concern when she had closed the note.

'If anything has happened, I’m happy to wait,' said Neigh, noticing her worry when she finished reading the note.

'O no, it is nothing,' said Ethelberta precipitately. 'Yet I think I will ask you to wait,' she added, not liking to dismiss Neigh in a hurry; for she was not insensible to his perseverance in seeking her over all these miles of sea and land; and secondly, she feared that if he were to leave on the instant he might run into the arms of Lord Mountclere and Ladywell.

'O no, it's nothing,' Ethelberta said quickly. 'But I think I’ll ask you to wait,' she added, not wanting to send Neigh away too soon; she wasn't unaware of his determination in coming to find her across all this sea and land; and also, she worried that if he left right away, he might run straight into Lord Mountclere and Ladywell.

'I shall be only too happy to stay till you are at leisure,' said Neigh, in the unimpassioned delivery he used whether his meaning were a trite compliment or the expression of his most earnest feeling.

"I'll be more than happy to stay until you're free," said Neigh, in the same indifferent tone he used whether he was offering a common compliment or expressing his deepest feelings.

'I may be rather a long time,' said Ethelberta dubiously.

'I might take a while,' said Ethelberta with some doubt.

'My time is yours.'

"I'm all yours."

Ethelberta left the room and hurried to her aunt, exclaiming, 'O, Aunt Charlotte, I hope you have rooms enough to spare for my visitors, for they are like the fox, the goose, and the corn, in the riddle; I cannot leave them together, and I can only be with one at a time. I want the nicest drawing-room you have for an interview of a bare two minutes with an old gentleman. I am so sorry this has happened, but it is not altogether my fault! I only arranged to see one of them; but the other was sent to me by mother, in a mistake, and the third met with me on my journey: that's the explanation. There's the oldest of them just come.'

Ethelberta left the room and rushed to her aunt, saying, "Oh, Aunt Charlotte, I hope you have enough rooms for my visitors because they’re like the fox, the goose, and the corn in that riddle; I can’t leave them all together, and I can only be with one at a time. I need your best drawing-room for a quick two-minute chat with an old gentleman. I'm really sorry this happened, but it’s not entirely my fault! I only planned to see one of them; the other was mistakenly sent by my mother, and the third one met me on my way here: that’s the situation. There’s the oldest one just arriving."

She looked through the glass partition, and under the arch of the court-gate, as the wheels of the viscount's carriage were heard outside. Ethelberta ascended to a room on the first floor, Lord Mountclere was shown up, and the door closed upon them.

She looked through the glass partition and under the arch of the court gate as she heard the wheels of the viscount's carriage outside. Ethelberta went up to a room on the first floor, and Lord Mountclere was escorted in, with the door closing behind them.

At this time Neigh was very comfortably lounging in an arm-chair in Ethelberta's room on the second floor. This was a pleasant enough way of passing the minutes with such a tender interview in prospect; and as he leant he looked with languid and luxurious interest through the open casement at the spars and rigging of some luggers on the Seine, the pillars of the suspension bridge, and the scenery of the Faubourg St. Sever on the other side of the river. How languid his interest might ultimately have become there is no knowing; but there soon arose upon his ear the accents of Ethelberta in low distinctness from somewhere outside the room.

At that moment, Neigh was comfortably lounging in an armchair in Ethelberta's room on the second floor. It was a nice way to pass the time, especially with such a sweet meeting ahead; as he relaxed, he gazed with lazy and indulgent interest through the open window at the masts and rigging of some luggers on the Seine, the pillars of the suspension bridge, and the scenery of Faubourg St. Sever on the other side of the river. How much more uninterested he might have become is anyone's guess, but soon he heard Ethelberta's voice clearly coming from somewhere outside the room.

'Yes; the scene is pleasant to-day,' she said. 'I like a view over a river.'

'Yes, the view is nice today,' she said. 'I enjoy looking at a river.'

'I should think the steamboats are objectionable when they stop here,' said another person.

'I think the steamboats are a problem when they stop here,' said another person.

Neigh's face closed in to an aspect of perplexity. 'Surely that cannot be Lord Mountclere?' he muttered.

Neigh's face scrunched up in confusion. "That can't be Lord Mountclere, can it?" he mumbled.

Had he been certain that Ethelberta was only talking to a stranger, Neigh would probably have felt their conversation to be no business of his, much as he might have been surprised to find her giving audience to another man at such a place. But his impression that the voice was that of his acquaintance, Lord Mountclere, coupled with doubts as to its possibility, was enough to lead him to rise from the chair and put his head out of the window.

Had he known for sure that Ethelberta was just chatting with a stranger, Neigh probably would have thought their conversation was none of his business, even if he was surprised to see her talking to another man in that spot. But his feeling that the voice belonged to his friend, Lord Mountclere, along with wondering if it could really be him, was enough to make him get up from his chair and lean out of the window.

Upon a balcony beneath him were the speakers, as he had suspected-Ethelberta and the viscount.

Upon a balcony below him were the speakers, just as he had suspected—Ethelberta and the viscount.

Looking right and left, he saw projecting from the next window the head of his friend Ladywell, gazing right and left likewise, apparently just drawn out by the same voice which had attracted himself.

Looking to the right and left, he noticed his friend Ladywell's head extending from the next window, scanning the area in the same way, seemingly drawn out by the same voice that had caught his attention.

'What-you, Neigh!-how strange,' came from Ladywell's lips before he had time to recollect that great coolness existed between himself and Neigh on Ethelberta's account, which had led to the reduction of their intimacy to the most attenuated of nods and good-mornings ever since the Harlequin-rose incident at Cripplegate.

'What’s up, Neigh! How weird,' slipped out of Ladywell’s mouth before he remembered the tension between him and Neigh because of Ethelberta, which had turned their friendship into nothing more than the briefest nods and polite greetings since the Harlequin-rose incident at Cripplegate.

'Yes; it is rather strange,' said Neigh, with saturnine evenness. 'Still a fellow must be somewhere.'

'Yeah, it is kind of odd,' said Neigh, in a calm tone. 'But a guy has to be somewhere.'

Each then looked over his window-sill downwards, upon the speakers who had attracted them thither.

Each person then leaned out over their window-sill to look down at the speakers who had drawn them there.

Lord Mountclere uttered something in a low tone which did not reach the young men; to which Ethelberta replied, 'As I have said, Lord Mountclere, I cannot give you an answer now. I must consider what to do with Mr. Neigh and Mr. Ladywell. It is too sudden for me to decide at once. I could not do so until I have got home to England, when I will write you a letter, stating frankly my affairs and those of my relatives. I shall not consider that you have addressed me on the subject of marriage until, having received my letter, you-'

Lord Mountclere said something quietly that the young men didn't hear, and Ethelberta responded, "As I mentioned, Lord Mountclere, I can't give you an answer right now. I really need to think about what to do with Mr. Neigh and Mr. Ladywell. It's too sudden for me to decide immediately. I won't be able to do that until I'm back home in England, at which point I'll write you a letter explaining my situation and that of my relatives. I won't consider that you've proposed marriage until you've received my letter, and then you—"

'Repeat my proposal,' said Lord Mountclere.

'Repeat my proposal,' Lord Mountclere said.

'Yes.'

'Yep.'

'My dear Mrs. Petherwin, it is as good as repeated! But I have no right to assume anything you don't wish me to assume, and I will wait. How long is it that I am to suffer in this uncertainty?'

'My dear Mrs. Petherwin, it's practically confirmed! But I have no right to assume anything you don’t want me to, so I will wait. How long am I supposed to endure this uncertainty?'

'A month. By that time I shall have grown weary of my other two suitors.'

'A month. By then, I will have grown tired of my other two suitors.'

'A month! Really inflexible?'

'A month? Seriously inflexible?'

Ethelberta had returned inside the window, and her answer was inaudible. Ladywell and Neigh looked up, and their eyes met. Both had been reluctant to remain where they stood, but they were too fascinated to instantly retire. Neigh moved now, and Ladywell did the same. Each saw that the face of his companion was flushed.

Ethelberta had stepped back inside the window, and her reply was unheard. Ladywell and Neigh glanced up, their eyes locking. Both had hesitated to stay in their spots, but they were too intrigued to leave right away. Neigh shifted now, and Ladywell followed suit. Each noticed that the other’s face was flushed.

'Come in and see me,' said Ladywell quickly, before quite withdrawing his head. 'I am staying in this room.'

'Come in and see me,' Ladywell said quickly, before fully pulling his head back. 'I'm staying in this room.'

'I will,' said Neigh; and taking his hat he left Ethelberta's apartment forthwith.

'I will,' said Neigh; and grabbing his hat, he left Ethelberta's apartment immediately.

On entering the quarters of his friend he found him seated at a table whereon writing materials were strewn. They shook hands in silence, but the meaning in their looks was enough.

On entering his friend's room, he found him sitting at a table covered in writing materials. They shook hands without saying a word, but the meaning in their expressions spoke volumes.

'Just let me write a note, Ladywell, and I'm your man,' said Neigh then, with the freedom of an old acquaintance.

'Just let me jot down a note, Ladywell, and I'm your guy,' said Neigh then, with the ease of an old friend.

'I was going to do the same thing,' said Ladywell.

'I was going to do the same thing,' Ladywell said.

Neigh then sat down, and for a minute or two nothing was to be heard but the scratching of a pair of pens, ending on the one side with a more boisterous scratch, as the writer shaped 'Eustace Ladywell,' and on the other with slow firmness in the characters 'Alfred Neigh.'

Neigh then sat down, and for a minute or two, the only sound was the scratching of two pens. One pen ended with a more vigorous scratch as the writer formed 'Eustace Ladywell,' while the other moved slowly and firmly to write 'Alfred Neigh.'

'There's for you, my fair one,' said Neigh, closing and directing his letter.

'Here's for you, my lovely one,' said Neigh, sealing and addressing his letter.

'Yours is for Mrs. Petherwin? So is mine,' said Ladywell, grasping the bell-pull. 'Shall I direct it to be put on her table with this one?'

'Yours is for Mrs. Petherwin? So is mine,' said Ladywell, pulling the bell. 'Should I have it placed on her table along with this one?'

'Thanks.' And the two letters went off to Ethelberta's sitting-room, which she had vacated to receive Lord Mountclere in an empty one beneath. Neigh's letter was simply a pleading of a sudden call away which prevented his waiting till she should return; Ladywell's, though stating the same reason for leaving, was more of an upbraiding nature, and might almost have told its reader, were she to take the trouble to guess, that he knew of the business of Lord Mountclere with her to-day.

'Thanks.' Then the two letters went to Ethelberta's sitting room, which she had left to meet Lord Mountclere in an empty one below. Neigh's letter was just an explanation of an unexpected obligation that kept him from waiting for her to come back; Ladywell's, while giving the same reason for his departure, had more of a reproachful tone and could have hinted to the reader, if she bothered to think about it, that he was aware of Lord Mountclere's plans with her today.

'Now, let us get out of this place,' said Neigh. He proceeded at once down the stairs, followed by Ladywell, who-settling his account at the bureau without calling for a bill, and directing his portmanteau to be sent to the Right-bank railway station-went with Neigh into the street.

'Let's get out of here,' said Neigh. He immediately went down the stairs, followed by Ladywell, who settled his bill at the front desk without asking for a receipt and instructed his suitcase to be sent to the Right-bank train station, then joined Neigh on the street.

They had not walked fifty yards up the quay when two British workmen, in holiday costume, who had just turned the corner of the Rue Jeanne d'Arc, approached them. Seeing him to be an Englishman, one of the two addressed Neigh, saying, 'Can you tell us the way, sir, to the Hotel Bold Soldier?'

They hadn't walked fifty yards up the dock when two British workers, in vacation clothes, who had just turned the corner of Rue Jeanne d'Arc, came up to them. Noticing he was English, one of the two said to Neigh, "Can you tell us the way to the Bold Soldier Hotel, sir?"

Neigh pointed out the place he had just come from to the tall young men, and continued his walk with Ladywell.

Neigh pointed out the place he had just come from to the tall young men and continued his walk with Ladywell.

Ladywell was the first to break silence. 'I have been considerably misled, Neigh,' he said; 'and I imagine from what has just happened that you have been misled too.'

Ladywell was the first to speak up. 'I've been seriously misled, Neigh,' he said; 'and from what just happened, I think you’ve been misled too.'

'Just a little,' said Neigh, bringing abstracted lines of meditation into his face. 'But it was my own fault: for I ought to have known that these stage and platform women have what they are pleased to call Bohemianism so thoroughly engrained with their natures that they are no more constant to usage in their sentiments than they are in their way of living. Good Lord, to think she has caught old Mountclere! She is sure to have him if she does not dally with him so long that he gets cool again.'

'Just a little,' said Neigh, a look of deep thought crossing his face. 'But it was my own fault: I should have realized that these women on stage have what they like to call Bohemianism so deeply embedded in their nature that they’re no more consistent in their feelings than they are in their lifestyle. Good Lord, to think she has snagged old Mountclere! She’ll definitely have him if she doesn’t take so long that he loses interest.'

'A beautiful creature like her to think of marrying such an infatuated idiot as he!'

'A beautiful creature like her to consider marrying such a lovesick fool as him!'

'He can give her a title as well as younger men. It will not be the first time that such matches have been made.'

'He can offer her a title just like younger men can. It won’t be the first time that such arrangements have happened.'

'I can't believe it,' said Ladywell vehemently. 'She has too much poetry in her-too much good sense; her nature is the essence of all that's romantic. I can't help saying it, though she has treated me cruelly.'

'I can't believe it,' Ladywell said passionately. 'She has way too much poetry in her—too much common sense; her character is the very essence of everything romantic. I can't help saying it, even though she's been really cruel to me.'

'She has good looks, certainly. I'll own to that. As for her romance and good-feeling, that I leave to you. I think she has treated you no more cruelly, as you call it, than she has me, come to that.'

'She’s definitely attractive, I’ll admit that. As for her love life and positive vibes, that’s up to you. I don’t think she’s been any harsher to you, as you put it, than she has been to me, to be honest.'

'She told me she would give me an answer in a month,' said Ladywell emotionally.

"She told me she'd give me an answer in a month," Ladywell said, feeling emotional.

'So she told me,' said Neigh.

'So she told me,' Neigh said.

'And so she told him,' said Ladywell.

'And I have no doubt she will keep her word to him in her usual precise manner.'

'And I have no doubt she will keep her promise to him in her usual precise way.'

'But see what she implied to me! I distinctly understood from her that the answer would be favourable.'

'But see what she hinted at! I clearly got from her that the answer would be positive.'

'So did I.'

"Me too."

'So does he.'

'He does too.'

'And he is sure to be the one who gets it, since only one of us can. Well, I wouldn't marry her for love, money, nor-'

'And he's definitely going to be the one who gets her, since only one of us can. Well, I wouldn't marry her for love, money, or-'

'Offspring.'

'Kids.'

'Exactly: I would not. "I'll give you an answer in a month"-to all three of us! For God's sake let's sit down here and have something to drink.'

'Exactly: I wouldn’t. "I'll give you an answer in a month"—to all three of us! For heaven's sake, let’s sit down here and have something to drink.'

They drew up a couple of chairs to one of the tables of a wine-shop close by, and shouted to the waiter with the vigour of persons going to the dogs. Here, behind the horizontal-headed trees that dotted this part of the quay, they sat over their bottles denouncing womankind till the sun got low down upon the river, and the houses on the further side began to be toned by a blue mist. At last they rose from their seats and departed, Neigh to dine and consider his route, and Ladywell to take the train for Dieppe.

They pulled up a couple of chairs at one of the tables in a nearby wine shop and called out to the waiter with the energy of people who are having a rough time. Here, behind the flat-topped trees scattered along this part of the quay, they sat over their bottles, complaining about women until the sun dipped low over the river, and the houses on the other side were softened by a blue haze. Finally, they got up from their seats and left, Neigh to grab dinner and plan his route, and Ladywell to catch the train to Dieppe.

While these incidents had been in progress the two workmen had found their way into the hotel where Ethelberta was staying. Passing through the entrance, they stood at gaze in the court, much perplexed as to the door to be made for; the difficulty was solved by the appearance of Cornelia, who in expectation of them had been for the last half-hour leaning over the sill of her bed-room window, which looked into the interior, amusing herself by watching the movements to and fro in the court beneath.

While these events were happening, the two workers found their way into the hotel where Ethelberta was staying. As they entered, they stood in the courtyard, unsure about which door to go to; the confusion was cleared up when Cornelia appeared. She had been leaning over the sill of her bedroom window for the past half-hour, watching the activity in the courtyard below and amusing herself with the comings and goings.

After conversing awhile in undertones as if they had no real right there at all, Cornelia told them she would call their sister, if an old gentleman who had been to see her were gone again. Cornelia then ran away, and Sol and Dan stood aloof, till they had seen the old gentleman alluded to go to the door and drive off, shortly after which Ethelberta ran down to meet them.

After chatting quietly like they didn’t belong there, Cornelia said she would call their sister if the old gentleman who had visited her had left. Cornelia then dashed off, and Sol and Dan kept their distance until they saw the old gentleman she mentioned leave through the door and drive away. Soon after that, Ethelberta came running down to meet them.

'Whatever have you got as your luggage?' she said, after hearing a few words about their journey, and looking at a curious object like a huge extended accordion with bellows of gorgeous-patterned carpeting.

'What do you have as your luggage?' she asked, after hearing a bit about their journey and looking at a strange object that resembled a giant, stretched accordion covered in beautifully patterned carpeting.

'Well, I thought to myself,' said Sol, ''tis a terrible bother about carrying our things. So what did I do but turn to and make a carpet-bag that would hold all mine and Dan's too. This, you see, Berta, is a deal top and bottom out of three-quarter stuff, stained and varnished. Well, then you see I've got carpet sides tacked on with these brass nails, which make it look very handsome; and so when my bag is empty 'twill shut up and be only a couple of boards under yer arm, and when 'tis open it will hold a'most anything you like to put in it. That portmantle didn't cost more than three half-crowns altogether, and ten pound wouldn't ha' got anything so strong from a portmantle maker, would it, Dan?'

'Well, I thought to myself,' said Sol, 'it's such a hassle to carry our stuff. So what did I do? I decided to make a carpet bag that would hold all of mine and Dan's things too. This, you see, Berta, is made from some sturdy material, stained and varnished. And I've got carpet sides attached with these brass nails, which make it look really nice; so when my bag is empty, it will fold up and just be a couple of boards under your arm, and when it's open, it can hold almost anything you want to put in it. That bag didn't cost more than three half-crowns altogether, and ten pounds wouldn't have bought something this strong from a bag maker, right, Dan?'

'Well, no.'

'Nah.'

'And then you see, Berta,' Sol continued in the same earnest tone, and further exhibiting the article, 'I've made this trap-door in the top with hinges and padlock complete, so that-'

'And then you see, Berta,' Sol continued in the same serious tone, and further showing the article, 'I've made this trap-door on the top with hinges and a padlock, so that-'

'I am afraid it is tiring you after your journey to explain all this to me,' said Ethelberta gently, noticing that a few Gallic smilers were gathering round. 'Aunt has found a nice room for you at the top of the staircase in that corner-"Escalier D" you'll see painted at the bottom-and when you have been up come across to me at number thirty-four on this side, and we'll talk about everything.'

'I’m sorry if this is tiring you after your trip to explain all this to me,' Ethelberta said gently, noticing a few amused locals gathering around. 'Aunt found a nice room for you at the top of the stairs in that corner—look for "Escalier D" painted at the bottom—and when you’ve settled in, come over to number thirty-four on this side, and we’ll talk about everything.'

'Look here, Sol,' said Dan, who had left his brother and gone on to the stairs. 'What a rum staircase-the treads all in little blocks, and painted chocolate, as I am alive!'

'Hey, Sol,' Dan called out, having left his brother and continued up the stairs. 'What a weird staircase—the steps are all in little blocks, and they’re painted brown, I swear!'

'I am afraid I shall not be able to go on to Paris with you, after all,' Ethelberta continued to Sol. 'Something has just happened which makes it desirable for me to return at once to England. But I will write a list of all you are to see, and where you are to go, so that it will make little difference, I hope.'

'I’m afraid I won’t be able to go on to Paris with you after all,' Ethelberta said to Sol. 'Something just happened that makes it necessary for me to go back to England right away. But I’ll write down a list of everything you should see and where you should go, so it won’t make much difference, I hope.'

Ten minutes before this time Ethelberta had been frankly and earnestly asked by Lord Mountclere to become his bride; not only so, but he pressed her to consent to have the ceremony performed before they returned to England. Ethelberta had unquestionably been much surprised; and, barring the fact that the viscount was somewhat ancient in comparison with herself, the temptation to close with his offer was strong, and would have been felt as such by any woman in the position of Ethelberta, now a little reckless by stress of circumstances, and tinged with a bitterness of spirit against herself and the world generally. But she was experienced enough to know what heaviness might result from a hasty marriage, entered into with a mind full of concealments and suppressions which, if told, were likely to stop the marriage altogether; and after trying to bring herself to speak of her family and situation to Lord Mountclere as he stood, a certain caution triumphed, and she concluded that it would be better to postpone her reply till she could consider which of two courses it would be advisable to adopt; to write and explain to him, or to explain nothing and refuse him. The third course, to explain nothing and hasten the wedding, she rejected without hesitation. With a pervading sense of her own obligations in forming this compact it did not occur to her to ask if Lord Mountclere might not have duties of explanation equally with herself, though bearing rather on the moral than the social aspects of the case.

Ten minutes before this, Ethelberta had been openly and earnestly asked by Lord Mountclere to be his wife; not only that, but he urged her to agree to have the wedding before they returned to England. Ethelberta was definitely taken aback; and aside from the fact that the viscount was considerably older than her, the temptation to accept his proposal was strong, and any woman in Ethelberta's position, now feeling a little reckless due to her circumstances and harboring some bitterness toward herself and the world, would have felt the same. However, she was wise enough to recognize the potential difficulties of a hasty marriage, one entered into with a mindset full of secrets and things left unsaid that, if revealed, could completely halt the wedding. After attempting to find a way to talk about her family and situation with Lord Mountclere as he stood there, caution won out, and she decided it would be better to delay her answer until she could think about which of two paths to take: to write and explain to him, or to say nothing and turn him down. The third option, to say nothing and rush into the marriage, she dismissed without a second thought. With a strong awareness of her responsibilities in forming this agreement, it didn’t occur to her to question whether Lord Mountclere might also have obligations to explain himself, specifically regarding the moral rather than the social aspects of the situation.

Her resolution not to go on to Paris was formed simply because Lord Mountclere himself was proceeding in that direction, which might lead to other unseemly rencounters with him had she, too, persevered in her journey. She accordingly gave Sol and Dan directions for their guidance to Paris and back, starting herself with Cornelia the next day to return again to Knollsea, and to decide finally and for ever what to do in the vexed question at present agitating her.

Her decision not to go on to Paris was simply because Lord Mountclere himself was heading that way, which could lead to more awkward encounters with him if she continued her journey. So, she gave Sol and Dan instructions on how to get to Paris and back, while she planned to leave with Cornelia the next day to return to Knollsea, to finally and permanently decide what to do about the troubling issue that was currently weighing on her mind.

Never before in her life had she treated marriage in such a terribly cool and cynical spirit as she had done that day; she was almost frightened at herself in thinking of it. How far any known system of ethics might excuse her on the score of those curious pressures which had been brought to bear upon her life, or whether it could excuse her at all, she had no spirit to inquire. English society appeared a gloomy concretion enough to abide in as she contemplated it on this journey home; yet, since its gloominess was less an essential quality than an accident of her point of view, that point of view she had determined to change.

Never before in her life had she approached marriage with such a cold and cynical attitude as she did that day; she was almost scared of herself for thinking that way. Whatever ethical system might excuse her due to the strange pressures that had been placed on her life, she didn't have the energy to question it. As she thought about English society on her journey home, it seemed pretty bleak; however, since its bleakness was more about her perspective than a fundamental quality, she decided to change her perspective.

There lay open to her two directions in which to move. She might annex herself to the easy-going high by wedding an old nobleman, or she might join for good and all the easy-going low, by plunging back to the level of her family, giving up all her ambitions for them, settling as the wife of a provincial music-master named Julian, with a little shop of fiddles and flutes, a couple of old pianos, a few sheets of stale music pinned to a string, and a narrow back parlour, wherein she would wait for the phenomenon of a customer. And each of these divergent grooves had its fascinations, till she reflected with regard to the first that, even though she were a legal and indisputable Lady Mountclere, she might be despised by my lord's circle, and left lone and lorn. The intermediate path of accepting Neigh or Ladywell had no more attractions for her taste than the fact of disappointing them had qualms for her conscience; and how few these were may be inferred from her opinion, true or false, that two words about the spigot on her escutcheon would sweep her lovers' affections to the antipodes. She had now and then imagined that her previous intermarriage with the Petherwin family might efface much besides her surname, but experience proved that the having been wife for a few weeks to a minor who died in his father's lifetime, did not weave such a tissue of glory about her course as would resist a speedy undoing by startling confessions on her station before her marriage, and her environments now.

She had two options ahead of her. She could align herself with the privileged upper class by marrying an older nobleman, or she could settle back into her family's comfortable lower class life, giving up all her dreams to become the wife of a local music teacher named Julian, who owned a small shop with violins and flutes, a couple of old pianos, a few sheets of outdated music pinned to a string, and a cramped back room where she would wait for the rare customer. Each of these paths was appealing in its own way, but the thought of becoming Lady Mountclere, while still potentially looked down upon by the noble crowd and feeling isolated, gave her pause. The middle option of marrying someone like Neigh or Ladywell didn’t attract her any more than the idea of disappointing them bothered her conscience; and her conscience was hardly troubled, as she believed that a couple of remarks about her family’s background would drive her suitors away. She sometimes thought that her previous marriage into the Petherwin family could erase more than just her last name, but experience showed that being married briefly to a minor who died before his father did not create the kind of impressive legacy she hoped would hold up against revealing truths about her past and her current situation.

36. THE HOUSE IN TOWN

Returning by way of Knollsea, where she remained a week or two, Ethelberta appeared one evening at the end of September before her house in Exonbury Crescent, accompanied by a pair of cabs with the children and luggage; but Picotee was left at Knollsea, for reasons which Ethelberta explained when the family assembled in conclave. Her father was there, and began telling her of a surprising change in Menlove-an unasked-for concession to their cause, and a vow of secrecy which he could not account for, unless any friend of Ethelberta's had bribed her.

Returning via Knollsea, where she stayed for a week or two, Ethelberta showed up one evening at the end of September in front of her house on Exonbury Crescent, with a couple of cabs carrying the children and their luggage; however, Picotee stayed behind at Knollsea for reasons Ethelberta explained when the family gathered together. Her father was there and started telling her about a surprising change in Menlove—an unexpected concession to their cause and a promise of secrecy that he couldn't explain, unless a friend of Ethelberta's had somehow influenced her.

'O no-that cannot be,' said she. Any influence of Lord Mountclere to that effect was the last thing that could enter her thoughts. 'However, what Menlove does makes little difference to me now.' And she proceeded to state that she had almost come to a decision which would entirely alter their way of living.

'O no—that can't be,' she said. The idea that Lord Mountclere could influence her was the last thing on her mind. 'However, what Menlove does doesn’t matter to me anymore.' She then went on to say that she had nearly made a decision that would completely change their way of living.

'I hope it will not be of the sort your last decision was,' said her mother.

'I hope it won't be like your last decision,' her mother said.

'No; quite the reverse. I shall not live here in state any longer. We will let the house throughout as lodgings, while it is ours; and you and the girls must manage it. I will retire from the scene altogether, and stay for the winter at Knollsea with Picotee. I want to consider my plans for next year, and I would rather be away from town. Picotee is left there, and I return in two days with the books and papers I require.'

'No; quite the opposite. I won't be living here in style any longer. We'll rent out the house as rooms while it's still ours, and you and the girls will take care of it. I'm going to step away completely and spend the winter at Knollsea with Picotee. I need to think about my plans for next year, and I'd prefer to be out of the city. Picotee is still there, and I'll be back in two days with the books and papers I need.'

'What are your plans to be?'

'What are your plans for the future?'

'I am going to be a schoolmistress-I think I am.'

'I’m going to be a teacher—I think I am.'

'A schoolmistress?'

'A teacher?'

'Yes. And Picotee returns to the same occupation, which she ought never to have forsaken. We are going to study arithmetic and geography until Christmas; then I shall send her adrift to finish her term as pupil-teacher, while I go into a training-school. By the time I have to give up this house I shall just have got a little country school.'

'Yes. And Picotee goes back to the same job, which she should never have left. We’re going to study math and geography until Christmas; then I’ll let her go to finish her time as a pupil-teacher while I attend a training school. By the time I have to leave this house, I’ll just have gotten a little country school.'

'But,' said her mother, aghast, 'why not write more poems and sell 'em?'

'But,' her mother said, shocked, 'why not write more poems and sell them?'

'Why not be a governess as you were?' said her father.

'Why not be a governess like you used to be?' her father said.

'Why not go on with your tales at Mayfair Hall?' said Gwendoline.

"Why not continue sharing your stories at Mayfair Hall?" Gwendoline said.

'I'll answer as well as I can. I have decided to give up romancing because I cannot think of any more that pleases me. I have been trying at Knollsea for a fortnight, and it is no use. I will never be a governess again: I would rather be a servant. If I am a schoolmistress I shall be entirely free from all contact with the great, which is what I desire, for I hate them, and am getting almost as revolutionary as Sol. Father, I cannot endure this kind of existence any longer; I sleep at night as if I had committed a murder: I start up and see processions of people, audiences, battalions of lovers obtained under false pretences-all denouncing me with the finger of ridicule. Mother's suggestion about my marrying I followed out as far as dogged resolution would carry me, but during my journey here I have broken down; for I don't want to marry a second time among people who would regard me as an upstart or intruder. I am sick of ambition. My only longing now is to fly from society altogether, and go to any hovel on earth where I could be at peace.'

'I’ll answer as best I can. I’ve decided to stop pursuing romance because I can’t think of anything that makes me happy anymore. I’ve been trying at Knollsea for two weeks, and it’s pointless. I will never be a governess again; I’d rather be a servant. If I become a schoolteacher, I’ll be completely free from all contact with high society, which is what I want, because I despise them, and I’m becoming almost as radical as Sol. Father, I can’t stand this kind of life any longer; I sleep at night as if I’ve committed a crime: I wake up and see crowds of people, audiences, armies of lovers I’ve deceived—all pointing and laughing at me. I followed Mother’s suggestion about marrying as far as stubborn determination would take me, but during my journey here, I’ve lost that will; I don’t want to marry again among people who would see me as a social climber or an outsider. I’m tired of ambition. My only desire now is to escape from society entirely and find any hovel on earth where I could have some peace.'

'What-has anybody been insulting you?' said Mrs. Chickerel.

'What—has someone been insulting you?' said Mrs. Chickerel.

'Yes; or rather I sometimes think he may have: that is, if a proposal of marriage is only removed from being a proposal of a very different kind by an accident.'

'Yeah; or rather I sometimes think he might have: that is, if a marriage proposal is only different from a very different kind of proposal by chance.'

'A proposal of marriage can never be an insult,' her mother returned.

'A marriage proposal can never be an insult,' her mother replied.

'I think otherwise,' said Ethelberta.

"I think differently," said Ethelberta.

'So do I,' said her father.

'So do I,' her father said.

'Unless the man was beneath you, and I don't suppose he was that,' added Mrs. Chickerel.

'Unless the man was beneath you, and I don't think he was that,' added Mrs. Chickerel.

'You are quite right; he was not that. But we will not talk of this branch of the subject. By far the most serious concern with me is that I ought to do some good by marriage, or by heroic performance of some kind; while going back to give the rudiments of education to remote hamleteers will do none of you any good whatever.'

'You’re absolutely right; he wasn’t that. But let’s not discuss this part of the topic. My biggest concern is that I should make a positive impact through marriage or some kind of heroic act; going back to teach the basics to people in remote villages won’t benefit any of you at all.'

'Never you mind us,' said her father; 'mind yourself.'

'Don't worry about us,' her father said; 'take care of yourself.'

'I shall hardly be minding myself either, in your opinion, by doing that,' said Ethelberta dryly. 'But it will be more tolerable than what I am doing now. Georgina, and Myrtle, and Emmeline, and Joey will not get the education I intended for them; but that must go, I suppose.'

'I probably won’t care about myself either, according to you, by doing that,' said Ethelberta tersely. 'But it’ll be better than what I'm doing now. Georgina, Myrtle, Emmeline, and Joey won’t get the education I planned for them; but I guess that’s just how it is.'

'How full of vagaries you are,' said her mother. 'Why won't it do to continue as you are? No sooner have I learnt up your schemes, and got enough used to 'em to see something in 'em, than you must needs bewilder me again by starting some fresh one, so that my mind gets no rest at all.'

'How unpredictable you are,' her mother said. 'Why can't you just keep things the way they are? Just when I start to understand your plans and get used to them enough to see some value in them, you go and confuse me again by coming up with something new, so my mind never gets a break.'

Ethelberta too keenly felt the justice of this remark, querulous as it was, to care to defend herself. It was hopeless to attempt to explain to her mother that the oscillations of her mind might arise as naturally from the perfection of its balance, like those of a logan-stone, as from inherent lightness; and such an explanation, however comforting to its subject, was little better than none to simple hearts who only could look to tangible outcrops.

Ethelberta felt the truth of this comment too strongly, even though it was a bit whiny, to bother defending herself. It was pointless to try to explain to her mother that the changes in her thoughts could come as naturally from a perfectly balanced mind, like a logan-stone, as they could from being inherently lightheaded; and while such an explanation might be reassuring to her, it was hardly any use to simple souls who could only see the obvious.

'Really, Ethelberta,' remonstrated her mother, 'this is very odd. Making yourself miserable in trying to get a position on our account is one thing, and not necessary; but I think it ridiculous to rush into the other extreme, and go wilfully down in the scale. You may just as well exercise your wits in trying to swim as in trying to sink.'

'Honestly, Ethelberta,' her mother protested, 'this is really strange. It’s one thing to make yourself unhappy trying to secure a job for our sake, and that’s unnecessary; but I think it’s ridiculous to swing to the opposite extreme and purposely downgrade yourself. You might as well use your intelligence to try to succeed as to try to fail.'

'Yes; that's what I think,' said her father. 'But of course Berta knows best.'

'Yeah; that's what I think,' said her dad. 'But of course Berta knows best.'

'I think so too,' said Gwendoline.

'I think so too,' Gwendoline said.

'And so do I,' said Cornelia. 'If I had once moved about in large circles like Ethelberta, I wouldn't go down and be a schoolmistress-not I.'

'And so do I,' said Cornelia. 'If I had ever mingled in high society like Ethelberta, I wouldn't lower myself to be a schoolteacher—not a chance.'

'I own it is foolish-suppose it is,' said Ethelberta wearily, and with a readiness of misgiving that showed how recent and hasty was the scheme. 'Perhaps you are right, mother; anything rather than retreat. I wonder if you are right! Well, I will think again of it to-night. Do not let us speak more about it now.'

'I admit it's foolish—maybe it is,' Ethelberta said wearily, with a sense of doubt that revealed how new and impulsive the plan was. 'Maybe you're right, mom; anything is better than backing down. I really wonder if you're right! Well, I'll think about it again tonight. Let's not talk about it anymore right now.'

She did think of it that night, very long and painfully. The arguments of her relatives seemed ponderous as opposed to her own inconsequent longing for escape from galling trammels. If she had stood alone, the sentiment that she had begun to build but was not able to finish, by whomsoever it might have been entertained, would have had few terrors; but that the opinion should be held by her nearest of kin, to cause them pain for life, was a grievous thing. The more she thought of it, the less easy seemed the justification of her desire for obscurity. From regarding it as a high instinct she passed into a humour that gave that desire the appearance of a whim. But could she really set in train events, which, if not abortive, would take her to the altar with Viscount Mountclere?

She thought about it all night, feeling it deeply and painfully. The arguments from her family seemed heavy compared to her own restless desire to break free from annoying constraints. If she had been on her own, the feelings she started to develop but couldn’t fully articulate, no matter who else shared them, wouldn’t have been so terrifying. But knowing that her closest relatives held this opinion, causing them lifelong pain, was truly distressing. The more she pondered it, the harder it became to justify her wish for anonymity. What she had initially seen as a noble instinct began to feel more like a whimsical fantasy. But could she really set in motion events that, if successful, would lead her to the altar with Viscount Mountclere?

In one determination she never faltered; to commit her sin thoroughly if she committed it at all. Her relatives believed her choice to lie between Neigh and Ladywell alone. But once having decided to pass over Christopher, whom she had loved, there could be no pausing for Ladywell because she liked him, or for Neigh in that she was influenced by him. They were both too near her level to be trusted to bear the shock of receiving her from her father's hands. But it was possible that though her genesis might tinge with vulgarity a commoner's household, susceptible of such depreciation, it might show as a picturesque contrast in the family circle of a peer. Hence it was just as well to go to the end of her logic, where reasons for tergiversation would be most pronounced. This thought of the viscount, however, was a secret for her own breast alone.

In one decision, she never wavered: if she was going to sin, she would do it completely. Her family thought she was choosing between Neigh and Ladywell alone. But once she decided to ignore Christopher, whom she had loved, she couldn't hesitate for Ladywell just because she liked him, or for Neigh because she was influenced by him. They were both too close to her social level to handle the shock of her leaving her father's world. However, while her background might bring down a commoner's household, it could also appear as an interesting contrast in a wealthy family's circle. So, it made sense to follow her reasoning to its conclusion, where the reasons for changing her mind would be most clear. But her thoughts about the viscount were a secret she kept to herself.

Nearly the whole of that night she sat weighing-first, the question itself of marrying Lord Mountclere; and, at other times, whether, for safety, she might marry him without previously revealing family particulars hitherto held necessary to be revealed-a piece of conduct she had once felt to be indefensible. The ingenious Ethelberta, much more prone than the majority of women to theorize on conduct, felt the need of some soothing defence of the actions involved in any ambiguous course before finally committing herself to it.

Nearly the whole night, she sat contemplating—first, the question of marrying Lord Mountclere; and at other times, whether it would be safe to marry him without first revealing family details that she had previously considered essential to disclose—a behavior that she once thought was unacceptable. The clever Ethelberta, much more inclined than most women to analyze behavior, felt the need for some comforting justification for the actions involved in any uncertain decision before finally committing to it.

She took down a well-known treatise on Utilitarianism which she had perused once before, and to which she had given her adherence ere any instance had arisen wherein she might wish to take it as a guide. Here she desultorily searched for argument, and found it; but the application of her author's philosophy to the marriage question was an operation of her own, as unjustifiable as it was likely in the circumstances.

She picked up a famous book on Utilitarianism that she had read before and agreed with before she ever had a reason to use it as a guide. She casually looked for arguments and found some; however, applying her author's philosophy to the marriage issue was something she did on her own, and it was as questionable as it was probable given the situation.

'The ultimate goal,' she read, 'that makes everything else desirable (whether we think about our own well-being or that of others) is to have a life that is free from pain as much as possible and filled with enjoyment, both in terms of how much and how good it is. . . . This aim, according to the utilitarian view, is the purpose of human action and is also the standard of morality.'

It was still an open question whether her own happiness should be prioritized over that of others. However, it was clear that her personal interests were not the most important consideration:

    'The happiness that sets the standard for what is right in behavior is not the agent's own happiness but that of everyone involved. When it comes to his own happiness versus that of others, utilitarianism demands that he be just as impartial as an unbiased and caring observer.'

As for whose happiness was referred to by 'other people,' 'all concerned,' and so on, her insightful moral guide quickly clarified for her: 

    'The chances when anyone (except one in a thousand) can make a large-scale impact—in other words, to be a public benefactor—are quite rare; and only during these times is one expected to think about the greater good; in all other situations, private benefit, the interests or happiness of a few individuals, is all one needs to focus on.'

And that these few persons should be those endeared to her by every domestic tie no argument was needed to prove. That their happiness would be in proportion to her own well-doing, and power to remove their risks of indigence, required no proving either to her now.

And that these few people should be those dear to her by every family bond was obvious. That their happiness would depend on her own success and her ability to eliminate their chances of poverty needed no proof for her now.

By a sorry but unconscious misapplication of sound and wide reasoning did the active mind of Ethelberta thus find itself a solace. At about the midnight hour she felt more fortified on the expediency of marriage with Lord Mountclere than she had done at all since musing on it. In respect of the second query, whether or not, in that event, to conceal from Lord Mountclere the circumstances of her position till it should be too late for him to object to them, she found her conscience inconveniently in the way of her theory, and the oracle before her afforded no hint. 'Ah-it is a point for a casuist!' she said.

By a regrettable but unintentional misapplication of sound reasoning, Ethelberta's active mind found comfort. Around midnight, she felt more convinced than ever that marrying Lord Mountclere was the right choice. Regarding her second question—whether to hide her situation from Lord Mountclere until it was too late for him to object—her conscience was inconveniently against her plan, and the oracle in front of her offered no guidance. "Ah, this is a dilemma for a moralist!" she said.

An old treatise on Casuistry lay on the top shelf. She opened it-more from curiosity than from guidance this time, it must be observed-at a chapter bearing on her own problem, 'The disciplina arcani, or, the doctrine of reserve.'

An old book on Casuistry was on the top shelf. She opened it—more out of curiosity than for guidance this time, it should be noted—to a chapter related to her own issue, 'The disciplina arcani, or, the doctrine of reserve.'

Here she read that there were plenty of apparent instances of this in Scripture, and that it was formed into a recognized system in the early Church. With reference to direct acts of deception, it was argued that since there were confessedly cases where killing is no murder, might there not be cases where lying is no sin? It could not be right-or, indeed, anything but most absurd-to say in effect that no doubt circumstances would occur where every sound man would tell a lie, and would be a brute or a fool if he did not, and to say at the same time that it is quite indefensible in principle. Duty was the key to conduct then, and if in such cases duties appeared to clash they would be found not to do so on examination. The lesser duty would yield to the greater, and therefore ceased to be a duty.

Here she read that there were many clear examples of this in Scripture, and that it had become a recognized system in the early Church. Regarding direct acts of deception, it was argued that since there are acknowledged cases where killing is no murder, might there also be cases where lying is not a sin? It couldn’t be right—or really, anything but completely absurd—to suggest that doubtless circumstances would arise where any reasonable person would lie and would be a brute or a fool if they didn’t, while simultaneously claiming that it’s entirely indefensible in principle. Duty was the guiding principle for behavior back then, and if in such situations duties seemed to conflict, they would be found not to really do so upon closer examination. The lesser duty would give way to the greater, and thus it would no longer be considered a duty.

This author she found to be not so tolerable; he distracted her. She put him aside and gave over reading, having decided on this second point, that she would, at any hazard, represent the truth to Lord Mountclere before listening to another word from him. 'Well, at last I have done,' she said, 'and am ready for my role.'

This author she found to be quite annoying; he distracted her. She set him aside and stopped reading, having decided on this second point that she would, no matter what, tell Lord Mountclere the truth before listening to another word from him. 'Well, I've finally done it,' she said, 'and I'm ready for my role.'

In looking back upon her past as she retired to rest, Ethelberta could almost doubt herself to be the identical woman with her who had entered on a romantic career a few short years ago. For that doubt she had good reason. She had begun as a poet of the Satanic school in a sweetened form; she was ending as a pseudo-utilitarian. Was there ever such a transmutation effected before by the action of a hard environment? It was not without a qualm of regret that she discerned how the last infirmity of a noble mind had at length nearly departed from her. She wondered if her early notes had had the genuine ring in them, or whether a poet who could be thrust by realities to a distance beyond recognition as such was a true poet at all. Yet Ethelberta's gradient had been regular: emotional poetry, light verse, romance as an object, romance as a means, thoughts of marriage as an aid to her pursuits, a vow to marry for the good of her family; in other words, from soft and playful Romanticism to distorted Benthamism. Was the moral incline upward or down?

As Ethelberta lay down to rest and reflected on her past, she almost couldn't believe she was the same woman who had started a romantic journey just a few years ago. She had good reason to doubt it. She had begun as a poet in a softer version of the Satanic style, and now she was finishing as a pseudo-utilitarian. Had anyone ever undergone such a transformation due to a tough environment? It wasn't without a sense of regret that she realized how the last traces of her noble mind had nearly vanished. She wondered if her early works had been truly authentic, or if a poet who could be changed by reality to the point of no longer being recognized as one was really a true poet at all. Yet Ethelberta's journey had followed a clear path: from emotional poetry to light verse, seeing romance as an end goal, then as a means, thinking about marriage as a way to further her ambitions, and finally making a vow to marry for her family's benefit; in other words, from soft and playful Romanticism to skewed Benthamism. Was her moral direction going up or down?

37. KNOLLSEA-AN ORNAMENTAL VILLA

Her energies collected and fermented anew by the results of the vigil, Ethelberta left town for Knollsea, where she joined Picotee the same evening. Picotee produced a letter, which had been addressed to her sister at their London residence, but was not received by her there, Mrs. Chickerel having forwarded it to Knollsea the day before Ethelberta arrived in town.

Her energy renewed by the outcome of the vigil, Ethelberta left town for Knollsea, where she met up with Picotee that same evening. Picotee handed her a letter that had been sent to her sister at their London home, but it hadn’t reached her there since Mrs. Chickerel had forwarded it to Knollsea the day before Ethelberta arrived in town.

The crinkled writing, in character like the coast-line of Tierra del Fuego, was becoming familiar by this time. While reading the note she informed Picotee, between a quick breath and a rustle of frills, that it was from Lord Mountclere, who wrote on the subject of calling to see her, suggesting a day in the following week. 'Now, Picotee,' she continued, 'we shall have to receive him, and make the most of him, for I have altered my plans since I was last in Knollsea.'

The wrinkled writing, resembling the coastline of Tierra del Fuego, was starting to feel familiar by now. While reading the note, she told Picotee, in a quick breath and with the sound of rustling frills, that it was from Lord Mountclere, who was asking to visit her and suggesting a day next week. 'Now, Picotee,' she continued, 'we'll have to welcome him and make the most of it because I've changed my plans since I was last in Knollsea.'

'Altered them again? What are you going to be now-not a poor person after all?'

'Changed them again? What are you going to be now—not broke after all?'

'Indeed not. And so I turn and turn. Can you imagine what Lord Mountclere is coming for? But don't say what you think. Before I reply to this letter we must go into new lodgings, to give them as our address. The first business to-morrow morning will be to look for the gayest house we can find; and Captain Flower and this little cabin of his must be things we have never known.'

'Definitely not. So, I keep going around in circles. Can you guess why Lord Mountclere is coming? But don't share your thoughts just yet. Before I respond to this letter, we need to move to a new place so we can give that as our address. The first thing we'll do tomorrow morning is find the most vibrant house we can find; and Captain Flower and this little cabin of his must be things we've never experienced before.'

The next day after breakfast they accordingly sallied forth.

The next day after breakfast, they headed out.

Knollsea had recently begun to attract notice in the world. It had this year undergone visitation from a score of professional gentlemen and their wives, a minor canon, three marine painters, seven young ladies with books in their hands, and nine-and-thirty babies. Hence a few lodging-houses, of a dash and pretentiousness far beyond the mark of the old cottages which formed the original substance of the village, had been erected to meet the wants of such as these. To a building of this class Ethelberta now bent her steps, and the crush of the season having departed in the persons of three-quarters of the above-named visitors, who went away by a coach, a van, and a couple of wagonettes one morning, she found no difficulty in arranging for a red and yellow streaked villa, which was so bright and glowing that the sun seemed to be shining upon it even on a cloudy day, and the ruddiest native looked pale when standing by its walls. It was not without regret that she renounced the sailor's pretty cottage for this porticoed and balconied dwelling; but her lines were laid down clearly at last, and thither she removed forthwith.

Knollsea had recently started to get noticed in the world. This year, it had welcomed a number of professional people and their wives, a minor canon, three marine painters, seven young ladies with books in their hands, and thirty-nine babies. As a result, a few lodging houses, way fancier and more showy than the old cottages that used to define the village, were built to meet the needs of these visitors. Ethelberta headed to one of these places, and since most of the visitors had left—three-quarters of them, to be precise, traveling by coach, van, and a couple of wagonettes one morning—she had no trouble securing a bright and colorful villa that looked so vivid the sun seemed to be shining on it even on a cloudy day, making even the reddest local look pale next to its walls. She felt a bit sad about giving up the sailor's charming cottage for this more extravagant home with a portico and balconies, but she finally accepted her path and moved there without delay.

From this brand-new house did Ethelberta pen the letter fixing the time at which she would be pleased to see Lord Mountclere.

From this brand-new house, Ethelberta wrote the letter scheduling the time when she would be happy to meet Lord Mountclere.

When the hour drew nigh enormous force of will was required to keep her perturbation down. She had not distinctly told Picotee of the object of the viscount's visit, but Picotee guessed nearly enough. Ethelberta was upon the whole better pleased that the initiative had again come from him than if the first step in the new campaign had been her sending the explanatory letter, as intended and promised. She had thought almost directly after the interview at Rouen that to enlighten him by writing a confession in cold blood, according to her first intention, would be little less awkward for her in the method of telling than in the facts to be told.

When the time approached, it took a huge amount of willpower to keep her anxiety in check. She hadn’t clearly told Picotee the reason for the viscount's visit, but Picotee had figured it out almost completely. Overall, Ethelberta was more satisfied that he took the initiative again rather than her having to send the explanatory letter, as she had planned and promised. Right after the interview in Rouen, she realized that writing him a confession in a detached way, as she had initially intended, would be just as awkward for her in how she said it as in the details she needed to share.

So the last hair was arranged and the last fold adjusted, and she sat down to await a new page of her history. Picotee sat with her, under orders to go into the next room when Lord Mountclere should call; and Ethelberta determined to waste no time, directly he began to make advances, in clearing up the phenomena of her existence to him; to the end that no fact which, in the event of his taking her to wife, could be used against her as an example of concealment, might remain unrelated. The collapse of his attachment under the test might, however, form the grand climax of such a play as this.

So the last hair was fixed and the last fold adjusted, and she sat down to wait for a new chapter in her life. Picotee sat with her, ready to go into the next room when Lord Mountclere called; and Ethelberta decided not to waste any time, as soon as he started showing interest, in clarifying the details of her life to him. She wanted to ensure that no information, that could be used against her as a way of hiding something if he decided to marry her, remained unaddressed. However, the breakdown of his feelings under scrutiny could be the dramatic peak of such a situation.

The day was rather cold for the season, and Ethelberta sat by a fire; but the windows were open, and Picotee was amusing herself on the balcony outside. The hour struck: Ethelberta fancied she could hear the wheels of a carriage creeping up the steep ascent which led to the drive before the door.

The day was pretty chilly for this time of year, and Ethelberta was sitting by a fire; however, the windows were open, and Picotee was having fun on the balcony outside. The hour struck: Ethelberta thought she could hear the sound of a carriage slowly making its way up the steep path leading to the drive in front of the door.

'Is it he?' she said quickly.

'Is it him?' she asked quickly.

'No,' said Picotee, whose indifference contrasted strangely with the restlessness of her who was usually the coolest. 'It is a man shaking down apples in the garden over the wall.'

'No,' said Picotee, whose indifference felt oddly out of place compared to the usual calm of the other person. 'It’s just a guy shaking apples off the tree in the garden on the other side of the wall.'

They lingered on till some three or four minutes had gone by. 'Surely that's a carriage?' said Ethelberta, then.

They stayed for about three or four more minutes. “That has to be a carriage, right?” Ethelberta said then.

'I think it is,' said Picotee outside, stretching her neck forward as far as she could. 'No, it is the men on the beach dragging up their boats; they expect wind to-night.'

'I think it is,' said Picotee outside, stretching her neck forward as far as she could. 'No, it's the guys on the beach pulling up their boats; they expect wind tonight.'

'How wearisome! Picotee, you may as well come inside; if he means to call he will; but he ought to be here by this time.'

'How exhausting! Picotee, you might as well come inside; if he plans to show up, he will; but he should be here by now.'

It was only once more, and that some time later that she again said 'Listen!'

It was only once more, and a while later, that she said again, 'Listen!'

'That's not the noise of a carriage; it is the fizz of a rocket. The coastguardsmen are practising the life-apparatus to-day, to be ready for the autumn wrecks.'

'That's not the sound of a carriage; it's the fizz of a rocket. The coastguardsmen are practicing the life-saving equipment today, getting ready for the autumn shipwrecks.'

'Ah!' said Ethelberta, her face clearing up. Hers had not been a sweetheart's impatience, but her mood had intensified during these minutes of suspense to a harassing mistrust of her man-compelling power, which was, if that were possible, more gloomy than disappointed love. 'I know now where he is. That operation with the cradle-apparatus is very interesting, and he is stopping to see it. . . . But I shall not wait indoors much longer, whatever he may be stopping to see. It is very unaccountable, and vexing, after moving into this new house too. We were much more comfortable in the old one. In keeping any previous appointment in which I have been concerned he has been ridiculously early.'

'Ah!' Ethelberta said, her expression brightening. She wasn't feeling the typical impatience of someone in love, but her anxiety had grown during these tense moments into a frustrating doubt about her own influence over him, which, if possible, felt even darker than unrequited love. 'I know where he is now. That thing with the cradle apparatus is really interesting, and he's staying to watch it... But I won’t wait around inside much longer, no matter what he's taking his time for. It's really odd and annoying, especially after moving into this new house. We were so much more comfortable in the old one. Whenever I've had a prior appointment, he’s always been ridiculously early.'

'Shall I run round?' said Picotee, 'and if he is not watching them we will go out.'

'Should I run around?' said Picotee, 'and if he isn’t watching them, we’ll go out.'

'Very well,' said her sister.

"Alright," said her sister.

The time of Picotee's absence seemed an age. Ethelberta heard the roar of another rocket, and still Picotee did not return. 'What can the girl be thinking of?' she mused. . . . 'What a half-and-half policy mine has been! Thinking of marrying for position, and yet not making it my rigid plan to secure the man the first moment that he made his offer. So I lose the comfort of having a soul above worldliness, and my compensation for not having it likewise!' A minute or two more and in came Picotee.

The time Picotee was gone felt like forever. Ethelberta heard the sound of another rocket, and still, Picotee didn’t come back. "What could she be thinking?" she wondered... "What a mixed-up approach I’ve taken! I consider marrying for status, yet I didn’t make it a strict plan to secure the guy as soon as he proposed. So, I miss out on the comfort of having a soul that’s above materialism, and I end up with nothing for not having it too!" After a minute or two, Picotee walked in.

'What has kept you so long-and how excited you look,' said Ethelberta.

'What has kept you so long—and you look so excited,' said Ethelberta.

'I thought I would stay a little while, as I had never seen a rocket-apparatus,' said Picotee, faintly and strangely.

"I thought I would stick around for a bit since I had never seen a rocket gadget," said Picotee, weakly and oddly.

'But is he there?' asked her sister impatiently.

'But is he there?' her sister asked impatiently.

'Yes-he was. He's gone now!'

"Yeah, he was. He's gone now!"

'Lord Mountclere?'

'No. There is no old man there at all. Mr Julian was there.'

'No. There isn't any old man there at all. Mr. Julian was there.'

A little 'Ah!' came from Ethelberta, like a note from a storm-bird at night. She turned round and went into the back room. 'Is Mr. Julian going to call here?' she inquired, coming forward again.

A small "Ah!" escaped from Ethelberta, like a sound from a night bird in a storm. She turned around and walked into the back room. "Is Mr. Julian going to stop by here?" she asked, stepping forward again.

'No-he's gone by the steamboat. He was only passing through on his way to Sandbourne, where he is gone to settle a small business relating to his father's affairs. He was not in Knollsea ten minutes, owing to something which detained him on the way.'

'No, he left by steamboat. He was just passing through on his way to Sandbourne, where he went to take care of a small issue related to his father's affairs. He wasn’t in Knollsea for more than ten minutes because something held him up on the way.'

'Did he inquire for me?'

'Did he ask for me?'

'No. And only think, Ethelberta-such a remarkable thing has happened, though I nearly forgot to tell you. He says that coming along the road he was overtaken by a carriage, and when it had just passed him one of the horses shied, pushed the other down a slope, and overturned the carriage. One wheel came off and trundled to the bottom of the hill by itself. Christopher of course ran up, and helped out of the carriage an old gentleman-now do you know what's likely?'

'No. And just think, Ethelberta—something really surprising happened, though I almost forgot to mention it. He said that while he was walking down the road, he got caught up by a carriage, and right after it passed him, one of the horses got startled, knocked the other one down a slope, and tipped over the carriage. One wheel came off and rolled down the hill by itself. Christopher, of course, ran over and helped an old gentleman out of the carriage—can you imagine what might have happened next?'

'It was Lord Mountclere. I am glad that's the cause,' said Ethelberta involuntarily.

'It was Lord Mountclere. I'm glad that's the reason,' said Ethelberta involuntarily.

'I imagined you would suppose it to be Lord Mountclere. But Mr. Julian did not know the gentleman, and said nothing about who he might be.'

'I thought you would think it was Lord Mountclere. But Mr. Julian didn’t know the guy and didn’t say anything about who he could be.'

'Did he describe him?'

'Did he give a description?'

'Not much-just a little.'

'Not much—just a bit.'

'Well?'

'So?'

'He said he was a sly old dog apparently, to hear how he swore in whispers. This affair is what made Mr. Julian so late that he had no time to call here. Lord Mountclere's ankle-if it was Lord Mountclere-was badly sprained. But the servants were not injured beyond a scratch on the coachman's face. Then they got another carriage and drove at once back again. It must be he, or else why is he not come? It is a pity, too, that Mr. Julian was hindered by this, so that there was no opportunity for him to bide a bit in Knollsea.'

'He claimed to be a sly old dog, judging by how he swore in whispers. This situation is what made Mr. Julian so late that he didn’t have time to stop by here. Lord Mountclere's ankle—if it really was Lord Mountclere—was badly sprained. However, the servants were only scratched, with just a mark on the coachman's face. Then they grabbed another carriage and headed back right away. It must be him, or else why hasn’t he shown up? It’s a shame that Mr. Julian was held up by this, so he didn’t get the chance to stick around in Knollsea.'

Ethelberta was not disposed to believe that Christopher would have called, had time favoured him to the utmost. Between himself and her there was that kind of division which is more insurmountable than enmity; for estrangements produced by good judgment will last when those of feeling break down in smiles. Not the lovers who part in passion, but the lovers who part in friendship, are those who most frequently part for ever.

Ethelberta didn't believe that Christopher would have called even if he had all the time in the world. There was a divide between them that was harder to overcome than hatred; the separations caused by rational decisions tend to last longer than those motivated by emotions, which can be mended with a smile. It's not the lovers who break up in anger, but rather those who separate on good terms that often never come back together.

'Did you tell Mr. Julian that the injured gentleman was possibly Lord Mountclere, and that he was coming here?' said Ethelberta.

"Did you tell Mr. Julian that the injured guy might be Lord Mountclere and that he was on his way here?" Ethelberta asked.

'I made no remark at all-I did not think of him till afterwards.'

'I didn’t say anything at all—I didn’t think about him until later.'

The inquiry was hardly necessary, for Picotee's words would dry away like a brook in the sands when she held conversation with Christopher.

The question was hardly needed, because Picotee's words would fade away like a stream in the sand when she talked to Christopher.

As they had anticipated, the sufferer was no other than their intending visitor. Next morning there was a note explaining the accident, and expressing its writer's suffering from the cruel delay as greater than that from the swollen ankle, which was progressing favourably.

As they had expected, the person in pain was none other than the visitor they had planned for. The next morning, there was a note explaining the accident and saying that the writer was feeling the effects of the frustrating delay more than the pain from the swollen ankle, which was getting better.

Nothing further was heard of Lord Mountclere for more than a week, when she received another letter, which put an end to her season of relaxation, and once more braced her to the contest. This epistle was very courteously written, and in point of correctness, propriety, and gravity, might have come from the quill of a bishop. Herein the old nobleman gave a further description of the accident, but the main business of the communication was to ask her if, since he was not as yet very active, she would come to Enckworth Court and delight himself and a small group of friends who were visiting there.

Nothing more was heard from Lord Mountclere for over a week, when she received another letter that ended her time of relaxation and got her ready for the challenge ahead. This letter was written very politely, and in terms of correctness, propriety, and seriousness, it could have come from a bishop. In it, the old nobleman provided more details about the accident, but the main purpose of the message was to ask her, since he wasn't very active yet, if she would come to Enckworth Court to entertain him and a small group of friends who were visiting.

She pondered over the letter as she walked by the shore that day, and after some hesitation decided to go.

She thought about the letter as she walked along the beach that day, and after a bit of hesitation, she decided to go.

38. ENCKWORTH COURT

It was on a dull, stagnant, noiseless afternoon of autumn that Ethelberta first crossed the threshold of Enckworth Court. The daylight was so lowered by the impervious roof of cloud overhead that it scarcely reached further into Lord Mountclere's entrance-hall than to the splays of the windows, even but an hour or two after midday; and indoors the glitter of the fire reflected itself from the very panes, so inconsiderable were the opposing rays.

It was a dull, still, quiet autumn afternoon when Ethelberta first entered Enckworth Court. The daylight was so dim from the thick cloud cover above that it barely made it into Lord Mountclere's entrance hall, only reaching as far as the edges of the windows, even just an hour or two after noon; inside, the shine from the fire was reflected off the windows, as the outside light was so weak.

Enckworth Court, in its main part, had not been standing more than a hundred years. At that date the weakened portions of the original mediaeval structure were pulled down and cleared away, old jambs being carried off for rick-staddles, and the foliated timbers of the hall roof making themselves useful as fancy chairs in the summer-houses of rising inns. A new block of masonry was built up from the ground of such height and lordliness that the remnant of the old pile left standing became as a mere cup-bearer and culinary menial beside it. The rooms in this old fragment, which had in times past been considered sufficiently dignified for dining-hall, withdrawing-room, and so on, were now reckoned barely high enough for sculleries, servants' hall, and laundries, the whole of which were arranged therein.

Enckworth Court, in its main part, had been standing for just over a hundred years. At that time, the weakened sections of the original medieval structure were torn down and removed, with old door frames being repurposed for rick-staddles, and the ornate timbers from the hall roof being turned into fancy chairs in the gardens of new inns. A new section of masonry was built up from the ground to such impressive heights that the remaining part of the old building left standing became like a mere servant next to it. The rooms in this old section, which had once been deemed dignified enough for the dining hall, living room, and so on, were now considered barely tall enough for kitchens, the servants’ hall, and laundries, all of which were arranged within.

The modern portion had been planned with such a total disregard of association, that the very rudeness of the contrast gave an interest to the mass which it might have wanted had perfect harmony been attempted between the old nucleus and its adjuncts, a probable result if the enlargement had taken place later on in time. The issue was that the hooded windows, simple string-courses, and random masonry of the Gothic workman, stood elbow to elbow with the equal-spaced ashlar, architraves, and fasciae of the Classic addition, each telling its distinct tale as to stage of thought and domestic habit without any of those artifices of blending or restoration by which the seeker for history in stones will be utterly hoodwinked in time to come.

The modern section was designed without any consideration for its surroundings, making the stark contrast actually interesting—something it might have lacked if a perfect harmony had been attempted between the old core and the newer additions, which could have happened if the expansion had occurred later. As a result, the hooded windows, simple string-courses, and random masonry of the Gothic craftsmanship stood side by side with the evenly spaced stone blocks, architraves, and fasciae of the Classic extension, each showcasing its own unique story about the era and lifestyle, without any of the tricks of blending or restoration that would eventually mislead future historians exploring the stones.

To the left of the door and vestibule which Ethelberta passed through rose the principal staircase, constructed of a freestone so milk-white and delicately moulded as to be easily conceived in the lamplight as of biscuit-ware. Who, unacquainted with the secrets of geometrical construction, could imagine that, hanging so airily there, to all appearance supported on nothing, were twenty or more tons dead weight of stone, that would have made a prison for an elephant if so arranged? The art which produced this illusion was questionable, but its success was undoubted. 'How lovely!' said Ethelberta, as she looked at the fairy ascent. 'His staircase alone is worth my hand!'

To the left of the door and entryway that Ethelberta walked through, there was the main staircase, made of a smooth, white stone that looked so delicately shaped it could easily be mistaken for porcelain in the lamplight. Who, without knowing the principles of geometric construction, could believe that hanging so lightly and seemingly unsupported were twenty or more tons of stone, enough to make a cage for an elephant if it were set up that way? The craftsmanship that created this effect was questionable, but its success was undeniable. "How beautiful!" Ethelberta exclaimed as she admired the whimsical staircase. "This staircase alone is worth my hand!"

Passing along by the colonnade, which partly fenced the staircase from the visitor, the saloon was reached, an apartment forming a double cube. About the left-hand end of this were grouped the drawing-rooms and library; while on the right was the dining-hall, with billiard, smoking, and gun rooms in mysterious remoteness beyond.

Passing along the colonnade, which partially separated the staircase from visitors, you reached the saloon, a room shaped like a double cube. To the left were the drawing rooms and the library, while to the right was the dining hall, with billiard, smoking, and gun rooms quietly tucked away in the distance.

Without attempting to trace an analogy between a man and his mansion, it may be stated that everything here, though so dignified and magnificent, was not conceived in quite the true and eternal spirit of art. It was a house in which Pugin would have torn his hair. Those massive blocks of red-veined marble lining the hall-emulating in their surface-glitter the Escalier de Marbre at Versailles-were cunning imitations in paint and plaster by workmen brought from afar for the purpose, at a prodigious expense, by the present viscount's father, and recently repaired and re-varnished. The dark green columns and pilasters corresponding were brick at the core. Nay, the external walls, apparently of massive and solid freestone, were only veneered with that material, being, like the pillars, of brick within.

Without trying to compare a man to his house, it can be said that everything here, although so dignified and impressive, wasn’t created with the true and lasting spirit of art. It was a place that would have made Pugin pull his hair out. Those huge blocks of red-veined marble lining the hall—trying to mimic the surface shine of the Escalier de Marbre at Versailles—were clever imitations made with paint and plaster by workers brought in from far away for a huge cost by the current viscount's father, and they had just been repaired and re-varnished. The dark green columns and pilasters were just bricks inside. In fact, the external walls, which seemed to be made of solid freestone, were merely veneered with that material, being, like the pillars, made of brick inside.

To a stone mask worn by a brick face a story naturally appertained-one which has since done service in other quarters. When the vast addition had just been completed King George visited Enckworth. Its owner pointed out the features of its grand architectural attempt, and waited for commendation.

To a stone mask worn by a brick face, a story naturally belonged—one that has since been shared elsewhere. When the massive expansion was just finished, King George visited Enckworth. Its owner highlighted the details of this grand architectural endeavor and waited for praise.

'Brick, brick, brick,' said the king.

The Georgian Lord Mountclere blushed faintly, albeit to his very poll, and said nothing more about his house that day. When the king was gone he sent frantically for the craftsmen recently dismissed, and soon the green lawns became again the colour of a Nine-Elms cement wharf. Thin freestone slabs were affixed to the whole series of fronts by copper cramps and dowels, each one of substance sufficient to have furnished a poor boy's pocket with pennies for a month, till not a speck of the original surface remained, and the edifice shone in all the grandeur of massive masonry that was not massive at all. But who remembered this save the builder and his crew? and as long as nobody knew the truth, pretence looked just as well.

The Georgian Lord Mountclere blushed slightly, all the way to his forehead, and didn’t say anything more about his house that day. After the king left, he urgently called back the craftsmen he'd just let go, and soon the green lawns turned back into the color of a Nine-Elms cement wharf. Thin slabs of freestone were attached to the entire front with copper cramps and dowels, each one worth enough to have filled a poor boy's pocket with change for a month, until not a bit of the original surface was left, and the building gleamed with all the grandeur of solid masonry that was actually not solid at all. But who remembered this except the builder and his team? And as long as no one knew the truth, pretense looked just as good.

What was honest in Enckworth Court was that portion of the original edifice which still remained, now degraded to subservient uses. Where the untitled Mountclere of the White Rose faction had spread his knees over the brands, when the place was a castle and not a court, the still-room maid now simmered her preserves; and where Elizabethan mothers and daughters of that sturdy line had tapestried the love-scenes of Isaac and Jacob, boots and shoes were now cleaned and coals stowed away.

What was genuine in Enckworth Court was the part of the original building that still stood, now reduced to menial tasks. Where the untitled Mountclere of the White Rose faction once knelt by the fire when this place was a castle instead of a court, the still-room maid now simmered her jams; and where Elizabethan mothers and daughters of that strong lineage had showcased the love stories of Isaac and Jacob, boots and shoes were now polished and coal was stored away.

Lord Mountclere had so far recovered from the sprain as to be nominally quite well, under pressure of a wish to receive guests. The sprain had in one sense served him excellently. He had now a reason, apart from that of years, for walking with his stick, and took care to let the reason be frequently known. To-day he entertained a larger number of persons than had been assembled within his walls for a great length of time.

Lord Mountclere had recovered enough from his sprain to appear completely fine, fueled by his desire to host guests. In a way, the sprain had worked out well for him. He now had a valid excuse, in addition to his age, for using a walking stick, and he made sure people noticed it often. Today, he hosted more people than had gathered at his place in a long time.

Until after dinner Ethelberta felt as if she were staying at an hotel. Few of the people whom she had met at the meeting of the Imperial Association greeted her here. The viscount's brother was not present, but Sir Cyril Blandsbury and his wife were there, a lively pair of persons, entertaining as actors, and friendly as dogs. Beyond these all the faces and figures were new to her, though they were handsome and dashing enough to satisfy a court chronicler. Ethelberta, in a dress sloped about as high over the shoulder as would have drawn approval from Reynolds, and expostulation from Lely, thawed and thawed each friend who came near her, and sent him or her away smiling; yet she felt a little surprise. She had seldom visited at a country-house, and knew little of the ordinary composition of a group of visitors within its walls; but the present assemblage seemed to want much of that old-fashioned stability and quaint monumental dignity she had expected to find under this historical roof. Nobody of her entertainer's own rank appeared. Not a single clergyman was there. A tendency to talk Walpolean scandal about foreign courts was particularly manifest. And although tropical travellers, Indian officers and their wives, courteous exiles, and descendants of Irish kings, were infinitely more pleasant than Lord Mountclere's landed neighbours would probably have been, to such a cosmopolite as Ethelberta a calm Tory or old Whig company would have given a greater treat. They would have struck as gratefully upon her senses as sylvan scenery after crags and cliffs, or silence after the roar of a cataract.

Until after dinner, Ethelberta felt like she was staying at a hotel. Few of the people she had met at the meeting of the Imperial Association acknowledged her here. The viscount's brother wasn't around, but Sir Cyril Blandsbury and his wife were there, a lively couple, entertaining as performers and friendly as pets. Besides them, all the faces and figures were new to her, but they were handsome and striking enough to impress a court chronicler. Ethelberta, in a dress cut high enough over the shoulder to please Reynolds and raise eyebrows from Lely, warmed up each friend who approached her and sent them away smiling; yet she felt a bit surprised. She had seldom spent time at a country house and knew little about the typical mix of visitors within its walls; but this gathering seemed to lack that old-fashioned stability and charming dignity she had expected to find in this historic setting. No one of her host's rank appeared. Not a single clergyman was there. There was a clear tendency to gossip about foreign courts in a Walpolean style. And although tropical travelers, Indian officers and their wives, polite exiles, and descendants of Irish kings were infinitely more enjoyable than Lord Mountclere's landed neighbors would likely have been, for someone cosmopolitan like Ethelberta, a calm Tory or old Whig gathering would have been a greater delight. It would have resonated with her senses like a peaceful forest scene after rugged cliffs or quiet after the roar of a waterfall.

It was evening, and all these personages at Enckworth Court were merry, snug, and warm within its walls. Dinner-time had passed, and everything had gone on well, when Mrs. Tara O'Fanagan, who had a gold-clamped tooth, which shone every now and then, asked Ethelberta if she would amuse them by telling a story, since nobody present, except Lord Mountclere, had ever heard one from her lips.

It was evening, and everyone at Enckworth Court was cheerful, cozy, and warm inside its walls. Dinner had finished, and everything was going smoothly when Mrs. Tara O'Fanagan, who had a gold-clamped tooth that sparkled occasionally, asked Ethelberta if she would entertain them by telling a story, since no one present, except for Lord Mountclere, had ever heard one from her.

Seeing that Ethelberta had been working at that art as a profession, it can hardly be said that the question was conceived with tact, though it was put with grace. Lord Mountclere evidently thought it objectionable, for he looked unhappy. To only one person in the brilliant room did the request appear as a timely accident, and that was to Ethelberta herself. Her honesty was always making war upon her manoeuvres, and shattering their delicate meshes, to her great inconvenience and delay. Thus there arose those devious impulses and tangential flights which spoil the works of every would-be schemer who instead of being wholly machine is half heart. One of these now was to show herself as she really was, not only to Lord Mountclere, but to his friends assembled, whom, in her ignorance, she respected more than they deserved, and so get rid of that self-reproach which had by this time reached a morbid pitch, through her over-sensitiveness to a situation in which a large majority of women and men would have seen no falseness.

Seeing that Ethelberta had been working in that profession, it can hardly be said that the question was asked tactfully, though it was delivered gracefully. Lord Mountclere clearly found it inappropriate, as he looked unhappy. To only one person in the lively room did the request seem like a fortunate chance, and that was Ethelberta herself. Her honesty constantly undermined her schemes, breaking apart their delicate structures, which caused her a lot of trouble and delay. Thus, she experienced those wandering impulses and side trips that ruin the plans of anyone who isn’t fully committed. One of these impulses now was to reveal her true self, not just to Lord Mountclere but to his friends present, whom she, in her naivety, respected more than they deserved, and to rid herself of the self-doubt that had grown to an unhealthy level due to her heightened sensitivity to a situation where most people would not have seen any deception.

Full of this curious intention, she quietly assented to the request, and laughingly bade them put themselves in listening order.

Full of this curious intention, she quietly agreed to the request and playfully told them to get ready to listen.

'An old story will suit us,' said the lady who had importuned her. 'We have never heard one.'

'An old story will work for us,' said the woman who had been urging her. 'We've never heard one.'

'No; it shall be quite new,' she replied. 'One not yet made public; though it soon will be.'

'No; it will be completely new,' she replied. 'One that hasn’t been shared yet; although it will be soon.'

The narrative began by introducing to their notice a girl of the poorest and meanest parentage, the daughter of a serving-man, and the fifth of ten children. She graphically recounted, as if they were her own, the strange dreams and ambitious longings of this child when young, her attempts to acquire education, partial failures, partial successes, and constant struggles; instancing how, on one of these occasions, the girl concealed herself under a bookcase of the library belonging to the mansion in which her father served as footman, and having taken with her there, like a young Fawkes, matches and a halfpenny candle, was going to sit up all night reading when the family had retired, until her father discovered and prevented her scheme. Then followed her experiences as nursery-governess, her evening lessons under self-selected masters, and her ultimate rise to a higher grade among the teaching sisterhood. Next came another epoch. To the mansion in which she was engaged returned a truant son, between whom and the heroine an attachment sprang up. The master of the house was an ambitious gentleman just knighted, who, perceiving the state of their hearts, harshly dismissed the homeless governess, and rated the son, the consequence being that the youthful pair resolved to marry secretly, and carried their resolution into effect. The runaway journey came next, and then a moving description of the death of the young husband, and the terror of the bride.

The story started by bringing to light a girl from extremely poor and humble origins, the daughter of a servant and the fifth of ten siblings. It vividly described her strange dreams and ambitious desires when she was young, her attempts to get an education, her partial failures and successes, and her ongoing struggles. For example, one time, she hid under a bookcase in the library of the mansion where her father worked as a footman, planning to spend the whole night reading by the light of a halfpenny candle and matches, until her father found her and stopped her plans. Then came her experiences as a nursery governess, her evening lessons with self-chosen tutors, and her eventual rise in the teaching profession. Next, a new chapter began when a wayward son returned to the mansion where she worked, and an attraction developed between them. The head of the household, an ambitious man recently knighted, harshly dismissed the homeless governess upon realizing their feelings, reprimanding the son. This led the young couple to decide to marry in secret, and they followed through with their plan. Then came the journey of their escape, followed by a heartbreaking account of the young husband's death and the bride's fear.

The guests began to look perplexed, and one or two exchanged whispers. This was not at all the kind of story that they had expected; it was quite different from her usual utterances, the nature of which they knew by report. Ethelberta kept her eye upon Lord Mountclere. Soon, to her amazement, there was that in his face which told her that he knew the story and its heroine quite well. When she delivered the sentence ending with the professedly fictitious words: 'I thus was reduced to great distress, and vainly cast about me for directions what to do,' Lord Mountclere's manner became so excited and anxious that it acted reciprocally upon Ethelberta; her voice trembled, she moved her lips but uttered nothing. To bring the story up to the date of that very evening had been her intent, but it was beyond her power. The spell was broken; she blushed with distress and turned away, for the folly of a disclosure here was but too apparent.

The guests started to look confused, and a couple of them whispered to each other. This was nothing like the story they had expected; it was completely different from her usual comments, which they had heard about before. Ethelberta watched Lord Mountclere closely. Soon, to her surprise, she saw something in his face that indicated he knew both the story and its main character quite well. When she finished the sentence with the clearly made-up words: 'I thus was reduced to great distress, and vainly cast about me for directions what to do,' Lord Mountclere became so excited and anxious that Ethelberta felt it too; her voice shook, she moved her lips but couldn’t say anything. She had intended to bring the story up to that very evening, but it was beyond her ability. The magic was gone; she blushed with embarrassment and turned away, realizing how foolish it would be to reveal any more here.

Though every one saw that she had broken down, none of them appeared to know the reason why, or to have the clue to her performance. Fortunately Lord Mountclere came to her aid.

Though everyone saw that she had fallen apart, none of them seemed to know why or understand her actions. Luckily, Lord Mountclere came to her rescue.

'Let the first part end here,' he said, rising and approaching her. 'We have been well entertained so far. I could scarcely believe that the story I was listening to was utterly an invention, so vividly does Mrs. Petherwin bring the scenes before our eyes. She must now be exhausted; we will have the remainder to-morrow.'

'Let’s wrap up the first part here,' he said, standing up and walking over to her. 'We’ve been really entertained so far. I could hardly believe that the story I was hearing was completely made up, as vividly as Mrs. Petherwin brings the scenes to life. She must be worn out now; we’ll continue with the rest tomorrow.'

They all agreed that this was well, and soon after fell into groups, and dispersed about the rooms. When everybody's attention was thus occupied Lord Mountclere whispered to Ethelberta tremulously, 'Don't tell more: you think too much of them: they are no better than you! Will you meet me in the little winter garden two minutes hence? Pass through that door, and along the glass passage.' He himself left the room by an opposite door.

They all thought this was a good idea, and shortly after, they broke into groups and spread out around the rooms. Once everyone’s attention was engaged, Lord Mountclere quietly whispered to Ethelberta, “Don’t say more: you think too highly of them; they’re no better than you! Will you meet me in the small winter garden in two minutes? Go through that door and down the glass hallway.” He then exited the room through a different door.

She had not set three steps in the warm snug octagon of glass and plants when he appeared on the other side.

She had barely taken three steps into the warm, cozy octagon of glass and plants when he showed up on the other side.

'You knew it all before!' she said, looking keenly at him. 'Who told you, and how long have you known it?'

'You knew it all before!' she said, staring intently at him. 'Who told you, and how long have you known?'

'Before yesterday or last week,' said Lord Mountclere. 'Even before we met in France. Why are you so surprised?'

Ethelberta had been surprised, and very greatly, to find him, as it were, secreted in the very rear of her position. That nothing she could tell was new to him was a good deal to think of, but it was little beside the recollection that he had actually made his first declaration in the face of that knowledge of her which she had supposed so fatal to all her matrimonial ambitions.

Ethelberta was really surprised to find him, so to speak, tucked away at the back of her situation. The fact that nothing she could share was new to him was something to consider, but it paled in comparison to the memory that he had actually made his first confession knowing everything about her that she thought would ruin her chances of marriage.

'And now only one point remains to be settled,' he said, taking her hand. 'You promised at Rouen that at our next interview you would honour me with a decisive reply-one to make me happy for ever.'

'And now there's just one thing left to figure out,' he said, taking her hand. 'You promised in Rouen that at our next meeting you would give me a clear answer—one that would make me happy forever.'

'But my father and friends?' said she.

'But what about my father and friends?' she said.

'Are nothing to be concerned about. Modern developments have shaken up the classes like peas in a hopper. An annuity, and a comfortable cottage-'

'Are nothing to worry about. Modern developments have stirred the classes up like peas in a hopper. An annuity, and a cozy cottage-'

'My brothers are workmen.'

'My brothers are laborers.'

'Manufacture is the single vocation in which a man's prospects may be said to be illimitable. Hee-hee!-they may buy me up before they die! And now what stands in the way? It would take fifty alliances with fifty families so little disreputable as yours, darling, to drag mine down.'

'Manufacturing is the only career where a person's potential is truly limitless. Ha! They could buy me out before they kick the bucket! So, what’s holding us back? It would take fifty connections with fifty families as respectable as yours, darling, to bring mine down.'

Ethelberta had anticipated the scene, and settled her course; what had to be said and done here was mere formality; yet she had been unable to go straight to the assent required. However, after these words of self-depreciation, which were let fall as much for her own future ease of conscience as for his present warning, she made no more ado.

Ethelberta had expected the situation and figured out her plan; what needed to be said and done here was just a formality; still, she couldn’t bring herself to immediately agree. However, after expressing these words of self-doubt, which she shared as much for her own future peace of mind as for his current advice, she didn’t hesitate any longer.

'I shall think it a great honour to be your wife,' she said simply.

"I would be honored to be your wife," she said straightforwardly.

39. KNOLLSEA-MELCHESTER

The year was now moving on apace, but Ethelberta and Picotee chose to remain at Knollsea, in the brilliant variegated brick and stone villa to which they had removed in order to be in keeping with their ascending fortunes. Autumn had begun to make itself felt and seen in bolder and less subtle ways than at first. In the morning now, on coming downstairs, in place of a yellowish-green leaf or two lying in a corner of the lowest step, which had been the only previous symptoms around the house, she saw dozens of them playing at corkscrews in the wind, directly the door was opened. Beyond, towards the sea, the slopes and scarps that had been muffled with a thick robe of cliff herbage, were showing their chill grey substance through the withered verdure, like the background of velvet whence the pile has been fretted away. Unexpected breezes broomed and rasped the smooth bay in evanescent patches of stippled shade, and, besides the small boats, the ponderous lighters used in shipping stone were hauled up the beach in anticipation of the equinoctial attack.

The year was quickly moving along, but Ethelberta and Picotee decided to stay at Knollsea, in the brightly colored brick and stone villa they had moved to in order to match their rising fortunes. Autumn had started to make its presence known in more noticeable and bold ways than before. Now, in the mornings when she came downstairs, instead of just a yellowish-green leaf or two resting in a corner of the lowest step— the only signs of change around the house—she saw dozens of them twisting in the wind the moment she opened the door. Out towards the sea, the slopes and cliffs that had been covered in a thick layer of greenery were revealing their chilly gray surfaces through the withered foliage, like a velvet backdrop where the fabric had worn away. Unexpected breezes swept across the smooth bay, creating fleeting patches of shadow, and besides the small boats, the heavy lighters used for shipping stone were pulled up on the beach in preparation for the upcoming equinoctial storms.

A few days after Ethelberta's reception at Enckworth, an improved stanhope, driven by Lord Mountclere himself, climbed up the hill until it was opposite her door. A few notes from a piano softly played reached his ear as he descended from his place: on being shown in to his betrothed, he could perceive that she had just left the instrument. Moreover, a tear was visible in her eye when she came near him.

A few days after Ethelberta's reception at Enckworth, a stylish stanhope, driven by Lord Mountclere himself, made its way up the hill until it was in front of her door. A few soft piano notes reached his ears as he got out of the carriage. When he was let in to see his fiancée, he noticed that she had just stepped away from the piano. Also, there was a tear in her eye as she approached him.

They discoursed for several minutes in the manner natural between a defenceless young widow and an old widower in Lord Mountclere's position to whom she was plighted-a great deal of formal considerateness making itself visible on her part, and of extreme tenderness on his. While thus occupied, he turned to the piano, and casually glanced at a piece of music lying open upon it. Some words of writing at the top expressed that it was the composer's original copy, presented by him, Christopher Julian, to the author of the song. Seeing that he noticed the sheet somewhat lengthily, Ethelberta remarked that it had been an offering made to her a long time ago-a melody written to one of her own poems.

They talked for several minutes in a way that was natural between a defenseless young widow and an older widower like Lord Mountclere, to whom she was engaged—a lot of formal politeness from her side and pure tenderness from him. While they were talking, he turned to the piano and casually looked at a piece of music that was open on it. Some writing at the top stated that it was the composer’s original copy, given by him, Christopher Julian, to the author of the song. Noticing that he was studying the sheet for a while, Ethelberta mentioned that it had been a gift to her a long time ago—a melody written for one of her own poems.

'In the writing of the composer,' observed Lord Mountclere, with interest. 'An offering from the musician himself-very gratifying and touching. Mr. Christopher Julian is the name I see upon it, I believe? I knew his father, Dr. Julian, a Sandbourne man, if I recollect.'

'In the writing of the composer,' remarked Lord Mountclere, with interest. 'A gift from the musician himself—very lovely and moving. Mr. Christopher Julian is the name I see on it, right? I knew his father, Dr. Julian, a Sandbourne guy, if I remember correctly.'

'Yes,' said Ethelberta placidly. But it was really with an effort. The song was the identical one which Christopher sent up to her from Sandbourne when the fire of her hope burnt high for less material ends; and the discovery of the sheet among her music that day had started eddies of emotion for some time checked.

'Yes,' Ethelberta said calmly. But it was truly a struggle. The song was the exact same one that Christopher had sent her from Sandbourne when her hopes were high for more meaningful reasons; and finding the sheet music that day had stirred up feelings that had been held back for a while.

'I am sorry you have been grieved,' said Lord Mountclere, with gloomy restlessness.

"I'm sorry you've been upset," said Lord Mountclere, with a heavy sense of unease.

'Grieved?' said Ethelberta.

"Feeling sad?" Ethelberta asked.

'Did I not see a tear there? or did my eyes deceive me?'

'Did I not see a tear there? Or were my eyes deceiving me?'

'You might have seen one.'

'You might've seen one.'

'Ah! a tear, and a song. I think-'

'You naturally think that a woman who cries over a man's gift must be in love with the giver?' Ethelberta looked him serenely in the face.

'You think that a woman who cries over a man's gift must be in love with him?' Ethelberta looked him calmly in the eye.

Lord Mountclere's jealous suspicions were considerably shaken.

Lord Mountclere's jealous doubts were significantly unsettled.

'Not at all,' he said hastily, as if ashamed. 'One who cries over a song is much affected by its sentiment.'

'Not at all,' he said quickly, as if embarrassed. 'Someone who cries over a song is really moved by its emotions.'

'Do you expect authors to cry over their own words?' she inquired, merging defence in attack. 'I am afraid they don't often do that.'

'Do you expect authors to cry over their own words?' she asked, blending defense with attack. 'I'm afraid they don't usually do that.'

'You would make me uneasy.'

'You make me uneasy.'

'On the contrary, I would reassure you. Are you not still doubting?' she asked, with a pleasant smile.

'On the contrary, I want to reassure you. Are you still having doubts?' she asked, smiling pleasantly.

'I cannot doubt you!'

"I totally trust you!"

'Swear, like a faithful knight.'

'Swear, like a loyal knight.'

'I swear, my fairy, my flower!'

After this the old man appeared to be pondering; indeed, his thoughts could hardly be said to be present when he uttered the words. For though the tabernacle was getting shaky by reason of years and merry living, so that what was going on inside might often be guessed without by the movement of the hangings, as in a puppet-show with worn canvas, he could be quiet enough when scheming any plot of particular neatness, which had less emotion than impishness in it. Such an innocent amusement he was pondering now.

After that, the old man seemed to be deep in thought; in fact, it was hard to say he was really present when he spoke. Even though his body was getting shaky from age and a life of enjoyment, making it easy to guess what was happening inside just from the movement of the curtains, like a puppet show with worn fabric, he could be perfectly calm when planning out a clever scheme, which was more mischievous than emotional. This is the kind of innocent fun he was thinking about now.

Before leaving her, he asked if she would accompany him to a morning instrumental concert at Melchester, which was to take place in the course of that week for the benefit of some local institution.

Before leaving her, he asked if she would join him for a morning instrumental concert in Melchester, scheduled for later that week to support a local charity.

'Melchester,' she repeated faintly, and observed him as searchingly as it was possible to do without exposing herself to a raking fire in return. Could he know that Christopher was living there, and was this said in prolongation of his recent suspicion? But Lord Mountclere's face gave no sign.

'Melchester,' she said softly, watching him as closely as she could without making herself a target for his scrutiny. Could he know that Christopher was staying there, and was this a result of his recent doubts? But Lord Mountclere's expression revealed nothing.

'You forget one fatal objection,' said she; 'the secrecy in which it is imperative that the engagement between us should be kept.'

'You’re overlooking one crucial issue,' she said; 'the need for absolute secrecy about our engagement.'

'I am not known in Melchester without my carriage; nor are you.'

'I’m not recognized in Melchester without my carriage, and neither are you.'

'We may be known by somebody on the road.'

'Someone might recognize us on the road.'

'Then let it be arranged in this way. I will not call here to take you up, but will meet you at the station at Anglebury; and we can go on together by train without notice. Surely there can be no objection to that? It would be mere prudishness to object, since we are to become one so shortly.' He spoke a little impatiently. It was plain that he particularly wanted her to go to Melchester.

'Then let's plan it like this. I won't pick you up here; instead, I'll meet you at the station in Anglebury, and we can take the train together without any fuss. Surely, there's no reason to object to that? It would just be being overly cautious, considering we're going to be one soon enough.' He spoke a bit impatiently. It was clear that he really wanted her to go to Melchester.

'I merely meant that there was a chance of discovery in our going out together. And discovery means no marriage.' She was pale now, and sick at heart, for it seemed that the viscount must be aware that Christopher dwelt at that place, and was about to test her concerning him.

'I just meant that there was a chance we could be found out if we went out together. And being found out means no marriage.' She looked pale now and felt sick at heart, as it seemed the viscount must know that Christopher was staying there and was about to question her about him.

'Why does it mean no marriage?' said he.

'What does it mean, no marriage?' he asked.

'My father might, and almost certainly would, object to it. Although he cannot control me, he might entreat me.'

'My dad might, and probably would, be against it. Even though he can't control me, he might try to persuade me.'

'Why would he object?' said Lord Mountclere uneasily, and somewhat haughtily.

'Why would he have a problem with it?' said Lord Mountclere, feeling uneasy and a bit proud.

'I don't know.'

"I have no idea."

'But you will be my wife-say again that you will.'

'But you will be my wife—say it again, that you will.'

'I will.'

"I will."

He breathed. 'He will not object-hee-hee!' he said. 'O no-I think you will be mine now.'

He took a breath. "He won’t mind—hee-hee!" he said. "Oh no—I think you’re mine now."

'I have said so. But look to me all the same.'

'I said that. But still, look to me.'

'You malign yourself, dear one. But you will meet me at Anglebury, as I wish, and go on to Melchester with me?'

'You're being too hard on yourself, my dear. But will you meet me at Anglebury, as I want, and continue on to Melchester with me?'

'I shall be pleased to-if my sister may accompany me.'

'I would be happy to if my sister can come with me.'

'Ah-your sister. Yes, of course.'

"Ah, your sister. Yes, sure."

They settled the time of the journey, and when the visit had been stretched out as long as it reasonably could be with propriety, Lord Mountclere took his leave.

They scheduled the time for the trip, and once the visit had been extended as long as it politely could be, Lord Mountclere said his goodbyes.

When he was again seated on the driving-phaeton which he had brought that day, Lord Mountclere looked gleeful, and shrewd enough in his own opinion to outwit Mephistopheles. As soon as they were ascending a hill, and he could find time to free his hand, he pulled off his glove, and drawing from his pocket a programme of the Melchester concert referred to, contemplated therein the name of one of the intended performers. The name was that of Mr. C. Julian. Replacing it again, he looked ahead, and some time after murmured with wily mirth, 'An excellent test-a lucky thought!'

When he was back in the driving phaeton he had taken out that day, Lord Mountclere felt cheerful and clever enough, in his own mind, to outsmart Mephistopheles. As soon as they started going up a hill and he had a moment to free his hand, he took off his glove and pulled a program for the Melchester concert from his pocket. He glanced at the name of one of the performers listed there. The name was Mr. C. Julian. Putting the program away, he looked ahead and after a while murmured with sly amusement, “A great test—a lucky thought!”

Nothing of importance occurred during the intervening days. At two o'clock on the appointed afternoon Ethelberta stepped from the train at Melchester with the viscount, who had met her as proposed; she was followed behind by Picotee.

Nothing significant happened during the days in between. At two o'clock on the scheduled afternoon, Ethelberta got off the train at Melchester with the viscount, who had come to meet her as planned; she was followed by Picotee.

The concert was to be held at the Town-hall half-an-hour later. They entered a fly in waiting, and secure from recognition, were driven leisurely in that direction, Picotee silent and absorbed with her own thoughts.

The concert was set to take place at the Town Hall half an hour later. They hopped into a waiting carriage, safe from being recognized, and were driven leisurely in that direction, with Picotee quiet and lost in her own thoughts.

'There's the Cathedral,' said Lord Mountclere humorously, as they caught a view of one of its towers through a street leading into the Close.

'There’s the Cathedral,' said Lord Mountclere with a laugh, as they caught a glimpse of one of its towers through a street leading into the Close.

'Yes.'

'Yeah.'

'It boasts of a very fine organ.'

'It boasts a really impressive organ.'

'Ah.'

'Wow.'

'And the organist is a clever young man.'

'And the organist is a smart young guy.'

'Oh.'

"Oh."

Lord Mountclere paused a moment or two. 'By the way, you may remember that he is the Mr. Julian who set your song to music!'

Lord Mountclere paused for a moment. 'By the way, you might recall that he is the Mr. Julian who put your song to music!'

'I recollect it quite well.' Her heart was horrified and she thought Lord Mountclere must be developing into an inquisitor, which perhaps he was. But none of this reached her face.

'I remember it really well.' Her heart was terrified, and she thought Lord Mountclere might be turning into an interrogator, which he possibly was. But none of this showed on her face.

They turned in the direction of the Hall, were set down, and entered.

They headed towards the Hall, got dropped off, and walked in.

The large assembly-room set apart for the concert was upstairs, and it was possible to enter it in two ways: by the large doorway in front of the landing, or by turning down a side passage leading to council-rooms and subsidiary apartments of small size, which were allotted to performers in any exhibition; thus they could enter from one of these directly upon the platform, without passing through the audience.

The big assembly room designated for the concert was upstairs, and you could get in two ways: through the large doorway at the top of the landing or by turning down a side hallway that led to the council rooms and smaller rooms set aside for performers in any event. This way, they could go directly onto the platform without having to walk through the audience.

'Will you seat yourselves here?' said Lord Mountclere, who, instead of entering by the direct door, had brought the young women round into this green-room, as it may be called. 'You see we have come in privately enough; when the musicians arrive we can pass through behind them, and step down to our seats from the front.'

'Will you take a seat here?' said Lord Mountclere, who, instead of going in through the main door, had brought the young women into this lounge area, so to speak. 'You see, we've managed to slip in quietly; when the musicians get here, we can go in behind them and head down to our seats from the front.'

The players could soon be heard tuning in the next room. Then one came through the passage-room where the three waited, and went in, then another, then another. Last of all came Julian.

The players could soon be heard warming up in the next room. Then one walked through the hallway where the three were waiting and went in, then another, then another. Finally, Julian arrived.

Ethelberta sat facing the door, but Christopher, never in the least expecting her there, did not recognize her till he was quite inside. When he had really perceived her to be the one who had troubled his soul so many times and long, the blood in his face-never very much-passed off and left it, like the shade of a cloud. Between them stood a table covered with green baize, which, reflecting upwards a band of sunlight shining across the chamber, flung upon his already white features the virescent hues of death. The poor musician, whose person, much to his own inconvenience, constituted a complete breviary of the gentle emotions, looked as if he were going to fall down in a faint.

Ethelberta sat facing the door, but Christopher, never expecting to see her there, didn’t recognize her until he was well inside. When he finally realized she was the one who had troubled his mind so many times, the little color he had drained from his face, leaving it pale like a shadow. Between them stood a table covered with green felt, which reflected a band of sunlight shining across the room, casting a greenish hue on his already pale features that resembled the colors of death. The poor musician, whose presence, much to his own discomfort, embodied all the gentle emotions, looked as if he might faint.

Ethelberta flung at Lord Mountclere a look which clipped him like pincers: he never forgot it as long as he lived.

Ethelberta shot Lord Mountclere a glance that grabbed him like a pair of pincers: he never forgot it for the rest of his life.

'This is your pretty jealous scheme-I see it!' she hissed to him, and without being able to control herself went across to Julian.

'This is your jealous little plan—I can see it!' she hissed at him, and unable to hold herself back, she walked over to Julian.

But a slight gasp came from behind the door where Picotee had been sitting. Ethelberta and Lord Mountclere looked that way: and behold, Picotee had nearly swooned.

But a slight gasp came from behind the door where Picotee had been sitting. Ethelberta and Lord Mountclere looked in that direction, and there was Picotee, almost fainting.

Ethelberta's show of passion went as quickly as it had come, for she felt that a splendid triumph had been put into her hands. 'Now do you see the truth?' she whispered to Lord Mountclere without a drachm of feeling; pointing to Christopher and then to Picotee-as like as two snowdrops now.

Ethelberta's burst of passion faded as quickly as it appeared, for she realized that a remarkable victory was within her grasp. 'Do you see the truth now?' she whispered to Lord Mountclere without a hint of emotion, pointing to Christopher and then to Picotee—who looked as similar as two snowdrops now.

'I do, I do,' murmured the viscount hastily.

"I do, I do," the viscount quickly murmured.

They both went forward to help Christopher in restoring the fragile Picotee: he had set himself to that task as suddenly as he possibly could to cover his own near approach to the same condition. Not much help was required, the little girl's indisposition being quite momentary, and she sat up in the chair again.

They both moved in to help Christopher fix the delicate Picotee: he had taken on that task as quickly as he could to distract himself from his own similar situation. Not much assistance was needed, as the little girl's discomfort was very brief, and she sat up in the chair again.

'Are you better?' said Ethelberta to Christopher.

"Are you feeling better?" Ethelberta asked Christopher.

'Quite well-quite,' he said, smiling faintly. 'I am glad to see you. I must, I think, go into the next room now.' He bowed and walked out awkwardly.

'I'm doing fine,' he said, smiling slightly. 'I'm happy to see you. I guess I should go into the next room now.' He nodded and walked out awkwardly.

'Are you better, too?' she said to Picotee.

'Are you feeling better, too?' she asked Picotee.

'Quite well,' said Picotee.

"Pretty well," said Picotee.

'You are quite sure you know between whom the love lies now-eh?' Ethelberta asked in a sarcastic whisper of Lord Mountclere.

'You’re pretty sure you know who the love is between now, right?' Ethelberta asked in a sarcastic whisper to Lord Mountclere.

'I am-beyond a doubt,' murmured the anxious nobleman; he feared that look of hers, which was not less dominant than irresistible.

'I am—without a doubt,' whispered the worried nobleman; he feared that look of hers, which was just as commanding as it was irresistible.

Some additional moments given to thought on the circumstances rendered Ethelberta still more indignant and intractable. She went out at the door by which they had entered, along the passage, and down the stairs. A shuffling footstep followed, but she did not turn her head. When they reached the bottom of the stairs the carriage had gone, their exit not being expected till two hours later. Ethelberta, nothing daunted, swept along the pavement and down the street in a turbulent prance, Lord Mountclere trotting behind with a jowl reduced to a mere nothing by his concern at the discourtesy into which he had been lured by jealous whisperings.

Some extra moments spent thinking about the situation made Ethelberta even more upset and stubborn. She left through the door they had entered, walked down the hallway, and went down the stairs. A shuffling step followed her, but she didn't look back. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, the carriage was gone, as they weren’t expected to leave for another two hours. Ethelberta, unfazed, strode down the sidewalk and along the street in a fiery pace, while Lord Mountclere trotted behind her, his expression greatly diminished by his embarrassment over the rudeness he had been drawn into by jealous whispers.

'My dearest-forgive me; I confess I doubted you-but I was beside myself,' came to her ears from over her shoulder. But Ethelberta walked on as before.

'My dearest—please forgive me; I admit I doubted you—but I was beside myself,' came to her ears from over her shoulder. But Ethelberta walked on as before.

Lord Mountclere sighed like a poet over a ledger. 'An old man-who is not very old-naturally torments himself with fears of losing-no, no-it was an innocent jest of mine-you will forgive a joke-hee-hee?' he said again, on getting no reply.

Lord Mountclere sighed like a poet over a ledger. 'An old man—who isn’t really that old—naturally worries about losing—no, no, that was just an innocent joke of mine—you’ll forgive a little humor, right? Hee-hee?' he said again, when there was no response.

'You had no right to mistrust me!'

'You had no reason to doubt me!'

'I do not-you did not blench. You should have told me before that it was your sister and not yourself who was entangled with him.'

'I didn’t—you didn’t flinch. You should have told me earlier that it was your sister and not you who was involved with him.'

'You brought me to Melchester on purpose to confront him!'

'Yes, I did.'

'Yep, I did.'

'Are you not ashamed?'

'Aren't you ashamed?'

'I am satisfied. It is better to know the truth by any means than to die of suspense; better for us both-surely you see that?'

'I’m satisfied. It’s better to know the truth by any means than to die of suspense; better for both of us—surely you see that?'

They had by this time got to the end of a long street, and into a deserted side road by which the station could be indirectly reached. Picotee appeared in the distance as a mere distracted speck of girlhood, following them because not knowing what else to do in her sickness of body and mind. Once out of sight here, Ethelberta began to cry.

They had reached the end of a long street and entered a deserted side road that led indirectly to the station. In the distance, Picotee looked like a small, distracted figure, trailing behind them because she didn't know what else to do in her state of physical and mental exhaustion. Once they were out of sight, Ethelberta started to cry.

'Ethelberta,' said Lord Mountclere, in an agony of trouble, 'don't be vexed! It was an inconsiderate trick-I own it. Do what you will, but do not desert me now! I could not bear it-you would kill me if you were to leave me. Anything, but be mine.'

'Ethelberta,' said Lord Mountclere, deeply troubled, 'please don’t be upset! I know it was thoughtless—I admit it. Do whatever you want, but don’t abandon me now! I couldn’t handle it—you would break me if you left. Anything, just be mine.'

Ethelberta continued her way, and drying her eyes entered the station, where, on searching the time-tables, she found there would be no train for Anglebury for the next two hours. Then more slowly she turned towards the town again, meeting Picotee and keeping in her company.

Ethelberta kept going, wiping her eyes as she walked into the station, where she checked the schedules and discovered there wouldn't be a train to Anglebury for the next two hours. She then turned back towards the town at a slower pace, running into Picotee and sticking with her.

Lord Mountclere gave up the chase, but as he wished to get into the town again, he followed in the same direction. When Ethelberta had proceeded as far as the Red Lion Hotel, she turned towards it with her companion, and being shown to a room, the two sisters shut themselves in. Lord Mountclere paused and entered the White Hart, the rival hotel to the Red Lion, which stood in an adjoining street.

Lord Mountclere gave up the pursuit, but since he wanted to get back into town, he continued in the same direction. When Ethelberta reached the Red Lion Hotel, she turned toward it with her companion, and after being shown to a room, the two sisters closed themselves in. Lord Mountclere stopped and went into the White Hart, the competing hotel to the Red Lion, which was located on a nearby street.

Having secluded himself in an apartment here, walked from window to window awhile, and made himself generally uncomfortable, he sat down to the writing materials on the table, and concocted a note:-

Having shut himself in an apartment here, he walked from window to window for a while and made himself generally uncomfortable. Then he sat down at the writing materials on the table and drafted a note:-

    'WHITE HART HOTEL.

    'DEAR MRS. PETHERWIN, - You don't really want to break your promise to me, do you? Remember, love always comes with a bit of jealousy, and lovers are often filled with sighs and doubts. I’ve expressed all the regret that’s reasonable to expect. I couldn’t stand the thought that you might love someone else. - Yours always,

    'MOUNTCLERE.'

This he sent, watching from the window as it made its way down the street. He waited anxiously for a response, and it took a while. It was almost twenty minutes before he heard a messenger approaching the door. Yes—she had actually replied; he valued it as if it were the first encouragement he had ever received from a woman:

    'MY LORD' (wrote Ethelberta), 'I am not ready at the moment to discuss the issue of marriage at all. The incident that has occurred gives me every reason to withdraw my promise, as it was made under misunderstandings that significantly impact my happiness.

    'E. PETHERWIN.'

'Ho-ho-ho-Miss Hoity-toity!' said Lord Mountclere, trotting up and down. But, remembering it was her June against his November, this did not last long, and he frantically replied:-

'Ho-ho-ho-Miss Hoity-toity!' said Lord Mountclere, walking up and down. But, remembering it was her June against his November, this didn't last long, and he frantically replied:-

    'MY DARLING,-I can’t let you go-I have to do whatever it takes to keep my treasure. Will you not meet me for a few minutes and let the past fade away?'

Was ever a thrush so safe in a cherry net before!

Was there ever a thrush so secure in a cherry net before!

The messenger came back with the information that Mrs. Petherwin had taken a walk to the Close, her companion alone remaining at the hotel. There being nothing else left for the viscount to do, he put on his hat, and went out on foot in the same direction. He had not walked far when he saw Ethelberta moving slowly along the High Street before him.

The messenger returned with the news that Mrs. Petherwin had gone for a walk to the Close, leaving her companion alone at the hotel. With nothing else for the viscount to do, he put on his hat and walked in the same direction. He hadn’t gone far when he spotted Ethelberta strolling slowly along the High Street ahead of him.

Ethelberta was at this hour wandering without any fixed intention beyond that of consuming time. She was very wretched, and very indifferent: the former when thinking of her past, the latter when thinking of the days to come. While she walked thus unconscious of the streets, and their groups of other wayfarers, she saw Christopher emerge from a door not many paces in advance, and close it behind him: he stood for a moment on the step before descending into the road.

Ethelberta was wandering aimlessly at this hour, just trying to pass the time. She felt really miserable and completely indifferent: miserable when she thought about her past, indifferent when she considered the days ahead. As she walked, unaware of the streets and the other people around her, she noticed Christopher come out of a door just a few steps ahead and close it behind him. He paused for a moment on the step before heading down to the road.

She could not, even had she wished it, easily check her progress without rendering the chance of his perceiving her still more certain. But she did not wish any such thing, and it made little difference, for he had already seen her in taking his survey round, and came down from the door to her side. It was impossible for anything formal to pass between them now.

She couldn't, even if she wanted to, easily check her progress without making it even more likely that he would notice her. But she didn't want that at all, and it hardly mattered, since he had already seen her while he was taking a look around and had come down from the door to join her. It was impossible for anything formal to happen between them now.

'You are not at the concert, Mr. Julian?' she said. 'I am glad to have a better opportunity of speaking to you, and of asking for your sister. Unfortunately there is not time for us to call upon her to-day.'

'You’re not at the concert, Mr. Julian?' she said. 'I’m glad to have a better chance to talk to you and to ask about your sister. Unfortunately, we don’t have time to visit her today.'

'Thank you, but it makes no difference,' said Julian, with somewhat sad reserve. 'I will tell her I have met you; she is away from home just at present.' And finding that Ethelberta did not rejoin immediately he observed, 'The chief organist, old Dr. Breeve, has taken my place at the concert, as it was arranged he should do after the opening part. I am now going to the Cathedral for the afternoon service. You are going there too?'

"Thanks, but it doesn't really matter," Julian said, with a hint of sadness. "I'll let her know I ran into you; she's not home right now." Noticing that Ethelberta didn't respond right away, he added, "The main organist, old Dr. Breeve, has taken over for me at the concert, as we had planned after the opening. I'm heading to the Cathedral for the afternoon service. You're going there too?"

'I thought of looking at the interior for a moment.'

'I thought about taking a moment to check out the interior.'

So they went on side by side, saying little; for it was a situation in which scarcely any appropriate thing could be spoken. Ethelberta was the less reluctant to walk in his company because of the provocation to skittishness that Lord Mountclere had given, a provocation which she still resented. But she was far from wishing to increase his jealousy; and yet this was what she was doing, Lord Mountclere being a perturbed witness from behind of all that was passing now.

So they walked alongside each other, saying very little, since it was a situation where hardly anything appropriate could be said. Ethelberta was less unwilling to be with him because of the annoyance caused by Lord Mountclere, an annoyance she still held onto. However, she definitely didn't want to stir up his jealousy; yet that's exactly what she was doing, as Lord Mountclere was a troubled observer from behind, witnessing everything that was happening now.

They turned the corner of the short street of connection which led under an archway to the Cathedral Close, the old peer dogging them still. Christopher seemed to warm up a little, and repeated the invitation. 'You will come with your sister to see us before you leave?' he said. 'We have tea at six.'

They turned the corner of the short connecting street that led under an archway to the Cathedral Close, still followed by the old peer. Christopher seemed to relax a bit and repeated the invitation. "Will you come with your sister to see us before you leave?" he asked. "We have tea at six."

'We shall have left Melchester before that time. I am now only waiting for the train.'

'We will have left Melchester by then. I'm just waiting for the train now.'

'You two have not come all the way from Knollsea alone?'

'You two didn't travel all the way from Knollsea by yourselves?'

'Part of the way,' said Ethelberta evasively.

'Part of the way,' Ethelberta said vaguely.

'And going back alone?'

'So am I going back alone?'

'No. Only for the last five miles. At least that was the arrangement-I am not quite sure if it holds good.'

'No. Only for the last five miles. At least that was the plan—I’m not really sure if it still applies.'

'You don't wish me to see you safely in the train?'

'You don't want me to see you safely onto the train?'

'It is not necessary: thank you very much. We are well used to getting about the world alone, and from Melchester to Knollsea is no serious journey, late or early. . . . Yet I think I ought, in honesty, to tell you that we are not entirely by ourselves in Melchester to-day.'

'It's not needed; thank you very much. We're quite used to getting around the world on our own, and traveling from Melchester to Knollsea is not a big deal, whether it's early or late... Yet I think I should, to be honest, let you know that we’re not completely alone in Melchester today.'

'I remember I saw your friend-relative-in the room at the Town-hall. It did not occur to my mind for the moment that he was any other than a stranger standing there.'

'I remember I saw your friend relative in the room at the Town Hall. It didn't cross my mind at that moment that he was anything other than a stranger standing there.'

'He is not a relative,' she said, with perplexity. 'I hardly know, Christopher, how to explain to you my position here to-day, because of some difficulties that have arisen since we have been in the town, which may alter it entirely. On that account I will be less frank with you than I should like to be, considering how long we have known each other. It would be wrong, however, if I were not to tell you that there has been a possibility of my marriage with him.'

'He's not a family member,' she said, looking confused. 'I barely know, Christopher, how to explain my situation here today because of some issues that have come up since we arrived in town, which might change everything. Because of that, I won’t be as open with you as I’d like to be, given how long we've known each other. It wouldn’t be right, though, if I didn’t mention that there’s been a chance of me marrying him.'

'The elderly gentleman?'

'The old guy?'

'Yes. And I came here in his company, intending to return with him. But you shall know all soon. Picotee shall write to Faith.'

'Yes. I came here with him, planning to go back with him. But you'll find out everything soon. Picotee will write to Faith.'

'I always think the Cathedral looks better from this point than from the point usually chosen by artists,' he said, with nervous quickness, directing her glance upwards to the silent structure, now misty and unrelieved by either high light or deep shade. 'We get the grouping of the chapels and choir-aisles more clearly shown-and the whole culminates to a more perfect pyramid from this spot-do you think so?'

'I always think the Cathedral looks better from here than from the spot artists usually choose,' he said quickly, urging her to look up at the quiet building, now shrouded in mist and without any bright highlights or deep shadows. 'We can see the arrangement of the chapels and choir aisles more clearly—and the whole thing forms a more perfect pyramid from this angle—don’t you agree?'

'Yes. I do.'

"Yes, I do."

A little further, and Christopher stopped to enter, when Ethelberta bade him farewell. 'I thought at one time that our futures might have been different from what they are apparently becoming,' he said then, regarding her as a stall-reader regards the brilliant book he cannot afford to buy. 'But one gets weary of repining about that. I wish Picotee and yourself could see us oftener; I am as confirmed a bachelor now as Faith is an old maid. I wonder if-should the event you contemplate occur-you and he will ever visit us, or we shall ever visit you!'

A little further along, Christopher stopped to go in, and Ethelberta said goodbye. "At one point, I thought our futures might have turned out differently than they seem to be now," he said, looking at her like a book lover eyes a beautiful book they can't afford. "But you eventually tire of wishing things were different. I wish you and Picotee could come see us more often; I'm as set on being a bachelor now as Faith is on being an old maid. I wonder if, when what you’re planning happens, you and he will ever come to visit us or if we’ll ever come to see you!"

Christopher was evidently imagining the elderly gentleman to be some retired farmer, or professional man already so intermixed with the metamorphic classes of society as not to be surprised or inconvenienced by her beginnings; one who wished to secure Ethelberta as an ornament to his parlour fire in a quiet spirit, and in no intoxicated mood regardless of issues. She could scarcely reply to his supposition; and the parting was what might have been predicted from a conversation so carefully controlled.

Christopher was clearly picturing the old man as some retired farmer or professional who had already mingled with different social classes enough to not be surprised or bothered by her background; someone who wanted to have Ethelberta as a decoration by his fireplace in a calm way, without any drunken attitude or concern for the consequences. She could barely respond to his assumption, and the farewell was just as predictable as the carefully managed conversation had suggested.

Ethelberta, as she had intended, now went on further, and entering the nave began to inspect the sallow monuments which lined the grizzled pile. She did not perceive amid the shadows an old gentleman who had crept into the mouldy place as stealthily as a worm into a skull, and was keeping himself carefully beyond her observation. She continued to regard feature after feature till the choristers had filed in from the south side, and peals broke forth from the organ on the black oaken mass at the junction of nave and choir, shaking every cobweb in the dusky vaults, and Ethelberta's heart no less. She knew the fingers that were pressing out those rolling sounds, and knowing them, became absorbed in tracing their progress. To go towards the organ-loft was an act of unconsciousness, and she did not pause till she stood almost beneath it.

Ethelberta, as she had planned, moved further in and entered the nave, where she began to look at the pale monuments lining the aged building. She didn’t notice an old man who had slipped into the dusty space as quietly as a worm into a skull, carefully keeping himself out of her sight. She continued to examine feature after feature until the choir members came in from the south side, and the organ erupted with sound from the dark oak structure at the junction of the nave and choir, shaking every cobweb in the dim vaults, and Ethelberta's heart as well. She recognized the hands that were producing those deep sounds, and as she did, she became absorbed in following their melody. Moving toward the organ loft was an instinctive decision, and she didn’t stop until she was nearly underneath it.

Ethelberta was awakened from vague imaginings by the close approach of the old gentleman alluded to, who spoke with a great deal of agitation.

Ethelberta was jolted out of her vague thoughts by the nearing presence of the old gentleman mentioned, who spoke with a lot of agitation.

'I have been trying to meet with you,' said Lord Mountclere. 'Come, let us be friends again!-Ethelberta, I MUST not lose you! You cannot mean that the engagement shall be broken off?' He was far too desirous to possess her at any price now to run a second risk of exasperating her, and forbore to make any allusion to the recent pantomime between herself and Christopher that he had beheld, though it might reasonably have filled him with dread and petulance.

"I've been trying to meet with you," said Lord Mountclere. "Come on, let's be friends again! Ethelberta, I can't lose you! You don’t really mean that the engagement will be called off, do you?" He was so eager to have her at any cost now that he didn't want to risk upsetting her again, so he avoided mentioning the recent drama between her and Christopher that he had seen, even though it could have understandably made him feel anxious and irritable.

'I do not mean anything beyond this,' said she, 'that I entirely withdraw from it on the faintest sign that you have not abandoned such miserable jealous proceedings as those you adopted to-day.'

'I don't mean anything more than this,' she said, 'that I'll completely pull back at the slightest indication that you haven't given up those pathetic jealous actions you used today.'

'I have quite abandoned them. Will you come a little further this way, and walk in the aisle? You do still agree to be mine?'

'I’ve pretty much left them behind. Will you come a little further this way and walk down the aisle? You still agree to be mine, right?'

'If it gives you any pleasure, I do.'

'If it makes you happy, I do.'

'Yes, yes. I implore that the marriage may be soon-very soon.' The viscount spoke hastily, for the notes of the organ which were plunging into their ears ever and anon from the hands of his young rival seemed inconveniently and solemnly in the way of his suit.

'Yes, yes. I urge that the marriage happens soon—very soon.' The viscount spoke quickly, as the sounds of the organ from his young rival's hands occasionally filled their ears, which felt uncomfortably and seriously like a barrier to his proposal.

'Well, Lord Mountclere?'

'Say in a few days?-it is the only thing that will satisfy me.'

'Say in a few days? That's the only thing that will satisfy me.'

'I am absolutely indifferent as to the day. If it pleases you to have it early I am willing.'

'I don't really care about the day. If you want it early, I'm okay with that.'

'Dare I ask that it may be this week?' said the delighted old man.

"Dare I ask if it could be this week?" said the thrilled old man.

'I could not say that.'

'I can't say that.'

'But you can name the earliest day?'

'But can you name the earliest day?'

'I cannot now. We had better be going from here, I think.'

'I can’t do that right now. I think it’s best if we leave here.'

The Cathedral was filling with shadows, and cold breathings came round the piers, for it was November, when night very soon succeeds noon in spots where noon is sobered to the pallor of eve. But the service was not yet over, and before quite leaving the building Ethelberta cast one other glance towards the organ and thought of him behind it. At this moment her attention was arrested by the form of her sister Picotee, who came in at the north door, closed the lobby-wicket softly, and went lightly forward to the choir. When within a few yards of it she paused by a pillar, and lingered there looking up at the organ as Ethelberta had done. No sound was coming from the ponderous mass of tubes just then; but in a short space a whole crowd of tones spread from the instrument to accompany the words of a response. Picotee started at the burst of music as if taken in a dishonest action, and moved on in a manner intended to efface the lover's loiter of the preceding moments from her own consciousness no less than from other people's eyes.

The Cathedral was becoming dim, and chilly breaths swept around the pillars, as it was November, a time when night quickly follows noon in places where noon has softened to the pale shade of evening. But the service wasn't over yet, and before she left the building, Ethelberta took one last look at the organ and thought about him behind it. Just then, she noticed her sister Picotee walk in through the north door, gently closed the lobby gate, and moved gracefully toward the choir. When she was just a few yards away, she paused by a pillar, lingering to gaze up at the organ, just like Ethelberta had done. No sound was coming from the heavy mass of pipes at that moment; but soon enough, a whole wave of notes filled the space, accompanying the words of a response. Picotee jumped at the sudden burst of music, as if caught in an awkward moment, and hurried on, trying to erase the romantic pause of the previous moments from her mind as much as from others' notice.

'Do you see that?' said Ethelberta. 'That little figure is my dearest sister. Could you but ensure a marriage between her and him she listens to, I would do anything you wish!'

'Do you see that?' Ethelberta said. 'That small figure is my beloved sister. If you could make sure she marries the person she’s listening to, I would do anything you ask!'

'That is indeed a gracious promise,' said Lord Mountclere. 'And would you agree to what I asked just now?'

'That's definitely a generous promise,' said Lord Mountclere. 'So, would you be okay with what I just asked?'

'Yes.'

Yes.

'When?' A gleeful spark accompanied this.

'When?' A joyful spark came with this.

'As you requested.'

'As you asked.'

'This week? The day after to-morrow?'

'This week? The day after tomorrow?'

'If you will. But remember what lies on your side of the contract. I fancy I have given you a task beyond your powers.'

'If you want. But remember what you’re responsible for in this agreement. I think I’ve assigned you a task that's beyond your abilities.'

'Well, darling, we are at one at last,' said Lord Mountclere, rubbing his hand against his side. 'And if my task is heavy and I cannot guarantee the result, I can make it very probable. Marry me on Friday-the day after to-morrow-and I will do all that money and influence can effect to bring about their union.'

'Well, darling, we’re finally on the same page,' said Lord Mountclere, rubbing his hand against his side. 'And even if my task is challenging and I can’t promise the outcome, I can make it highly likely. Marry me on Friday—two days from now—and I’ll do everything money and influence can do to make their union happen.'

'You solemnly promise? You will never cease to give me all the aid in your power until the thing is done?'

'Do you promise? You will continue to help me in every way possible until it's done?'

'I do solemnly promise-on the conditions named.'

'I seriously promise—under the conditions mentioned.'

'Very good. You will have ensured my fulfilment of my promise before I can ensure yours; but I take your word.'

'Great. You’ll make sure I keep my promise before I can make sure you keep yours; but I trust you.'

'You will marry me on Friday! Give me your hand upon it.'

'You will marry me on Friday! Shake on it.'

She gave him her hand.

She offered him her hand.

'Is it a covenant?' he asked.

'Is it a deal?' he asked.

'It is,' said she.

"It is," she said.

Lord Mountclere warmed from surface to centre as if he had drunk of hippocras, and, after holding her hand for some moments, raised it gently to his lips.

Lord Mountclere felt a warm glow inside, as if he had just sipped some spiced wine, and after holding her hand for a while, he brought it softly to his lips.

'Two days and you are mine,' he said.

'In two days, you'll be mine,' he said.

'That I believe I never shall be.'

'That I don't think I ever will be.'

'Never shall be? Why, darling?'

'Never will be? Why, darling?'

'I don't know. Some catastrophe will prevent it. I shall be dead perhaps.'

'I don't know. Something bad will stop it from happening. Maybe I'll be dead by then.'

'You distress me. Ah,-you meant me-you meant that I should be dead, because you think I am old! But that is a mistake-I am not very old!'

'You upset me. Ah, you meant me—you thought I should be dead, because you think I'm old! But that's a mistake—I'm not that old!'

'I thought only of myself-nothing of you.'

'I only thought about myself—nothing about you.'

'Yes, I know. Dearest, it is dismal and chilling here-let us go.'

'Yes, I know. Darling, it’s bleak and cold here—let’s leave.'

Ethelberta mechanically moved with him, and felt there was no retreating now. In the meantime the young ladykin whom the solemn vowing concerned had lingered round the choir screen, as if fearing to enter, yet loth to go away. The service terminated, the heavy books were closed, doors were opened, and the feet of the few persons who had attended evensong began pattering down the paved alleys. Not wishing Picotee to know that the object of her secret excursion had been discovered, Ethelberta now stepped out of the west doorway with the viscount before Picotee had emerged from the other; and they walked along the path together until she overtook them.

Ethelberta moved along with him automatically, realizing there was no turning back now. Meanwhile, the young woman the serious vows were about had hung around the choir screen, as if she was hesitant to enter but also didn't want to leave. Once the service was over, the heavy books were shut, doors swung open, and the few attendees of evensong started to make their way down the stone aisles. Not wanting Picotee to find out that the reason for her secret excursion had been revealed, Ethelberta stepped out of the west doorway with the viscount before Picotee could come out from the other side; they then walked down the path together until she caught up with them.

'I fear it becomes necessary for me to stay in Melchester to-night,' said Lord Mountclere. 'I have a few matters to attend to here, as the result of our arrangements. But I will first accompany you as far as Anglebury, and see you safely into a carriage there that shall take you home. To-morrow I will drive to Knollsea, when we will make the final preparations.'

'I’m afraid I need to stay in Melchester tonight,' said Lord Mountclere. 'I have a few things to take care of here due to our plans. But I’ll first take you as far as Anglebury and make sure you get into a carriage that will take you home. Tomorrow, I’ll drive to Knollsea, and we’ll finalize the preparations.'

Ethelberta would not have him go so far and back again, merely to attend upon her; hence they parted at the railway, with due and correct tenderness; and when the train had gone, Lord Mountclere returned into the town on the special business he had mentioned, for which there remained only the present evening and the following morning, if he were to call upon her in the afternoon of the next day-the day before the wedding-now so recklessly hastened on his part, and so coolly assented to on hers.

Ethelberta wouldn't let him travel that far and back just to be with her; so they said their goodbyes at the train station with the right amount of tenderness. After the train left, Lord Mountclere went back into town for the special matter he had mentioned, with only that evening and the next morning left if he wanted to visit her in the afternoon the next day—the day before the wedding, which he was rushing into and she was agreeing to so casually.

By the time that the two young people had started it was nearly dark. Some portions of the railway stretched through little copses and plantations where, the leaf-shedding season being now at its height, red and golden patches of fallen foliage lay on either side of the rails; and as the travellers passed, all these death-stricken bodies boiled up in the whirlwind created by the velocity, and were sent flying right and left of them in myriads, a clean-fanned track being left behind.

By the time the two young people set off, it was almost dark. Some parts of the railway ran through small woods and plantations where, with the leaf-shedding season at its peak, red and gold patches of fallen leaves lay on either side of the tracks. As the travelers moved along, all those dead leaves whipped up in the whirlwind created by their speed and were sent flying in every direction, leaving a clear path behind them.

Picotee was called from the observation of these phenomena by a remark from her sister: 'Picotee, the marriage is to be very early indeed. It is to be the day after to-morrow-if it can. Nevertheless I don't believe in the fact-I cannot.'

Picotee was pulled away from watching these events by a comment from her sister: 'Picotee, the wedding is happening quite soon. It's scheduled for the day after tomorrow—if everything goes as planned. Still, I just can't believe it's really happening—I can't.'

'Did you arrange it so? Nobody can make you marry so soon.'

'Did you set it up like that? No one can force you to marry so soon.'

'I agreed to the day,' murmured Ethelberta languidly.

"I agreed to the day," Ethelberta said tiredly.

'How can it be? The gay dresses and the preparations and the people-how can they be collected in the time, Berta? And so much more of that will be required for a lord of the land than for a common man. O, I can't think it possible for a sister of mine to marry a lord!'

'How can this be? The fancy dresses, the arrangements, and all the people—how can they all come together in time, Berta? And so much more is needed for a lord than for an ordinary man. Oh, I can't imagine my sister marrying a lord!'

'And yet it has been possible any time this last month or two, strange as it seems to you. . . . It is to be not only a plain and simple wedding, without any lofty appliances, but a secret one-as secret as if I were some under-age heiress to an Indian fortune, and he a young man of nothing a year.'

'And yet it has been possible at any time in the past month or two, weird as it seems to you... It’s going to be not just a straightforward wedding, without any fancy extras, but a secret one—just as secret as if I were some underage heiress to an Indian fortune, and he was a young man with nothing to his name.'

'Has Lord Mountclere said it must be so private? I suppose it is on account of his family.'

'Did Lord Mountclere say it has to be so private? I guess it's because of his family.'

'No. I say so; and it is on account of my family. Father might object to the wedding, I imagine, from what he once said, or he might be much disturbed about it; so I think it better that he and the rest should know nothing till all is over. You must dress again as my sister to-morrow, dear. Lord Mountclere is going to pay us an early visit to conclude necessary arrangements.'

'No. I’m saying this because of my family. I think my father might object to the wedding, based on something he once said, or he could be really upset about it; so I believe it’s best for him and everyone else to not know anything until it’s all done. You need to dress up as my sister again tomorrow, dear. Lord Mountclere is coming over early to finalize the arrangements.'

'O, the life as a lady at Enckworth Court! The flowers, the woods, the rooms, the pictures, the plate, and the jewels! Horses and carriages rattling and prancing, seneschals and pages, footmen hopping up and hopping down. It will be glory then!'

'O, the life of a lady at Enckworth Court! The flowers, the woods, the rooms, the paintings, the silverware, and the jewels! Horses and carriages clattering and prancing, stewards and footmen bustling around. It will be glorious then!'

'We might hire our father as one of my retainers, to increase it,' said Ethelberta drily.

"We could hire our dad as one of my staff to make it bigger," Ethelberta said dryly.

Picotee's countenance fell. 'How shall we manage all about that? 'Tis terrible, really!'

Picotee's expression changed. "How are we going to handle that? It's really awful!"

'The marriage granted, those things will right themselves by time and weight of circumstances. You take a wrong view in thinking of glories of that sort. My only hope is that my life will be quite private and simple, as will best become my inferiority and Lord Mountclere's staidness. Such a splendid library as there is at Enckworth, Picotee-quartos, folios, history, verse, Elzevirs, Caxtons-all that has been done in literature from Moses down to Scott-with such companions I can do without all other sorts of happiness.'

'Now that the marriage is settled, everything will sort itself out in time and because of the circumstances. You’re mistaken if you think about that kind of glory. I just hope my life will be private and simple, which suits my position and Lord Mountclere's seriousness. With such an amazing library at Enckworth—Picotee-quartos, folios, history, poetry, Elzevirs, Caxtons—everything that's been done in literature from Moses to Scott—with companions like that, I can do without all other types of happiness.'

'And you will not go to town from Easter to Lammastide, as other noble ladies do?' asked the younger girl, rather disappointed at this aspect of a viscountess's life.

'So you won't go to town from Easter to Lammastide like other noble ladies do?' asked the younger girl, a bit disappointed by this part of a viscountess's life.

'I don't know.'

"I don't know."

'But you will give dinners, and travel, and go to see his friends, and have them to see you?'

'But you’ll host dinners, travel, visit his friends, and invite them to see you?'

'I don't know.'

"I have no idea."

'Will you not be, then, as any other peeress; and shall not I be as any other peeress's sister?'

'Will you not be, then, like any other noblewoman; and won’t I be like any other noblewoman's sister?'

'That, too, I do not know. All is mystery. Nor do I even know that the marriage will take place. I feel that it may not; and perhaps so much the better, since the man is a stranger to me. I know nothing whatever of his nature, and he knows nothing of mine.'

'That, too, I don’t know. Everything is a mystery. I’m not even sure if the marriage will happen. I have a feeling it might not; maybe that’s for the best, since I don’t really know the guy. I don’t know anything about who he is, and he doesn’t know anything about me.'

40. MELCHESTER (continued)

The commotion wrought in Julian's mind by the abrupt incursion of Ethelberta into his quiet sphere was thorough and protracted. The witchery of her presence he had grown strong enough to withstand in part; but her composed announcement that she had intended to marry another, and, as far as he could understand, was intending it still, added a new chill to the old shade of disappointment which custom was day by day enabling him to endure. During the whole interval in which he had produced those diapason blasts, heard with such inharmonious feelings by the three auditors outside the screen, his thoughts had wandered wider than his notes in conjectures on the character and position of the gentleman seen in Ethelberta's company. Owing to his assumption that Lord Mountclere was but a stranger who had accidentally come in at the side door, Christopher had barely cast a glance upon him, and the wide difference between the years of the viscount and those of his betrothed was not so particularly observed as to raise that point to an item in his objections now. Lord Mountclere was dressed with all the cunning that could be drawn from the metropolis by money and reiterated dissatisfaction; he prided himself on his upright carriage; his stick was so thin that the most malevolent could not insinuate that it was of any possible use in walking; his teeth had put on all the vigour and freshness of a second spring. Hence his look was the slowest of possible clocks in respect of his age, and his manner was equally as much in the rear of his appearance.

The chaos stirred up in Julian's mind by Ethelberta's sudden entrance into his peaceful life was intense and lasting. He had grown somewhat able to resist the charm of her presence; however, her calm statement that she intended to marry someone else—and, as far as he could tell, still did—added a fresh layer of chill to the familiar disappointment he was slowly learning to cope with. Throughout the time he had been producing those powerful musical notes, which the three listeners outside the screen found so dissonant, his thoughts had drifted far beyond his music, speculating about the character and status of the man who was with Ethelberta. Assuming that Lord Mountclere was just a stranger who had happened to enter through the side door, Christopher barely paid him any attention, and the noticeable age difference between the viscount and his fiancée didn’t register as a concern in his mind at that moment. Lord Mountclere was dressed with all the sophistication that money and constant dissatisfaction could buy; he took pride in his upright posture, and his walking stick was so slender that even the most spiteful person couldn’t claim it served any practical purpose. His teeth had the vitality and freshness of someone much younger. As a result, his appearance didn’t reflect his actual age, and his demeanor lagged just as far behind his looks.

Christopher was now over five-and-twenty. He was getting so well accustomed to the spectacle of a world passing him by and splashing him with its wheels that he wondered why he had ever minded it. His habit of dreaming instead of doing had led him up to a curious discovery. It is no new thing for a man to fathom profundities by indulging humours: the active, the rapid, the people of splendid momentum, have been surprised to behold what results attend the lives of those whose usual plan for discharging their active labours has been to postpone them indefinitely. Certainly, the immediate result in the present case was, to all but himself, small and invisible; but it was of the nature of highest things. What he had learnt was that a woman who has once made a permanent impression upon a man cannot altogether deny him her image by denying him her company, and that by sedulously cultivating the acquaintance of this Creature of Contemplation she becomes to him almost a living soul. Hence a sublimated Ethelberta accompanied him everywhere-one who never teased him, eluded him, or disappointed him: when he smiled she smiled, when he was sad she sorrowed. He may be said to have become the literal duplicate of that whimsical unknown rhapsodist who wrote of his own similar situation-

Christopher was now over twenty-five. He had gotten so used to the sight of a world going by and splashing him with its wheels that he wondered why he ever cared. His tendency to dream instead of act had led him to a strange realization. It's not uncommon for a person to grasp deep truths by indulging in whims: the active, fast-paced people with great momentum have often been shocked to see the outcomes of those who typically choose to postpone their tasks indefinitely. Certainly, the immediate result in this case seemed small and invisible to everyone but him; but it was of the highest nature. What he discovered was that a woman who has left a lasting impression on a man can't completely erase her image by avoiding him, and by carefully nurturing the relationship with this Creature of Contemplation, she becomes almost a living presence to him. As a result, a refined version of Ethelberta was with him everywhere—someone who never bothered him, eluded him, or let him down: when he smiled, she smiled; when he was sad, she felt sorrow. He could be said to have become the exact duplicate of that whimsical unknown poet who wrote about his own similar situation—

'By her absence, I gain something good,  
That I can catch her,  
Where no one can see her,  
In some private corner of my mind:  
There I hold her and kiss her;  
And so I both enjoy and miss her.'

This frame of mind naturally induced an amazing abstraction in the organist, never very vigilant at the best of times. He would stand and look fixedly at a frog in a shady pool, and never once think of batrachians, or pause by a green bank to split some tall blade of grass into filaments without removing it from its stalk, passing on ignorant that he had made a cat-o'-nine-tails of a graceful slip of vegetation. He would hear the cathedral clock strike one, and go the next minute to see what time it was. 'I never seed such a man as Mr. Julian is,' said the head blower. 'He'll meet me anywhere out-of-doors, and never wink or nod. You'd hardly expect it. I don't find fault, but you'd hardly expect it, seeing how I play the same instrument as he do himself, and have done it for so many years longer than he. How I have indulged that man, too! If 'tis Pedals for two martel hours of practice I never complain; and he has plenty of vagaries. When 'tis hot summer weather there's nothing will do for him but Choir, Great, and Swell altogether, till yer face is in a vapour; and on a frosty winter night he'll keep me there while he tweedles upon the Twelfth and Sixteenth till my arms be scrammed for want of motion. And never speak a word out-of-doors.' Somebody suggested that perhaps Christopher did not notice his coadjutor's presence in the street; and time proved to the organ-blower that the remark was just.

This state of mind naturally led to an amazing distraction for the organist, who wasn’t very attentive under the best of circumstances. He would stand there, staring at a frog in a shady pool, never once thinking about amphibians, or stop by a green bank to split a tall blade of grass into thin threads without taking it from its stalk, completely unaware that he had turned a beautiful piece of vegetation into a cat-o'-nine-tails. He’d hear the cathedral clock strike one and then go check what time it was the next minute. “I’ve never seen a man like Mr. Julian,” said the head blower. “He’ll meet me anywhere outside and won’t even blink. You wouldn’t expect it. I’m not complaining, but you really wouldn’t expect it, especially since I’ve played the same instrument as he does for so many years longer than he has. And I’ve really indulged that guy, too! If it’s pedals for two hours of practice, I never complain; and he has plenty of quirks. When it’s hot summer weather, he insists on using the Choir, Great, and Swell all at once until you’re sweating. And on a frosty winter night, he’ll keep me there while he fiddles around with the Twelfth and Sixteenth until my arms are sore from lack of movement. And he never says a word outside.” Someone suggested that maybe Christopher didn’t notice his partner on the street, and time proved to the organ-blower that the comment was accurate.

Whenever Christopher caught himself at these vacuous tricks he would be struck with admiration of Ethelberta's wisdom, foresight, and self-command in refusing to wed such an incapable man: he felt that he ought to be thankful that a bright memory of her was not also denied to him, and resolved to be content with it as a possession, since it was as much of her as he could decently maintain.

Whenever Christopher found himself in these empty tricks, he would feel a deep admiration for Ethelberta's wisdom, foresight, and self-control in choosing not to marry such an incompetent man. He believed he should be grateful that he still had fond memories of her, and he decided to be satisfied with that as a treasure, since it was as much of her as he could properly hold onto.

Wrapped thus in a humorous sadness he passed the afternoon under notice, and in the evening went home to Faith, who still lived with him, and showed no sign of ever being likely to do otherwise. Their present place and mode of life suited her well. She revived at Melchester like an exotic sent home again. The leafy Close, the climbing buttresses, the pondering ecclesiastics, the great doors, the singular keys, the whispered talk, echoes of lonely footsteps, the sunset shadow of the tall steeple, reaching further into the town than the good bishop's teaching, and the general complexion of a spot where morning had the stillness of evening and spring some of the tones of autumn, formed a proper background to a person constituted as Faith, who, like Miss Hepzibah Pyncheon's chicken, possessed in miniature all the antiquity of her progenitors.

Wrapped in a bittersweet humor, he spent the afternoon being watched, and in the evening, he went home to Faith, who still lived with him and showed no sign of moving out. Their current home and lifestyle suited her perfectly. She thrived in Melchester like a rare plant sent back to its native soil. The leafy Close, the climbing buttresses, the thoughtful clergy, the big doors, the unique keys, the quiet conversations, the echoes of solitary footsteps, the sunset shadow of the tall steeple stretching deeper into the town than the bishop's teachings, and the overall vibe of a place where morning held the stillness of evening and spring had hints of autumn, provided a fitting backdrop for someone like Faith, who, like Miss Hepzibah Pyncheon's chicken, contained within herself the rich history of her ancestors.

After tea Christopher went into the streets, as was frequently his custom, less to see how the world crept on there than to walk up and down for nothing at all. It had been market-day, and remnants of the rural population that had visited the town still lingered at corners, their toes hanging over the edge of the pavement, and their eyes wandering about the street.

After tea, Christopher went out into the streets, which he often did, not so much to observe how life was unfolding there but to stroll back and forth for no particular reason. It had been market day, and the leftover rural folks who had come to town were still hanging around the corners, their toes dangling off the edge of the sidewalk, their eyes drifting across the street.

The angle which formed the turning-point of Christopher's promenade was occupied by a jeweller's shop, of a standing which completely outshone every other shop in that or any trade throughout the town. Indeed, it was a staple subject of discussion in Melchester how a shop of such pretensions could find patronage sufficient to support its existence in a place which, though well populated, was not fashionable. It had not long been established there, and was the enterprise of an incoming man whose whole course of procedure seemed to be dictated by an intention to astonish the native citizens very considerably before he had done. Nearly everything was glass in the frontage of this fairy mart, and its contents glittered like the hammochrysos stone. The panes being of plate-glass, and the shop having two fronts, a diagonal view could be had through it from one to the other of the streets to which it formed a corner.

The corner where Christopher turned on his walk was taken up by a jewelry store that completely outshone every other shop in town, regardless of type. In fact, it was a hot topic of conversation in Melchester how a shop with such high aspirations could attract enough customers to survive in a place that, while populated, wasn’t exactly trendy. The store hadn't been open long and was run by a newcomer who seemed determined to impress the local residents significantly before he was done. Almost everything in this enchanted shop was made of glass, and its contents sparkled like precious gemstones. With plate-glass windows and two fronts, you could see diagonally from one street to the other through the shop.

This evening, as on all evenings, a flood of radiance spread from the window-lamps into the thick autumn air, so that from a distance that corner appeared as the glistening nucleus of all the light in the town. Towards it idle men and women unconsciously bent their steps, and closed in upon the panes like night-birds upon the lantern of a lighthouse.

This evening, as on all evenings, a bright glow spread from the window lamps into the chilly autumn air, making that corner look like the shining center of all the light in town from afar. Idle men and women naturally wandered toward it, drawing close to the windows like night birds to the light of a lighthouse.

When Christopher reached the spot there stood close to the pavement a plain close carriage, apparently waiting for some person who was purchasing inside. Christopher would hardly have noticed this had he not also perceived, pressed against the glass of the shop window, an unusual number of local noses belonging to overgrown working lads, tosspots, an idiot, the ham-smoker's assistant with his sleeves rolled up, a scot-and-lot freeholder, three or four seamstresses, the young woman who brought home the washing, and so on. The interest of these gazers in some proceedings within, which by reason of the gaslight were as public as if carried on in the open air, was very great.

When Christopher got to the location, he saw a simple carriage parked close to the sidewalk, clearly waiting for someone who was shopping inside. He might not have noticed it at all if he hadn’t also seen a surprising number of local people’s faces pressed against the shop window: a bunch of rough-working guys, drunks, a simpleton, the ham-smoker's assistant with his sleeves rolled up, a local property owner, three or four seamstresses, the young woman who brought back the laundry, and others. The curiosity of this crowd about what was happening inside, which was illuminated by the gaslight and felt as public as if it were happening outside, was quite intense.

'Yes, that's what he's a buying o'-haw, haw!' said one of the young men, as the shopman removed from the window a gorgeous blue velvet tray of wedding-rings, and laid it on the counter.

'Yeah, that's what he's buying, ha ha!' said one of the young men, as the shopkeeper took a beautiful blue velvet tray of wedding rings from the window and placed it on the counter.

''Tis what you may come to yerself, sooner or later, God have mercy upon ye; and as such no scoffing matter,' said an older man. 'Faith, I'd as lief cry as laugh to see a man in that corner.'

'Tis what you might come to yourself, sooner or later, God have mercy on you; and for that reason, it's no laughing matter,' said an older man. 'Honestly, I'd just as soon cry as laugh to see a man in that corner.'

'He's a gent getting up in years too. He must hev been through it a few times afore, seemingly, to sit down and buy the tools so cool as that.'

'He's a gentleman who's getting older, too. He must have been through it a few times before, it seems, to sit down and buy the tools so casually like that.'

'Well, no. See what the shyest will do at such times. You bain't yerself then; no man living is hisself then.'

'Well, no. Look at what the shyest person will do at times like that. You aren’t yourself then; no man alive is himself then.'

'True,' said the ham-smoker's man. ''Tis a thought to look at that a chap will take all this trouble to get a woman into his house, and a twelvemonth after would as soon hear it thunder as hear her sing!'

'True,' said the ham-smoker's guy. 'It’s interesting to think about how a guy will go through all this effort to get a woman into his home, and then a year later would rather hear a thunderstorm than listen to her sing!'

The policeman standing near was a humane man, through having a young family he could hardly keep, and he hesitated about telling them to move on. Christopher had before this time perceived that the articles were laid down before an old gentleman who was seated in the shop, and that the gentleman was none other than he who had been with Ethelberta in the concert-room. The discovery was so startling that, constitutionally indisposed as he was to stand and watch, he became as glued to the spot as the other idlers. Finding himself now for the first time directly confronting the preliminaries of Ethelberta's marriage to a stranger, he was left with far less equanimity than he could have supposed possible to the situation.

The policeman nearby was a kind man; he struggled to support his young family, and he hesitated to tell them to move along. Christopher had noticed earlier that the items were placed in front of an old gentleman sitting in the shop, and that the gentleman was none other than the one who had been with Ethelberta in the concert hall. The realization was so shocking that, despite his natural inclination to not linger, he found himself just as stuck to the spot as the other bystanders. Now, for the first time, facing the start of Ethelberta's marriage to a stranger, he felt far less calm than he would have thought possible in this situation.

'So near the time!' he said, and looked hard at Lord Mountclere.

'So close to the time!' he said, looking intently at Lord Mountclere.

Christopher had now a far better opportunity than before for observing Ethelberta's betrothed. Apart from any bias of jealousy, disappointment, or mortification, he was led to judge that this was not quite the man to make Ethelberta happy. He had fancied her companion to be a man under fifty; he was now visibly sixty or more. And it was not the sort of sexagenarianism beside which a young woman's happiness can sometimes contrive to keep itself alive in a quiet sleepy way. Suddenly it occurred to him that this was the man whom he had helped in the carriage accident on the way to Knollsea. He looked again.

Christopher now had a much better chance than before to observe Ethelberta's fiancé. Setting aside any feelings of jealousy, disappointment, or embarrassment, he came to believe that this wasn’t really the right man to make Ethelberta happy. He had imagined her partner to be a man in his forties; now he could clearly see he was at least sixty or older. And it wasn’t the kind of old age that could quietly sustain a young woman’s happiness. Suddenly, it struck him that this was the man he had assisted after the carriage accident on the way to Knollsea. He looked again.

By no means undignified, the face presented that combination of slyness and jocundity which we are accustomed to imagine of the canonical jolly-dogs in mediaeval tales. The gamesome Curate of Meudon might have supplied some parts of the countenance; cunning Friar Tuck the remainder. Nothing but the viscount's constant habit of going to church every Sunday morning when at his country residence kept unholiness out of his features, for though he lived theologically enough on the Sabbath, as it became a man in his position to do, he was strikingly mundane all the rest of the week, always preferring the devil to God in his oaths. And nothing but antecedent good-humour prevented the short fits of crossness incident to his passing infirmities from becoming established. His look was exceptionally jovial now, and the corners of his mouth twitched as the telegraph-needles of a hundred little erotic messages from his heart to his brain. Anybody could see that he was a merry man still, who loved good company, warming drinks, nymph-like shapes, and pretty words, in spite of the disagreeable suggestions he received from the pupils of his eyes, and the joints of his lively limbs, that imps of mischief were busy sapping and mining in those regions, with the view of tumbling him into a certain cool cellar under the church aisle.

By no means undignified, his face showed a mix of slyness and cheerfulness that we usually associate with the classic jolly characters in medieval tales. The playful Curate of Meudon might have contributed some aspects of his expression, while the crafty Friar Tuck added the rest. The viscount's regular routine of attending church every Sunday morning at his country home was the only thing keeping any unholy expressions off his face. Although he behaved appropriately on the Sabbath, as was expected of someone in his position, he was noticeably worldly the rest of the week, often swearing by the devil instead of God. Fortunately, his naturally good-nature prevented his occasional irritability from becoming a regular habit. Right now, he looked especially cheerful, with the corners of his mouth twitching as if he were receiving a flurry of little flirtatious messages from his heart to his brain. Anyone could tell he was still a cheerful man who enjoyed good company, warm drinks, alluring figures, and sweet words, despite the unsettling hints he got from his eyes and the joints of his lively limbs, suggesting that mischievous spirits were working to trap him in a certain cool cellar beneath the church aisle.

In general, if a lover can find any ground at all for serenity in the tide of an elderly rival's success, he finds it in the fact itself of that ancientness. The other side seems less a rival than a makeshift. But Christopher no longer felt this, and the significant signs before his eyes of the imminence of Ethelberta's union with this old hero filled him with restless dread. True, the gentleman, as he appeared illuminated by the jeweller's gas-jets, seemed more likely to injure Ethelberta by indulgence than by severity, while her beauty lasted; but there was a nameless something in him less tolerable than this.

In general, if a lover can find any reason for peace amid the success of an older rival, it’s often in the simple fact of that age difference. The other person feels less like a competitor and more like a temporary solution. But Christopher no longer felt that way, and the clear signs he saw of Ethelberta's approaching marriage to this older man filled him with anxious dread. True, the gentleman, as he appeared under the jeweler's gas lights, seemed more likely to harm Ethelberta through pampering than through harshness while her beauty lasted; still, there was something about him that was more intolerable than that.

The purchaser having completed his dealings with the goldsmith, was conducted to the door by the master of the shop, and into the carriage, which was at once driven off up the street.

The buyer finished his transactions with the goldsmith and was led to the door by the shop owner, who then helped him into the carriage, which was immediately driven away up the street.

Christopher now much desired to know the name of the man whom a nice chain of circumstantial evidence taught him to regard as the happy winner where scores had lost. He was grieved that Ethelberta's confessed reserve should have extended so far as to limit her to mere indefinite hints of marriage when they were talking almost on the brink of the wedding-day. That the ceremony was to be a private one-which it probably would be because of the disparity of ages-did not in his opinion justify her secrecy. He had shown himself capable of a transmutation as valuable as it is rare in men, the change from pestering lover to staunch friend, and this was all he had got for it. But even an old lover sunk to an indifferentist might have been tempted to spend an unoccupied half-hour in discovering particulars now, and Christopher had not lapsed nearly so far as to absolute unconcern.

Christopher really wanted to know the name of the man who, according to a neat chain of circumstantial evidence, he believed was the lucky winner when so many had lost. He felt hurt that Ethelberta's admitted distance had gone so far as to limit her to vague hints about marriage when they were almost at the wedding day. The fact that the ceremony was likely to be private—probably due to their age difference—didn't, in his view, justify her secrecy. He had proven himself capable of a transformation as valuable as it is rare in men, the shift from a nagging lover to a loyal friend, and this was all he had received for it. But even an old lover who had become indifferent might have been tempted to spend a free half-hour finding out details now, and Christopher hadn't sunk nearly that far into complete indifference.

That evening, however, nothing came in his way to enlighten him. But the next day, when skirting the Close on his ordinary duties, he saw the same carriage standing at a distance, and paused to behold the same old gentleman come from a well-known office and re-enter the vehicle-Lord Mountclere, in fact, in earnest pursuit of the business of yesternight, having just pocketed a document in which romance, rashness, law, and gospel are so happily made to work together that it may safely be regarded as the neatest compromise which has ever been invented since Adam sinned.

That evening, though, nothing came along to shed light on his thoughts. But the next day, while doing his usual duties near the Close, he spotted the same carriage a little way off and paused to watch the same old man come out of a familiar office and get back in the vehicle—Lord Mountclere, actually, earnestly pursuing the business from the night before, having just pocketed a document where romance, recklessness, law, and gospel are cleverly made to work together, so it can be viewed as the best compromise ever crafted since Adam sinned.

This time Julian perceived that the brougham was one belonging to the White Hart Hotel, which Lord Mountclere was using partly from the necessities of these hasty proceedings, and also because, by so doing, he escaped the notice that might have been bestowed upon his own equipage, or men-servants, the Mountclere hammer-cloths being known in Melchester. Christopher now walked towards the hotel, leisurely, yet with anxiety. He inquired of a porter what people were staying there that day, and was informed that they had only one person in the house, Lord Mountclere, whom sudden and unexpected business had detained in Melchester since the previous day.

This time Julian noticed that the carriage belonged to the White Hart Hotel, which Lord Mountclere was using partly because of the urgent situation and also to avoid attracting attention to his own vehicle or servants, since the Mountclere insignia was well-known in Melchester. Christopher then walked towards the hotel, moving slowly but feeling anxious. He asked a porter who was staying there that day and was told that there was only one guest in the house, Lord Mountclere, who had been unexpectedly held up in Melchester since the day before.

Christopher lingered to hear no more. He retraced the street much more quickly than he had come; and he only said, 'Lord Mountclere-it must never be!'

Christopher lingered to hear no more. He hurried back down the street much faster than he had come; and he only said, 'Lord Mountclere—it must never be!'

As soon as he entered the house, Faith perceived that he was greatly agitated. He at once told her of his discovery, and she exclaimed, 'What a brilliant match!'

As soon as he walked into the house, Faith noticed that he was really upset. He immediately told her about his discovery, and she exclaimed, 'What a brilliant match!'

'O Faith,' said Christopher, 'you don't know! You are far from knowing. It is as gloomy as midnight. Good God, can it be possible?'

'O Faith,' said Christopher, 'you have no idea! You're so far from understanding. It's as dark as midnight. Good God, could it really be possible?'

Faith bHANDlinked in alarm, without speaking.

Faith bHANDlinked in alarm, unable to say anything.

'Did you never hear anything of Lord Mountclere when we lived at Sandbourne?'

'Did you never hear anything about Lord Mountclere while we were living in Sandbourne?'

'I knew the name-no more.'

"I knew the name—nothing more."

'No, no-of course you did not. Well, though I never saw his face, to my knowledge, till a short time ago, I know enough to say that, if earnest representations can prevent it, this marriage shall not be. Father knew him, or about him, very well; and he once told me-what I cannot tell you. Fancy, I have seen him three times-yesterday, last night, and this morning-besides helping him on the road some weeks ago, and never once considered that he might be Lord Mountclere. He is here almost in disguise, one may say; neither man nor horse is with him; and his object accounts for his privacy. I see how it is-she is doing this to benefit her brothers and sisters, if possible; but she ought to know that if she is miserable they will never be happy. That's the nature of women-they take the form for the essence, and that's what she is doing now. I should think her guardian angel must have quitted her when she agreed to a marriage which may tear her heart out like a claw.'

'No, no, of course you didn’t. Well, even though I never saw his face, to my knowledge, until recently, I know enough to say that, if strong persuasion can stop it, this marriage won’t happen. Father knew him, or at least knew of him, very well; and he once told me something that I can’t share with you. Can you imagine, I’ve seen him three times—yesterday, last night, and this morning—besides helping him on the road a few weeks ago, and I never once thought he might be Lord Mountclere. He’s here almost in disguise, you could say; he has neither man nor horse with him; and his purpose explains his secrecy. I see it clearly—she’s doing this to help her brothers and sisters, if she can; but she should understand that if she is unhappy, they will never be content. That’s the way women are—they focus on the outside while missing the true meaning, and that’s exactly what she’s doing now. I would think her guardian angel must have left her when she agreed to a marriage that could break her heart.'

'You are too warm about it, Kit-it cannot be so bad as that. It is not the thing, but the sensitiveness to the thing, which is the true measure of its pain. Perhaps what seems so bad to you falls lightly on her mind. A campaigner in a heavy rain is not more uncomfortable than we are in a slight draught; and Ethelberta, fortified by her sapphires and gold cups and wax candles, will not mind facts which look like spectres to us outside. A title will turn troubles into romances, and she will shine as an interesting viscountess in spite of them.'

'You're being too dramatic about it, Kit—it can't be that bad. It's not the situation itself, but how sensitive you are to it, that really defines its pain. What seems terrible to you might hardly bother her at all. A person caught in a heavy downpour isn't worse off than we are in a light breeze; and Ethelberta, surrounded by her sapphires, gold cups, and wax candles, won't be troubled by facts that feel like ghosts to us out here. A title can transform troubles into stories, and she'll shine as an intriguing viscountess despite them.'

The discussion with Faith was not continued, Christopher stopping the argument by saying that he had a good mind to go off at once to Knollsea, and show her her danger. But till the next morning Ethelberta was certainly safe; no marriage was possible anywhere before then. He passed the afternoon in a state of great indecision, constantly reiterating, 'I will go!'

The conversation with Faith didn’t go any further, as Christopher ended it by saying he was seriously thinking about heading straight to Knollsea to show her the danger she was in. But until the next morning, Ethelberta was definitely safe; no marriage could happen before then. He spent the afternoon feeling very uncertain, repeatedly saying, 'I will go!'

41. WORKSHOPS-AN INN-THE STREET

On an extensive plot of ground, lying somewhere between the Thames and the Kensington squares, stood the premises of Messrs. Nockett and Perch, builders and contractors. The yard with its workshops formed part of one of those frontier lines between mangy business and garnished domesticity that occur in what are called improving neighbourhoods. We are accustomed to regard increase as the chief feature in a great city's progress, its well-known signs greeting our eyes on every outskirt. Slush-ponds may be seen turning into basement-kitchens; a broad causeway of shattered earthenware smothers plots of budding gooseberry-bushes and vegetable trenches, foundations following so closely upon gardens that the householder may be expected to find cadaverous sprouts from overlooked potatoes rising through the chinks of his cellar floor. But the other great process, that of internal transmutation, is not less curious than this encroachment of grey upon green. Its first erections are often only the milk-teeth of a suburb, and as the district rises in dignity they are dislodged by those which are to endure. Slightness becomes supplanted by comparative solidity, commonness by novelty, lowness and irregularity by symmetry and height.

On a large piece of land, situated somewhere between the Thames and the Kensington squares, were the premises of Nockett and Perch, builders and contractors. The yard with its workshops was part of one of those boundaries between shabby businesses and tidy homes that appear in what are called developing neighborhoods. We tend to see growth as the main feature of a city's development, with its familiar signs visible on every edge. Puddles can be seen transforming into basement kitchens; a wide path of broken pottery covers plots of budding gooseberry bushes and vegetable patches, with foundations being laid so close to gardens that homeowners might find pale shoots from forgotten potatoes sprouting through cracks in their cellar floors. But the other significant process, that of internal change, is just as interesting as this encroachment of gray onto green. The first structures are often just the initial phase of a suburb, and as the area gains prestige, they are replaced by those meant to last. Fragility is replaced by relative sturdiness, familiarity by something new, and low, irregular shapes by symmetry and height.

An observer of the precinct which has been named as an instance in point might have stood under a lamp-post and heard simultaneously the peal of the visitor's bell from the new terrace on the right hand, and the stroke of tools from the musty workshops on the left. Waggons laden with deals came up on this side, and landaus came down on the other-the former to lumber heavily through the old-established contractors' gates, the latter to sweep fashionably into the square.

An observer of the area, which has been pointed out as an example, could have stood under a streetlight and heard at the same time the sound of the visitor's bell from the new terrace on the right and the noise of tools from the old workshops on the left. Trucks loaded with lumber came in on one side, while fancy carriages came down on the other—the former to lumber heavily through the gates of long-established contractors, and the latter to stylishly glide into the square.

About twelve o'clock on the day following Lord Mountclere's exhibition of himself to Christopher in the jeweller's shop at Melchester, and almost at the identical time when the viscount was seen to come from the office for marriage-licences in the same place, a carriage drove nearly up to the gates of Messrs. Nockett and Co.'s yard. A gentleman stepped out and looked around. He was a man whose years would have been pronounced as five-and-forty by the friendly, fifty by the candid, fifty-two or three by the grim. He was as handsome a study in grey as could be seen in town, there being far more of the raven's plumage than of the gull's in the mixture as yet; and he had a glance of that practised sort which can measure people, weigh them, repress them, encourage them to sprout and blossom as a March sun encourages crocuses, ask them questions, give them answers-in short, a glance that could do as many things as an American cooking-stove or a multum-in-parvo pocket-knife. But, as with most men of the world, this was mere mechanism: his actual emotions were kept so far within his person that they were rarely heard or seen near his features.

Around noon on the day after Lord Mountclere showed himself to Christopher in the jeweler's shop at Melchester, and almost at the exact moment when the viscount was spotted leaving the office for marriage licenses in the same place, a carriage pulled up close to the gates of Messrs. Nockett and Co.’s yard. A gentleman stepped out and looked around. He was a man who would be described as around forty-five by friendly observers, fifty by honest ones, and fifty-two or three by those who were more critical. He was quite a handsome figure in grey, with much more raven-colored hair than grey hair at this point; and he had a look that was skilled at measuring people, weighing them, controlling them, and encouraging them to grow and thrive like crocuses in the March sun. He could ask questions, provide answers—in short, he had a gaze capable of doing as many things as an American cooking stove or a versatile pocket knife. However, like many worldly men, this was just a façade: his true emotions were kept so deep inside him that they were rarely seen or felt on his face.

On reading the builders' names over the gateway he entered the yard, and asked at the office if Solomon Chickerel was engaged on the premises. The clerk was going to be very attentive, but finding the visitor had come only to speak to a workman, his tense attitude slackened a little, and he merely signified the foot of a Flemish ladder on the other side of the yard, saying, 'You will find him, sir, up there in the joiner's shop.'

Upon reading the builders' names over the entrance, he walked into the yard and asked at the office if Solomon Chickerel was working on site. The clerk was initially very attentive, but when he realized the visitor was only there to talk to a worker, he relaxed a bit and casually pointed to the foot of a Flemish ladder on the other side of the yard, saying, "You’ll find him up there in the joiner's shop, sir."

When the man in the black coat reached the top he found himself at the end of a long apartment as large as a chapel and as low as a malt-room, across which ran parallel carpenters' benches to the number of twenty or more, a gangway being left at the side for access throughout. Behind every bench there stood a man or two, planing, fitting, or chiselling, as the case might be. The visitor paused for a moment, as if waiting for some cessation of their violent motions and uproar till he could make his errand known. He waited ten seconds, he waited twenty; but, beyond that a quick look had been thrown upon him by every pair of eyes, the muscular performances were in no way interrupted: every one seemed oblivious of his presence, and absolutely regardless of his wish. In truth, the texture of that salmon-coloured skin could be seen to be aristocratic without a microscope, and the exceptious artizan has an offhand way when contrasts are made painfully strong by an idler of this kind coming, gloved and brushed, into the very den where he is sweating and muddling in his shirt-sleeves.

When the man in the black coat reached the top, he found himself at the end of a long room as big as a chapel and as low as a malt room. Running parallel to the length of the space were twenty or more carpenters' benches, leaving a walkway on the side for access. Behind each bench stood one or two men, planing, fitting, or chiseling, depending on the task. The visitor paused for a moment, as if waiting for a break in their loud actions before he could announce his purpose. He waited ten seconds, then twenty; however, aside from a quick glance from every pair of eyes, their intense work continued uninterrupted. Everyone seemed completely unaware of his presence and entirely indifferent to his needs. In fact, the aristocratic texture of his salmon-colored skin was obvious even without a microscope, and the skilled craftsmen had a casual attitude when faced with the stark contrast of someone like him—the gloved and groomed outsider—walking into their workshop where they were sweating and working in their shirt sleeves.

The gentleman from the carriage then proceeded down the workshop, wading up to his knees in a sea of shavings, and bruising his ankles against corners of board and sawn-off blocks, that lay hidden like reefs beneath. At the ninth bench he made another venture.

The guy from the carriage then walked down the workshop, wading up to his knees in a sea of shavings, and bumping his ankles against the corners of boards and cut-off blocks that lay hidden like reefs underneath. At the ninth bench, he took another shot.

'Sol Chickerel?' said the man addressed, as he touched his plane-iron upon the oilstone. 'He's one of them just behind.'

'Sol Chickerel?' said the man being spoken to, as he touched his plane iron to the oilstone. 'He's one of them right behind.'

'Damn it all, can't one of you show me?' the visitor angrily observed, for he had been used to more attention than this. 'Here, point him out.' He handed the man a shilling.

'Damn it all, can't one of you show me?' the visitor angrily said, as he was accustomed to getting more attention than this. 'Come on, point him out.' He handed the man a shilling.

'No trouble to do that,' said the workman; and he turned and signified Sol by a nod without moving from his place.

'No problem doing that,' said the worker; and he turned and signaled Sol with a nod without leaving his spot.

The stranger entered Sol's division, and, nailing him with his eye, said at once: 'I want to speak a few words with you in private. Is not a Mrs. Petherwin your sister?'

The stranger walked into Sol's area and, locking eyes with him, immediately said, 'I need to talk to you privately for a moment. Isn't Mrs. Petherwin your sister?'

Sol started suspiciously. 'Has anything happened to her?' he at length said hurriedly.

Sol jumped a bit, looking worried. "Has something happened to her?" he finally asked quickly.

'O no. It is on a business matter that I have called. You need not mind owning the relationship to me-the secret will be kept. I am the brother of one whom you may have heard of from her-Lord Mountclere.'

'O no. I've called about a business matter. You don't need to worry about acknowledging the connection to me—I'll keep the secret. I'm the brother of someone you might have heard of from her—Lord Mountclere.'

'I have not. But if you will wait a minute, sir-' He went to a little glazed box at the end of the shop, where the foreman was sitting, and, after speaking a few words to this person, Sol led Mountclere to the door, and down the ladder.

'I haven't. But if you could just wait a minute, sir-' He walked over to a small glass box at the end of the shop, where the foreman was sitting, and after saying a few words to him, Sol led Mountclere to the door and down the ladder.

'I suppose we cannot very well talk here, after all?' said the gentleman, when they reached the yard, and found several men moving about therein.

'I guess we can't really talk here, after all?' said the gentleman when they got to the yard and saw several men moving around.

'Perhaps we had better go to some room-the nearest inn will answer the purpose, won't it?'

'Maybe we should head to a room—the nearest inn will do, right?'

'Excellently.'

'Excellent.'

'There's the "Green Bushes" over the way. They have a very nice private room upstairs.'

'There’s the “Green Bushes” across the street. They have a really nice private room upstairs.'

'Yes, that will do.' And passing out of the yard, the man with the glance entered the inn with Sol, where they were shown to the parlour as requested.

'Yes, that works.' And leaving the yard, the man with the sharp look entered the inn with Sol, where they were taken to the parlor as requested.

While the waiter was gone for some wine, which Mountclere ordered, the more ingenuous of the two resumed the conversation by saying, awkwardly: 'Yes, Mrs. Petherwin is my sister, as you supposed, sir; but on her account I do not let it be known.'

While the waiter was away getting the wine that Mountclere ordered, the more straightforward of the two picked up the conversation again, saying awkwardly, "Yes, Mrs. Petherwin is my sister, as you guessed, sir; but I don't let it be known because of her."

'Indeed,' said Mountclere. 'Well, I came to see you in order to speak of a matter which I thought you might know more about than I do, for it has taken me quite by surprise. My brother, Lord Mountclere, is, it seems, to be privately married to Mrs. Petherwin to-morrow.'

'Yeah,' said Mountclere. 'So, I came to talk to you about something that I thought you might know more about than I do, because it really surprised me. My brother, Lord Mountclere, is apparently going to privately marry Mrs. Petherwin tomorrow.'

'Is that really the fact?' said Sol, becoming quite shaken. 'I had no thought that such a thing could be possible!'

'Is that really true?' said Sol, becoming quite shaken. 'I never thought something like that could happen!'

'It is imminent.'

'It's coming soon.'

'Father has told me that she has lately got to know some nobleman; but I never supposed there could be any meaning in that.'

'Father told me that she recently got to know some nobleman, but I never thought there could be anything significant about that.'

'You were altogether wrong,' said Mountclere, leaning back in his chair and looking at Sol steadily. 'Do you feel it to be a matter upon which you will congratulate her?'

'You were completely mistaken,' said Mountclere, leaning back in his chair and looking at Sol intently. 'Do you honestly think it's something you should congratulate her on?'

'A very different thing!' said Sol vehemently. 'Though he is your brother, sir, I must say this, that I would rather she married the poorest man I know.'

'A very different thing!' said Sol passionately. 'Even though he’s your brother, I have to say this: I would prefer if she married the poorest man I know.'

'Why?'

'From what my father has told me of him, he is not-a more desirable brother-in-law to me than I shall be in all likelihood to him. What business has a man of that character to marry Berta, I should like to ask?'

'From what my dad has told me about him, he’s no more desirable as a brother-in-law to me than I will probably be to him. What right does a guy like him have to marry Berta, I’d like to know?'

'That's what I say,' returned Mountclere, revealing his satisfaction at Sol's estimate of his noble brother: it showed that he had calculated well in coming here. 'My brother is getting old, and he has lived strangely: your sister is a highly respectable young lady.'

"That's exactly what I mean," Mountclere replied, showing his satisfaction with Sol's opinion of his noble brother: it indicated that he had made a smart decision in coming here. "My brother is getting older, and he's lived a peculiar life: your sister is a very respectable young woman."

'And he is not respectable, you mean? I know he is not. I worked near Enckworth once.'

'So you think he’s not respectable? I know he isn’t. I once worked near Enckworth.'

'I cannot say that,' returned Mountclere. Possibly a certain fraternal feeling repressed a direct assent: and yet this was the only representation which could be expected to prejudice the young man against the wedding, if he were such an one as the visitor supposed Sol to be-a man vulgar in sentiment and ambition, but pure in his anxiety for his sister's happiness. 'At any rate, we are agreed in thinking that this would be an unfortunate marriage for both,' added Mountclere.

'I can't say that,' Mountclere replied. Maybe a sense of brotherhood held him back from giving a straightforward agreement: yet this was the only portrayal that might lead the young man to be against the wedding, if he was indeed like the visitor thought Sol to be—a person with common feelings and ambitions, but genuinely concerned for his sister's happiness. 'In any case, we both believe that this would be a bad marriage for both of them,' Mountclere added.

'About both I don't know. It may be a good thing for him. When do you say it is to be, sir-to-morrow?'

'About both, I'm not sure. It might be a good thing for him. When do you say it will be, sir—tomorrow?'

'Yes.'

Yes.

'I don't know what to do!' said Sol, walking up and down. 'If half what I have heard is true, I would lose a winter's work to prevent her marrying him. What does she want to go mixing in with people who despise her for? Now look here, Mr. Mountclere, since you have been and called me out to talk this over, it is only fair that you should tell me the exact truth about your brother. Is it a lie, or is it true, that he is not fit to be the husband of a decent woman?'

'I don’t know what to do!' Sol said, pacing back and forth. 'If even half of what I’ve heard is true, I would sacrifice a whole winter’s worth of work to stop her from marrying him. Why does she want to associate with people who look down on her? Now listen, Mr. Mountclere, since you’ve brought me out here to discuss this, it’s only fair that you tell me the whole truth about your brother. Is it a lie, or is it true that he isn’t suitable to be the husband of a decent woman?'

'That is a curious inquiry,' said Mountclere, whose manner and aspect, neutral as a winter landscape, had little in common with Sol's warm and unrestrained bearing. 'There are reasons why I think your sister will not be happy with him.'

'That’s an interesting question,' said Mountclere, whose demeanor and appearance, as neutral as a winter landscape, had little in common with Sol's warm and free-spirited nature. 'I have my reasons for believing that your sister won't be happy with him.'

'Then it is true what they say,' said Sol, bringing down his fist upon the table. 'I know your meaning well enough. What's to be done? If I could only see her this minute, she might be kept out of it.'

'Then it's true what they say,' Sol said, slamming his fist on the table. 'I understand your point clearly. What should we do? If I could just see her right now, she might be saved from this.'

'You think your presence would influence your sister-if you could see her before the wedding?'

'Do you think being there would affect your sister—if you could see her before the wedding?'

'I think it would. But who's to get at her?'

'I think it would. But who would approach her?'

'I am going, so you had better come on with me-unless it would be best for your father to come.'

'I’m leaving, so you should come with me—unless it’s better for your dad to come instead.'

'Perhaps it might,' said the bewildered Sol. 'But he will not be able to get away; and it's no use for Dan to go. If anybody goes I must! If she has made up her mind nothing can be done by writing to her.'

'Maybe it could,' said the confused Sol. 'But he won't be able to get away; and there's no point in Dan going. If anyone goes, it has to be me! If she has made up her mind, writing to her won't change anything.'

'I leave at once to see Lord Mountclere,' the other continued. 'I feel that as my brother is evidently ignorant of the position of Mrs. Petherwin's family and connections, it is only fair in me, as his nearest relative, to make them clear to him before it is too late.'

'I’m going to see Lord Mountclere right away,' the other continued. 'I realize that my brother obviously doesn’t understand the situation with Mrs. Petherwin's family and connections, so as his closest relative, it’s only fair for me to explain it to him before it’s too late.'

'You mean that if he knew her friends were working-people he would not think of her as a wife? 'Tis a reasonable thought. But make your mind easy: she has told him. I make a great mistake if she has for a moment thought of concealing that from him.'

'Are you saying that if he knew her friends were regular workers, he wouldn't consider her as a potential wife? That’s a reasonable thought. But don’t worry: she’s told him. I would be seriously mistaken if she ever thought about hiding that from him.'

'She may not have deliberately done so. But-and I say this with no ill-feeling-it is a matter known to few, and she may have taken no steps to undeceive him. I hope to bring him to see the matter clearly. Unfortunately the thing has been so secret and hurried that there is barely time. I knew nothing until this morning-never dreamt of such a preposterous occurrence.'

'She might not have done it on purpose. But—and I'm saying this without any bad feelings—it’s something few people know, and she might not have taken any steps to set him straight. I hope to help him see things clearly. Unfortunately, everything has been so secretive and rushed that there’s hardly any time. I found out only this morning—never imagined such a ridiculous thing could happen.'

'Preposterous! If it should come to pass, she would play her part as his lady as well as any other woman, and better. I wish there was no more reason for fear on my side than there is on yours! Things have come to a sore head when she is not considered lady enough for such as he. But perhaps your meaning is, that if your brother were to have a son, you would lose your heir-presumptive title to the cor'net of Mountclere? Well, 'twould be rather hard for ye, now I come to think o't-upon my life, 'twould.'

"Unbelievable! If it happens, she would play her role as his lady just as well as any other woman, if not better. I wish I had no more reason to be afraid than you do! It's ridiculous that she's not seen as lady enough for someone like him. But maybe what you really mean is that if your brother had a son, you would lose your claim to the Mountclere title? That would be pretty tough for you, now that I think about it—absolutely."

'The suggestion is as delicate as the —- atmosphere of this vile room. But let your ignorance be your excuse, my man. It is hardly worth while for us to quarrel when we both have the same object in view: do you think so?'

'The suggestion is as fragile as the —- atmosphere of this awful room. But let your lack of knowledge be your excuse, my man. It’s not really worth it for us to argue when we both want the same thing: don’t you think?'

'That's true-that's true. When do you start, sir?'

'That's true—that's true. When do you start, sir?'

'We must leave almost at once,' said Mountclere, looking at his watch. 'If we cannot catch the two o'clock train, there is no getting there to-night-and to-morrow we could not possibly arrive before one.'

'We need to leave right away,' said Mountclere, checking his watch. 'If we miss the two o'clock train, we won't make it there tonight—and tomorrow we couldn't possibly arrive before one.'

'I wish there was time for me to go and tidy myself a bit,' said Sol, anxiously looking down at his working clothes. 'I suppose you would not like me to go with you like this?'

"I wish I had time to clean myself up a bit," Sol said, nervously glancing at his work clothes. "I guess you wouldn't want me to go with you looking like this?"

'Confound the clothes! If you cannot start in five minutes, we shall not be able to go at all.'

'Forget the clothes! If you can't be ready in five minutes, we won't be able to go at all.'

'Very well, then-wait while I run across to the shop, then I am ready. How do we get to the station?'

'Okay, wait while I run to the shop, and then I'll be ready. How do we get to the station?'

'My carriage is at the corner waiting. When you come out I will meet you at the gates.'

'My carriage is waiting at the corner. I'll meet you at the gates when you come out.'

Sol then hurried downstairs, and a minute or two later Mr. Mountclere followed, looking like a man bent on policy at any price. The carriage was brought round by the time that Sol reappeared from the yard. He entered and sat down beside Mountclere, not without a sense that he was spoiling good upholstery; the coachman then allowed the lash of his whip to alight with the force of a small fly upon the horses, which set them up in an angry trot. Sol rolled on beside his new acquaintance with the shamefaced look of a man going to prison in a van, for pedestrians occasionally gazed at him, full of what seemed to himself to be ironical surprise.

Sol hurried downstairs, and a minute or two later Mr. Mountclere came down, looking like a man determined to achieve his goals at any cost. The carriage was ready by the time Sol returned from the yard. He got in and sat next to Mountclere, feeling a bit guilty for ruining the nice upholstery. The coachman then cracked his whip, gently hitting the horses, which prompted them to start off in a brisk trot. Sol sat next to his new companion with the embarrassed expression of someone heading to prison in a van, as passersby occasionally looked at him with what he perceived as ironic surprise.

'I am afraid I ought to have changed my clothes after all,' he said, writhing under a perception of the contrast between them. 'Not knowing anything about this, I ain't a bit prepared. If I had got even my second-best hat, it wouldn't be so bad.'

'I’m afraid I should have changed my clothes after all,' he said, squirming at how different they looked. 'Not knowing anything about this, I’m not prepared at all. If I had just brought my second-best hat, it wouldn’t be so bad.'

'It makes no difference,' said Mountclere inanimately.

'It doesn't matter,' said Mountclere without any emotion.

'Or I might have brought my portmantle, with some things.'

'Or I might have brought my suitcase, with some things.'

'It really is not important.'

'It's really not important.'

On reaching the station they found there were yet a few minutes to spare, which Sol made use of in writing a note to his father, to explain what had occurred.

On arriving at the station, they discovered they had a few minutes to spare, which Sol used to write a note to his father to explain what had happened.

42. THE DONCASTLES' RESIDENCE, AND OUTSIDE THE SAME

Mrs. Doncastle's dressing-bell had rung, but Menlove, the lady's maid, having at the same time received a letter by the evening post, paused to read it before replying to the summons:-

Mrs. Doncastle's dressing-bell had rung, but Menlove, the lady's maid, having also received a letter in the evening mail, paused to read it before responding to the call:

'ENCKWORTH COURT, Wednesday.

DARLING LOUISA, I can assure you that I’m no more likely to develop another attachment than you are, as you will see from what follows. Before we left town, I thought that having the chance to see you occasionally was enough for happiness, but being in this lonely place changes everything. In short, my dear, I am asking you to agree to marry me as soon as you can. Your beauty has completely captivated me, sweet, and I lie awake at night thinking about the golden curls you let fall free during those lovely times when we wore our casual clothes, walking in the park and escaping the constraints of service, which neither of us was ever meant for...

Had my own feelings not been so intense, I would have told you right away that what I expected is finally happening—the old dog is getting secretly married to Mrs. P. Yes, indeed, and the wedding is set for tomorrow, as hidden as the grave. All her friends will surely leave service because of it. What he does now doesn’t matter much to me, of course, since I’ve already given my notice, but I’ll stick by him like a true Brit despite everything. He gave me a gift today, plus an extra five pounds for you, expecting you to keep quiet about everything related to Mrs. P.'s friends and to say nothing to any of them about this marriage until after it’s over. His lordship stressed this to me very strongly and brotherly, and of course we will follow his instructions to the letter; because it’s clear that unless he keeps his promise to help me set up the shop, our wedding cannot happen. His support relies on our compliance, as you know...'

This, and much more, was from her very last lover, Lord Mountclere's valet, who had been taken in hand directly she had convinced herself of Joey's hopeless youthfulness. The missive sent Mrs. Menlove's spirits soaring like spring larks; she flew upstairs in answer to the bell with a joyful, triumphant look, which the illuminated figure of Mrs. Doncastle in her dressing-room could not quite repress. One could almost forgive Menlove her arts when so modest a result brought such vast content.

This, along with much more, was from her very last lover, Lord Mountclere's valet, who had been taken under her wing as soon as she convinced herself of Joey's hopeless immaturity. The letter sent Mrs. Menlove's spirits soaring like spring larks; she raced upstairs in response to the bell with a joyful, triumphant expression, which the bright figure of Mrs. Doncastle in her dressing room couldn't completely hide. One could almost forgive Menlove her tricks when such a simple outcome brought her such great happiness.

Mrs. Doncastle seemed inclined to make no remark during the dressing, and at last Menlove could repress herself no longer.

Mrs. Doncastle seemed ready to say nothing while getting dressed, and eventually Menlove could hold back no longer.

'I should like to name something to you, m'm.'

'I would like to mention something to you, ma'am.'

'Yes.'

'Yep.'

'I shall be wishing to leave soon, if it is convenient.'

'I would like to leave soon, if that's okay.'

'Very well, Menlove,' answered Mrs. Doncastle, as she serenely surveyed her right eyebrow in the glass. 'Am I to take this as a formal notice?'

'Alright, Menlove,' replied Mrs. Doncastle, as she calmly examined her right eyebrow in the mirror. 'Should I consider this a formal notice?'

'If you please; but I could stay a week or two beyond the month if suitable. I am going to be married-that's what it is, m'm.'

'If you don’t mind; but I could stay a week or two longer than the month if it works for you. I’m getting married—that’s what it is, ma’am.'

'O! I am glad to hear it, though I am sorry to lose you.'

'O! I'm glad to hear that, but I'm sorry to lose you.'

'It is Lord Mountclere's valet-Mr. Tipman-m'm.'

'It's Lord Mountclere's valet, Mr. Tipman.'

'Indeed.'

'For sure.'

Menlove went on building up Mrs. Doncastle's hair awhile in silence.

Menlove continued to style Mrs. Doncastle's hair in silence for a while.

'I suppose you heard the other news that arrived in town to-day, m'm?' she said again. 'Lord Mountclere is going to be married to-morrow.'

'I guess you heard the other news that came to town today, right?' she said again. 'Lord Mountclere is getting married tomorrow.'

'To-morrow? Are you quite sure?'

'Tomorrow? Are you sure?'

'O yes, m'm. Mr. Tipman has just told me so in his letter. He is going to be married to Mrs. Petherwin. It is to be quite a private wedding.'

'O yes, ma'am. Mr. Tipman just told me that in his letter. He’s going to marry Mrs. Petherwin. It’s going to be a very private wedding.'

Mrs. Doncastle made no remark, and she remained in the same still position as before; but a countenance expressing transcendent surprise was reflected to Menlove by the glass.

Mrs. Doncastle didn't say anything, and she stayed in the same motionless position as before; however, her face, showing incredible surprise, was visible to Menlove in the mirror.

At this sight Menlove's tongue so burned to go further, and unfold the lady's relations with the butler downstairs, that she would have lost a month's wages to be at liberty to do it. The disclosure was almost too magnificent to be repressed. To deny herself so exquisite an indulgence required an effort which nothing on earth could have sustained save the one thing that did sustain it-the knowledge that upon her silence hung the most enormous desideratum in the world, her own marriage. She said no more, and Mrs. Doncastle went away.

At this sight, Menlove's urge to spill the beans about the lady's connection with the butler downstairs was so strong that she would have happily given up a month's pay to do so. The revelation was almost too tempting to keep to herself. Resisting such a delightful temptation required an effort that nothing on earth could sustain except for the one thing that actually did—her awareness that her silence was critical to achieving the most important goal in her life: her own marriage. She said nothing more, and Mrs. Doncastle left.

It was an ordinary family dinner that day, but their nephew Neigh happened to be present. Just as they were sitting down Mrs. Doncastle said to her husband: 'Why have you not told me of the wedding to-morrow?-or don't you know anything about it?'

It was a regular family dinner that day, but their nephew Neigh happened to be there. Just as they were sitting down, Mrs. Doncastle said to her husband, "Why haven't you told me about the wedding tomorrow? Or do you not know anything about it?"

'Wedding?' said Mr. Doncastle.

"Wedding?" asked Mr. Doncastle.

'Lord Mountclere is to be married to Mrs. Petherwin quite privately.'

'Lord Mountclere is getting married to Mrs. Petherwin in a very private ceremony.'

'Good God!' said some person.

'Oh my God!' said someone.

Mr. Doncastle did not speak the words; they were not spoken by Neigh: they seemed to float over the room and round the walls, as if originating in some spiritualistic source. Yet Mrs. Doncastle, remembering the symptoms of attachment between Ethelberta and her nephew which had appeared during the summer, looked towards Neigh instantly, as if she thought the words must have come from him after all; but Neigh's face was perfectly calm; he, together with her husband, was sitting with his eyes fixed in the direction of the sideboard; and turning to the same spot she beheld Chickerel standing pale as death, his lips being parted as if he did not know where he was.

Mr. Doncastle didn’t say the words; they weren’t spoken by Neigh either. They seemed to float around the room and along the walls, as if they came from some spiritual source. However, Mrs. Doncastle, recalling the signs of affection between Ethelberta and her nephew that had surfaced over the summer, immediately looked at Neigh, thinking the words must have come from him after all. But Neigh’s expression was completely calm; he, along with her husband, was sitting with his eyes fixed on the sideboard. Turning to that spot, she saw Chickerel standing there, pale as a ghost, his lips parted as if he didn’t know where he was.

'Did you speak?' said Mrs. Doncastle, looking with astonishment at the butler.

'Did you speak?' Mrs. Doncastle asked, staring in shock at the butler.

'Chickerel, what's the matter-are you ill?' said Mr. Doncastle simultaneously. 'Was it you who said that?'

'Chickerel, what's wrong—are you sick?' said Mr. Doncastle at the same time. 'Was it you who said that?'

'I did, sir,' said Chickerel in a husky voice, scarcely above a whisper. 'I could not help it.'

'I did, sir,' Chickerel said in a husky voice, barely above a whisper. 'I couldn't help it.'

'Why?'

'She is my daughter, and it shall be known at once!'

'She is my daughter, and that should be known right away!'

'Who is your daughter?'

'Who's your daughter?'

He paused a few moments nervously. 'Mrs. Petherwin,' he said.

He paused for a moment, feeling nervous. 'Mrs. Petherwin,' he said.

Upon this announcement Neigh looked at poor Chickerel as if he saw through him into the wall. Mrs. Doncastle uttered a faint exclamation and leant back in her chair: the bare possibility of the truth of Chickerel's claims to such paternity shook her to pieces when she viewed her intimacies with Ethelberta during the past season-the court she had paid her, the arrangements she had entered into to please her; above all, the dinner-party which she had contrived and carried out solely to gratify Lord Mountclere and bring him into personal communication with the general favourite; thus making herself probably the chief though unconscious instrument in promoting a match by which her butler was to become father-in-law to a peer she delighted to honour. The crowd of perceptions almost took away her life; she closed her eyes in a white shiver.

Upon hearing this, Neigh looked at poor Chickerel as if he could see right through him into the wall. Mrs. Doncastle let out a quiet gasp and leaned back in her chair: the mere possibility that Chickerel’s claims to such parentage could be true devastated her when she thought about her close relationship with Ethelberta over the past season—the attention she had given her, the arrangements she had made to please her; above all, the dinner party she had organized just to satisfy Lord Mountclere and facilitate his personal connection with the general favorite; thus possibly making herself the main, albeit unintentional, agent in promoting a match that would make her butler the father-in-law of a peer she admired. The flood of realizations nearly overwhelmed her; she shut her eyes in a wave of anxiety.

'Do you mean to say that the lady who sat here at dinner at the same time that Lord Mountclere was present, is your daughter?' asked Doncastle.

"Are you saying that the woman who was here for dinner when Lord Mountclere was present is your daughter?" Doncastle asked.

'Yes, sir,' said Chickerel respectfully.

'Yes, sir,' Chickerel said respectfully.

'How did she come to be your daughter?'

'How did she become your daughter?'

'I- Well, she is my daughter, sir.'

'I- Well, she's my daughter, sir.'

'Did you educate her?'

'Did you teach her?'

'Not altogether, sir. She was a very clever child. Lady Petherwin took a deal of trouble about her education. They were both left widows about the same time: the son died, then the father. My daughter was only seventeen then. But though she's older now, her marriage with Lord Mountclere means misery. He ought to marry another woman.'

'Not exactly, sir. She was a very smart kid. Lady Petherwin put a lot of effort into her education. They both became widows around the same time: first the son, then the father. My daughter was only seventeen then. But even though she's older now, her marriage to Lord Mountclere brings her unhappiness. He should really marry someone else.'

'It is very extraordinary,' Mr. Doncastle murmured. 'If you are ill you had better go and rest yourself, Chickerel. Send in Thomas.'

'That's really something,' Mr. Doncastle said quietly. 'If you're not feeling well, you should go rest, Chickerel. Have Thomas come in.'

Chickerel, who seemed to be much disturbed, then very gladly left the room, and dinner proceeded. But such was the peculiarity of the case, that, though there was in it neither murder, robbery, illness, accident, fire, or any other of the tragic and legitimate shakers of human nerves, two of the three who were gathered there sat through the meal without the least consciousness of what viands had composed it. Impressiveness depends as much upon propinquity as upon magnitude; and to have honoured unawares the daughter of the vilest Antipodean miscreant and murderer would have been less discomfiting to Mrs. Doncastle than it was to make the same blunder with the daughter of a respectable servant who happened to live in her own house. To Neigh the announcement was as the catastrophe of a story already begun, rather than as an isolated wonder. Ethelberta's words had prepared him for something, though the nature of that thing was unknown.

Chickerel, clearly upset, gladly left the room, and dinner continued. However, the situation was so unusual that, even though there was nothing tragic like murder, robbery, illness, accident, fire, or any other event that typically shakes people up, two out of the three people at the table hardly noticed what they were eating. The impact of a situation often depends on its proximity as much as its significance; honoring, even unknowingly, the daughter of the worst Antipodean criminal and murderer would have been less disconcerting for Mrs. Doncastle than making the same mistake with the daughter of a respectable servant living in her own house. For Neigh, the announcement felt like a climactic moment in an ongoing story rather than a random surprise. Ethelberta's words had prepared him for something, although he wasn't sure what that something was.

'Chickerel ought not to have kept us in ignorance of this-of course he ought not!' said Mrs. Doncastle, as soon as they were left alone.

'Chickerel shouldn’t have kept us in the dark about this—obviously, he shouldn’t!' said Mrs. Doncastle as soon as they were alone.

'I don't see why not,' replied Mr. Doncastle, who took the matter very coolly, as was his custom.

"I don't see why not," replied Mr. Doncastle, who reacted very calmly, as was his usual way.

'Then she herself should have let it be known.'

'Then she should have made it clear herself.'

'Nor does that follow. You didn't tell Mrs. Petherwin that your grandfather narrowly escaped hanging for shooting his rival in a duel.'

'That’s not true. You never told Mrs. Petherwin that your grandfather almost got hanged for shooting his rival in a duel.'

'Of course not. There was no reason why I should give extraneous information.'

'Of course not. There was no reason for me to give extra information.'

'Nor was there any reason why she should. As for Chickerel, he doubtless felt how unbecoming it would be to make personal remarks upon one of your guests-Ha-ha-ha! Well, well-Ha-ha-ha-ha!'

'Nor was there any reason why she should. As for Chickerel, he probably realized how inappropriate it would be to make personal comments about one of your guests—Ha-ha-ha! Well, well—Ha-ha-ha-ha!'

'I know this,' said Mrs. Doncastle, in great anger, 'that if my father had been in the room, I should not have let the fact pass unnoticed, and treated him like a stranger!'

'I know this,' said Mrs. Doncastle, extremely angered, 'that if my father had been in the room, I wouldn't have let that go by without saying something and I wouldn't have treated him like a stranger!'

'Would you have had her introduce Chickerel to us all round? My dear Margaret, it was a complicated position for a woman.'

'Would you have had her introduce Chickerel to all of us? My dear Margaret, it was a tricky situation for a woman.'

'Then she ought not to have come!'

'Then she shouldn't have come!'

'There may be something in that, though she was dining out at other houses as good as ours. Well, I should have done just as she did, for the joke of the thing. Ha-ha-ha!-it is very good-very. It was a case in which the appetite for a jest would overpower the sting of conscience in any well-constituted being-that, my dear, I must maintain.'

'There might be some truth to that, even though she was eating at other places just as nice as ours. Honestly, I should have done the same as she did, just for the fun of it. Ha-ha-ha! It’s really amusing—very. It was a situation where the desire for a joke would outweigh any guilt in a decent person—that, my dear, I stand by.'

'I say she should not have come!' answered Mrs. Doncastle firmly. 'Of course I shall dismiss Chickerel.'

"I say she shouldn't have come!" replied Mrs. Doncastle firmly. "Of course, I'm going to let Chickerel go."

'Of course you will do no such thing. I have never had a butler in the house before who suited me so well. It is a great credit to the man to have such a daughter, and I am not sure that we do not derive some lustre of a humble kind from his presence in the house. But, seriously, I wonder at your short-sightedness, when you know the troubles we have had through getting new men from nobody knows where.'

'Of course, you won't do that. I've never had a butler at home who fits me so well. It's a real testament to the man to have such a daughter, and I’m not sure we don’t get a bit of a glow from having him around. But honestly, I’m surprised by your lack of foresight, considering the issues we’ve faced trying to find new staff from God knows where.'

Neigh, perceiving that the breeze in the atmosphere might ultimately intensify to a palpable black squall, seemed to think it would be well to take leave of his uncle and aunt as soon as he conveniently could; nevertheless, he was much less discomposed by the situation than by the active cause which had led to it. When Mrs. Doncastle arose, her husband said he was going to speak to Chickerel for a minute or two, and Neigh followed his aunt upstairs.

Neigh, noticing that the breeze might eventually turn into a strong storm, felt it would be a good idea to leave his uncle and aunt as soon as he could. However, he was much less troubled by the situation than by the reason that caused it. When Mrs. Doncastle got up, her husband said he was going to talk to Chickerel for a minute or two, and Neigh followed his aunt upstairs.

Presently Doncastle joined them. 'I have been talking to Chickerel,' he said. 'It is a very curious affair-this marriage of his daughter and Lord Mountclere. The whole situation is the most astounding I have ever met with. The man is quite ill about the news. He has shown me a letter which has just reached him from his son on the same subject. Lord Mountclere's brother and this young man have actually gone off together to try to prevent the wedding, and Chickerel has asked to be allowed to go himself, if he can get soon enough to the station to catch the night mail. Of course he may go if he wishes.'

Currently, Doncastle joined them. "I've been talking to Chickerel," he said. "This whole thing about his daughter marrying Lord Mountclere is really strange. The entire situation is the most shocking I’ve ever encountered. The guy is really upset about the news. He showed me a letter that just arrived from his son on the same topic. Lord Mountclere's brother and this young man have actually left together to try to stop the wedding, and Chickerel has asked to go himself if he can get to the station in time to catch the night train. Of course, he can go if he wants."

'What a funny thing!' said the lady, with a wretchedly factitious smile. 'The times have taken a strange turn when the angry parent of the comedy, who goes post-haste to prevent the undutiful daughter's rash marriage, is a gentleman from below stairs, and the unworthy lover a peer of the realm!'

"What a funny thing!" said the lady, with a painfully fake smile. "Things have become so strange these days when the furious parent in this comedy, rushing to stop his disobedient daughter's hasty marriage, is a servant, and the unworthy lover is a nobleman!"

Neigh spoke for almost the first time. 'I don't blame Chickerel in objecting to Lord Mountclere. I should object to him myself if I had a daughter. I never liked him.'

Neigh spoke for almost the first time. "I don't blame Chickerel for being against Lord Mountclere. I would be against him myself if I had a daughter. I've never liked him."

'Why?' said Mrs. Doncastle, lifting her eyelids as if the act were a heavy task.

'Why?' Mrs. Doncastle said, lifting her eyelids as if it was a big effort.

'For reasons which don't generally appear.'

'For reasons that usually aren't obvious.'

'Yes,' said Mr. Doncastle, in a low tone. 'Still, we must not believe all we hear.'

'Yes,' said Mr. Doncastle in a quiet voice. 'Still, we shouldn't believe everything we hear.'

'Is Chickerel going?' said Neigh.

'Is Chickerel coming?' said Neigh.

'He leaves in five or ten minutes,' said Doncastle.

'He'll be leaving in five or ten minutes,' Doncastle said.

After a few further words Neigh mentioned that he was unable to stay longer that evening, and left them. When he had reached the outside of the door he walked a little way up the pavement and back again, as if reluctant to lose sight of the street, finally standing under a lamp-post whence he could command a view of Mr. Doncastle's front. Presently a man came out in a great-coat and with a small bag in his hand; Neigh at once recognizing the person as Chickerel, went up to him.

After a few more words, Neigh said he couldn't stay any longer that evening and left them. Once outside the door, he walked a short distance down the sidewalk and back again, as if he didn't want to lose sight of the street, finally standing under a lamp post where he could see the front of Mr. Doncastle's place. Eventually, a man came out wearing a great coat and holding a small bag; Neigh immediately recognized him as Chickerel and approached him.

'Mr. Doncastle tells me you are going on a sudden journey. At what time does your train leave?' Neigh asked.

'Mr. Doncastle told me you're heading off on a sudden trip. What time does your train leave?' Neigh asked.

'I go by the ten o'clock, sir: I hope it is a third-class,' said Chickerel; 'though I am afraid it may not be.'

'I take the ten o'clock, sir: I hope it’s a third-class,' said Chickerel; 'though I’m afraid it might not be.'

'It is as much as you will do to get to the station,' said Neigh, turning the face of his watch to the light. 'Here, come into my cab-I am driving that way.'

'You’ll have a tough time getting to the station,' Neigh said, turning his watch towards the light. 'Come on, get in my cab—I’m heading that way.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Chickerel.

"Thank you, sir," Chickerel said.

Neigh called a cab at the first opportunity, and they entered and drove along together. Neither spoke during the journey. When they were driving up to the station entrance Neigh looked again to see the hour.

Neigh called a cab as soon as he could, and they got in and drove along together. Neither of them said a word during the ride. As they approached the station entrance, Neigh checked the time once more.

'You have not a minute to lose,' he said, in repressed anxiety. 'And your journey will be expensive: instead of walking from Anglebury to Knollsea, you had better drive-above all, don't lose time. Never mind what class the train is. Take this from me, since the emergency is great.' He handed something to Chickerel folded up small.

'You don’t have a minute to waste,' he said, holding back his concern. 'And your trip will be costly: instead of walking from Anglebury to Knollsea, you should drive—above all, don’t waste time. Forget about what class the train is. Trust me, since this is urgent.' He handed Chickerel something folded up small.

The butler took it without inquiry, and stepped out hastily.

The butler took it without asking questions and quickly stepped out.

'I sincerely hope she- Well, good-night, Chickerel,' continued Neigh, ending his words abruptly. The cab containing him drove again towards the station-gates, leaving Chickerel standing on the kerb.

'I really hope she— Well, good night, Chickerel,' Neigh said, trailing off. The cab with him headed back towards the station gates, leaving Chickerel standing on the curb.

He passed through the booking-office, and looked at the paper Neigh had put into his hand. It was a five-pound note.

He walked through the ticket office and looked at the paper Neigh had given him. It was a five-pound note.

Chickerel mused on the circumstance as he took his ticket and got into the train.

Chickerel thought about the situation as he took his ticket and boarded the train.

43. THE RAILWAY-THE SEA-THE SHORE BEYOND

By this time Sol and the Honourable Edgar Mountclere had gone far on their journey into Wessex. Enckworth Court, Mountclere's destination, though several miles from Knollsea, was most easily accessible by the same route as that to the village, the latter being the place for which Sol was bound.

By this point, Sol and the Honorable Edgar Mountclere had made significant progress on their journey into Wessex. Enckworth Court, Mountclere's destination, was a few miles from Knollsea but was most easily reached by the same route that led to the village, which was Sol's destination.

From the few words that passed between them on the way, Mountclere became more stubborn than ever in a belief that this was a carefully laid trap of the fair Ethelberta's to ensnare his brother without revealing to him her family ties, which it therefore behoved him to make clear, with the utmost force of representation, before the fatal union had been contracted. Being himself the viscount's only remaining brother and near relative, the disinterestedness of his motives may be left to imagination; that there was much real excuse for his conduct must, however, be borne in mind. Whether his attempt would prevent the union was another question: he believed that, conjoined with his personal influence over the viscount, and the importation of Sol as a firebrand to throw between the betrothed pair, it might do so.

From the few words exchanged between them on the way, Mountclere became more stubborn than ever in his belief that this was a carefully planned trap by the fair Ethelberta to ensnare his brother without revealing her family connections. It was, therefore, his duty to clarify everything with the utmost force before the disastrous union took place. Being the viscount's only remaining brother and close relative, the selflessness of his motives can be left to the imagination; however, it's important to remember that there was plenty of justification for his actions. Whether his attempt would actually stop the union was another question: he believed that, combined with his personal influence over the viscount and the introduction of Sol as a troublemaker to create friction between the engaged couple, it might make a difference.

About half-an-hour before sunset the two individuals, HANDlinked by their differences, reached the point of railway at which the branch to Sandbourne left the main line. They had taken tickets for Sandbourne, intending to go thence to Knollsea by the steamer that plied between the two places during the summer months-making this a short and direct route. But it occurred to Mountclere on the way that, summer being over, the steamer might possibly have left off running, the wind might be too high for a small boat, and no large one might be at hand for hire: therefore it would be safer to go by train to Anglebury, and the remaining sixteen miles by driving over the hills, even at a great loss of time.

About half an hour before sunset, the two people, connected by their differences, arrived at the train station where the branch to Sandbourne split from the main line. They had bought tickets to Sandbourne, planning to take the ferry that operated between the two places during the summer to reach Knollsea quickly and directly. But on the way, Mountclere realized that since summer was over, the ferry might not be running anymore, the wind could be too strong for a small boat, and there might not be a larger one available for rent. So, it would be safer to take the train to Anglebury and drive the remaining sixteen miles over the hills, even if it meant taking significantly longer.

Accident, however, determined otherwise. They were in the station at the junction, inquiring of an official if the Speedwell had ceased to sail, when a countryman who had just come up from Sandbourne stated that, though the Speedwell had left off for the year, there was that day another steamer at Sandbourne. This steamer would of necessity return to Knollsea that evening, partly because several people from that place had been on board, and also because the Knollsea folk were waiting for groceries and draperies from London: there was not an ounce of tea or a hundredweight of coal in the village, owing to the recent winds, which had detained the provision parcels at Sandbourne, and kept the colliers up-channel until the change of weather this day. To introduce necessaries by a roundabout land journey was not easy when they had been ordered by the other and habitual route. The boat returned at six o'clock.

An accident, however, changed things. They were at the junction station, asking an official if the Speedwell had stopped sailing, when a local man who had just arrived from Sandbourne mentioned that, although the Speedwell had finished its runs for the year, there was another steamer at Sandbourne that day. This steamer needed to return to Knollsea that evening, partly because several people from there had been on board, and also because the Knollsea residents were waiting for grocery and fabric deliveries from London: there wasn’t any tea or coal in the village due to recent winds that had held up the supply shipments at Sandbourne and kept the coal boats from coming downriver until the weather changed today. Bringing supplies in by a longer land route was not easy since they were supposed to come by the regular waterway. The boat returned at six o'clock.

So on they went to Sandbourne, driving off to the pier directly they reached that place, for it was getting towards night. The steamer was there, as the man had told them, much to the relief of Sol, who, being extremely anxious to enter Knollsea before a late hour, had known that this was the only way in which it could be done.

So they headed to Sandbourne, heading straight to the pier as soon as they got there, since it was getting late. The steamer was there, just as the man had said, which relieved Sol, who was very eager to get to Knollsea before it got too late, knowing that this was the only way to make it happen.

Some unforeseen incident delayed the boat, and they walked up and down the pier to wait. The prospect was gloomy enough. The wind was north-east; the sea along shore was a chalky-green, though comparatively calm, this part of the coast forming a shelter from wind in its present quarter. The clouds had different velocities, and some of them shone with a coppery glare, produced by rays from the west which did not enter the inferior atmosphere at all. It was reflected on the distant waves in patches, with an effect as if the waters were at those particular spots stained with blood. This departed, and what daylight was left to the earth came from strange and unusual quarters of the heavens. The zenith would be bright, as if that were the place of the sun; then all overhead would close, and a whiteness in the east would give the appearance of morning; while a bank as thick as a wall barricaded the west, which looked as if it had no acquaintance with sunsets, and would blush red no more.

Some unexpected incident delayed the boat, so they walked up and down the pier to pass the time. The scene was pretty gloomy. The wind was coming from the northeast; the sea along the shore was a chalky green, although fairly calm, as this part of the coast provided shelter from the wind. The clouds were moving at different speeds, and some of them had a coppery shine, caused by sunlight from the west that didn’t reach the lower atmosphere. This light reflected off the distant waves in patches, creating the effect that the water in those areas was stained with blood. This light faded, and whatever daylight remained came from odd and unusual parts of the sky. The zenith would be bright, as if the sun were there; then the overhead would close up, and a whiteness in the east would give the impression of morning, while a thick bank of clouds like a wall blocked the west, which looked like it had forgotten what sunsets were and wouldn’t blush red ever again.

'Any other passengers?' shouted the master of the steamboat. 'We must be off: it may be a dirty night.'

'Any other passengers?' shouted the captain of the steamboat. 'We need to leave: it might be a rough night.'

Sol and Mountclere went on board, and the pier receded in the dusk.

Sol and Mountclere boarded, and the pier faded into the twilight.

'Shall we have any difficulty in getting into Knollsea Bay?' said Mountclere.

"Are we going to have any trouble getting into Knollsea Bay?" said Mountclere.

'Not if the wind keeps where it is for another hour or two.'

'Not if the wind stays the way it is for another hour or two.'

'I fancy it is shifting to the east'ard,' said Sol.

'I think it's moving to the east,' said Sol.

The captain looked as if he had thought the same thing.

The captain seemed to be thinking the same thing.

'I hope I shall be able to get home to-night,' said a Knollsea woman. 'My little children be left alone. Your mis'ess is in a bad way, too-isn't she, skipper?'

"I hope I can make it home tonight," said a Knollsea woman. "My little kids are left alone. Your wife is in a tough spot too, isn't she, skipper?"

'Yes.'

Yes.

'And you've got the doctor from Sandbourne aboard, to tend her?'

'And you have the doctor from Sandbourne here to take care of her?'

'Yes.'

Yes.

'Then you'll be sure to put into Knollsea, if you can?'

'So you’ll definitely stop by Knollsea, right?'

'Yes. Don't be alarmed, ma'am. We'll do what we can. But no one must boast.'

'Yes. Don't worry, ma'am. We'll do our best. But no one should brag.'

The skipper's remark was the result of an observation that the wind had at last flown to the east, the single point of the compass whence it could affect Knollsea Bay. The result of this change was soon perceptible. About midway in their transit the land elbowed out to a bold chalk promontory; beyond this stretched a vertical wall of the same cliff, in a line parallel with their course. In fair weather it was possible and customary to steer close along under this hoary facade for the distance of a mile, there being six fathoms of water within a few boats' lengths of the precipice. But it was an ugly spot at the best of times, landward no less than seaward, the cliff rounding off at the top in vegetation, like a forehead with low-grown hair, no defined edge being provided as a warning to unwary pedestrians on the downs above.

The captain's comment came from noticing that the wind had finally shifted to the east, the only direction on the compass that could affect Knollsea Bay. The impact of this change was quickly noticeable. About halfway through their journey, the land jutted out into a striking chalk cliff; beyond that was a vertical wall of the same cliff, running parallel to their path. In clear weather, it was common and acceptable to navigate closely along this ancient wall for about a mile, as there were six fathoms of water just a few boat lengths from the edge. However, it was a treacherous spot at any time, both on land and at sea, with the cliff top covered in vegetation, resembling a forehead with short hair, and offering no clear edge to warn unsuspecting walkers above.

As the wind sprung up stronger, white clots could be discerned at the water level of the cliff, rising and falling against the black band of shaggy weed that formed a sort of skirting to the base of the wall. They were the first-fruits of the new east blast, which shaved the face of the cliff like a razor-gatherings of foam in the shape of heads, shoulders, and arms of snowy whiteness, apparently struggling to rise from the deeps, and ever sinking back to their old levels again. They reminded an observer of a drowning scene in a picture of the Deluge. At some points the face of rock was hollowed into gaping caverns, and the water began to thunder into these with a leap that was only topped by the rebound seaward again. The vessel's head was kept a little further to sea, but beyond that everything went on as usual.

As the wind picked up, white clumps could be seen at the water level of the cliff, rising and falling against the dark band of rough seaweed that wrapped around the base of the wall. They were the first signs of the new east wind, which scraped the cliff face like a razor, creating foam that looked like heads, shoulders, and arms of bright white, seemingly trying to rise from the depths but always sinking back down again. They reminded someone watching of a drowning scene in a painting of the Deluge. In some places, the rock face was carved into deep caverns, and the water thundered into these with a force that was only topped by the splash back out to sea. The vessel's bow was kept slightly further out, but aside from that, everything continued as usual.

The precipice was still in view, and before it several huge columns of rock appeared, detached from the mass behind. Two of these were particularly noticeable in the grey air-one vertical, stout and square; the other slender and tapering. They were individualized as husband and wife by the coast men. The waves leapt up their sides like a pack of hounds; this, however, though fearful in its boisterousness, was nothing to the terrible games that sometimes went on round the knees of those giants in stone. Yet it was sufficient to cause the course of the frail steamboat to be altered yet a little more-from south-west-by-south to south-by-west-to give the breakers a still wider berth.

The cliff was still in sight, and in front of it were several massive columns of rock, separated from the larger formation behind them. Two of these stood out in the gray mist—one was vertical, thick, and square; the other was slender and tapering. The local fishermen referred to them as husband and wife. The waves crashed against their sides like a pack of dogs; this was intimidating in its intensity, but it was nothing compared to the terrifying turbulence that sometimes swirled around the legs of those stone giants. Still, it was enough to make the fragile steamboat change its course a bit more—from southwest-by-south to south-by-west—to keep a safer distance from the crashing waves.

'I wish we had gone by land, sir; 'twould have been surer play,' said Sol to Mountclere, a cat-and-dog friendship having arisen between them.

"I wish we had traveled by land, sir; it would have been a safer choice," said Sol to Mountclere, as a love-hate friendship had developed between them.

'Yes,' said Mountclere. 'Knollsea is an abominable place to get into with an east wind blowing, they say.'

'Yeah,' said Mountclere. 'They say Knollsea is a terrible place to be when there's an east wind blowing.'

Another circumstance conspired to make their landing more difficult, which Mountclere knew nothing of. With the wind easterly, the highest sea prevailed in Knollsea Bay from the slackening of flood-tide to the first hour of ebb. At that time the water outside stood without a current, and ridges and hollows chased each other towards the beach unchecked. When the tide was setting strong up or down Channel its flow across the mouth of the bay thrust aside, to some extent, the landward plunge of the waves.

Another factor made their landing harder, something Mountclere was unaware of. With the wind coming from the east, the roughest seas in Knollsea Bay occurred from the end of the flood tide to the first hour of the ebb tide. During that time, the water outside was calm, and waves flowed toward the beach in ridges and troughs without any interruptions. When the tide was rushing strongly either up or down the Channel, its flow at the mouth of the bay somewhat pushed aside the incoming waves.

We glance for a moment at the state of affairs on the land they were nearing.

We take a quick look at the situation on the land they were approaching.

This was the time of year to know the truth about the inner nature and character of Knollsea; for to see Knollsea smiling to the summer sun was to see a courtier before a king; Knollsea was not to be known by such simple means. The half-dozen detached villas used as lodging-houses in the summer, standing aloof from the cots of the permanent race, rose in the dusk of this gusty evening, empty, silent, damp, and dark as tombs. The gravel walks leading to them were invaded by leaves and tufts of grass. As the darkness thickened the wind increased, and each blast raked the iron railings before the houses till they hummed as if in a song of derision. Certainly it seemed absurd at this time of year that human beings should expect comfort in a spot capable of such moods as these.

This was the time of year to discover the true nature and character of Knollsea; seeing Knollsea basking in the summer sun was like watching a courtier before a king; you couldn't really understand Knollsea through such simple observations. The half-dozen detached villas used as summer lodgings, standing apart from the cottages of the permanent residents, loomed in the dusk of this windy evening, empty, silent, damp, and dark like tombs. The gravel paths leading to them were overrun with leaves and tufts of grass. As the darkness thickened, the wind picked up, and each gust rattled the iron railings in front of the houses, making them hum as if mocking. It certainly seemed ridiculous at this time of year that people would expect comfort in a place capable of such moods.

However, one of the houses looked cheerful, and that was the dwelling to which Ethelberta had gone. Its gay external colours might as well have been black for anything that could be seen of them now, but an unblinded window revealed inside it a room bright and warm. It was illuminated by firelight only. Within, Ethelberta appeared against the curtains, close to the glass. She was watching through a binocular a faint light which had become visible in the direction of the bluff far away over the bay.

However, one of the houses looked cheerful, and that was the place where Ethelberta had gone. Its bright outside colors might as well have been black for all that could be seen of them now, but an unshaded window showed a room inside that was bright and warm. It was lit by firelight only. Inside, Ethelberta stood by the curtains, close to the glass. She was looking through binoculars at a faint light that had appeared in the distance toward the bluff far away over the bay.

'Here is the Spruce at last, I think,' she said to her sister, who was by the fire. 'I hope they will be able to land the things I have ordered. They are on board I know.'

'Here is the Spruce at last, I think,' she said to her sister, who was by the fire. 'I hope they can unload the things I ordered. I know they're on board.'

The wind continued to rise till at length something from the lungs of the gale alighted like a feather upon the pane, and remained there sticking. Seeing the substance, Ethelberta opened the window to secure it. The fire roared and the pictures kicked the walls; she closed the sash, and brought to the light a crisp fragment of foam.

The wind picked up until finally something from the strong gust settled like a feather on the windowpane and stuck there. Noticing the object, Ethelberta opened the window to grab it. The fire crackled loudly and the pictures shook on the walls; she shut the window and held up a crisp piece of foam to the light.

'How suddenly the sea must have risen,' said Picotee.

The servant entered the room. 'Please, mis'ess says she is afraid you won't have your things to-night, 'm. They say the steamer can't land, and mis'ess wants to know if she can do anything?'

The servant entered the room. “Please, ma’am, the lady says she’s worried you won’t have your things tonight. They say the steamer can’t dock, and the lady wants to know if there’s anything she can do?”

'It is of no consequence,' said Ethelberta. 'They will come some time, unless they go to the bottom.'

'It doesn't matter,' said Ethelberta. 'They'll show up eventually, unless they sink to the bottom.'

The girl left the room. 'Shall we go down to the shore and see what the night is like?' said Ethelberta. 'This is the last opportunity I shall have.'

The girl left the room. "Should we go down to the shore and see what the night is like?" Ethelberta said. "This is the last chance I’ll have."

'Is it right for us to go, considering you are to be married to-morrow?' said Picotee, who had small affection for nature in this mood.

'Is it okay for us to go, since you’re getting married tomorrow?' said Picotee, who didn’t have much love for nature at the moment.

Her sister laughed. 'Let us put on our cloaks-nobody will know us. I am sorry to leave this grim and primitive place, even for Enckworth Court.'

Her sister laughed. 'Let's put on our cloaks—no one will recognize us. I’m sorry to leave this bleak and basic place, even for Enckworth Court.'

They wrapped themselves up, and descended the hill.

They bundled up and went down the hill.

On drawing near the battling line of breakers which marked the meeting of sea and land they could perceive within the nearly invisible horizon an equilateral triangle of lights. It was formed of three stars, a red on the one side, a green on the other, and a white on the summit. This, composed of mast-head and side lamps, was all that was visible of the Spruce, which now faced end-on about half-a-mile distant, and was still nearing the pier. The girls went further, and stood on the foreshore, listening to the din. Seaward appeared nothing distinct save a black horizontal band embodying itself out of the grey water, strengthening its blackness, and enlarging till it looked like a nearing wall. It was the concave face of a coming wave. On its summit a white edging arose with the aspect of a lace frill; it broadened, and fell over the front with a terrible concussion. Then all before them was a sheet of whiteness, which spread with amazing rapidity, till they found themselves standing in the midst of it, as in a field of snow. Both felt an insidious chill encircling their ankles, and they rapidly ran up the beach.

As they got close to the crashing waves that marked where the sea met the land, they noticed a nearly invisible horizon with an equilateral triangle of lights. It was made up of three stars: a red one on one side, a green one on the other, and a white one on top. This setup of mast-head and side lamps was all that was visible of the Spruce, which was now facing them end-on about half a mile away and still approaching the pier. The girls moved further along and stood on the shoreline, listening to the noise. Out at sea, nothing was clear except for a black horizontal band appearing from the grey water, its darkness intensifying and growing until it looked like an approaching wall. It was the curved face of an incoming wave. On its peak, a white edge formed that looked like a lace trim; it widened and cascaded over the front with a loud crash. Then, everything in front of them turned into a sheet of whiteness that spread incredibly fast, making them feel like they were standing in a snowfield. Both felt a creeping chill around their ankles, and they quickly ran up the beach.

'You girls, come away there, or you'll be washed off: what need have ye for going so near?'

'You girls, come back over here, or you’ll get swept away: why do you need to be so close?'

Ethelberta recognized the stentorian voice as that of Captain Flower, who, with a party of boatmen, was discovered to be standing near, under the shelter of a wall. He did not know them in the gloom, and they took care that he should not. They retreated further up the beach, when the hissing fleece of froth slid again down the shingle, dragging the pebbles under it with a rattle as of a beast gnawing bones.

Ethelberta recognized the loud voice as Captain Flower's, who, with a group of boatmen, was found standing nearby, sheltered by a wall. He couldn't see them in the dark, and they made sure of it. They moved further up the beach as the foamy waves washed down the pebbles, making a rattling sound like a creature chewing on bones.

The spot whereon the men stood was called 'Down-under-wall;' it was a nook commanding a full view of the bay, and hither the nautical portion of the village unconsciously gravitated on windy afternoons and nights, to discuss past disasters in the reticent spirit induced by a sense that they might at any moment be repeated. The stranger who should walk the shore on roaring and sobbing November eves when there was not light sufficient to guide his footsteps, and muse on the absoluteness of the solitude, would be surprised by a smart 'Good-night' being returned from this corner in company with the echo of his tread. In summer the six or eight perennial figures stood on the breezy side of the wall-in winter and in rain to leeward; but no weather was known to dislodge them.

The place where the men stood was called 'Down-under-wall;' it was a spot that offered a full view of the bay, and the sailing folks from the village naturally gathered here on windy afternoons and nights to talk about past disasters, feeling a quiet unease that those events could happen again at any moment. A stranger walking along the shore on stormy November evenings, when it was too dark to see his way, would be struck by a sharp 'Good-night' coming from this corner along with the echo of his footsteps. In summer, six or eight familiar figures stood on the breezy side of the wall; in winter and rain, they moved to the sheltered side; but no weather was ever enough to make them leave.

'I had no sooner come ashore than the wind began to fly round,' said the previous speaker; 'and it must have been about the time they were off Old-Harry Point. "She'll put back for certain," I said; and I had no more thought o' seeing her than John's set-net that was carried round the point o' Monday.'

'I had barely set foot on land when the wind started to shift,' said the previous speaker; 'and it must have been around the time they were near Old-Harry Point. "She'll definitely turn back," I said; and I didn’t think I’d see her again any more than John's set-net that was swept around the point on Monday.'

'Poor feller: his wife being in such a state makes him anxious to land if 'a can: that's what 'tis, plain enough.'

'Poor guy: his wife being in such a state makes him desperate to get home if he can: that's what it is, clear enough.'

'Why that?' said Flower.

"Why that?" said Flower.

'The doctor's aboard, 'a believe: "I'll have the most understanding man in Sandbourne, cost me little or much," he said.'

'The doctor’s on board, I believe: "I’ll have the most understanding guy in Sandbourne, no matter the cost," he said.'

''Tis all over and she's better,' said the other. 'I called half-an-hour afore dark.'

'It's all over and she's doing better,' said the other. 'I called half an hour before dark.'

Flower, being an experienced man, knew how the judgment of a ship's master was liable to be warped by family anxieties, many instances of the same having occurred in the history of navigation. He felt uneasy, for he knew the deceit and guile of this bay far better than did the master of the Spruce, who, till within a few recent months, had been a stranger to the place. Indeed, it was the bay which had made Flower what he was, instead of a man in thriving retirement. The two great ventures of his life had been blown ashore and broken up within that very semicircle. The sturdy sailor now stood with his eyes fixed on the triangle of lights which showed that the steamer had not relinquished her intention of bringing up inside the pier if possible; his right hand was in his pocket, where it played with a large key which lay there. It was the key of the lifeboat shed, and Flower was coxswain. His musing was on the possibility of a use for it this night.

Flower, being an experienced man, understood how a ship captain's judgment could be skewed by family worries; many similar cases had happened in the history of navigation. He felt uneasy because he knew the trickiness of this bay much better than the captain of the Spruce, who, until a few months ago, had been unfamiliar with the area. In fact, this bay had shaped Flower into who he was, instead of allowing him to be a man enjoying a comfortable retirement. The two significant ventures of his life had ended up stranded and destroyed right within that very semicircle. The sturdy sailor now stood with his eyes fixed on the triangle of lights indicating that the steamer still intended to dock inside the pier if possible; his right hand was in his pocket, toying with a large key. It was the key to the lifeboat shed, and Flower was the coxswain. He was contemplating whether it might be needed tonight.

It appeared that the captain of the Spruce was aiming to pass in under the lee of the pier; but a strong current of four or five knots was running between the piles, drifting the steamer away at every attempt as soon as she slowed. To come in on the other side was dangerous, the hull of the vessel being likely to crash against and overthrow the fragile erection, with damage to herself also. Flower, who had disappeared for a few minutes, now came back.

It looked like the captain of the Spruce was trying to slide in under the shelter of the pier, but a strong current of four or five knots was flowing between the pilings, pushing the steamer away every time she slowed down. Coming in from the other side was risky, as the hull of the vessel could easily crash into and topple the delicate structure, causing damage to herself as well. Flower, who had vanished for a few minutes, returned now.

'It is just possible I can make 'em hear with the trumpet, now they be to leeward,' he said, and proceeded with two or three others to grope his way out upon the pier, which consisted simply of a row of rotten piles covered with rotten planking, no balustrade of any kind existing to keep the unwary from tumbling off. At the water level the piles were eaten away by the action of the sea to about the size of a man's wrist, and at every fresh influx the whole structure trembled like a spider's web. In this lay the danger of making fast, for a strong pull from a headfast rope might drag the erection completely over. Flower arrived at the end, where a lantern hung.

'It's possible I can get them to hear with the trumpet since they're downwind,' he said, then headed out with a few others onto the pier, which was just a line of decaying posts topped with rotten planks, without any railing to stop someone from falling off. At the waterline, the posts were worn down by the sea to about the size of a man's wrist, and with every wave, the entire structure shook like a spider's web. This was the risk of tying up, as a strong pull from a taut rope might topple the whole thing. Flower reached the end, where a lantern was hanging.

'Spruce ahoy!' he blared through the speaking trumpet two or three times.

'Spruce ahoy!' he shouted through the megaphone two or three times.

There seemed to be a reply of some sort from the steamer.

There appeared to be some kind of response from the steamer.

'Tuesday's gale hev loosened the pier, Cap'n Ounce; the bollards be too weak to make fast to: must land in boats if ye will land, but dangerous; yer wife is out of danger, and 'tis a boy-y-y-y!'

'Tuesday's storm has loosened the pier, Captain Ounce; the bollards are too weak to secure anything. We must land in boats if we want to get to shore, but it's risky; your wife is out of danger, and it’s a boy!'

Ethelberta and Picotee were at this time standing on the beach a hundred and fifty yards off. Whether or not the master of the steamer received the information volunteered by Flower, the two girls saw the triangle of lamps get narrow at its base, reduce themselves to two in a vertical line, then to one, then to darkness. The Spruce had turned her head from Knollsea.

Ethelberta and Picotee were standing on the beach about one hundred and fifty yards away. It was unclear whether the captain of the steamer took note of the information given by Flower, but the two girls watched as the triangle of lights narrowed at the base, shrank to two stacked lamps, then to one, and finally went dark. The Spruce had turned its head away from Knollsea.

'They have gone back, and I shall not have my wedding things after all!' said Ethelberta. 'Well, I must do without them.'

'They've gone back, and I won’t have my wedding stuff after all!' said Ethelberta. 'Well, I guess I’ll have to manage without them.'

'You see, 'twas best to play sure,' said Flower to his comrades, in a tone of complacency. 'They might have been able to do it, but 'twas risky. The shop-folk be out of stock, I hear, and the visiting lady up the hill is terribly in want of clothes, so 'tis said. But what's that? Ounce ought to have put back afore.'

'You see, it’s better to play it safe,' said Flower to his friends, with a satisfied tone. 'They could have done it, but it was risky. I hear the shop people are out of stock, and the lady visiting up the hill really needs clothes, or so they say. But what’s that? Ounce should have come back by now.'

Then the lantern which hung at the end of the jetty was taken down, and the darkness enfolded all around from view. The bay became nothing but a voice, the foam an occasional touch upon the face, the Spruce an imagination, the pier a memory. Everything lessened upon the senses but one; that was the wind. It mauled their persons like a hand, and caused every scrap of their raiment to tug westward. To stand with the face to sea brought semi-suffocation, from the intense pressure of air.

Then the lantern hanging at the end of the jetty was taken down, and the darkness wrapped everything out of sight. The bay turned into just a voice, the foam an occasional splash on the face, the Spruce a figment of imagination, the pier a distant memory. Everything faded from the senses except one; that was the wind. It assaulted them like a hand, pulling at every piece of clothing, dragging it westward. Facing the sea felt like being half-choked from the heavy pressure of the air.

The boatmen retired to their position under the wall, to lounge again in silence. Conversation was not considered necessary: their sense of each other's presence formed a kind of conversation. Meanwhile Picotee and Ethelberta went up the hill.

The boatmen settled back into their spot under the wall, relaxing in silence once more. They didn't find conversation necessary; just being aware of each other's presence felt like a conversation. Meanwhile, Picotee and Ethelberta walked up the hill.

'If your wedding were going to be a public one, what a misfortune this delay of the packages would be,' said Picotee.

'If your wedding was going to be public, what a bummer this delay of the packages would be,' said Picotee.

'Yes,' replied the elder.

'Yes,' said the elder.

'I think the bracelet the prettiest of all the presents he brought to-day-do you?'

'I think the bracelet is the prettiest of all the gifts he brought today—don't you?'

'It is the most valuable.'

'It's the most valuable.'

'Lord Mountclere is very kind, is he not? I like him a great deal better than I did-do you, Berta?'

'Lord Mountclere is really nice, isn't he? I like him a lot more than I used to—do you, Berta?'

'Yes, very much better,' said Ethelberta, warming a little. 'If he were not so suspicious at odd moments I should like him exceedingly. But I must cure him of that by a regular course of treatment, and then he'll be very nice.'

'Yes, much better,' Ethelberta said, feeling a bit warmer. 'If he weren't so suspicious at random times, I would really like him. But I need to fix that with a proper approach, and then he'll be really great.'

'For an old man. He likes you better than any young man would take the trouble to do. I wish somebody else were old too.'

'For an old man, he cares about you more than any young guy would bother to. I wish someone else were old too.'

'He will be some day.'

"He'll be someday."

'Yes, but-'

'Yeah, but-'

'Never mind: time will straighten many crooked things.'

'Don't worry: time will fix a lot of messed up things.'

'Do you think Lord Mountclere has reached home by this time?'

'Do you think Lord Mountclere has gotten home by now?'

'I should think so: though I believe he had to call at the parsonage before leaving Knollsea.'

'I would think so; however, I believe he had to stop by the parsonage before leaving Knollsea.'

'Had he? What for?'

"Did he? For what?"

'Why, of course somebody must-'

'Of course, someone must-'

'O yes. Do you think anybody in Knollsea knows it is going to be except us and the parson?'

'O yes. Do you think anyone in Knollsea knows it’s going to happen except for us and the parson?'

'I suppose the clerk knows.'

'I guess the clerk knows.'

'I wonder if a lord has ever been married so privately before.'

'I wonder if any noble has ever gotten married so quietly before.'

'Frequently: when he marries far beneath him, as in this case. But even if I could have had it, I should not have liked a showy wedding. I have had no experience as a bride except in the private form of the ceremony.'

'Frequently: when he marries someone much less well-off, like in this case. But even if I could have had it, I wouldn’t have wanted an extravagant wedding. I have no experience as a bride except in a simple version of the ceremony.'

'Berta, I am sometimes uneasy about you even now and I want to ask you one thing, if I may. Are you doing this for my sake? Would you have married Mr. Julian if it had not been for me?'

'Berta, I still feel a bit uneasy about you sometimes, and I want to ask you something, if that’s okay. Are you doing this for my sake? Would you have married Mr. Julian if it weren’t for me?'

'It is difficult to say exactly. It is possible that if I had had no relations at all, I might have married him. And I might not.'

'It’s hard to say for sure. If I had no connections at all, I might have married him. But then again, I might not have.'

'I don't intend to marry.'

"I don’t plan to marry."

'In that case you will live with me at Enckworth. However, we will leave such details till the ground-work is confirmed. When we get indoors will you see if the boxes have been properly corded, and are quite ready to be sent for? Then come in and sit by the fire, and I'll sing some songs to you.'

'In that case, you’ll live with me at Enckworth. However, we’ll leave those details until the groundwork is confirmed. When we get inside, can you check if the boxes have been properly tied up and are ready to be picked up? Then come in and sit by the fire, and I’ll sing some songs for you.'

'Sad ones, you mean.'

'Sad people, you mean.'

'No, they shall not be sad.'

'No, they won't be upset.'

'Perhaps they may be the last you will ever sing to me.'

'Maybe these are the last ones you'll ever sing to me.'

'They may be. Such a thing has occurred.'

'They might be. That has happened before.'

'But we will not think so. We'll suppose you are to sing many to me yet.'

'But we won't think that way. We'll assume you still have many songs to sing for me.'

'Yes. There's good sense in that, Picotee. In a world where the blind only are cheerful we should all do well to put out our eyes. There, I did not mean to get into this state: forgive me, Picotee. It is because I have had a thought-why I cannot tell-that as much as this man brings to me in rank and gifts he may take out of me in tears.'

'Yes. That makes sense, Picotee. In a world where only the blind are happy, we should all consider closing our eyes. I didn’t mean to get into this mood: forgive me, Picotee. It’s just that I’ve had a thought—though I can’t explain it—that as much as this man offers me in status and gifts, he might also take away from me in tears.'

'Berta!'

'But there's no reason in it-not any; for not in a single matter does what has been supply us with any certain ground for knowing what will be in the world. I have seen marriages where happiness might have been said to be ensured, and they have been all sadness afterwards; and I have seen those in which the prospect was black as night, and they have led on to a time of sweetness and comfort. And I have seen marriages neither joyful nor sorry, that have become either as accident forced them to become, the persons having no voice in it at all. Well, then, why should I be afraid to make a plunge when chance is as trustworthy as calculation?'

'But there’s no logic to it—none at all; because in no situation does what has happened give us any reliable basis for knowing what will happen in the world. I've seen marriages that seemed guaranteed to bring happiness, and they ended up full of sadness; and I've witnessed those that looked dark as night, and they turned into times of joy and comfort. I've also seen marriages that started neither happy nor sad, which became one or the other just due to circumstances, with the people involved having no say in it at all. So, why should I be afraid to take a leap when chance is just as reliable as careful planning?'

'If you don't like him well enough, don't have him, Berta. There's time enough to put it off even now.'

'If you don't really like him, don't go for it, Berta. There's still plenty of time to wait on it, even now.'

'O no. I would not upset a well-considered course on the haste of an impulse. Our will should withstand our misgivings. Now let us see if all has been packed, and then we'll sing.'

'O no. I wouldn't derail a well-thought-out plan just because of a sudden urge. We need to stay strong against our doubts. Now let's check if everything is packed, and then we'll sing.'

That evening, while the wind was wheeling round and round the dwelling, and the calm eye of the lighthouse afar was the single speck perceptible of the outside world from the door of Ethelberta's temporary home, the music of songs mingled with the stroke of the wind across the iron railings, and was swept on in the general tide of the gale, and the noise of the rolling sea, till not the echo of a tone remained.

That evening, as the wind swirled around the house, and the distant lighthouse's calm beam was the only glimpse of the outside world visible from Ethelberta's temporary home, the sound of music blended with the wind's howl against the metal railings, carried away in the overall rush of the storm and the crashing waves, until not even a hint of a note was left.

An hour before this singing, an old gentleman might have been seen to alight from a little one-horse brougham, and enter the door of Knollsea parsonage. He was bent upon obtaining an entrance to the vicar's study without giving his name.

An hour before this singing, an old man could be seen getting out of a small horse-drawn carriage and going inside the Knollsea parsonage. He was determined to get into the vicar's study without revealing his name.

But it happened that the vicar's wife was sitting in the front room, making a pillow-case for the children's bed out of an old surplice which had been excommunicated the previous Easter; she heard the newcomer's voice through the partition, started, and went quickly to her husband, who was where he ought to have been, in his study. At her entry he looked up with an abstracted gaze, having been lost in meditation over a little schooner which he was attempting to rig for their youngest boy. At a word from his wife on the suspected name of the visitor, he resumed his earlier occupation of inserting a few strong sentences, full of the observation of maturer life, between the lines of a sermon written during his first years of ordination, in order to make it available for the coming Sunday. His wife then vanished with the little ship in her hand, and the visitor appeared. A talk went on in low tones.

But it so happened that the vicar's wife was sitting in the front room, making a pillowcase for the children's bed out of an old surplice that had been discarded the previous Easter. She heard the newcomer’s voice through the partition, jumped up, and quickly went to find her husband, who was where he was supposed to be, in his study. When she entered, he looked up with a distant expression, having been deep in thought about a little schooner he was trying to rig for their youngest boy. When she mentioned the suspected name of the visitor, he went back to adding a few solid insights, filled with the observations of adult life, to the margins of a sermon he had written during his early years of being ordained, to make it suitable for the coming Sunday. His wife then disappeared with the little ship in her hand, and the visitor came in. They started talking in low voices.

After a ten minutes' stay he departed as secretly as he had come. His errand was the cause of much whispered discussion between the vicar and his wife during the evening, but nothing was said concerning it to the outside world.

After a ten-minute stay, he left as quietly as he had arrived. His purpose sparked a lot of whispered talks between the vicar and his wife in the evening, but nothing was mentioned about it to anyone outside.

44. SANDBOURNE-A LONELY HEATH-THE 'RED LION'-THE HIGHWAY

It was half-past eleven before the Spruce, with Mountclere and Sol Chickerel on board, had steamed back again to Sandbourne. The direction and increase of the wind had made it necessary to keep the vessel still further to sea on their return than in going, that they might clear without risk the windy, sousing, thwacking, basting, scourging Jack Ketch of a corner called Old-Harry Point, which lay about halfway along their track, and stood, with its detached posts and stumps of white rock, like a skeleton's lower jaw, grinning at British navigation. Here strong currents and cross currents were beginning to interweave their scrolls and meshes, the water rising behind them in tumultuous heaps, and slamming against the fronts and angles of cliff, whence it flew into the air like clouds of flour. Who could now believe that this roaring abode of chaos smiled in the sun as gently as an infant during the summer days not long gone by, every pinnacle, crag, and cave returning a doubled image across the glassy sea?

It was 11:30 before the Spruce, with Mountclere and Sol Chickerel on board, had steamed back to Sandbourne. The change and increase in the wind meant they had to keep the vessel further out to sea on their return than they did on the way out, to safely bypass the tricky Old-Harry Point. This spot, halfway along their route, stood with its detached posts and white rock stumps like a skeleton's jaw, grinning at British navigation. Here, strong currents and cross currents began to intertwine, the water churning up behind them in huge waves, crashing against the cliffs and bursting into the air like clouds of flour. Who could now believe that this chaotic, roaring place had once smiled in the sun as gently as a baby during those summer days not long ago, with every peak, crag, and cave reflecting a perfect image across the smooth sea?

They were now again at Sandbourne, a point in their journey reached more than four hours ago. It became necessary to consider anew how to accomplish the difficult remainder. The wind was not blowing much beyond what seamen call half a gale, but there had been enough unpleasantness afloat to make landsmen glad to get ashore, and this dissipated in a slight measure their vexation at having failed in their purpose. Still, Mountclere loudly cursed their confidence in that treacherously short route, and Sol abused the unknown Sandbourne man who had brought the news of the steamer's arrival to them at the junction. The only course left open to them now, short of giving up the undertaking, was to go by the road along the shore, which, curving round the various little creeks and inland seas between their present position and Knollsea, was of no less length than thirty miles. There was no train back to the junction till the next morning, and Sol's proposition that they should drive thither in hope of meeting the mail-train, was overruled by Mountclere.

They were back at Sandbourne, a spot they had reached over four hours ago. It was time to think about how to tackle the challenging part of their journey. The wind was blowing a bit stronger than what sailors would call half a gale, but it had been uncomfortable enough out at sea to make those from the land happy to be back on solid ground, which lessened their frustration about not achieving their goal. Still, Mountclere loudly cursed their trust in that deceptively short route, and Sol vented his anger at the unknown Sandbourne person who had told them about the steamer's arrival at the junction. The only option left for them now, aside from giving up on the trip, was to take the road along the shore, which wound around the various small creeks and inland seas between where they were and Knollsea, totaling no less than thirty miles. There wasn’t a train back to the junction until the next morning, and Mountclere rejected Sol’s suggestion that they drive there in hopes of catching the mail train.

'We will have nothing more to do with chance,' he said. 'We may miss the train, and then we shall have gone out of the way for nothing. More than that, the down mail does not stop till it gets several miles beyond the nearest station for Knollsea; so it is hopeless.'

'We're not leaving things to chance anymore,' he said. 'We might miss the train, and then we would have gone out of our way for nothing. Plus, the down mail doesn't stop until it's several miles past the nearest station for Knollsea; so it's pointless.'

'If there had only been a telegraph to the confounded place!'

'If only there had been a telegraph to that frustrating place!'

'Telegraph-we might as well telegraph to the devil as to an old booby and a damned scheming young widow. I very much question if we shall do anything in the matter, even if we get there. But I suppose we had better go on now?'

'We might as well send a message to the devil as to some clueless old guy and a scheming young widow. I'm really skeptical that we'll accomplish anything, even if we show up. But I guess we should just keep going now?'

'You can do as you like. I shall go on, if I have to walk every step o't.'

'You can do whatever you want. I’ll keep going, even if I have to walk every single step of the way.'

'That's not necessary. I think the best posting-house at this end of the town is Tempett's-we must knock them up at once. Which will you do-attempt supper here, or break the back of our journey first, and get on to Anglebury? We may rest an hour or two there, unless you feel really in want of a meal.'

'That's not needed. I think the best inn in this part of town is Tempett's—we should head there right away. What do you want to do—try having dinner here, or push through the rest of our trip and get to Anglebury first? We can relax for an hour or two there, unless you're really hungry.'

'No. I'll leave eating to merrier men, who have no sister in the hands of a cursed old Vandal.'

'No. I’ll leave eating to happier guys, who don’t have a sister in the clutches of a cursed old Vandal.'

'Very well,' said Mountclere. 'We'll go on at once.'

'Alright,' said Mountclere. 'Let's go right now.'

An additional half-hour elapsed before they were fairly started, the lateness and abruptness of their arrival causing delay in getting a conveyance ready: the tempestuous night had apparently driven the whole town, gentle and simple, early to their beds. And when at length the travellers were on their way the aspect of the weather grew yet more forbidding. The rain came down unmercifully, the booming wind caught it, bore it across the plain, whizzed it against the carriage like a sower sowing his seed. It was precisely such weather, and almost at the same season, as when Picotee traversed the same moor, stricken with her great disappointment at not meeting Christopher Julian.

An extra half-hour passed before they finally got going, as their late and sudden arrival caused delays in preparing a ride: the stormy night had seemingly sent everyone in town, young and old, to bed early. When the travelers were finally on their way, the weather looked even more ominous. The rain poured down relentlessly, and the strong wind whipped it across the plain, slamming it against the carriage like a farmer scattering seeds. It was exactly the kind of weather, and almost the same time of year, as when Picotee crossed the same moor, devastated by her disappointment at not meeting Christopher Julian.

Further on for several miles the drive lay through an open heath, dotted occasionally with fir plantations, the trees of which told the tale of their species without help from outline or colour; they spoke in those melancholy moans and sobs which give to their sound a solemn sadness surpassing even that of the sea. From each carriage-lamp the long rays stretched like feelers into the air, and somewhat cheered the way, until the insidious damp that pervaded all things above, around, and underneath, overpowered one of them, and rendered every attempt to rekindle it ineffectual. Even had the two men's dislike to each other's society been less, the general din of the night would have prevented much talking; as it was, they sat in a rigid reticence that was almost a third personality. The roads were laid hereabouts with a light sandy gravel, which, though not clogging, was soft and friable. It speedily became saturated, and the wheels ground heavily and deeply into its substance.

Further on for several miles, the road stretched through an open heath, occasionally dotted with fir trees. These trees communicated their species without needing any outlines or colors; they emitted a mournful sound that had a solemn sadness even greater than the sea. From each carriage lamp, long beams reached into the air, somewhat brightening the path until the sneaky dampness that surrounded everything—above, around, and below—overpowered one of the lights, making it impossible to relight. Even if the two men didn't mind each other's company, the overall noise of the night would have made conversation difficult; as it was, they sat in a stiff silence that felt like a third presence. The roads in the area were covered with a light sandy gravel, which, although it didn’t accumulate, was soft and crumbly. It quickly soaked up water, and the wheels sank heavily and deeply into it.

At length, after crossing from ten to twelve miles of these eternal heaths under the eternally drumming storm, they could discern eyelets of light winking to them in the distance from under a nebulous brow of pale haze. They were looking on the little town of Havenpool. Soon after this cross-roads were reached, one of which, at right angles to their present direction, led down on the left to that place. Here the man stopped, and informed them that the horses would be able to go but a mile or two further.

After traveling between ten to twelve miles across these endless heaths under the constant pounding of the storm, they could see little lights flickering in the distance through a pale hazy mist. They were looking at the small town of Havenpool. Soon after they reached the cross-roads, one of which, turning at a right angle to their current path, led down to the left toward that town. The man stopped here and let them know that the horses could only go another mile or two.

'Very well, we must have others that can,' said Mountclere. 'Does our way lie through the town?'

'Alright, we need to find others who can,' said Mountclere. 'Is our route through the town?'

'No, sir-unless we go there to change horses, which I thought to do. The direct road is straight on. Havenpool lies about three miles down there on the left. But the water is over the road, and we had better go round. We shall come to no place for two or three miles, and then only to Flychett.'

'No, sir—unless we're going there to switch horses, which I was thinking of doing. The direct road goes straight ahead. Havenpool is about three miles down on the left. But the water covers the road, so we should take a detour. We won't reach any place for another two or three miles, and then it will only be Flychett.'

'What's Flychett like?'

'What's Flychett about?'

'A trumpery small bit of a village.'

'A small, unremarkable village.'

'Still, I think we had better push on,' said Sol. 'I am against running the risk of finding the way flooded about Havenpool.'

'Still, I think we should keep going,' said Sol. 'I don't want to risk finding the path flooded around Havenpool.'

'So am I,' returned Mountclere.

"Me too," replied Mountclere.

'I know a wheelwright in Flychett,' continued Sol, 'and he keeps a beer-house, and owns two horses. We could hire them, and have a bit of sommat in the shape of victuals, and then get on to Anglebury. Perhaps the rain may hold up by that time. Anything's better than going out of our way.'

'I know a wheelwright in Flychett,' Sol continued, 'and he runs a pub and owns two horses. We could rent them, grab some food, and then head to Anglebury. Hopefully, the rain will stop by then. Anything's better than taking a detour.'

'Yes. And the horses can last out to that place,' said Mountclere. 'Up and on again, my man.'

'Yeah. And the horses can make it to that spot,' said Mountclere. 'Keep pushing on, my friend.'

On they went towards Flychett. Still the everlasting heath, the black hills bulging against the sky, the barrows upon their round summits like warts on a swarthy skin. The storm blew huskily over bushes of heather and furze that it was unable materially to disturb, and the travellers proceeded as before. But the horses were now far from fresh, and the time spent in reaching the next village was quite half as long as that taken up by the previous heavy portion of the drive. When they entered Flychett it was about three.

On they went toward Flychett. The endless heath stretched out before them, the dark hills looming against the sky, with mounds on their rounded tops like blemishes on a rough surface. The storm blew roughly over clusters of heather and gorse that it couldn’t significantly disrupt, and the travelers continued as before. But the horses were now pretty worn out, and the time taken to reach the next village was about twice as long as what the previous tough part of the journey had taken. When they entered Flychett, it was around three o'clock.

'Now, where's the inn?' said Mountclere, yawning.

'Now, where's the inn?' Mountclere asked, yawning.

'Just on the knap,' Sol answered. ''Tis a little small place, and we must do as well as we can.'

'Right on the dot,' Sol replied. 'It's a bit of a small place, and we have to make the best of it.'

They pulled up before a cottage, upon the whitewashed front of which could be seen a square board representing the sign. After an infinite labour of rapping and shouting, a casement opened overhead, and a woman's voice inquired what was the matter. Sol explained, when she told them that the horses were away from home.

They stopped in front of a cottage, where a square sign was visible on the whitewashed facade. After what felt like endless knocking and shouting, a window opened above, and a woman’s voice asked what the issue was. Sol explained, and she informed them that the horses were out at the moment.

'Now we must wait till these are rested,' growled Mountclere. 'A pretty muddle!'

'Now we have to wait until they're rested,' grumbled Mountclere. 'What a mess!'

'It cannot be helped,' answered Sol; and he asked the woman to open the door. She replied that her husband was away with the horses and van, and that they could not come in.

'There's nothing we can do,' Sol said; and he asked the woman to unlock the door. She replied that her husband had taken the horses and the wagon, and that they couldn't come in.

Sol was known to her, and he mentioned his name; but the woman only began to abuse him.

Sol was familiar to her, and he mentioned his name; but the woman just started to insult him.

'Come, publican, you'd better let us in, or we'll have the law for't,' rejoined Sol, with more spirit. 'You don't dare to keep nobility waiting like this.'

'Come on, publican, you should let us in, or we'll involve the law,' Sol replied more spiritedly. 'You can't just keep nobility waiting like this.'

'Nobility!'

'Royalty!'

'My mate hev the title of Honourable, whether or no; so let's have none of your slack,' said Sol.

'My friend has the title of Honorable, whether you like it or not; so let's not have any of your nonsense,' said Sol.

'Don't be a fool, young chopstick,' exclaimed Mountclere. 'Get the door opened.'

'Don't be an idiot, young chopstick,' shouted Mountclere. 'Get the door opened.'

'I will-in my own way,' said Sol testily. 'You mustn't mind my trading upon your quality, as 'tis a case of necessity. This is a woman nothing will bring to reason but an appeal to the higher powers. If every man of title was as useful as you are to-night, sir, I'd never call them lumber again as long as I live.'

"I will—in my own way," Sol said irritably. "You shouldn't take it personally that I'm using your status, but it's a matter of necessity. This woman can only be reasoned with by appealing to the higher powers. If every man of title was as helpful as you are tonight, sir, I’d never call them useless again for as long as I live."

'How singular!'

'How unique!'

'There's never a bit of rubbish that won't come in use if you keep it seven years.'

'There's never a piece of junk that won't be useful if you hold onto it for seven years.'

'If my utility depends upon keeping you company, may I go to h—- for lacking every atom of the virtue.'

'If my worth relies on spending time with you, then I might as well go to hell for lacking every bit of that virtue.'

'Hear, hear! But it hardly is becoming in me to answer up to a man so much older than I, or I could say more. Suppose we draw a line here for the present, sir, and get indoors?'

'Hear, hear! But it's really not appropriate for me to respond to someone so much older than I am, or I would have more to say. How about we call it a day for now, sir, and head inside?'

'Do what you will, in Heaven's name.'

'Do what you want, for Heaven's sake.'

A few more words to the woman resulted in her agreeing to admit them if they would attend to themselves afterwards. This Sol promised, and the key of the door was let down to them from the bedroom window by a string. When they had entered, Sol, who knew the house well, busied himself in lighting a fire, the driver going off with a lantern to the stable, where he found standing-room for the two horses. Mountclere walked up and down the kitchen, mumbling words of disgust at the situation, the few of this kind that he let out being just enough to show what a fearfully large number he kept in.

A few more words with the woman led her to agree to let them in if they would take care of themselves afterward. Sol promised this, and the key to the door was lowered to them from the bedroom window by a string. Once they entered, Sol, who was familiar with the house, got busy lighting a fire while the driver took a lantern to the stable, where he found enough room for the two horses. Mountclere paced the kitchen, muttering words of disgust about the situation, with the few he let out only revealing a small glimpse of the huge number he was actually holding back.

'A-calling up people at this time of morning!' the woman occasionally exclaimed down the stairs. 'But folks show no mercy upon their flesh and blood-not one bit or mite.'

'A-calling up people at this time of morning!' the woman occasionally shouted down the stairs. 'But people have no mercy on their family—none at all.'

'Now never be stomachy, my good soul,' cried Sol from the fireplace, where he stood blowing the fire with his breath. 'Only tell me where the victuals bide, and I'll do all the cooking. We'll pay like princes-especially my mate.'

'Now don’t be greedy, my good friend,' yelled Sol from the fireplace, where he was blowing on the fire. 'Just tell me where the food is, and I’ll handle all the cooking. We’ll pay like royalty—especially my buddy.'

'There's but little in house,' said the sleepy woman from her bedroom. 'There's pig's fry, a side of bacon, a conger eel, and pickled onions.'

'There's not much in the house,' said the sleepy woman from her bedroom. 'There's pig's fry, a side of bacon, a conger eel, and pickled onions.'

'Conger eel?' said Sol to Mountclere.

'Conger eel?' Sol said to Mountclere.

'No, thank you.'

'No, thanks.'

'Pig's fry?'

'No, thank you.'

'No, thanks.'

'Well, then, tell me where the bacon is,' shouted Sol to the woman.

'You must find it,' came again down the stairs. ''Tis somewhere up in chimley, but in which part I can't mind. Really I don't know whether I be upon my head or my heels, and my brain is all in a spin, wi' being rafted up in such a larry!'

'You have to find it,' came again from upstairs. 'It's somewhere in the chimney, but I can't remember where. Honestly, I don't know if I'm coming or going, and my mind is all mixed up from being stuck in such a mess!'

'Bide where you be, there's a dear,' said Sol. 'We'll do it all. Just tell us where the tea-caddy is, and the gridiron, and then you can go to sleep again.'

'Stay where you are, sweetie,' said Sol. 'We'll take care of everything. Just tell us where the tea caddy is and the gridiron, and then you can go back to sleep.'

The woman appeared to take his advice, for she gave the information, and silence soon reigned upstairs.

The woman seemed to take his advice, as she shared the information, and silence quickly filled the upstairs.

When one piece of bacon had been with difficulty cooked over the newly-lit fire, Sol said to Mountclere, with the rasher on his fork: 'Now look here, sir, I think while I am making the tea, you ought to go on griddling some more of these, as you haven't done nothing at all?'

When one piece of bacon had been cooked with some effort over the freshly lit fire, Sol said to Mountclere, with the rasher on his fork: 'Now look, I think while I'm making the tea, you should keep grilling some more of these since you haven't done anything at all?'

'I do the paying. . . . Well, give me the bacon.'

'I’ll handle the payment. . . . Alright, pass me the bacon.'

'And when you have done yours, I'll cook the man's, as the poor feller's hungry, I make no doubt.'

'And when you're done with yours, I'll make the guy's meal, since I’m sure the poor guy's hungry.'

Mountclere, fork in hand, then began with his rasher, tossing it about the gridiron in masterly style, Sol attending to the tea. He was attracted from this occupation by a brilliant flame up the chimney, Mountclere exclaiming, 'Now the cursed thing is on fire!'

Mountclere, fork in hand, began with his bacon, skillfully flipping it on the grill, while Sol took care of the tea. He was pulled away from this task by a bright flare up the chimney, and Mountclere shouted, "Now the damn thing is on fire!"

'Blow it out-hard-that's it! Well now, sir, do you come and begin upon mine, as you must be hungry. I'll finish the griddling. Ought we to mind the man sitting down in our company, as there's no other room for him? I hear him coming in.'

'Blow it out hard—that's it! Well now, sir, are you ready to start on mine, since you must be hungry? I'll finish cooking. Should we pay attention to the man sitting with us, since there's no other space for him? I hear him coming in.'

'O no-not at all. Put him over at that table.'

'O no—not at all. Put him over at that table.'

'And I'll join him. You can sit here by yourself, sir.'

'And I'll join him. You can stay here by yourself, sir.'

The meal was despatched, and the coachman again retired, promising to have the horses ready in about an hour and a half. Sol and Mountclere made themselves comfortable upon either side of the fireplace, since there was no remedy for the delay: after sitting in silence awhile, they nodded and slept.

The meal was served, and the driver left again, promising to have the horses ready in about an hour and a half. Sol and Mountclere got comfortable on either side of the fireplace, as there was no fix for the delay: after sitting in silence for a while, they nodded off and slept.

How long they would have remained thus, in consequence of their fatigues, there is no telling, had not the mistress of the cottage descended the stairs about two hours later, after peeping down upon them at intervals of five minutes during their sleep, lest they should leave without her knowledge. It was six o'clock, and Sol went out for the man, whom he found snoring in the hay-loft. There was now real necessity for haste, and in ten minutes they were again on their way.

How long they would have stayed like that, due to their exhaustion, is anyone's guess, if the woman of the cottage hadn't come down the stairs about two hours later, after checking on them every five minutes while they slept, to make sure they didn't leave without her knowing. It was six o'clock, and Sol went to get the man, who he found snoring in the hayloft. There was now a real need to hurry, and in ten minutes they were back on their way.

Day dawned upon the 'Red Lion' inn at Anglebury with a timid and watery eye. From the shadowy archway came a shining lantern, which was seen to be dangling from the hand of a little bow-legged old man-the hostler, John. Having reached the front, he looked around to measure the daylight, opened the lantern, and extinguished it by a pinch of his fingers. He paused for a moment to have the customary word or two with his neighbour the milkman, who usually appeared at this point at this time.

Day broke over the 'Red Lion' inn in Anglebury, looking a bit gray and drizzly. From the dark archway, a bright lantern appeared, held by a little bow-legged old man—the hostler, John. Once he got to the front, he looked around to see how much daylight there was, opened the lantern, and snuffed it out with a pinch of his fingers. He took a moment to exchange the usual pleasantries with his neighbor, the milkman, who typically showed up around this time.

'It sounds like the whistle of the morning train,' the milkman said as he drew near, a scream from the further end of the town reaching their ears. 'Well, I hope, now the wind's in that quarter, we shall ha'e a little more fine weather-hey, hostler?'

'It sounds like the whistle of the morning train,' the milkman said as he approached, a scream from the far end of the town reaching their ears. 'Well, I hope with the wind blowing this way, we'll have a bit more nice weather—hey, stablekeeper?'

'What be ye a talking o'?'

'What are you saying?'

'Can hear the whistle plain, I say.'

'I can hear the whistle clearly, I say.'

'O ay. I suppose you do. But faith, 'tis a poor fist I can make at hearing anything. There, I could have told all the same that the wind was in the east, even if I had not seed poor Thomas Tribble's smoke blowing across the little orchard. Joints be a true weathercock enough when past three-score. These easterly rains, when they do come, which is not often, come wi' might enough to squail a man into his grave.'

'O yeah. I guess you do. But honestly, I'm really bad at picking up on anything. There, I could have told just the same that the wind was coming from the east, even if I hadn't seen poor Thomas Tribble's smoke drifting across the little orchard. My joints are a pretty good weather vane now that I'm over sixty. These east winds and rains, when they actually show up, which isn't very often, come with enough force to knock a man into his grave.'

'Well, we must look for it, hostler. . . . Why, what mighty ekkypage is this, come to town at such a purbHANDlinking time of day?'

'Well, we need to search for it, innkeeper. . . . Why, what a huge ruckus is this, coming to town at such an odd time of day?'

''Tis what time only can tell-though 'twill not be long first,' the hostler replied, as the driver of the pair of horses and carriage containing Sol and Mountclere slackened pace, and drew rein before the inn.

'It's something that only time will reveal—though it won't be long,' the hostler replied, as the driver of the pair of horses and carriage carrying Sol and Mountclere slowed down and pulled up before the inn.

Fresh horses were immediately called for, and while they were being put in the two travellers walked up and down.

Fresh horses were quickly requested, and while they were being harnessed, the two travelers paced back and forth.

'It is now a quarter to seven o'clock,' said Mountclere; 'and the question arises, shall I go on to Knollsea, or branch off at Corvsgate Castle for Enckworth? I think the best plan will be to drive first to Enckworth, set me down, and then get him to take you on at once to Knollsea. What do you say?'

'It's a quarter to seven,' Mountclere said. 'So, the question is, should I continue to Knollsea or turn off at Corvsgate Castle for Enckworth? I think the best plan is to drive to Enckworth first, drop me off, and then have him take you straight to Knollsea. What do you think?'

'When shall I reach Knollsea by that arrangement?'

'When will I get to Knollsea with that plan?'

'By half-past eight o'clock. We shall be at Enckworth before eight, which is excellent time.'

'By 8:30. We’ll be at Enckworth before 8, which is great timing.'

'Very well, sir, I agree to that,' said Sol, feeling that as soon as one of the two birds had been caught, the other could not mate without their knowledge.

'Sure thing, sir, I'm on board with that,' said Sol, sensing that once one of the two birds was caught, the other couldn't pair up without them knowing.

The carriage and horses being again ready, away they drove at once, both having by this time grown too restless to spend in Anglebury a minute more than was necessary.

The carriage and horses ready again, they took off right away, both having become too restless to spend even a minute longer in Anglebury than absolutely necessary.

The hostler and his lad had taken the jaded Sandbourne horses to the stable, rubbed them down, and fed them, when another noise was heard outside the yard; the omnibus had returned from meeting the train. Relinquishing the horses to the small stable-lad, the old hostler again looked out from the arch.

The stable keeper and his assistant had taken the tired Sandbourne horses to the stable, groomed them, and fed them, when they heard another sound outside the yard; the shuttle bus had come back from picking up the train. Handing off the horses to the young stable helper, the old stable keeper peered out from the arch again.

A young man had stepped from the omnibus, and he came forward. 'I want a conveyance of some sort to take me to Knollsea, at once. Can you get a horse harnessed in five minutes?'

A young man got off the bus and approached. 'I need some kind of ride to take me to Knollsea right away. Can you have a horse ready in five minutes?'

'I'll make shift to do what I can master, not promising about the minutes. The truest man can say no more. Won't ye step into the bar, sir, and give your order? I'll let ye know as soon as 'tis ready.'

'I’ll do my best, sir, but I can’t guarantee the exact time. The most honest person can’t say more than that. Will you step into the bar, sir, and place your order? I’ll let you know as soon as it’s ready.'

Christopher turned into a room smelling strongly of the night before, and stood by the newly-kindled fire to wait. He had just come in haste from Melchester. The upshot of his excitement about the wedding, which, as the possible hour of its solemnization drew near, had increased till it bore him on like a wind, was this unpremeditated journey. Lying awake the previous night, the hangings of his bed pulsing to every beat of his heart, he decided that there was one last and great service which it behoved him, as an honest man and friend, to say nothing of lover, to render to Ethelberta at this juncture. It was to ask her by some means whether or not she had engaged with open eyes to marry Lord Mountclere; and if not, to give her a word or two of enlightenment. That done, she might be left to take care of herself.

Christopher walked into a room that still smelled strongly of the previous night and stood by the newly-lit fire to wait. He had just hurried back from Melchester. The excitement he felt about the wedding—growing stronger as the time for the ceremony approached—was what drove him to make this unplanned trip. Lying awake the night before, with the hangings of his bed pulsing with each heartbeat, he decided that he needed to do one last important thing as a friend and, not to mention, a lover for Ethelberta at this moment. He wanted to find out, by any means necessary, whether she was fully aware of her engagement to marry Lord Mountclere; and if she wasn’t, to offer her some insight. Once that was done, she could manage the rest on her own.

His plan was to obtain an interview with Picotee, and learn from her accurately the state of things. Should he, by any possibility, be mistaken in his belief as to the contracting parties, a knowledge of the mistake would be cheaply purchased by the journey. Should he not, he would send up to Ethelberta the strong note of expostulation which was already written, and waiting in his pocket. To intrude upon her at such a time was unseemly; and to despatch a letter by a messenger before evidence of its necessity had been received was most undesirable. The whole proceeding at best was clumsy; yet earnestness is mostly clumsy; and how could he let the event pass without a protest? Before daylight on that autumn morning he had risen, told Faith of his intention, and started off.

His plan was to meet with Picotee to get the real story. If he happened to be wrong about who was involved, finding out would be a small price to pay for the trip. If he was right, he would send Ethelberta the stern note of protest that he had already written and was keeping in his pocket. It wouldn't be right to disturb her at such a moment, and sending a letter with a messenger before confirming its necessity would be a poor choice. The whole situation was awkward, but intense feelings often come off as awkward; how could he let this moment go by without saying something? Before dawn on that autumn morning, he got up, informed Faith of his plan, and set out.

As soon as the vehicle was ready, Christopher hastened to the door and stepped up. The little stable-boy led the horse a few paces on the way before relinquishing his hold; at the same moment a respectably dressed man on foot, with a small black bag in his hand, came up from the opposite direction, along the street leading from the railway. He was a thin, elderly man, with grey hair; that a great anxiety pervaded him was as plainly visible as were his features. Without entering the inn, he came up at once to old John.

As soon as the vehicle was ready, Christopher hurried to the door and stepped inside. The young stable-boy led the horse a few steps down the path before letting go; at the same time, a well-dressed man on foot, holding a small black bag, approached from the opposite direction along the street that came from the railway. He was a thin, older man with gray hair; it was obvious that he was deeply anxious, just as his features revealed. Instead of entering the inn, he went straight up to old John.

'Have you anything going to Knollsea this morning that I can get a lift in?' said the pedestrian-no other than Ethelberta's father.

'Is there any chance I'm able to get a ride to Knollsea this morning?' asked the pedestrian—none other than Ethelberta's father.

'Nothing empty, that I know of.'

'Nothing empty, as far as I know.'

'Or carrier?'

'Or delivery service?'

'No.'

'A matter of fifteen shillings, then, I suppose?'

'A matter of fifteen shillings, then, I guess?'

'Yes-no doubt. But yond there's a young man just now starting; he might not take it ill if ye were to ask him for a seat, and go halves in the hire of the trap. Shall I call out?'

'Yes, no doubt. But there's a young man over there who just started; he might not mind if you asked him for a seat and shared the cost of the ride. Should I call out to him?'

'Ah, do.'

Sure thing.

The hostler bawled to the stable-boy, who put the question to Christopher. There was room for two in the dogcart, and Julian had no objection to save the shillings of a fellow-traveller who was evidently not rich. When Chickerel mounted to his seat, Christopher paused to look at him as we pause in some enactment that seems to have been already before us in a dream long ago. Ethelberta's face was there, as the landscape is in the map, the romance in the history, the aim in the deed: denuded, rayless, and sorry, but discernible.

The hostler shouted to the stable-boy, who asked Christopher the question. There was space for two in the dogcart, and Julian didn't mind sharing to save the coins of a fellow traveler who clearly wasn’t well-off. When Chickerel climbed into his seat, Christopher took a moment to look at him, like we do when we pause during something that feels like it was part of a dream we had long ago. Ethelberta's face was there, just like the landscape appears on a map, the romance exists in history, and the purpose is evident in the action: stripped bare, without light, and pitiful, but still recognizable.

For the moment, however, this did not occur to Julian. He took the whip, the boy loosed his hold upon the horse, and they proceeded on their way.

For now, though, Julian didn't think of that. He grabbed the whip, the boy let go of the horse, and they continued on their way.

'What slap-dash jinks may there be going on at Knollsea, then, my sonny?' said the hostler to the lad, as the dogcart and the backs of the two men diminished on the road. 'You be a Knollsea boy: have anything reached your young ears about what's in the wind there, David Straw?'

'What crazy antics might be happening at Knollsea, then, my boy?' said the stablehand to the lad as the dogcart and the two men disappeared down the road. 'You're a Knollsea kid; has anything come to your young ears about what's going on there, David Straw?'

'No, nothing: except that 'tis going to be Christmas day in five weeks: and then a hide-bound bull is going to be killed if he don't die afore the time, and gi'ed away by my lord in three-pound junks, as a reward to good people who never curse and sing bad songs, except when they be drunk; mother says perhaps she will have some, and 'tis excellent if well stewed, mother says.'

'No, nothing: except that it's going to be Christmas in five weeks: and then a stubborn bull is going to be killed if it doesn't die before then, and given away by my lord in three-pound chunks, as a reward to good people who never curse and sing bad songs, except when they're drunk; mom says maybe she'll have some, and it's great if it's well stewed, mom says.'

'A very fair chronicle for a boy to give, but not what I asked for. When you try to answer a old man's question, always bear in mind what it was that old man asked. A hide-bound bull is good when well stewed, I make no doubt-for they who like it; but that's not it. What I said was, do you know why three fokes, a rich man, a middling man, and a poor man, should want horses for Knollsea afore seven o'clock in the morning on a bHANDlinking day in Fall, when everything is as wet as a dishclout, whereas that's more than often happens in fine summer weather?'

'A very fair story for a boy to share, but not what I asked for. When you try to answer an old man's question, always keep in mind what that old man asked. A tough bull is good when well cooked, I'm sure—for those who like it; but that’s not the point. What I said was, do you know why three folks, a rich man, a middle-class man, and a poor man, would want horses for Knollsea before seven o'clock in the morning on a rainy day in Fall, when everything is as wet as a dishcloth, while that’s more often the case in nice summer weather?'

'No-I don't know, John hostler.'

'No, I don't know, John.'

'Then go home and tell your mother that ye be no wide-awake boy, and that old John, who went to school with her father afore she was born or thought o', says so. . . . Chok' it all, why should I think there's sommat going on at Knollsea? Honest travelling have been so rascally abused since I was a boy in pinners, by tribes of nobodies tearing from one end of the country to t'other, to see the sun go down in salt water, or the moon play jack-lantern behind some rotten tower or other, that, upon my song, when life and death's in the wind there's no telling the difference!'

'Then go home and tell your mother that you’re not a very sharp boy, and that old John, who went to school with her father long before she was born or even thought of, says so. . . . Seriously, why should I think there’s anything happening at Knollsea? Honest traveling has been so badly messed up since I was a kid, with groups of nobodies rushing from one end of the country to the other, just to watch the sun set in the ocean or see the moon play tricks behind some crumbling tower or another, that, honestly, when life and death are at stake, you can’t tell the difference!'

'I like their sixpences ever so much.'

'I really like their sixpences a lot.'

'Young sonny, don't you answer up to me when you baint in the story-stopping my words in that fashion. I won't have it, David. Now up in the tallet with ye, there's a good boy, and down with another lock or two of hay-as fast as you can do it for me.'

'Young son, don’t you speak back to me when you’re interrupting my words like that. I won’t allow it, David. Now up in the loft with you, there’s a good boy, and bring down another lock or two of hay—as quickly as you can for me.'

The boy vanished under the archway, and the hostler followed at his heels. Meanwhile the carriage bearing Mr. Mountclere and Sol was speeding on its way to Enckworth. When they reached the spot at which the road forked into two, they left the Knollsea route, and keeping thence under the hills for the distance of five or six miles, drove into Lord Mountclere's park. In ten minutes the house was before them, framed in by dripping trees.

The boy disappeared under the archway, and the innkeeper followed closely behind him. Meanwhile, the carriage carrying Mr. Mountclere and Sol was racing toward Enckworth. When they arrived at the point where the road split into two, they took the route away from Knollsea and continued along the hills for about five or six miles, finally arriving at Lord Mountclere's park. In ten minutes, the house appeared in front of them, surrounded by dripping trees.

Mountclere jumped out, and entered without ceremony. Sol, being anxious to know if Lord Mountclere was there, ordered the coachman to wait a few moments. It was now nearly eight o'clock, and the smoke which ascended from the newly-lit fires of the Court painted soft blue tints upon the brown and golden leaves of lofty boughs adjoining.

Mountclere jumped out and walked in without any formalities. Sol, eager to find out if Lord Mountclere was there, told the driver to wait a minute. It was almost eight o'clock, and the smoke rising from the newly lit fires in the Court painted soft blue shades on the brown and golden leaves of the tall branches nearby.

'O, Ethelberta!' said Sol, as he regarded the fair prospect.

'O, Ethelberta!' said Sol, admiring the beautiful view.

The gravel of the drive had been washed clean and smooth by the night's rain, but there were fresh wheelmarks other than their own upon the track. Yet the mansion seemed scarcely awake, and stillness reigned everywhere around.

The gravel of the driveway had been washed clean and smooth by the night’s rain, but there were fresh tire tracks besides their own on the path. Still, the mansion seemed hardly awake, and silence reigned all around.

Not more than three or four minutes had passed when the door was opened for Mountclere, and he came hastily from the doorsteps.

Not more than three or four minutes had gone by when the door opened for Mountclere, and he hurried out from the doorsteps.

'I must go on with you,' he said, getting into the vehicle. 'He's gone.'

'I have to continue with you,' he said, getting into the vehicle. 'He's gone.'

'Where-to Knollsea?' said Sol.

'Where to, Knollsea?' said Sol.

'Yes,' said Mountclere. 'Now, go ahead to Knollsea!' he shouted to the man. 'To think I should be fooled like this! I had no idea that he would be leaving so soon! We might perhaps have been here an hour earlier by hard striving. But who was to dream that he would arrange to leave it at such an unearthly time of the morning at this dark season of the year? Drive-drive!' he called again out of the window, and the pace was increased.

'Yes,' said Mountclere. 'Now, head to Knollsea!' he shouted to the man. 'I can't believe I was tricked like this! I had no clue he would be leaving so soon! We might have managed to get here an hour earlier if we had pushed harder. But who would have thought he’d plan to leave at such an ungodly hour during this dark time of year? Drive—drive!' he called again out of the window, and they picked up the pace.

'I have come two or three miles out of my way on account of you,' said Sol sullenly. 'And all this time lost. I don't see why you wanted to come here at all. I knew it would be a waste of time.'

'I went two or three miles out of my way for you,' Sol said sulkily. 'And I've wasted all this time. I don't understand why you wanted to come here in the first place. I knew it would be pointless.'

'Damn it all, man,' said Mountclere; 'it is no use for you to be angry with me!'

'Damn it all, man,' Mountclere said; 'there's no point in you being angry with me!'

'I think it is, for 'tis you have brought me into this muddle,' said Sol, in no sweeter tone. 'Ha, ha! Upon my life I should be inclined to laugh, if I were not so much inclined to do the other thing, at Berta's trick of trying to make close family allies of such a cantankerous pair as you and I! So much of one mind as we be, so alike in our ways of living, so close connected in our callings and principles, so matched in manners and customs! 'twould be a thousand pities to part us-hey, Mr. Mountclere!'

"I think it is, because you got me into this mess," said Sol, in a tone that wasn't any sweeter. "Ha, ha! Honestly, I’d feel like laughing if I weren’t so tempted to feel the opposite about Berta's attempt to make us, such a difficult pair, into close family allies! We’re so much alike, living the same way, connected in our work and beliefs, and matched in our habits and customs! It would be such a shame to separate us—right, Mr. Mountclere!"

Mountclere faintly laughed with the same hideous merriment at the same idea, and then both remained in a withering silence, meant to express the utter contempt of each for the other, both in family and in person. They passed the Lodge, and again swept into the highroad.

Mountclere chuckled softly with the same ugly amusement at the same thought, and then they both fell into a chilling silence, meant to show their complete disdain for each other, both in family and personally. They went past the Lodge and once again joined the main road.

'Drive on!' said Mountclere, putting his head again out of the window, and shouting to the man. 'Drive like the devil!' he roared again a few minutes afterwards, in fuming dissatisfaction with their rate of progress.

'Step on it!' shouted Mountclere, sticking his head out of the window and yelling at the driver. 'Drive like crazy!' he yelled again a few minutes later, frustrated with how slowly they were going.

'Baint I doing of it?' said the driver, turning angrily round. 'I ain't going to ruin my governor's horses for strangers who won't pay double for 'em-not I. I am driving as fast as I can. If other folks get in the way with their traps I suppose I must drive round 'em, sir?'

'Am I not doing it?' said the driver, turning around angrily. 'I'm not going to ruin my boss's horses for strangers who won't even pay double for them—not a chance. I'm driving as fast as I can. If other people get in the way with their carts, do I have to drive around them, sir?'

There was a slight crash.

There was a small crash.

'There!' continued the coachman. 'That's what comes of my turning round!'

'There!' the coachman said. 'That's what happens when I turn around!'

Sol looked out on the other side, and found that the forewheel of their carriage had become locked in the wheel of a dogcart they had overtaken, the road here being very narrow. Their coachman, who knew he was to blame for this mishap, felt the advantage of taking time by the forelock in a case of accusation, and began swearing at his victim as if he were the sinner. Sol jumped out, and looking up at the occupants of the other conveyance, saw against the sky the back elevation of his father and Christopher Julian, sitting upon a little seat which they overhung, like two big puddings upon a small dish.

Sol looked out and saw that the front wheel of their carriage had gotten stuck in the wheel of a dogcart they had passed, the road being very narrow here. Their coachman, knowing he was at fault for this incident, realized he needed to take control of the situation before being accused, and started blaming the other driver as if he were the one at fault. Sol jumped out and, looking up at the people in the other vehicle, noticed his father and Christopher Julian sitting on a tiny seat, sticking out like two big puddings on a small plate, against the sky.

'Father-what, you going?' said Sol. 'Is it about Berta that you've come?'

'Dad—where are you going?' Sol asked. 'Did you come to talk about Berta?'

'Yes, I got your letter,' said Chickerel, 'and I felt I should like to come-that I ought to come, to save her from what she'll regret. Luckily, this gentleman, a stranger to me, has given me a lift from Anglebury, or I must have hired.' He pointed to Christopher.

'Yes, I got your letter,' said Chickerel, 'and I felt I should come—I needed to come, to save her from what she’ll regret. Luckily, this guy, a stranger to me, gave me a ride from Anglebury, or I would have had to hire one.' He pointed to Christopher.

'But he's Mr. Julian!' said Sol.

'You are Mrs. Petherwin's father?-I have travelled in your company without knowing it!' exclaimed Christopher, feeling and looking both astonished and puzzled. At first, it had appeared to him that, in direct antagonism to his own purpose, her friends were favouring Ethelberta's wedding; but it was evidently otherwise.

'Are you Mrs. Petherwin's father? I didn't realize I was traveling with you!' exclaimed Christopher, feeling both shocked and confused. At first, he thought that her friends were actively supporting Ethelberta's wedding, which was the opposite of what he wanted, but it clearly wasn't the case.

'Yes, that's father,' said Sol. 'Father, this is Mr. Julian. Mr. Julian, this gentleman here is Lord Mountclere's brother-and, to cut the story short, we all wish to stop the wedding.'

'Yes, that's dad,' said Sol. 'Dad, this is Mr. Julian. Mr. Julian, this guy here is Lord Mountclere's brother—and to get straight to the point, we all want to stop the wedding.'

'Then let us get on, in Heaven's name!' said Mountclere. 'You are the lady's father?'

'Then let's get going, for Heaven's sake!' said Mountclere. 'Are you the lady's father?'

'I am,' said Chickerel.

"I'm here," said Chickerel.

'Then you had better come into this carriage. We shall go faster than the dogcart. Now, driver, are the wheels right again?'

'Then you should get into this carriage. We'll go faster than the dogcart. Now, driver, are the wheels fixed yet?'

Chickerel hastily entered with Mountclere, Sol joined them, and they sped on. Christopher drove close in their rear, not quite certain whether he did well in going further, now that there were plenty of people to attend to the business, but anxious to see the end. The other three sat in silence, with their eyes upon their knees, though the clouds were dispersing, and the morning grew bright. In about twenty minutes the square unembattled tower of Knollsea Church appeared below them in the vale, its summit just touching the distant line of sea upon sky. The element by which they had been victimized on the previous evening now smiled falsely to the low morning sun.

Chickerel quickly entered with Mountclere, and Sol joined them as they hurried on. Christopher followed closely behind, unsure if it was the right decision to go further since there were enough people to handle things, but he was eager to see how it all turned out. The other three sat quietly, staring at their knees, even though the clouds were clearing and the morning was getting brighter. About twenty minutes later, the plain, unfortified tower of Knollsea Church came into view below in the valley, its top barely grazing the distant horizon of sea and sky. The very element that had caused them trouble the night before now deceitfully sparkled in the low morning sun.

They descended the road to the village at a little more mannerly pace than that of the earlier journey, and saw the rays glance upon the hands of the church clock, which marked five-and-twenty minutes to nine.

They walked down the road to the village at a slightly more polite pace than before and saw the light reflecting off the hands of the church clock, which showed twenty-five minutes to nine.

45. KNOLLSEA-THE ROAD THENCE-ENCKWORTH

All eyes were directed to the church-gate, as the travellers descended the hill. No wedding carriages were there, no favours, no slatternly group of women brimming with interest, no aged pauper on two sticks, who comes because he has nothing else to do till dying time, no nameless female passing by on the other side with a laugh of indifference, no ringers taking off their coats as they vanish up a turret, no hobbledehoys on tiptoe outside the chancel windows-in short, none whatever of the customary accessories of a country wedding was anywhere visible.

All eyes were focused on the church gate as the travelers came down the hill. There were no wedding carriages, no decorations, no disheveled group of women filled with curiosity, no old beggar on crutches who came because he had nothing better to do until it was time to die, no unknown woman casually walking by with a laugh of indifference, no bell ringers taking off their coats as they disappeared up a tower, and no awkward young men tiptoeing outside the chancel windows—in short, none of the usual sights associated with a country wedding were in sight.

'Thank God!' said Chickerel.

"Thank God!" said Chickerel.

'Wait till you know he deserves it,' said Mountclere.

'Wait until you know he deserves it,' said Mountclere.

'Nothing's done yet between them.'

'Nothing's settled yet between them.'

'It is not likely that anything is done at this time of day. But I have decided to go to the church first. You will probably go to your relative's house at once?'

'It's probably unlikely that anything is happening at this time of day. But I've decided to go to the church first. You'll probably head to your relative's house right away?'

Sol looked to his father for a reply.

Sol looked to his dad for a response.

'No, I too shall go to the church first, just to assure myself,' said Chickerel. 'I shall then go on to Mrs Petherwin's.'

'No, I’m going to the church first, just to make sure,' said Chickerel. 'Then I’ll head over to Mrs. Petherwin's.'

The carriage was stopped at the corner of a steep incline leading down to the edifice. Mountclere and Chickerel alighted and walked on towards the gates, Sol remaining in his place. Christopher was some way off, descending the hill on foot, having halted to leave his horse and trap at a small inn at the entrance to the village.

The carriage was stopped at the corner of a steep hill leading down to the building. Mountclere and Chickerel got out and walked toward the gates, while Sol stayed in his seat. Christopher was a bit farther away, walking down the hill after stopping to leave his horse and cart at a small inn at the entrance to the village.

When Chickerel and Mountclere reached the churchyard gate they found it slightly open. The church-door beyond it was also open, but nobody was near the spot.

When Chickerel and Mountclere got to the churchyard gate, they found it slightly open. The church door beyond it was also open, but there was no one around.

'We have arrived not a minute too soon, however,' said Mountclere. 'Preparations have apparently begun. It was to be an early wedding, no doubt.'

'We have arrived just in time, though,' said Mountclere. 'It looks like preparations have already started. It was definitely meant to be an early wedding.'

Entering the building, they looked around; it was quite empty. Chickerel turned towards the chancel, his eye being attracted by a red kneeling-cushion, placed at about the middle of the altar-railing, as if for early use. Mountclere strode to the vestry, somewhat at a loss how to proceed in his difficult task of unearthing his brother, obtaining a private interview with him, and then, by the introduction of Sol and Chickerel, causing a general convulsion.

Entering the building, they looked around; it was pretty empty. Chickerel turned towards the chancel, his eye caught by a red kneeling cushion placed about in the middle of the altar railing, as if for early use. Mountclere walked over to the vestry, somewhat unsure how to proceed in his challenging task of finding his brother, getting a private meeting with him, and then, with the help of Sol and Chickerel, creating a big stir.

'Ha! here's somebody,' he said, observing a man in the vestry. He advanced with the intention of asking where Lord Mountclere was to be found. Chickerel came forward in the same direction.

'Ha! There's someone,' he said, noticing a man in the vestry. He walked over with the intention of asking where Lord Mountclere could be found. Chickerel moved forward in the same direction.

'Are you the parish clerk?' said Mountclere to the man, who was dressed up in his best clothes.

'Are you the parish clerk?' Mountclere asked the man, who was wearing his best clothes.

'I hev the honour of that calling,' the man replied.

'I have the honor of that title,' the man replied.

Two large books were lying before him on the vestry table, one of them being open. As the clerk spoke he looked slantingly on the page, as a person might do to discover if some writing were dry. Mountclere and Chickerel gazed on the same page. The book was the marriage-register.

Two large books were laid out in front of him on the vestry table, one of them open. As the clerk spoke, he glanced at the page, like someone checking if some writing was dry. Mountclere and Chickerel were looking at the same page. The book was the marriage register.

'Too late!' said Chickerel.

"Too late!" said Chickerel.

There plainly enough stood the signatures of Lord Mountclere and Ethelberta. The viscount's was very black, and had not yet dried. Her strokes were firm, and comparatively thick for a woman's, though paled by juxtaposition with her husband's muddled characters. In the space for witnesses' names appeared in trembling lines as fine as silk the autograph of Picotee, the second name being that of a stranger, probably the clerk.

There clearly were the signatures of Lord Mountclere and Ethelberta. The viscount's was very dark and hadn't dried yet. Her strokes were strong and relatively thick for a woman, although they looked faint next to her husband's messy handwriting. In the section for the witnesses' names, the delicate autograph of Picotee appeared, resembling fine silk, and the second name was that of a stranger, likely the clerk.

'Yes, yes-we are too late, it seems,' said Mountclere coolly. 'Who could have thought they'd marry at eight!'

'Yes, yes—we're too late, it looks like,' said Mountclere coolly. 'Who would have thought they'd get married at eight!'

Chickerel stood like a man baked hard and dry. Further than his first two words he could say nothing.

Chickerel stood there like a man who had been dried out in the sun. Beyond his first two words, he couldn't say anything else.

'They must have set about it early, upon my soul,' Mountclere continued. 'When did the wedding take place?' he asked of the clerk sharply.

'They must have started on it early, I swear,' Mountclere continued. 'When did the wedding happen?' he asked the clerk sharply.

'It was over about five minutes before you came in,' replied that luminary pleasantly, as he played at an invisible game of pitch-and-toss with some half-sovereigns in his pocket. 'I received orders to have the church ready at five minutes to eight this morning, though I knew nothing about such a thing till bedtime last night. It was very private and plain, not that I should mind another such a one, sir;' and he secretly pitched and tossed again.

'It finished about five minutes before you arrived,' he said cheerfully, while pretending to play an invisible game of toss with some coins in his pocket. 'I was told to have the church ready at five minutes to eight this morning, although I didn’t find out about it until last night at bedtime. It was very simple and low-key; not that I would mind having another one like it, sir;' and he secretly tossed the coins again.

Meanwhile Sol had found himself too restless to sit waiting in the carriage for more than a minute after the other two had left it. He stepped out at the same instant that Christopher came past, and together they too went on to the church.

Meanwhile, Sol found himself too restless to sit in the carriage waiting for more than a minute after the other two had exited. He stepped out just as Christopher walked by, and together they headed to the church.

'Father, ought we not to go on at once to Ethelberta's, instead of waiting?' said Sol, on reaching the vestry, still in ignorance. ''Twas no use in coming here.'

'Father, shouldn't we head straight to Ethelberta's now instead of waiting?' said Sol, as he reached the vestry, still unaware. 'There was no point in coming here.'

'No use at all,' said Chickerel, as if he had straw in his throat. 'Look at this. I would almost sooner have had it that in leaving this church I came from her grave-well, no, perhaps not that, but I fear it is a bad thing.'

'No use at all,' said Chickerel, sounding like he had straw in his throat. 'Look at this. I would almost rather have left this church coming from her grave—well, maybe not that, but I’m worried it’s a bad sign.'

Sol then saw the names in the register, Christopher saw them, and the man closed the book. Christopher could not well command himself, and he retired.

Sol then saw the names in the register, Christopher saw them, and the man closed the book. Christopher couldn't control himself, and he stepped away.

'I knew it. I always said that pride would lead Berta to marry an unworthy man, and so it has!' said Sol bitterly. 'What shall we do now? I'll see her.'

'I knew it. I always said that pride would lead Berta to marry someone unworthy, and that's exactly what happened!' Sol said bitterly. 'What should we do now? I'll go see her.'

'Do no such thing, young man,' said Mountclere. 'The best course is to leave matters alone. They are married. If you are wise, you will try to think the match a good one, and be content to let her keep her position without inconveniencing her by your intrusions or complaints. It is possible that the satisfaction of her ambition will help her to endure any few surprises to her propriety that may occur. She is a clever young woman, and has played her cards adroitly. I only hope she may never repent of the game! A-hem. Good morning.' Saying this, Mountclere slightly bowed to his relations, and marched out of the church with dignity; but it was told afterwards by the coachman, who had no love for Mountclere, that when he stepped into the fly, and was as he believed unobserved, he was quite overcome with fatuous rage, his lips frothing like a mug of hot ale.

'Don't do that, young man,' said Mountclere. 'The best thing to do is to leave it be. They're married. If you're smart, you'll try to see the marriage as a positive thing and let her keep her position without bothering her with your intrusions or complaints. It's possible that achieving her ambitions will help her handle any surprises to her reputation that might come up. She's a smart young woman and has played her cards well. I just hope she never regrets the game! Ahem. Good morning.' With that, Mountclere gave a slight bow to his relatives and walked out of the church with dignity; however, it was later reported by the coachman, who had no fondness for Mountclere, that once he got into the carriage and thought he was unnoticed, he was overwhelmed with pointless rage, his lips frothing like a mug of hot beer.

'What an impertinent gentleman 'tis,' said Chickerel. 'As if we had tried for her to marry his brother!'

'What an arrogant guy he is,' said Chickerel. 'As if we had ever tried to get her to marry his brother!'

'He knows better than that,' said Sol. 'But he'll never believe that Berta didn't lay a trap for the old fellow. He thinks at this moment that Lord Mountclere has never been told of us and our belongings.'

'He knows better than that,' said Sol. 'But he’ll never believe that Berta didn’t set a trap for the old guy. He thinks right now that Lord Mountclere has never been informed about us and our stuff.'

'I wonder if she has deceived him in anything,' murmured Chickerel. 'I can hardly suppose it. But she is altogether beyond me. However, if she has misled him on any point she will suffer for it.'

'I wonder if she has tricked him at all,' murmured Chickerel. 'I can hardly believe it. But she’s completely beyond my understanding. Still, if she has misled him in any way, she will pay the price for it.'

'You need not fear that, father. It isn't her way of working. Why couldn't she have known that when a title is to be had for the asking, the owner must be a shocking one indeed?'

'You don’t have to worry about that, Dad. That’s not how she operates. Why couldn't she realize that when a title is just there for the taking, the person holding it must be pretty awful?'

'The title is well enough. Any poor scrubs in our place must be fools not to think the match a very rare and astonishing honour, as far as the position goes. But that my brave girl will be miserable is a part of the honour I can't stomach so well. If he had been any other lord in the kingdom, we might have been merry indeed. I believe he will ruin her happiness-yes, I do-not by any personal snubbing or rough conduct, but by other things, causing her to be despised; and that is a thing she can't endure.'

'The title is good enough. Anyone around here must be foolish not to see the match as a rare and amazing honor, considering the position. But the fact that my brave girl will be unhappy is an aspect of the honor I can't bear. If he had been any other lord in the kingdom, we might have been truly joyful. I genuinely believe he will destroy her happiness—yes, I do—not through any personal insults or harsh behavior, but through other things that will make her feel looked down upon; and that's something she can't stand.'

'She's not to be despised without a deal of trouble-we must remember that. And if he insults her by introducing new favourites, as they say he did his first wife, I'll call upon him and ask his meaning, and take her away.'

'She shouldn't be looked down upon without a lot of effort—we have to keep that in mind. And if he disrespects her by bringing in new favorites, like they say he did with his first wife, I'll confront him, ask what he means by that, and take her away.'

'Nonsense-we shall never know what he does, or how she feels; she will never let out a word. However unhappy she may be, she will always deny it-that's the unfortunate part of such marriages.'

'Nonsense—we'll never know what he does, or how she feels; she will never say a word. No matter how unhappy she might be, she will always deny it—that's the sad part of these kinds of marriages.'

'An old chap like that ought to leave young women alone, damn him!'

'An old guy like that should stay away from young women, damn him!'

The clerk came nearer. 'I am afraid I cannot allow bad words to be spoke in this sacred pile,' he said. 'As far as my personal self goes, I should have no objection to your cussing as much as you like, but as a official of the church my conscience won't allow it to be done.'

The clerk stepped closer. "I'm sorry, but I can't let profanity be spoken in this holy place," he said. "As for me personally, I wouldn't mind if you cursed all you want, but as a church official, my conscience won't permit it."

'Your conscience has allowed something to be done that cussing and swearing are godly worship to.'

'Your conscience has accepted that cursing and swearing are acts of worship.'

'The prettiest maid is left out of harness, however,' said the clerk. 'The little witness was the chicken to my taste-Lord forgive me for saying it, and a man with a wife and family!'

'The prettiest maid is left out of the picture, though,' said the clerk. 'The little witness was definitely my type—Lord forgive me for saying it, and here I am, a man with a wife and kids!'

Sol and his father turned to withdraw, and soon forgot the remark, but it was frequently recalled by Christopher.

Sol and his dad turned to leave and soon forgot about the comment, but Christopher often thought about it.

'Do you think of trying to see Ethelberta before you leave?' said Sol.

"Are you thinking about trying to see Ethelberta before you go?" said Sol.

'Certainly not,' said Chickerel. 'Mr. Mountclere's advice was good in that. The more we keep out of the way the more good we are doing her. I shall go back to Anglebury by the carrier, and get on at once to London. You will go with me, I suppose?'

'Definitely not,' said Chickerel. 'Mr. Mountclere's advice was right about that. The less we interfere, the more we help her. I'm going to head back to Anglebury with the carrier and then go straight to London. I assume you'll come with me?'

'The carrier does not leave yet for an hour or two.'

'The carrier won't leave for another hour or two.'

'I shall walk on, and let him overtake me. If possible, I will get one glimpse of Enckworth Court, Berta's new home; there may be time, if I start at once.'

'I’ll keep walking and let him catch up to me. If I can, I want to catch a glimpse of Enckworth Court, Berta’s new home; there might be time if I head out right away.'

'I will walk with you,' said Sol.

'There is room for one with me,' said Christopher. 'I shall drive back early in the afternoon.'

'There's space for one more with me,' said Christopher. 'I'll head back early in the afternoon.'

'Thank you,' said Sol. 'I will endeavour to meet you at Corvsgate.'

'Thanks,' said Sol. 'I'll try to meet you at Corvsgate.'

Thus it was arranged. Chickerel could have wished to search for Picotee, and learn from her the details of this mysterious matter. But it was particularly painful to him to make himself busy after the event; and to appear suddenly and uselessly where he was plainly not wanted to appear would be an awkwardness which the pleasure of seeing either daughter could scarcely counterbalance. Hence he had resolved to return at once to town, and there await the news, together with the detailed directions as to his own future movements, carefully considered and laid down, which were sure to be given by the far-seeing Ethelberta.

So it was settled. Chickerel would have liked to look for Picotee and find out from her the details of this mysterious situation. However, it was particularly hard for him to keep himself occupied after the event, and showing up suddenly and without purpose where he clearly wasn't wanted would create an awkwardness that the pleasure of seeing either daughter wouldn't really make up for. Therefore, he decided to head back to town right away and wait there for the news, along with the detailed instructions regarding his future actions, which were sure to be provided by the insightful Ethelberta.

Sol and his father walked on together, Chickerel to meet the carrier just beyond Enckworth, Sol to wait for Christopher at Corvsgate. His wish to see, in company with his father, the outline of the seat to which Ethelberta had been advanced that day, was the triumph of youthful curiosity and interest over dogged objection. His father's wish was based on calmer reasons.

Sol and his dad walked together, heading to meet the carrier just beyond Enckworth, while Sol was going to wait for Christopher at Corvsgate. His desire to see, alongside his father, the outline of the place where Ethelberta had been promoted that day was a victory of youthful curiosity and excitement over stubborn resistance. His dad's wish was grounded in more rational reasons.

Christopher, lone and out of place, remained in the church yet a little longer. He desultorily walked round. Reaching the organ chamber, he looked at the instrument, and was surprised to find behind it a young man. Julian first thought him to be the organist; on second inspection, however, he proved to be a person Christopher had met before, under far different circumstances; it was our young friend Ladywell, looking as sick and sorry as a lily with a slug in its stalk.

Christopher, feeling alone and out of place, stayed in the church a little longer. He aimlessly wandered around. When he got to the organ chamber, he looked at the instrument and was surprised to find a young man behind it. At first, Christopher thought he was the organist, but upon closer inspection, he realized it was someone he had met before, under very different circumstances; it was our young friend Ladywell, looking as sick and sad as a lily with a slug on its stem.

The occasion, the place, and their own condition, made them kin. Christopher had despised Ladywell, Ladywell had disliked Christopher; but a third item neutralized the other two-it was their common lot.

The occasion, the place, and their own situation made them connected. Christopher had looked down on Ladywell, and Ladywell had not liked Christopher; but a third factor balanced out the other two—it was their shared fate.

Christopher just nodded, for they had only met on Ethelberta's stairs. Ladywell nodded more, and spoke. 'The church appears to be interesting,' he said.

Christopher just nodded, since they had only met on Ethelberta's stairs. Ladywell nodded more and said, "The church seems to be interesting,"

'Yes. Such a tower is rare in England,' said Christopher.

'Yes. That kind of tower is rare in England,' said Christopher.

They then dwelt on other features of the building, thence enlarging to the village, and then to the rocks and marine scenery, both avoiding the malady they suffered from-the marriage of Ethelberta.

They then focused on other aspects of the building, then expanded to talk about the village, and then to the rocks and ocean scenery, both steering clear of the problem they faced—Ethelberta’s marriage.

'The village streets are very picturesque, and the cliff scenery is good of its kind,' rejoined Ladywell. 'The rocks represent the feminine side of grandeur. Here they are white, with delicate tops. On the west coast they are higher, black, and with angular summits. Those represent grandeur in its masculine aspect. It is merely my own idea, and not very bright, perhaps.'

'The village streets are quite charming, and the views from the cliffs are nice in their own way,' replied Ladywell. 'The rocks show a softer kind of majesty. Here they’re white with delicate tops. On the west coast, they’re taller, black, and jagged. Those show a more rugged kind of grandeur. It’s just my own opinion, and maybe not a very clever one.'

'It is very ingenious,' said Christopher, 'and perfectly true.'

"It’s really clever," Christopher said, "and completely true."

Ladywell was pleased. 'I am here at present making sketches for my next subject-a winter sea. Otherwise I should not have-happened to be in the church.'

Ladywell was pleased. 'I'm currently working on sketches for my next subject—a winter sea. Otherwise, I wouldn't have just happened to be in the church.'

'You are acquainted with Mrs. Petherwin-I think you are Mr. Ladywell, who painted her portrait last season?'

'You know Mrs. Petherwin—I believe you’re Mr. Ladywell, the one who painted her portrait last season?'

'Yes,' said Ladywell, colouring.

"Yeah," said Ladywell, blushing.

'You may have heard her speak of Mr. Julian?'

'Have you heard her talk about Mr. Julian?'

'O yes,' said Ladywell, offering his hand. Then by degrees their tongues wound closer round the subject of their sadness, each tacitly owning to what he would not tell.

'O yes,' said Ladywell, extending his hand. Gradually, they began to talk more intimately about their sadness, each of them quietly acknowledging what they wouldn’t say out loud.

'I saw it,' said Ladywell heavily.

"I saw it," Ladywell said with a weighty tone.

'Did she look troubled?'

'Did she seem upset?'

'Not in the least-bright and fresh as a May morning. She has played me many a bitter trick, and poor Neigh too, a friend of mine. But I cannot help forgiving her. . . . I saw a carriage at the door, and strolled in. The ceremony was just proceeding, so I sat down here. Well, I have done with Knollsea. The place has no further interest for me now. I may own to you as a friend, that if she had not been living here I should have studied at some other coast-of course that's in confidence.'

'Not at all—she's as bright and fresh as a May morning. She's pulled many a nasty trick on me and poor Neigh, a friend of mine. But I can’t help forgiving her... I saw a carriage at the door and decided to walk in. The ceremony was just starting, so I took a seat here. Well, I’m done with Knollsea. The place doesn’t interest me anymore. I can admit to you as a friend that if she hadn’t been living here, I would have studied somewhere else—of course, that’s just between us.'

'I understand, quite.'

'I get it, totally.'

'I only arrived in the neighbourhood two days ago, and did not set eyes upon her till this morning, she has kept so entirely indoors.'

'I just moved into the neighborhood two days ago, and I didn't see her until this morning because she has stayed completely inside.'

Then the young men parted, and half-an-hour later the ingenuous Ladywell came from the visitors' inn by the shore, a man walking behind him with a quantity of artists' materials and appliances. He went on board the steamer, which this morning had performed the passage in safety. Ethelberta single having been the loadstone in the cliffs that had attracted Ladywell hither, Ethelberta married was the negative pole of the same, sending him away. And thus did a woman put an end to the only opportunity of distinction, on Art-exhibition walls, that ever offered itself to the tortuous ways, quaint alleys, and marbled bluffs of Knollsea, as accessories in the picture of a winter sea.

Then the young men went their separate ways, and half an hour later, the naive Ladywell came from the visitors' inn by the shore, followed by a man carrying a bunch of art materials and supplies. He boarded the steamer, which had safely completed its journey that morning. Ethelberta as a single woman had been the draw that brought Ladywell here, while Ethelberta as a married woman was the reason he was now leaving. And so, a woman ended the only chance for recognition on the walls of the Art exhibition that ever presented itself amid the winding paths, quirky alleys, and marbled cliffs of Knollsea, serving as a backdrop to the image of a winter sea.

Christopher's interest in the village was of the same evaporating nature. He looked upon the sea, and the great swell, and the waves sending up a sound like the huzzas of multitudes; but all the wild scene was irksome now. The ocean-bound steamers far away on the horizon inspired him with no curiosity as to their destination; the house Ethelberta had occupied was positively hateful; and he turned away to wait impatiently for the hour at which he had promised to drive on to meet Sol at Corvsgate.

Christopher's interest in the village was just as fleeting. He gazed at the sea, the large swells, and the waves making sounds like cheers from a crowd; but the wild scene felt annoying now. The ocean-bound steamers far away on the horizon didn't spark any curiosity about where they were headed; the house Ethelberta had lived in was downright detestable; and he turned away to impatiently wait for the time he had promised to drive on to meet Sol at Corvsgate.

Sol and Chickerel plodded along the road, in order to skirt Enckworth before the carrier came up. Reaching the top of a hill on their way, they paused to look down on a peaceful scene. It was a park and wood, glowing in all the matchless colours of late autumn, parapets and pediments peering out from a central position afar. At the bottom of the descent before them was a lodge, to which they now descended. The gate stood invitingly open. Exclusiveness was no part of the owner's instincts: one could see that at a glance. No appearance of a well-rolled garden-path attached to the park-drive; as is the case with many, betokening by the perfection of their surfaces their proprietor's deficiency in hospitality. The approach was like a turnpike road full of great ruts, clumsy mendings; bordered by trampled edges and incursions upon the grass at pleasure. Butchers and bakers drove as freely herein as peers and peeresses. Christening parties, wedding companies, and funeral trains passed along by the doors of the mansion without check or question. A wild untidiness in this particular has its recommendations; for guarded grounds ever convey a suspicion that their owner is young to landed possessions, as religious earnestnesss implies newness of conversion, and conjugal tenderness recent marriage.

Sol and Chickerel trudged along the road to avoid Enckworth before the carrier caught up with them. When they reached the top of a hill, they stopped to take in a peaceful view. Below was a park and woods, shining in the stunning colors of late autumn, with parapets and pediments visible in the distance. At the bottom of the hill was a lodge, which they now headed towards. The gate stood invitingly open. The owner's lack of exclusivity was clear at a glance. There was no well-kept garden path leading to the park drive, unlike many places, which often show their owner's lack of hospitality by how pristine their surfaces are. The approach looked like a bumpy road full of deep ruts and awkward repairs, lined with trampled edges and grass invaded at will. Butchers and bakers drove through just as freely as lords and ladies. Christening parties, wedding guests, and funeral processions passed by the mansion without a second thought. This wild untidiness has its charms; guarded grounds always suggest that their owner is new to land ownership, just as religious enthusiasm indicates a recent conversion and romantic affection suggests a new marriage.

Half-an-hour being wanting as yet to Chickerel's time with the carrier, Sol and himself, like the rest of the world when at leisure, walked into the extensive stretch of grass and grove. It formed a park so large that not one of its owners had ever wished it larger, not one of its owner's rivals had ever failed to wish it smaller, and not one of its owner's satellites had ever seen it without praise. They somewhat avoided the roadway passing under the huge, misshapen, ragged trees, and through fern brakes, ruddy and crisp in their decay. On reaching a suitable eminence, the father and son stood still to look upon the many-chimneyed building, or rather conglomeration of buildings, to which these groves and glades formed a setting.

With half an hour left until Chickerel's meeting with the carrier, Sol and his father, like everyone else enjoying their free time, walked into the vast expanse of grass and trees. It was such a large park that none of its owners had ever wanted it to be bigger, none of their rivals had ever wished it smaller, and none of their followers had ever seen it without complimenting it. They avoided the road that ran beneath the large, oddly shaped, ragged trees and through the fern thickets, which were a bright red and crisp in their decay. Upon reaching a suitable hill, the father and son paused to take in the sight of the many-chimneyed building, or rather collection of buildings, which these groves and clearings beautifully surrounded.

'We will just give a glance,' said Chickerel, 'and then go away. It don't seem well to me that Ethelberta should have this; it is too much. The sudden change will do her no good. I never believe in anything that comes in the shape of wonderful luck. As it comes, so it goes. Had she been brought home today to one of those tenant-farms instead of these woods and walls, I could have called it good fortune. What she should have done was glorify herself by glorifying her own line of life, not by forsaking that line for another. Better have been admired as a governess than shunned as a peeress, which is what she will be. But it is just the same everywhere in these days. Young men will rather wear a black coat and starve than wear fustian and do well.'

'We'll just take a quick look,' said Chickerel, 'and then we'll leave. It doesn’t seem right to me that Ethelberta should have this; it's too much. The sudden change won’t do her any good. I never trust anything that comes as a stroke of luck. As it comes, it goes. If she had been brought home today to one of those tenant farms instead of these woods and walls, I could have considered it good fortune. What she should have done is uplift herself by embracing her own way of life, not by abandoning that for another. It’s better to be admired as a governess than to be avoided as a peeress, which is what she'll become. But it’s the same everywhere nowadays. Young men would rather wear a black coat and starve than wear rough clothes and do well.'

'One man to want such a monstrous house as that! Well, 'tis a fine place. See, there's the carpenters' shops, the timber-yard, and everything, as if it were a little town. Perhaps Berta may hire me for a job now and then.'

'One guy wanting such a huge house like that! Well, it’s a nice place. See, there are the carpenters' shops, the lumber yard, and everything, like a small town. Maybe Berta will hire me for a job now and then.'

'I always knew she would cut herself off from us. She marked for it from childhood, and she has finished the business thoroughly.'

'I always knew she would distance herself from us. She showed signs of it since childhood, and she has completely followed through.'

'Well, it is no matter, father, for why should we want to trouble her? She may write, and I shall answer; but if she calls to see me, I shall not return the visit; and if she meets me with her husband or any of her new society about her, I shall behave as a stranger.'

'Well, it doesn't matter, dad, because why should we trouble her? She can write, and I'll reply; but if she comes to see me, I won't return the visit; and if I run into her with her husband or any of her new friends, I’ll act like a stranger.'

'It will be best,' said Chickerel. 'Well, now I must move.'

'It'll be best,' said Chickerel. 'Alright, now I have to go.'

However, by the sorcery of accident, before they had very far retraced their steps an open carriage became visible round a bend in the drive. Chickerel, with a servant's instinct, was for beating a retreat.

However, due to an unforeseen twist of fate, before they had even gone too far in retracing their steps, an open carriage appeared around a curve in the drive. Chickerel, sensing trouble, was eager to make a quick getaway.

'No,' said Sol. 'Let us stand our ground. We have already been seen, and we do no harm.'

'No,' said Sol. 'Let's hold our ground. We've already been spotted, and we aren't causing any harm.'

So they stood still on the edge of the drive, and the carriage drew near. It was a landau, and the sun shone in upon Lord Mountclere, with Lady Mountclere sitting beside him, like Abishag beside King David.

So they stood still at the edge of the driveway as the carriage approached. It was a landau, and the sun shone down on Lord Mountclere, with Lady Mountclere sitting next to him, like Abishag next to King David.

Very blithe looked the viscount, for he rode upon a cherub to-day. She appeared fresh, rosy, and strong, but dubious; though if mien was anything, she was a viscountess twice over. Her dress was of a dove-coloured material, with a bonnet to match, a little tufted white feather resting on the top, like a truce-flag between the blood of noble and vassal. Upon the cool grey of her shoulders hung a few locks of hair, toned warm as fire by the sunshiny addition to its natural hue.

The viscount looked very cheerful today because he was riding a cherub. She seemed fresh, rosy, and strong, but a bit unsure; however, if looks counted for anything, she was twice a viscountess. Her dress was made of dove-colored fabric, with a matching bonnet, featuring a small tufted white feather on top, like a peace flag between the blood of the noble and the commoner. A few locks of her hair, warmed by the sun, hung against the cool grey of her shoulders.

Chickerel instinctively took off his hat; Sol did the same.

Chickerel instinctively removed his hat; Sol did the same.

For only a moment did Ethelberta seem uncertain how to act. But a solution to her difficulty was given by the face of her brother. There she saw plainly at one glance more than a dozen speeches would have told-for Sol's features thoroughly expressed his intention that to him she was to be a stranger. Her eyes flew to Chickerel, and he slightly shook his head. She understood them now. With a tear in her eye for her father, and a sigh in her bosom for Sol, she bowed in answer to their salute; her husband moved his hat and nodded, and the carriage rolled on. Lord Mountclere might possibly be making use of the fine morning in showing her the park and premises. Chickerel, with a moist eye, now went on with his son towards the highroad. When they reached the lodge, the lodge-keeper was walking in the sun, smoking his pipe. 'Good morning,' he said to Chickerel.

For just a moment, Ethelberta looked unsure about what to do. But she found her answer in her brother's expression. In a single glance, she understood more than a dozen speeches could have conveyed—Sol’s face clearly showed that he intended for her to be a stranger to him. Her eyes darted to Chickerel, who gave a slight shake of his head. She got it now. With a tear for her father and a sigh for Sol, she returned their greeting; her husband tipped his hat and nodded, and the carriage continued on. Lord Mountclere was probably taking advantage of the beautiful morning to show her the park and grounds. Chickerel, with a misty eye, continued on with his son toward the main road. When they reached the lodge, the lodge-keeper was outside in the sunshine, smoking his pipe. "Good morning," he said to Chickerel.

'Any rejoicings at the Court to-day?' the butler inquired.

"Any celebrations at the Court today?" the butler asked.

'Quite the reverse. Not a soul there. 'Tisn't knowed anywhere at all. I had no idea of such a thing till he brought my lady here. Not going off, neither. They've come home like the commonest couple in the land, and not even the bells allowed to ring.'

'Not at all. No one is there. It's not known anywhere. I had no clue about this until he brought my lady here. They're not leaving either. They’ve come home like the most ordinary couple around, and not even the bells are allowed to ring.'

They walked along the public road, and the carrier came in view.

They walked down the public road, and the carrier came into sight.

'Father,' said Sol, 'I don't think I'll go further with you. She's gone into the house; and suppose she should run back without him to try to find us? It would be cruel to disappoint her. I'll bide about here for a quarter of an hour, in case she should. Mr. Julian won't have passed Corvsgate till I get there.'

'Father,' said Sol, 'I don't think I'm going to keep going with you. She's gone into the house, and what if she comes running back without him to look for us? It would be really unfair to let her down. I'll hang around here for about fifteen minutes, just in case she does. Mr. Julian won't have made it past Corvsgate by the time I get there.'

'Well, one or two of her old ways may be left in her still, and it is not a bad thought. Then you will walk the rest of the distance if you don't meet Mr. Julian? I must be in London by the evening.'

'Well, maybe one or two of her old habits are still with her, and that's not a bad thought. So, you'll walk the rest of the way if you don't run into Mr. Julian? I need to be in London by this evening.'

'Any time to-night will do for me. I shall not begin work until to-morrow, so that the four o'clock train will answer my purpose.'

'Any time tonight works for me. I won’t start working until tomorrow, so the four o'clock train will suit my needs.'

Thus they parted, and Sol strolled leisurely back. The road was quite deserted, and he lingered by the park fence.

Thus they parted, and Sol walked back slowly. The road was pretty empty, and he spent some time by the park fence.

'Sol!' said a bird-like voice; 'how did you come here?'

'Sol!' said a bird-like voice. 'How did you get here?'

He looked up, and saw a figure peering down upon him from the top of the park wall, the ground on the inside being higher than the road. The speaker was to the expected Ethelberta what the moon is to the sun, a star to the moon. It was Picotee.

He looked up and saw someone leaning over the park wall, where the ground inside was higher than the road. The person speaking was to the expected Ethelberta what the moon is to the sun, a star to the moon. It was Picotee.

'Hullo, Picotee!' said Sol.

'Hey, Picotee!' said Sol.

'There's a little gate a quarter of a mile further on,' said Picotee. 'We can meet there without your passing through the big lodge. I'll be there as soon as you.'

'There's a little gate about a quarter of a mile further on,' Picotee said. 'We can meet there without you having to go through the big lodge. I'll be there as soon as you are.'

Sol ascended the hill, passed through the second gate, and turned back again, when he met Picotee coming forward under the trees. They walked together in this secluded spot.

Sol climbed the hill, went through the second gate, and turned around once more when he saw Picotee approaching under the trees. They strolled together in this quiet area.

'Berta says she wants to see you and father,' said Picotee breathlessly. 'You must come in and make yourselves comfortable. She had no idea you were here so secretly, and she didn't know what to do.'

"Berta says she wants to see you and Dad," Picotee said breathlessly. "You should come in and get comfortable. She didn't know you were here secretly, and she didn't know what to do."

'Father's gone,' said Sol.

"Dad's gone," said Sol.

'How vexed she will be! She thinks there is something the matter-that you are angry with her for not telling you earlier. But you will come in, Sol?'

'How upset she will be! She thinks something's wrong—that you're mad at her for not telling you sooner. But you're coming in, right, Sol?'

'No, I can't come in,' said her brother.

'No, I can't come in,' her brother said.

'Why not? It is such a big house, you can't think. You need not come near the front apartments, if you think we shall be ashamed of you in your working clothes. How came you not to dress up a bit, Sol? Still, Berta won't mind it much. She says Lord Mountclere must take her as she is, or he is kindly welcome to leave her.'

'Why not? It's such a huge house, you can't imagine. You don’t have to go near the front rooms if you think we’ll be embarrassed by you in your work clothes. Why didn’t you dress up a bit, Sol? Still, Berta won't mind too much. She says Lord Mountclere can take her as she is, or he's welcome to leave her.'

'Ah, well! I might have had a word or two to say about that, but the time has gone by for it, worse luck. Perhaps it is best that I have said nothing, and she has had her way. No, I shan't come in, Picotee. Father is gone, and I am going too.'

'Ah, well! I might have had something to say about that, but the moment has passed, unfortunately. Maybe it's for the best that I didn't say anything, and she got her way. No, I won't come in, Picotee. Dad is gone, and I’m leaving too.'

'O Sol!'

'Oh Sun!'

'We are rather put out at her acting like this-father and I and all of us. She might have let us know about it beforehand, even if she is a lady and we what we always was. It wouldn't have let her down so terrible much to write a line. She might have learnt something that would have led her to take a different step.'

'We’re pretty annoyed with her for acting like this—my father, the rest of us, everyone. She could have at least given us a heads-up, even if she is a lady and we are who we've always been. It wouldn’t have hurt her that much to write a note. She might have learned something that would have made her reconsider her choices.'

'But you will see poor Berta? She has done no harm. She was going to write long letters to all of you to-day, explaining her wedding, and how she is going to help us all on in the world.'

'But you will see poor Berta? She hasn’t done anything wrong. She was planning to write long letters to all of you today, explaining her wedding and how she’s going to help us all get ahead in life.'

Sol paused irresolutely. 'No, I won't come in,' he said. 'It would disgrace her, for one thing, dressed as I be; more than that, I don't want to come in. But I should like to see her, if she would like to see me; and I'll go up there to that little fir plantation, and walk up and down behind it for exactly half-an-hour. She can come out to me there.' Sol had pointed as he spoke to a knot of young trees that hooded a knoll a little way off.

Sol hesitated. "No, I won't go in," he said. "It would embarrass her, for one thing, the way I'm dressed; besides, I just don't want to go in. But I would like to see her if she'd like to see me, and I'll head over to that little fir grove and walk back and forth behind it for exactly half an hour. She can come out to meet me there." Sol had pointed as he spoke to a cluster of young trees that shaded a small hill not far away.

'I'll go and tell her,' said Picotee.

"I'll go and tell her," said Picotee.

'I suppose they will be off somewhere, and she is busy getting ready?'

'I guess they’ll be out somewhere, and she’s busy getting ready?'

'O no. They are not going to travel till next year. Ethelberta does not want to go anywhere; and Lord Mountclere cannot endure this changeable weather in any place but his own house.'

'O no. They aren't planning to travel until next year. Ethelberta doesn't want to go anywhere, and Lord Mountclere can't stand this unpredictable weather anywhere but his own house.'

'Poor fellow!'

'That poor guy!'

'Then you will wait for her by the firs? I'll tell her at once.'

'So, you’ll be waiting for her by the fir trees? I'll let her know right away.'

Picotee left him, and Sol went across the glade.

Picotee left him, and Sol walked across the clearing.

46. ENCKWORTH (continued)-THE ANGLEBURY HIGHWAY

He had not paced behind the firs more than ten minutes when Ethelberta appeared from the opposite side. At great inconvenience to herself, she had complied with his request.

He had been pacing behind the firs for no more than ten minutes when Ethelberta showed up from the other side. Despite the hassle it caused her, she had honored his request.

Ethelberta was trembling. She took her brother's hand, and said, 'Is father, then, gone?'

Ethelberta was shaking. She grabbed her brother's hand and said, 'Is Dad gone, then?'

'Yes,' said Sol. 'I should have been gone likewise, but I thought you wanted to see me.'

'Yeah,' said Sol. 'I should have left too, but I thought you wanted to see me.'

'Of course I did, and him too. Why did you come so mysteriously, and, I must say, unbecomingly? I am afraid I did wrong in not informing you of my intention.'

'Of course I did, and him too. Why did you arrive so mysteriously, and I must say, in such an unflattering way? I fear I made a mistake by not letting you know about my plans.'

'To yourself you may have. Father would have liked a word with you before-you did it.'

'You might want to think about yourself. Dad would have liked to talk to you before you went and did that.'

'You both looked so forbidding that I did not like to stop the carriage when we passed you. I want to see him on an important matter-his leaving Mrs. Doncastle's service at once. I am going to write and beg her to dispense with a notice, which I have no doubt she will do.'

'You both looked so intimidating that I hesitated to stop the carriage when we drove by you. I need to talk to him about something important—his immediate departure from Mrs. Doncastle's service. I’m going to write to her and ask her to waive the notice, which I’m sure she will do.'

'He's very much upset about you.'

'He's really upset with you.'

'My secrecy was perhaps an error of judgment,' she said sadly. 'But I had reasons. Why did you and my father come here at all if you did not want to see me?'

'Keeping things to myself might have been a mistake,' she said sadly. 'But I had my reasons. Why did you and my dad come here if you didn't want to see me?'

'We did want to see you up to a certain time.'

'We did want to see you until a certain time.'

'You did not come to prevent my marriage?'

'You didn't come to stop my wedding?'

'We wished to see you before the marriage-I can't say more.'

'We wanted to see you before the wedding—I can't say anything more.'

'I thought you might not approve of what I had done,' said Ethelberta mournfully. 'But a time may come when you will approve.'

'I thought you might not like what I had done,' Ethelberta said sadly. 'But there may come a time when you will approve.'

'Never.'

'Not happening.'

'Don't be harsh, Sol. A coronet covers a multitude of sins.'

'Don't be so hard, Sol. A crown hides a lot of flaws.'

'A coronet: good Lord-and you my sister! Look at my hand.' Sol extended his hand. 'Look how my thumb stands out at the root, as if it were out of joint, and that hard place inside there. Did you ever see anything so ugly as that hand-a misshaped monster, isn't he? That comes from the jackplane, and my pushing against it day after day and year after year. If I were found drowned or buried, dressed or undressed, in fustian or in broadcloth, folk would look at my hand and say, "That man's a carpenter." Well now, how can a man, branded with work as I be, be brother to a viscountess without something being wrong? Of course there's something wrong in it, or he wouldn't have married you-something which won't be righted without terrible suffering.'

'A coronet: good Lord—and you, my sister! Look at my hand.' Sol extended his hand. 'Look how my thumb sticks out at the base, as if it were dislocated, and that hard spot inside there. Have you ever seen anything so ugly as that hand—it's a deformed monster, right? That’s from the jackplane, and my pushing against it day after day, year after year. If I were found drowned or buried, dressed or undressed, in cheap fabric or fine cloth, people would look at my hand and say, "That man’s a carpenter." Well now, how can a man, marked by work like I am, be a brother to a viscountess without something being off? Of course there’s something off about it, or he wouldn't have married you—something that can’t be fixed without some serious suffering.'

'No, no,' said she. 'You are mistaken. There is no such wonderful quality in a title in these days. What I really am is second wife to a quiet old country nobleman, who has given up society. What more commonplace? My life will be as simple, even more simple, than it was before.'

'No, no,' she said. 'You’re mistaken. There isn’t anything so special about a title these days. What I really am is the second wife of a quiet old country nobleman who has retired from society. How much more ordinary can it get? My life will be just as simple, maybe even simpler, than it was before.'

'Berta, you have worked to false lines. A creeping up among the useless lumber of our nation that'll be the first to burn if there comes a flare. I never see such a deserter of your own lot as you be! But you were always like it, Berta, and I am ashamed of ye. More than that, a good woman never marries twice.'

'Berta, you've been fooling yourself. You're blending in with the useless folks in our country who will be the first to get burned when things heat up. I've never seen someone turn their back on their own people like you have! But you've always been like this, Berta, and I'm ashamed of you. Moreover, a good woman never marries twice.'

'You are too hard, Sol,' said the poor viscountess, almost crying. 'I've done it all for you! Even if I have made a mistake, and given my ambition an ignoble turn, don't tell me so now, or you may do more harm in a minute than you will cure in a lifetime. It is absurd to let republican passions so blind you to fact. A family which can be honourably traced through history for five hundred years, does affect the heart of a person not entirely hardened against romance. Whether you like the peerage or no, they appeal to our historical sense and love of old associations.'

'You're being too harsh, Sol,' said the poor viscountess, almost in tears. 'I've done everything for you! Even if I've made a mistake and let my ambition take a bad turn, please don't tell me that now, or you could cause more damage in a minute than you'll fix in a lifetime. It's ridiculous to let your republican feelings blind you to the truth. A family with an honorable legacy tracing back five hundred years does touch the heart of someone who's not completely hardened against romance. Whether you appreciate the peerage or not, they resonate with our sense of history and our affection for old connections.'

'I don't care for history. Prophecy is the only thing can do poor men any good. When you were a girl, you wouldn't drop a curtsey to 'em, historical or otherwise, and there you were right. But, instead of sticking to such principles, you must needs push up, so as to get girls such as you were once to curtsey to you, not even thinking marriage with a bad man too great a price to pay for't.'

'I don't care about history. Prophecy is the only thing that can actually help poor people. When you were a girl, you wouldn't even curtsy to them, historical or not, and you were right to do that. But instead of sticking to those principles, you had to rise up, so you could get girls like you once were to curtsy to you, not even considering that marrying a bad man is too high a price to pay for it.'

'A bad man? What do you mean by that? Lord Mountclere is rather old, but he's worthy. What did you mean, Sol?'

'A bad man? What do you mean by that? Lord Mountclere is pretty old, but he's a good person. What were you getting at, Sol?'

'Nothing-a mere sommat to say.'

'Nothing—a mere something to say.'

At that moment Picotee emerged from behind a tree, and told her sister that Lord Mountclere was looking for her.

At that moment, Picotee stepped out from behind a tree and told her sister that Lord Mountclere was looking for her.

'Well, Sol, I cannot explain all to you now,' she said. 'I will send for you in London.' She wished him goodbye, and they separated, Picotee accompanying Sol a little on his way.

'Well, Sol, I can’t explain everything to you right now,' she said. 'I’ll send for you in London.' She said goodbye to him, and they parted ways, with Picotee walking a short distance with Sol.

Ethelberta was greatly perturbed by this meeting. After retracing her steps a short distance, she still felt so distressed and unpresentable that she resolved not to allow Lord Mountclere to see her till the clouds had somewhat passed off; it was but a bare act of justice to him to hide from his sight such a bridal mood as this. It was better to keep him waiting than to make him positively unhappy. She turned aside, and went up the valley, where the park merged in miles of wood and copse.

Ethelberta was really shaken by this encounter. After walking back a little ways, she still felt so upset and unprepared that she decided she wouldn’t let Lord Mountclere see her until she felt more at ease; it wouldn’t be fair to him to show up with such a bridal vibe. It was better to make him wait than to make him truly unhappy. She turned away and headed up the valley, where the park blended into miles of woods and thickets.

She opened an iron gate and entered the wood, casually interested in the vast variety of colours that the half-fallen leaves of the season wore: more, much more, occupied with personal thought. The path she pursued became gradually involved in bushes as well as trees, giving to the spot the character rather of a coppice than a wood. Perceiving that she had gone far enough, Ethelberta turned back by a path which at this point intersected that by which she had approached, and promised a more direct return towards the Court. She had not gone many steps among the hazels, which here formed a perfect thicket, when she observed a belt of holly-bushes in their midst; towards the outskirts of these an opening on her left hand directly led, thence winding round into a clear space of greensward, which they completely enclosed. On this isolated and mewed-up bit of lawn stood a timber-built cottage, having ornamental barge-boards, balconettes, and porch. It was an erection interesting enough as an experiment, and grand as a toy, but as a building contemptible.

She opened an iron gate and stepped into the woods, casually noticing the wide range of colors that the half-fallen leaves of the season displayed: more, much more, lost in her own thoughts. The path she followed gradually became tangled with bushes and trees, giving the area more of a thicket feel than a true wood. Realizing she had gone far enough, Ethelberta turned back on a path that crossed the one she had taken to get here, promising a more direct route back to the Court. She hadn’t gone far among the hazels, which here formed a perfect thicket, when she noticed a patch of holly bushes in their midst; an opening to her left led directly towards them, winding around into a clear patch of grass that they completely surrounded. In this secluded little lawn stood a timber cottage, adorned with decorative barge-boards, balconies, and a porch. It was an interesting enough experiment and grand like a toy, but as a building, it was unimpressive.

A blue gauze of smoke floated over the chimney, as if somebody was living there; round towards the side some empty hen-coops were piled away; while under the hollies were divers frameworks of wire netting and sticks, showing that birds were kept here at some seasons of the year.

A blue haze of smoke drifted up from the chimney, as if someone lived there; nearby, some empty chicken coops were stacked away; while under the holly bushes were various frames made of wire and sticks, indicating that birds were kept here at certain times of the year.

Being lady of all she surveyed, Ethelberta crossed the leafy sward, and knocked at the door. She was interested in knowing the purpose of the peculiar little edifice.

Being the mistress of her surroundings, Ethelberta walked across the leafy lawn and knocked on the door. She wanted to find out the purpose of the strange little building.

The door was opened by a woman wearing a clean apron upon a not very clean gown. Ethelberta asked who lived in so pretty a place.

The door was opened by a woman in a neat apron over a not-so-clean dress. Ethelberta asked who lived in such a beautiful place.

'Miss Gruchette,' the servant replied. 'But she is not here now.'

'Miss Gruchette,' the servant replied. 'But she isn't here right now.'

'Does she live here alone?'

'Does she live here by herself?'

'Yes-excepting myself and a fellow-servant.'

'Yes, except for me and a coworker.'

'Oh.'

'She lives here to attend to the pheasants and poultry, because she is so clever in managing them. They are brought here from the keeper's over the hill. Her father was a fancier.'

'She lives here to take care of the pheasants and poultry because she is great at managing them. They are brought here from the keeper's place over the hill. Her father was a breeder.'

'Miss Gruchette attends to the birds, and two servants attend to Miss Gruchette?'

'Miss Gruchette takes care of the birds, and two servants help Miss Gruchette?'

'Well, to tell the truth, m'm, the servants do almost all of it. Still, that's what Miss Gruchette is here for. Would you like to see the house? It is pretty.' The woman spoke with hesitation, as if in doubt between the desire of earning a shilling and the fear that Ethelberta was not a stranger. That Ethelberta was Lady Mountclere she plainly did not dream.

'Well, to be honest, ma'am, the servants handle most of it. But that's what Miss Gruchette is here for. Would you like to see the house? It's quite nice.' The woman spoke hesitantly, as if torn between wanting to earn a little money and worrying that Ethelberta was not a stranger. She clearly had no idea that Ethelberta was Lady Mountclere.

'I fear I can scarcely stay long enough; yet I will just look in,' said Ethelberta. And as soon as they had crossed the threshold she was glad of having done so.

"I worry I can't stay for long; but I'll just drop by," said Ethelberta. And as soon as they stepped inside, she was happy she had come.

The cottage internally may be described as a sort of boudoir extracted from the bulk of a mansion and deposited in a wood. The front room was filled with nicknacks, curious work-tables, filigree baskets, twisted brackets supporting statuettes, in which the grotesque in every case ruled the design; love-birds, in gilt cages; French bronzes, wonderful boxes, needlework of strange patterns, and other attractive objects. The apartment was one of those which seem to laugh in a visitor's face and on closer examination express frivolity more distinctly than by words.

The cottage inside could be described as a kind of cozy room pulled out of a mansion and set down in a forest. The front room was filled with trinkets, interesting work tables, intricate baskets, twisted brackets holding up little statues, all showcasing a playful, quirky design. There were lovebirds in gold cages, French bronzes, amazing boxes, needlework with unusual patterns, and other charming items. This room had a way of seeming to smile at visitors, and upon closer look, it revealed a sense of lightheartedness even more clearly than words could express.

'Miss Gruchette is here to keep the fowls?' said Ethelberta, in a puzzled tone, after a survey.

'Is Miss Gruchette here to take care of the chickens?' Ethelberta asked, sounding confused after looking around.

'Yes. But they don't keep her.'

'Yes. But they don't hold onto her.'

Ethelberta did not attempt to understand, and ceased to occupy her mind with the matter. They came from the cottage to the door, where she gave the woman a trifling sum, and turned to leave. But footsteps were at that moment to be heard beating among the leaves on the other side of the hollies, and Ethelberta waited till the walkers should have passed. The voices of two men reached herself and the woman as they stood. They were close to the house, yet screened from it by the holly-bushes, when one could be heard to say distinctly, as if with his face turned to the cottage-

Ethelberta didn’t try to understand and stopped thinking about it. They came from the cottage to the door, where she gave the woman a small amount of money and turned to leave. But at that moment, they heard footsteps crunching through the leaves on the other side of the holly bushes, so Ethelberta waited for the people to pass. The voices of two men reached her and the woman as they stood there. They were close to the house but hidden from it by the holly bushes, when one of them could be heard clearly, as if he were facing the cottage—

'Lady Mountclere gone for good?'

'I suppose so. Ha-ha! So come, so go.'

'I guess so. Ha-ha! So it goes, so it comes.'

The speakers passed on, their backs becoming visible through the opening. They appeared to be woodmen.

The speakers moved on, their backs becoming visible through the opening. They seemed to be lumberjacks.

'What Lady Mountclere do they mean?' said Ethelberta.

'Which Lady Mountclere are they talking about?' Ethelberta asked.

The woman blushed. 'They meant Miss Gruchette.'

The woman blushed. 'They were talking about Miss Gruchette.'

'Oh-a nickname.'

'Oh, a nickname.'

'Yes.'

Yes.

'Why?'

The woman whispered why in a story of about two minutes' length. Ethelberta turned pale.

The woman whispered why in a story that lasted about two minutes. Ethelberta turned pale.

'Is she going to return?' she inquired, in a thin hard voice.

"Is she coming back?" she asked, in a sharp, cold tone.

'Yes; next week. You know her, m'm?'

'Yeah; next week. You know her, right?'

'No. I am a stranger.'

'No. I'm a stranger.'

'So much the better. I may tell you, then, that an old tale is flying about the neighbourhood-that Lord Mountclere was privately married to another woman, at Knollsea, this morning early. Can it be true?'

'That's great. I can tell you that there's an old rumor going around the neighborhood—that Lord Mountclere got privately married to another woman at Knollsea, early this morning. Is it true?'

'I believe it to be true.'

"I think it's true."

'And that she is of no family?'

'And that she has no family?'

'Of no family.'

'No family.'

'Indeed. Then the Lord only knows what will become of the poor thing. There will be murder between 'em.'

'For sure. Then only God knows what will happen to the poor thing. There’s going to be trouble between them.'

'Between whom?'

'Between who?'

'Her and the lady who lives here. She won't budge an inch-not she!'

'Her and the woman who lives here. She won't move an inch—not at all!'

Ethelberta moved aside. A shade seemed to overspread the world, the sky, the trees, and the objects in the foreground. She kept her face away from the woman, and, whispering a reply to her Good-morning, passed through the hollies into the leaf-strewn path. As soon as she came to a large trunk she placed her hands against it and rested her face upon them. She drew herself lower down, lower, lower, till she crouched upon the leaves. 'Ay-'tis what father and Sol meant! O Heaven!' she whispered.

Ethelberta stepped aside. A shadow seemed to cover the world, the sky, the trees, and everything in front of her. She turned her face away from the woman and quietly replied to her "Good morning," then went through the hollies into the leaf-covered path. Once she reached a large trunk, she pressed her hands against it and rested her face on them. She lowered herself down, down, until she crouched on the leaves. "Yeah—this is what Dad and Sol meant! Oh, God!" she whispered.

She soon arose, and went on her way to the house. Her fair features were firmly set, and she scarcely heeded the path in the concentration which had followed her paroxysm. When she reached the park proper she became aware of an excitement that was in progress there.

She soon got up and continued on her way to the house. Her beautiful face was set with determination, and she barely noticed the path as she focused on the emotions that had followed her outburst. When she entered the park, she realized there was an excitement happening there.

Ethelberta's absence had become unaccountable to Lord Mountclere, who could hardly permit her retirement from his sight for a minute. But at first he had made due allowance for her eccentricity as a woman of genius, and would not take notice of the half-hour's desertion, unpardonable as it might have been in other classes of wives. Then he had inquired, searched, been alarmed: he had finally sent men-servants in all directions about the park to look for her. He feared she had fallen out of a window, down a well, or into the lake. The next stage of search was to have been drags and grapnels: but Ethelberta entered the house.

Ethelberta’s absence had become inexplicable to Lord Mountclere, who could barely stand to be away from her sight for even a minute. At first, he made allowances for her quirky behavior as a woman of talent and ignored her half-hour disappearance, which would have been unacceptable in other types of wives. But then he started to inquire, search, and worry: he eventually sent servants in every direction around the park to find her. He was afraid she had fallen out of a window, down a well, or into the lake. The next step in the search would have been to use drags and grapnels, but just then, Ethelberta walked back into the house.

Lord Mountclere rushed forward to meet her, and such was her contrivance that he noticed no change. The searchers were called in, Ethelberta explaining that she had merely obeyed the wish of her brother in going out to meet him. Picotee, who had returned from her walk with Sol, was upstairs in one of the rooms which had been allotted to her. Ethelberta managed to run in there on her way upstairs to her own chamber.

Lord Mountclere hurried to meet her, and she was so clever that he didn’t notice anything was different. The searchers were brought in, and Ethelberta explained that she had simply followed her brother's wishes by going out to greet him. Picotee, who had come back from her walk with Sol, was upstairs in one of the rooms assigned to her. Ethelberta took the chance to slip in there on her way to her own room.

'Picotee, put your things on again,' she said. 'You are the only friend I have in this house, and I want one badly. Go to Sol, and deliver this message to him-that I want to see him at once. You must overtake him, if you walk all the way to Anglebury. But the train does not leave till four, so that there is plenty of time.'

'Picotee, put your things back on,' she said. 'You're the only friend I have in this house, and I really need one. Go to Sol and tell him that I want to see him right away. You have to catch up with him, even if you have to walk all the way to Anglebury. But the train doesn't leave until four, so there's plenty of time.'

'What is the matter?' said Picotee. 'I cannot walk all the way.'

'What's wrong?' Picotee asked. 'I can't walk the whole way.'

'I don't think you will have to do that-I hope not.'

'I don’t think you’ll need to do that—I really hope not.'

'He is going to stop at Corvsgate to have a bit of lunch: I might overtake him there, if I must!'

'He's going to stop at Corvsgate for a quick lunch: I might catch up with him there, if I have to!'

'Yes. And tell him to come to the east passage door. It is that door next to the entrance to the stable-yard. There is a little yew-tree outside it. On second thoughts you, dear, must not come back. Wait at Corvsgate in the little inn parlour till Sol comes to you again. You will probably then have to go home to London alone; but do not mind it. The worst part for you will be in going from the station to the Crescent; but nobody will molest you in a four-wheel cab: you have done it before. However, he will tell you if this is necessary when he gets back. I can best fight my battles alone. You shall have a letter from me the day after to-morrow, stating where I am. I shall not be here.'

'Yes. And let him know to meet at the east passage door. It’s the door right next to the entrance to the stable yard. There’s a small yew tree outside it. On second thought, you shouldn’t come back. Wait at Corvsgate in the little inn parlor until Sol comes to you again. You’ll probably have to head back to London alone afterward, but don’t worry about it. The hardest part for you will be getting from the station to the Crescent, but no one will bother you in a four-wheel cab; you’ve done it before. He’ll let you know if that’s necessary when he gets back. I can handle my battles best on my own. You’ll get a letter from me the day after tomorrow, letting you know where I am. I won’t be here.'

'But what is it so dreadful?'

'But what is so terrible about it?'

'Nothing to frighten you.' But she spoke with a breathlessness that completely nullified the assurance. 'It is merely that I find I must come to an explanation with Lord Mountclere before I can live here permanently, and I cannot stipulate with him while I am here in his power. Till I write, good-bye. Your things are not unpacked, so let them remain here for the present-they can be sent for.'

'There's nothing to worry about.' But she said it with a breathlessness that completely undermined her reassurance. 'I just need to sort things out with Lord Mountclere before I can stay here for good, and I can't negotiate with him while I'm under his authority. Until I write to you, goodbye. Your things are still packed, so leave them here for now—they can be picked up later.'

Poor Picotee, more agitated than her sister, but never questioning her orders, went downstairs and out of the house. She ran across the shrubberies, into the park, and to the gate whereat Sol had emerged some half-hour earlier. She trotted along upon the turnpike road like a lost doe, crying as she went at the new trouble which had come upon Berta, whatever that trouble might be. Behind her she heard wheels and the stepping of a horse, but she was too concerned to turn her head. The pace of the vehicle slackened, however, when it was abreast of Picotee, and she looked up to see Christopher as the driver.

Poor Picotee, more anxious than her sister but never questioning her orders, went downstairs and out of the house. She ran through the bushes, into the park, and to the gate where Sol had come out about half an hour earlier. She trotted along the road like a lost deer, crying as she thought about the new trouble that had come upon Berta, whatever that trouble was. Behind her, she heard the sound of wheels and a horse's footsteps, but she was too worried to turn her head. The vehicle slowed down, though, when it came up next to Picotee, and she looked up to see Christopher driving.

'Miss Chickerel!' he said, with surprise.

"Miss Chickerel!" he said, surprised.

Picotee had quickly looked down again, and she murmured, 'Yes.'

Picotee quickly looked down again and whispered, 'Yeah.'

Christopher asked what he could not help asking in the circumstances, 'Would you like to ride?'

Christopher asked what he couldn't help but ask in the situation, 'Do you want to go for a ride?'

'I should be glad,' said she, overcoming her flurry. 'I am anxious to overtake my brother Sol.'

"I should be glad," she said, regaining her composure. "I'm eager to catch up with my brother Sol."

'I have arranged to pick him up at Corvsgate,' said Christopher.

'I’ve set up to pick him up at Corvsgate,' Christopher said.

He descended, and assisted her to mount beside him, and drove on again, almost in silence. He was inclined to believe that some supernatural legerdemain had to do with these periodic impacts of Picotee on his path. She sat mute and melancholy till they were within half-a-mile of Corvsgate.

He got down, helped her get on next to him, and drove on again, almost in silence. He was starting to think that some kind of supernatural trick was behind these unexpected encounters with Picotee. She sat quietly and sadly until they were half a mile from Corvsgate.

'Thank you,' she said then, perceiving Sol upon the road, 'there is my brother; I will get down now.'

'Thank you,' she said, noticing Sol on the road, 'there's my brother; I'm getting down now.'

'He was going to ride on to Anglebury with me,' said Julian.

"He was going to ride to Anglebury with me," said Julian.

Picotee did not reply, and Sol turned round. Seeing her he instantly exclaimed, 'What's the matter, Picotee?'

Picotee didn't respond, and Sol turned around. Spotting her, he immediately said, "What's wrong, Picotee?"

She explained to him that he was to go back immediately, and meet her sister at the door by the yew, as Ethelberta had charged her. Christopher, knowing them so well, was too much an interested member of the group to be left out of confidence, and she included him in her audience.

She told him to go back right away and meet her sister at the door by the yew tree, as Ethelberta had instructed her. Christopher, being so familiar with them, was too much a part of the group to be left out of the conversation, so she included him in her discussion.

'And what are you to do?' said Sol to her.

'So, what are you going to do?' Sol asked her.

'I am to wait at Corvsgate till you come to me.'

'I will wait at Corvsgate until you arrive.'

'I can't understand it,' Sol muttered, with a gloomy face. 'There's something wrong; and it was only to be expected; that's what I say, Mr. Julian.'

'I don't get it,' Sol muttered, looking downcast. 'Something's off; and I saw it coming; that's what I think, Mr. Julian.'

'If necessary I can take care of Miss Chickerel till you come,' said Christopher.

'If needed, I can look after Miss Chickerel until you arrive,' said Christopher.

'Thank you,' said Sol. 'Then I will return to you as soon as I can, at the "Castle" Inn, just ahead. 'Tis very awkward for you to be so burdened by us, Mr. Julian; but we are in a trouble that I don't yet see the bottom of.'

"Thanks," Sol said. "I'll get back to you as soon as I can, at the 'Castle' Inn, just up ahead. It must be really inconvenient for you to be dealing with us, Mr. Julian, but we're in a situation that I can't quite figure out yet."

'I know,' said Christopher kindly. 'We will wait for you.'

"I know," Christopher said kindly. "We'll wait for you."

He then drove on with Picotee to the inn, which was not far off, and Sol returned again to Enckworth. Feeling somewhat like a thief in the night, he zigzagged through the park, behind belts and knots of trees, until he saw the yew, dark and clear, as if drawn in ink upon the fair face of the mansion. The way up to it was in a little cutting between shrubs, the door being a private entrance, sunk below the surface of the lawn, and invisible from other parts of the same front. As soon as he reached it, Ethelberta opened it at once, as if she had listened for his footsteps.

He then drove with Picotee to the nearby inn, while Sol returned to Enckworth. Feeling a bit like a thief in the night, he weaved through the park, navigating around clusters of trees, until he spotted the yew, dark and distinct, as if it were drawn in ink on the beautiful face of the mansion. The path to it was a small passageway between shrubs, with the door being a private entrance, sunken below the surface of the lawn, and hidden from other areas of the front. As soon as he arrived, Ethelberta opened the door immediately, as if she had been listening for his footsteps.

She took him along a passage in the basement, up a flight of steps, and into a huge, solitary, chill apartment. It was the ball-room. Spacious mirrors in gilt frames formed panels in the lower part of the walls, the remainder being toned in sage-green. In a recess between each mirror was a statue. The ceiling rose in a segmental curve, and bore sprawling upon its face gilt figures of wanton goddesses, cupids, satyrs with tambourines, drums, and trumpets, the whole ceiling seeming alive with them. But the room was very gloomy now, there being little light admitted from without, and the reflections from the mirrors gave a depressing coldness to the scene. It was a place intended to look joyous by night, and whatever it chose to look by day.

She led him through a corridor in the basement, up a set of stairs, and into a large, empty, chilly apartment. It was the ballroom. Expansive mirrors in gold frames were arranged as panels on the lower part of the walls, while the rest was painted a sage green. In the alcove between each mirror stood a statue. The ceiling arched upward in a curved shape, adorned with gilded images of mischievous goddesses, cupids, and satyrs holding tambourines, drums, and trumpets, giving the entire ceiling a lively appearance. However, the room felt very gloomy now, with little light coming in from outside, and the reflections from the mirrors added a depressing coldness to the scene. It was a space designed to look festive at night, regardless of how it appeared during the day.

'We are safe here,' said she. 'But we must listen for footsteps. I have only five minutes: Lord Mountclere is waiting for me. I mean to leave this place, come what may.'

'We're safe here,' she said. 'But we need to listen for footsteps. I only have five minutes: Lord Mountclere is waiting for me. I'm determined to leave this place, no matter what.'

'Why?' said Sol, in astonishment.

"Why?" Sol asked, amazed.

'I cannot tell you-something has occurred. God has got me in his power at last, and is going to scourge me for my bad doings-that's what it seems like. Sol, listen to me, and do exactly what I say. Go to Anglebury, hire a brougham, bring it on as far as Little Enckworth: you will have to meet me with it at one of the park gates later in the evening-probably the west, at half-past seven. Leave it at the village with the man, come on here on foot, and stay under the trees till just before six: it will then be quite dark, and you must stand under the projecting balustrade a little further on than the door you came in by. I will just step upon the balcony over it, and tell you more exactly than I can now the precise time that I shall be able to slip out, and where the carriage is to be waiting. But it may not be safe to speak on account of his closeness to me-I will hand down a note. I find it is impossible to leave the house by daylight-I am certain to be pursued-he already suspects something. Now I must be going, or he will be here, for he watches my movements because of some accidental words that escaped me.'

"I can’t tell you—something has happened. God has finally got me under his control, and it looks like He’s going to punish me for my wrongdoings. Sol, listen to me and do exactly what I say. Go to Anglebury, rent a carriage, and bring it as far as Little Enckworth: you’ll need to meet me with it at one of the park gates later in the evening—probably the west gate, at half-past seven. Leave it in the village with the man, come back here on foot, and stay under the trees until just before six: it’ll be completely dark by then, and you need to stand under the balcony a bit further down from the door you came in. I’ll step out onto the balcony above it and tell you more exactly than I can now about the exact time I’ll be able to sneak out and where the carriage should be waiting. But it might not be safe to talk too openly because he’s close to me—I’ll pass down a note. I’ve realized it’s impossible to leave the house during the day—I’m sure to be followed—he already suspects something. Now I have to go, or he’ll be here, as he’s been watching my movements because of some accidental words I let slip."

'Berta, I shan't have anything to do with this,' said Sol. 'It is not right!'

'Berta, I won't be involved in this,' said Sol. 'It's not right!'

'I am only going to Rouen, to Aunt Charlotte!' she implored. 'I want to get to Southampton, to be in time for the midnight steamer. When I am at Rouen I can negotiate with Lord Mountclere the terms on which I will return to him. It is the only chance I have of rooting out a scandal and a disgrace which threatens the beginning of my life here! My letters to him, and his to me, can be forwarded through you or through father, and he will not know where I am. Any woman is justified in adopting such a course to bring her husband to a sense of her dignity. If I don't go away now, it will end in a permanent separation. If I leave at once, and stipulate that he gets rid of her, we may be reconciled.'

'I’m just going to Rouen to see Aunt Charlotte!' she pleaded. 'I need to get to Southampton to catch the midnight steamer. Once I’m in Rouen, I can talk to Lord Mountclere about the terms for my return. It’s my only chance to eliminate a scandal and a disgrace that’s threatening the start of my life here! My letters to him and his to me can be sent through you or through Dad, and he won’t know where I am. Any woman is justified in taking such steps to make her husband see her worth. If I don’t leave now, it’ll lead to a permanent separation. If I leave right away and insist that he gets rid of her, we might be able to reconcile.'

'I can't help you: you must stick to your husband. I don't like them, or any of their sort, barring about three or four, for the reason that they despise me and all my sort. But, Ethelberta, for all that I'll play fair with them. No half-and-half trimming business. You have joined 'em, and 'rayed yourself against us; and there you'd better bide. You have married your man, and your duty is towards him. I know what he is and so does father; but if I were to help you to run away now, I should scorn myself more than I scorn him.'

'I can't help you: you have to stick with your husband. I don’t like them, or any of their kind, except for maybe three or four, because they look down on me and people like me. But, Ethelberta, even so, I’ll treat them fairly. No half-hearted support. You’ve joined them and turned against us; you might as well stay there. You’ve married your man, and your loyalty is to him. I know what he’s like, and so does Dad; but if I helped you run away now, I’d hate myself more than I hate him.'

'I don't care for that, or for any such politics! The Mountclere line is noble, and how was I to know that this member was not noble, too? As the representative of an illustrious family I was taken with him, but as a man-I must shun him.'

'I don't care about that, or any of that politics! The Mountclere line is prestigious, and how was I supposed to know that this member wasn't noble either? As the representative of a distinguished family, I was impressed by him, but as a person—I have to stay away from him.'

'How can you shun him? You have married him!'

'How can you ignore him? You’ve married him!'

'Nevertheless, I won't stay! Neither law nor gospel demands it of me after what I have learnt. And if law and gospel did demand it, I would not stay. And if you will not help me to escape, I go alone.'

'Still, I'm not going to stay! Neither law nor gospel requires me to after what I've learned. And even if law and gospel did require it, I wouldn't stay. And if you don't help me escape, I'll go by myself.'

'You had better not try any such wild thing.'

'You should definitely not attempt something so crazy.'

The creaking of a door was heard. 'O Sol,' she said appealingly, 'don't go into the question whether I am right or wrong-only remember that I am very unhappy. Do help me-I have no other person in the world to ask! Be under the balcony at six o'clock. Say you will-I must go-say you will!'

The door creaked open. "Oh Sun," she said earnestly, "don't get into whether I'm right or wrong—just remember that I'm really unhappy. Please help me—I have no one else to turn to! Be under the balcony at six o'clock. Just say you'll do it—I have to go—just say you will!"

'I'll think,' said Sol, very much disturbed. 'There, don't cry; I'll try to be under the balcony, at any rate. I cannot promise more, but I'll try to be there.'

"I'll think," said Sol, clearly upset. "Don’t cry; I’ll do my best to be under the balcony, at the very least. I can’t promise anything more, but I’ll try to be there."

She opened in the panelling one of the old-fashioned concealed modes of exit known as jib-doors, which it was once the custom to construct without architraves in the walls of large apartments, so as not to interfere with the general design of the room. Sol found himself in a narrow passage, running down the whole length of the ball-room, and at the same time he heard Lord Mountclere's voice within, talking to Ethelberta. Sol's escape had been marvellous: as it was the viscount might have seen her tears. He passed down some steps, along an area from which he could see into a row of servants' offices, among them a kitchen with a fireplace flaming like an altar of sacrifice. Nobody seemed to be concerned about him; there were workmen upon the premises, and he nearly matched them. At last he got again into the shrubberies and to the side of the park by which he had entered.

She opened one of the old-fashioned hidden exits known as jib-doors in the paneling, which used to be built without frames in the walls of big rooms to keep the overall design intact. Sol found himself in a narrow hallway that ran the entire length of the ballroom, and at the same time, he heard Lord Mountclere’s voice inside, talking to Ethelberta. Sol’s escape had been incredible; the viscount might have noticed her tears. He went down some steps and along an area where he could see into a row of servant’s rooms, including a kitchen with a fireplace blazing like a sacrificial altar. Nobody seemed to care about him; there were workers on the premises, and he almost blended in with them. Finally, he made his way back into the shrubbery and to the side of the park where he had entered.

On reaching Corvsgate he found Picotee in the parlour of the little inn, as he had directed. Mr. Julian, she said, had walked up to the ruins, and would be back again in a few minutes. Sol ordered the horse to be put in, and by the time it was ready Christopher came down from the hill. Room was made for Sol by opening the flap of the dogcart, and Christopher drove on.

On arriving at Corvsgate, he found Picotee in the parlor of the small inn, as he had instructed. She mentioned that Mr. Julian had gone up to the ruins and would be back in a few minutes. Sol requested to have the horse harnessed, and by the time it was ready, Christopher came down from the hill. They made space for Sol by opening the flap of the dogcart, and Christopher drove on.

He was anxious to know the trouble, and Sol was not reluctant to share the burden of it with one whom he believed to be a friend. He told, scrap by scrap, the strange request of Ethelberta. Christopher, though ignorant of Ethelberta's experience that morning, instantly assumed that the discovery of some concealed spectre had led to this precipitancy.

He was eager to find out what was wrong, and Sol was happy to share the burden with someone he thought was a friend. He revealed, piece by piece, the unusual request from Ethelberta. Christopher, although unaware of Ethelberta's experience that morning, quickly assumed that the discovery of some hidden ghost had caused this urgency.

'When does she wish you to meet her with the carriage?'

'When does she want you to meet her with the carriage?'

'Probably at half-past seven, at the west lodge; but that is to be finally fixed by a note she will hand down to me from the balcony.'

'Probably at 7:30, at the west lodge; but that will be confirmed by a note she'll drop down to me from the balcony.'

'Which balcony?'

'Which balcony is it?'

'The nearest to the yew-tree.'

'Closest to the yew tree.'

'At what time will she hand the note?'

'When will she hand over the note?'

'As the Court clock strikes six, she says. And if I am not there to take her instructions of course she will give up the idea, which is just what I want her to do.'

'As the Court clock strikes six, she says. And if I'm not there to take her instructions, of course, she'll abandon the idea, which is exactly what I want her to do.'

Christopher begged Sol to go. Whether Ethelberta was right or wrong, he did not stop to inquire. She was in trouble; she was too clear-headed to be in trouble without good reason; and she wanted assistance out of it. But such was Sol's nature that the more he reflected the more determined was he in not giving way to her entreaty. By the time that they reached Anglebury he repented having given way so far as to withhold a direct refusal.

Christopher urged Sol to leave. He didn't pause to consider whether Ethelberta was right or wrong. She was in a tough spot; she was too level-headed to be in trouble without good reason, and she needed help to get out of it. However, Sol's nature was such that the more he thought about it, the more resolved he became not to give in to her plea. By the time they arrived in Anglebury, he regretted not having firmly refused her request.

'It can do no good,' he said mournfully. 'It is better to nip her notion in its beginning. She says she wants to fly to Rouen, and from there arrange terms with him. But it can't be done-she should have thought of terms before.'

'It won't do any good,' he said sadly. 'It's better to cut her idea off at the start. She says she wants to fly to Rouen and then make deals with him. But that's not possible—she should have thought about the terms first.'

Christopher made no further reply. Leaving word at the 'Red Lion' that a man was to be sent to take the horse of him, he drove directly onwards to the station.

Christopher didn’t say anything else. After informing the 'Red Lion' that someone should be sent to take his horse, he drove straight to the station.

'Then you don't mean to help her?' said Julian, when Sol took the tickets-one for himself and one for Picotee.

'So you’re not going to help her?' Julian asked, as Sol took the tickets—one for himself and one for Picotee.

'I serve her best by leaving her alone!' said Sol.

"I do best for her by giving her space!" said Sol.

'I don't think so.'

"I don't think so."

'She has married him.'

'She married him.'

'She is in distress.'

'She's in distress.'

'She has married him.'

'She married him.'

Sol and Picotee took their seats, Picotee upbraiding her brother. 'I can go by myself!' she said, in tears. 'Do go back for Berta, Sol. She said I was to go home alone, and I can do it!'

Sol and Picotee sat down, with Picotee scolding her brother. "I can go by myself!" she exclaimed, in tears. "Please go back for Berta, Sol. She said I was supposed to go home alone, and I can do it!"

'You must not. It is not right for you to be hiring cabs and driving across London at midnight. Berta should have known better than propose it.'

'You shouldn't. It's not right for you to be calling cabs and driving across London at midnight. Berta should have known better than to suggest it.'

'She was flurried. Go, Sol!'

'She was flustered. Go, Sol!'

But her entreaty was fruitless.

But her plea was in vain.

'Have you got your ticket, Mr. Julian?' said Sol. 'I suppose we shall go together till we get near Melchester?'

'Do you have your ticket, Mr. Julian?' asked Sol. 'I guess we'll go together until we get close to Melchester?'

'I have not got my ticket yet-I'll be back in two minutes.'

'I haven't gotten my ticket yet—I'll be back in two minutes.'

The minutes went by, and Christopher did not reappear. The train moved off: Christopher was seen running up the platform, as if in a vain hope to catch it.

The minutes passed, and Christopher still didn’t show up. The train pulled away: Christopher was spotted running down the platform, as if hoping futilely to catch it.

'He has missed the train,' said Sol. Picotee looked disappointed, and said nothing. They were soon out of sight.

'He missed the train,' said Sol. Picotee looked disappointed and said nothing. They were soon out of sight.

'God forgive me for such a hollow pretence!' said Christopher to himself. 'But he would have been uneasy had he known I wished to stay behind. I cannot leave her in trouble like this!'

'God forgive me for this empty act!' Christopher said to himself. 'But he would have felt uneasy if he knew I wanted to stay behind. I can't leave her in a bind like this!'

He went back to the 'Red Lion' with the manner and movement of a man who after a lifetime of desultoriness had at last found something to do. It was now getting late in the afternoon. Christopher ordered a one-horse brougham at the inn, and entering it was driven out of the town towards Enckworth as the evening shades were beginning to fall. They passed into the hamlet of Little Enckworth at half-past five, and drew up at a beer-house at the end. Jumping out here, Julian told the man to wait till he should return.

He went back to the 'Red Lion' with the vibe and movement of a guy who, after a lifetime of aimlessness, had finally found something to do. It was getting late in the afternoon. Christopher ordered a one-horse carriage at the inn, and after getting in, he was driven out of town toward Enckworth as the evening shadows began to fall. They entered the small village of Little Enckworth at five-thirty and stopped at a pub at the end. Jumping out here, Julian told the driver to wait until he came back.

Thus far he had exactly obeyed her orders to Sol. He hoped to be able to obey them throughout, and supply her with the aid her brother refused. He also hoped that the change in the personality of her confederate would make no difference to her intention. That he was putting himself in a wrong position he allowed, but time and attention were requisite for such analysis: meanwhile Ethelberta was in trouble. On the one hand was she waiting hopefully for Sol; on the other was Sol many miles on his way to town; between them was himself.

So far, he had completely followed her instructions to Sol. He hoped to continue doing so and provide her with the support her brother denied. He also hoped that the shift in her associate's personality wouldn't affect her plans. He acknowledged that he was putting himself in a difficult situation, but he needed time and focus to think it through: in the meantime, Ethelberta was struggling. On one side, she was anxiously waiting for Sol; on the other, Sol was miles away heading to town; and in between them was him.

He ran with all his might towards Enckworth Park, mounted the lofty stone steps by the lodge, saw the dark bronze figures on the piers through the twilight, and then proceeded to thread the trees. Among these he struck a light for a moment: it was ten minutes to six. In another five minutes he was panting beneath the walls of her house.

He ran as fast as he could toward Enckworth Park, climbed the tall stone steps by the lodge, noticed the dark bronze statues on the piers in the fading light, and then navigated through the trees. In that moment, he glanced at his watch: it was ten minutes to six. Five minutes later, he was out of breath beneath her house's walls.

Enckworth Court was not unknown to Christopher, for he had frequently explored that spot in his Sandbourne days. He perceived now why she had selected that particular balcony for handing down directions; it was the only one round the house that was low enough to be reached from the outside, the basement here being a little way sunk in the ground.

Enckworth Court wasn't new to Christopher, as he had often visited that place during his Sandbourne days. Now he understood why she had chosen that specific balcony to give instructions; it was the only one around the house that was low enough to reach from outside, with the basement being slightly below ground level.

He went close under, turned his face outwards, and waited. About a foot over his head was the stone floor of the balcony, forming a ceiling to his position. At his back, two or three feet behind, was a blank wall-the wall of the house. In front of him was the misty park, crowned by a sky sparkling with winter stars. This was abruptly cut off upward by the dark edge of the balcony which overhung him.

He moved in closer, turned his face outward, and waited. About a foot above his head was the stone floor of the balcony, acting as a ceiling to his spot. Behind him, two or three feet away, was a plain wall—the wall of the house. In front of him was the foggy park, topped by a sky twinkling with winter stars. This view was suddenly blocked above by the dark edge of the balcony that hung over him.

It was as if some person within the room above had been awaiting his approach. He had scarcely found time to observe his situation when a human hand and portion of a bare arm were thrust between the balusters, descended a little way from the edge of the balcony, and remained hanging across the starlit sky. Something was between the fingers. Christopher lifted his hand, took the scrap, which was paper, and the arm was withdrawn. As it withdrew, a jewel on one of the fingers sparkled in the rays of a large planet that rode in the opposite sky.

It felt like someone in the room above had been waiting for him. He barely had a moment to take in his surroundings when a human hand and part of a bare arm reached through the balusters, hung down a bit from the edge of the balcony, and draped across the starlit sky. Something was held between the fingers. Christopher raised his hand, took the piece of paper, and the arm was pulled back. As it retreated, a jewel on one of the fingers glittered in the light of a bright planet shining in the sky opposite him.

Light steps retreated from the balcony, and a window closed. Christopher had almost held his breath lest Ethelberta should discover him at the critical moment to be other than Sol, and mar her deliverance by her alarm. The still silence was anything but silence to him; he felt as if he were listening to the clanging chorus of an oratorio. And then he could fancy he heard words between Ethelberta and the viscount within the room; they were evidently at very close quarters, and dexterity must have been required of her. He went on tiptoe across the gravel to the grass, and once on that he strode in the direction whence he had come. By the thick trunk of one of a group of aged trees he stopped to get a light, just as the Court clock struck six in loud long tones. The transaction had been carried out, through her impatience possibly, four or five minutes before the time appointed.

Light footsteps faded away from the balcony, and a window shut. Christopher almost held his breath, hoping Ethelberta wouldn’t notice him at that crucial moment, revealing that he was not Sol, which could ruin her escape with her panic. The stillness felt anything but silent to him; he sensed he was listening to the loud chorus of an oratorio. Then he thought he heard words exchanged between Ethelberta and the viscount inside the room; they were clearly very close, and she must have needed to be quite skillful. He tiptoed across the gravel to the grass, and once on it, he walked back in the direction he had come from. By the thick trunk of a group of old trees, he paused to light a cigarette, just as the Court clock struck six in loud, resonating tones. The deal had been done, possibly due to her impatience, four or five minutes before the scheduled time.

The note contained, in a shaken hand, in which, however, the well-known characters were distinguishable, these words in pencil:

The note was written in a shaky hand, but the familiar letters were still recognizable. It said the following in pencil:

'At half-past seven o'clock. Just outside the north lodge; don't fail.'

'At 7:30. Right outside the north lodge; don’t miss it.'

This was the time she had suggested to Sol as that which would probably best suit her escape, if she could escape at all. She had changed the place from the west to the north lodge-nothing else. The latter was certainly more secluded, though a trifle more remote from the course of the proposed journey; there was just time enough and none to spare for fetching the brougham from Little Enckworth to the lodge, the village being two miles off. The few minutes gained by her readiness at the balcony were useful now. He started at once for the village, diverging somewhat to observe the spot appointed for the meeting. It was excellently chosen; the gate appeared to be little used, the lane outside it was covered with trees, and all around was silent as the grave. After this hasty survey by the wan starlight, he hastened on to Little Enckworth.

This was the time she had suggested to Sol as the best chance for her to escape, if she could escape at all. She had changed the location from the west to the north lodge—nothing else. The north lodge was definitely more secluded, though a bit farther from the planned route; there was just enough time to get the brougham from Little Enckworth to the lodge, which was two miles away. The few minutes she gained by being ready at the balcony were useful now. He immediately set off for the village, taking a slight detour to check out the spot they agreed on for the meeting. It was a perfect choice; the gate seemed rarely used, the lane outside was lined with trees, and everything was as quiet as a tomb. After this quick look in the dim starlight, he hurried on to Little Enckworth.

An hour and a quarter later a little brougham without lamps was creeping along by the park wall towards this spot. The leaves were so thick upon the unfrequented road that the wheels could not be heard, and the horse's pacing made scarcely more noise than a rabbit would have done in limping along. The vehicle progressed slowly, for they were in good time. About ten yards from the park entrance it stopped, and Christopher stepped out.

An hour and fifteen minutes later, a small carriage without lights was slowly making its way along the park wall to this spot. The leaves were so dense on the secluded road that the wheels were silent, and the horse's steps were barely louder than a rabbit limping by. The carriage moved slowly because they weren’t in any rush. About ten yards from the park entrance, it came to a stop, and Christopher got out.

'We may have to wait here ten minutes,' he said to the driver. 'And then shall we be able to reach Anglebury in time for the up mail-train to Southampton?'

'We might need to wait here for ten minutes,' he told the driver. 'Will we then be able to make it to Anglebury in time for the incoming mail train to Southampton?'

'Half-past seven, half-past eight, half-past nine-two hours. O yes, sir, easily. A young lady in the case perhaps, sir?'

'7:30, 8:30, 9:30—two hours. Oh yes, sir, that's easy. Maybe there's a young lady involved, sir?'

'Yes.'

Yes.

'Well, I hope she'll be done honestly by, even if she is of humble station. 'Tis best, and cheapest too, in the long run.' The coachman was apparently imagining the dove about to flit away to be one of the pretty maid-servants that abounded in Enckworth Court; such escapades as these were not unfrequent among them, a fair face having been deemed a sufficient recommendation to service in that house, without too close an inquiry into character, since the death of the first viscountess.

'Well, I hope she gets treated fairly, even if she comes from a humble background. It’s the best and most cost-effective way in the long run.' The coachman seemed to be picturing the dove about to fly away as one of the pretty maids who were plentiful at Enckworth Court; such antics were not uncommon among them, as having a pretty face was seen as enough of a qualification to work there, without much concern for their character, especially after the death of the first viscountess.

'Now then, silence; and listen for a footstep at the gate.'

'Alright, everyone, quiet down; and listen for a footstep at the gate.'

Such calmness as there was in the musician's voice had been produced by considerable effort. For his heart had begun to beat fast and loud as he strained his attentive ear to catch the footfall of a woman who could only be his illegally.

The obscurity was as great as a starry sky would permit it to be. Beneath the trees where the carriage stood the darkness was total.

The darkness was as deep as a starry night would allow. Under the trees where the carriage was parked, it was completely black.

47. ENCKWORTH AND ITS PRECINCTS-MELCHESTER

To be wise after the event is often to act foolishly with regard to it; and to preserve the illusion which has led to the event would frequently be a course that omniscience itself could not find fault with. Reaction with Ethelberta was complete, and the more violent in that it threatened to be useless. Sol's bitter chiding had been the first thing to discompose her fortitude. It reduced her to a consciousness that she had allowed herself to be coerced in her instincts, and yet had not triumphed in her duty. She might have pleased her family better by pleasing her tastes, and have entirely avoided the grim irony of the situation disclosed later in the day.

To be wise after the fact often means to act foolishly about it; and keeping the illusion that led to the situation would often be a choice that even all-knowing beings couldn't criticize. Ethelberta's reaction was intense, especially since it seemed pointless. Sol's harsh words were the first thing to shake her composure. They made her realize that she had let herself be pressured against her instincts and still hadn’t succeeded in her responsibilities. She might have made her family happier by following her own preferences and completely avoided the harsh irony that became clear later in the day.

After the second interview with Sol she was to some extent composed in mind by being able to nurse a definite intention. As momentum causes the narrowest wheel to stand upright, a scheme, fairly imbibed, will give the weakest some power to maintain a position stoically.

After the second interview with Sol, she felt somewhat calm in her mind because she had a clear intention to focus on. Just like how momentum helps a narrow wheel stand upright, a well-understood plan can give even the weakest person some strength to hold their ground with confidence.

In the temporary absence of Lord Mountclere, about six o'clock, she slipped out upon the balcony and handed down a note. To her relief, a hand received it instantly.

In the short time that Lord Mountclere was away, around six o'clock, she quietly stepped out onto the balcony and dropped a note down. To her relief, a hand reached up and took it right away.

The hour and a half wanting to half-past seven she passed with great effort. The main part of the time was occupied by dinner, during which she attempted to devise some scheme for leaving him without suspicion just before the appointed moment.

The hour and a half leading up to half-past seven felt like a struggle. Most of that time was taken up by dinner, during which she tried to come up with a plan to leave him without raising any suspicion just before the designated time.

Happily, and as if by a Providence, there was no necessity for any such thing.

Happily, and as if by fate, there was no need for anything like that.

A little while before the half-hour, when she moved to rise from dinner, he also arose, tenderly begging her to excuse him for a few minutes, that he might go and write an important note to his lawyer, until that moment forgotten, though the postman was nearly due. She heard him retire along the corridor and shut himself into his study, his promised time of return being a quarter of an hour thence.

A little while before the half-hour, when she got up from dinner, he also stood up, gently asking her to excuse him for a few minutes so he could write an important note to his lawyer, which he had almost forgotten, even though the postman was about to arrive. She heard him walk down the hallway and shut himself in his study, with his promised return time being a quarter of an hour later.

Five minutes after that memorable parting Ethelberta came from the little door by the bush of yew, well and thickly wrapped up from head to heels. She skimmed across the park and under the boughs like a shade, mounting then the stone steps for pedestrians which were fixed beside the park gates here as at all the lodges. Outside and below her she saw an oblong shape-it was a brougham, and it had been drawn forward close to the bottom of the steps that she might not have an inch further to go on foot than to this barrier. The whole precinct was thronged with trees; half their foliage being overhead, the other half under foot, for the gardeners had not yet begun to rake and collect the leaves; thus it was that her dress rustled as she descended the steps.

Five minutes after that memorable goodbye, Ethelberta came out from the little door next to the yew bush, bundled up from head to toe. She glided across the park and under the branches like a shadow, then climbed the stone steps for pedestrians that were placed beside the park gates, just like at all the lodges. Below her, she spotted an oblong shape—it was a brougham, positioned close to the bottom of the steps so she wouldn’t have to walk more than a step to reach it. The whole area was filled with trees; half their leaves were above her, while the other half covered the ground, as the gardeners hadn’t started raking and gathering them yet; that’s why her dress rustled as she went down the steps.

The carriage door was held open by the driver, and she entered instantly. He shut her in, and mounted to his seat. As they drove away she became conscious of another person inside.

The driver held the carriage door open, and she stepped in right away. He closed the door and got in his seat. As they drove off, she noticed there was another person inside.

'O! Sol-it is done!' she whispered, believing the man to be her brother. Her companion made no reply.

'O! Sol-it is done!' she whispered, thinking the man was her brother. Her companion said nothing in response.

Ethelberta, familiar with Sol's moods of troubled silence, did not press for an answer. It was, indeed, certain that Sol's assistance would have been given under a sullen protest; even if unwilling to disappoint her, he might well have been taciturn and angry at her course.

Ethelberta, knowing how Sol often withdrew into his quiet, troubled thoughts, didn’t push for an answer. It was clear that Sol would have helped her but with a bitter attitude; even if he didn’t want to let her down, he could easily have been silent and upset about her decision.

They sat in silence, and in total darkness. The road ascended an incline, the horse's tramp being still deadened by the carpet of leaves. Then the large trees on either hand became interspersed by a low brushwood of varied sorts, from which a large bird occasionally flew, in its fright at their presence beating its wings recklessly against the hard stems with force enough to cripple the delicate quills. It showed how deserted was the spot after nightfall.

They sat in silence and complete darkness. The road went up a hill, the sound of the horse's hooves muffled by the carpet of leaves. Then the big trees on either side were mixed with low bushes of different kinds, from which a large bird occasionally flew in panic, flapping its wings wildly against the sturdy trunks hard enough to damage its delicate feathers. It highlighted how empty the area was after nightfall.

'Sol?' said Ethelberta again. 'Why not talk to me?'

'Sol?' Ethelberta said again. 'Why not talk to me?'

She now noticed that her fellow-traveller kept his head and his whole person as snugly back in the corner, out of her way, as it was possible to do. She was not exactly frightened, but she could not understand the reason. The carriage gave a quick turn, and stopped.

She now saw that her travel companion was keeping his head and body as far back in the corner as he could, trying to stay out of her way. She wasn't really scared, but she couldn't figure out why. The carriage took a sharp turn and came to a stop.

'Where are we now?' she said. 'Shall we get to Anglebury by nine? What is the time, Sol?'

'Where are we now?' she asked. 'Are we going to make it to Anglebury by nine? What time is it, Sol?'

'I will see,' replied her companion. They were the first words he had uttered.

'I’ll see,' replied her companion. Those were the first words he had said.

The voice was so different from her brother's that she was terrified; her limbs quivered. In another instant the speaker had struck a wax vesta, and holding it erect in his fingers he looked her in the face.

The voice was so different from her brother's that she was scared; her limbs shook. In the next moment, the speaker had struck a match and, holding it upright in his fingers, looked her in the face.

'Hee-hee-hee!' The laugher was her husband the viscount.

'Hee-hee-hee!' The person laughing was her husband, the viscount.

He laughed again, and his eyes gleamed like a couple of tarnished brass buttons in the light of the wax match.

He laughed again, and his eyes sparkled like two old brass buttons in the light of the candle.

Ethelberta might have fallen dead with the shock, so terrible and hideous was it. Yet she did not. She neither shrieked nor fainted; but no poor January fieldfare was ever colder, no ice-house more dank with perspiration, than she was then.

Ethelberta could have dropped dead from the shock; it was that awful and horrifying. But she didn’t. She neither screamed nor fainted; but there was no January fieldfare colder, and no ice house more drenched with sweat than she was at that moment.

'A very pleasant joke, my dear-hee-hee! And no more than was to be expected on this merry, happy day of our lives. Nobody enjoys a good jest more than I do: I always enjoyed a jest-hee-hee! Now we are in the dark again; and we will alight and walk. The path is too narrow for the carriage, but it will not be far for you. Take your husband's arm.'

'A very funny joke, my dear—hee-hee! And it’s exactly what we could expect on this joyful day of our lives. Nobody loves a good joke more than I do: I’ve always enjoyed a joke—hee-hee! Now we’re in the dark again, so let’s get out and walk. The path is too narrow for the carriage, but it won’t be far for you. Take your husband’s arm.'

While he had been speaking a defiant pride had sprung up in her, instigating her to conceal every weakness. He had opened the carriage door and stepped out. She followed, taking the offered arm.

While he was speaking, a strong sense of pride rose up in her, pushing her to hide any vulnerability. He opened the carriage door and got out. She followed, taking his offered arm.

'Take the horse and carriage to the stables,' said the viscount to the coachman, who was his own servant, the vehicle and horse being also his. The coachman turned the horse's head and vanished down the woodland track by which they had ascended.

'Take the horse and carriage to the stables,' said the viscount to the coachman, who was his own servant, as the vehicle and horse belonged to him as well. The coachman turned the horse's head and disappeared down the woodland path they had come up.

The viscount moved on, uttering private chuckles as numerous as a woodpecker's taps, and Ethelberta with him. She walked as by a miracle, but she would walk. She would have died rather than not have walked then.

The viscount continued on, laughing quietly to himself as frequently as a woodpecker taps, with Ethelberta beside him. She walked as if by a miracle, but she would walk. She would have rather died than not walk at that moment.

She perceived now that they were somewhere in Enckworth wood. As they went, she noticed a faint shine upon the ground on the other side of the viscount, which showed her that they were walking beside a wet ditch. She remembered having seen it in the morning: it was a shallow ditch of mud. She might push him in, and run, and so escape before he could extricate himself. It would not hurt him. It was her last chance. She waited a moment for the opportunity.

She realized they were somewhere in Enckworth wood. As they walked, she saw a faint shine on the ground next to the viscount, which indicated they were beside a wet ditch. She remembered seeing it in the morning: it was a shallow ditch full of mud. She could push him in and run away before he could get himself out. It wouldn’t hurt him. This was her last chance. She paused for a moment, waiting for the right opportunity.

'We are one to one, and I am the stronger!' she at last exclaimed triumphantly, and lifted her hand for a thrust.

'We are even, and I'm the stronger!' she finally shouted triumphantly, and raised her hand for a strike.

'On the contrary, darling, we are one to half-a-dozen, and you considerably the weaker,' he tenderly replied, stepping back adroitly, and blowing a whistle. At once the bushes seemed to be animated in four or five places.

'On the other hand, sweetheart, it's us against one to six, and you’re definitely the weaker one,' he replied gently, stepping back skillfully and blowing a whistle. Immediately, the bushes appeared to stir in four or five spots.

'John?' he said, in the direction of one of them.

'John?' he said, looking toward one of them.

'Yes, my lord,' replied a voice from the bush, and a keeper came forward.

'Yes, my lord,' replied a voice from the bushes, and a keeper stepped forward.

'William?'

'Will?'

Another man advanced from another bush.

Another man emerged from another bush.

'Quite right. Remain where you are for the present. Is Tomkins there?'

'That's right. Stay where you are for now. Is Tomkins there?'

'Yes, my lord,' said a man from another part of the thicket.

'Yes, my lord,' said a man from deeper in the bushes.

'You go and keep watch by the further lodge: there are poachers about. Where is Strongway?'

'You go and keep an eye on the far lodge: there are poachers around. Where is Strongway?'

'Just below, my lord.'

'Right below, my lord.'

'Tell him and his brother to go to the west gate, and walk up and down. Let them search round it, among the trees inside. Anybody there who cannot give a good account of himself to be brought before me to-morrow morning. I am living at the cottage at present. That's all I have to say to you.' And, turning round to Ethelberta: 'Now, dearest, we will walk a little further if you are able. I have provided that your friends shall be taken care of.' He tried to pull her hand towards him, gently, like a cat opening a door.

'Tell him and his brother to head to the west gate and walk back and forth. Let them search around it, among the trees inside. Anyone they find who can’t explain themselves properly should be brought to me tomorrow morning. I'm staying at the cottage for now. That’s all I needed to say to you.’ And, turning to Ethelberta: ‘Now, dear, let’s walk a bit further if you’re up for it. I’ve made arrangements for your friends to be taken care of.’ He gently tugged her hand toward him, like a cat trying to open a door.

They walked a little onward, and Lord Mountclere spoke again, with imperturbable good-humour:

They walked a bit further, and Lord Mountclere spoke again, with unwavering good humor:

'I will tell you a story, to pass the time away. I have learnt the art from you-your mantle has fallen upon me, and all your inspiration with it. Listen, dearest. I saw a young man come to the house to-day. Afterwards I saw him cross a passage in your company. You entered the ball-room with him. That room is a treacherous place. It is panelled with wood, and between the panels and the walls are passages for the servants, opening from the room by doors hidden in the woodwork. Lady Mountclere knew of one of these, and made use of it to let out her conspirator; Lord Mountclere knew of another, and made use of it to let in himself. His sight is not good, but his ears are unimpaired. A meeting was arranged to take place at the west gate at half-past seven, unless a note handed from the balcony mentioned another time and place. He heard it all-hee-hee!

'I’m going to tell you a story to pass the time. I’ve learned this art from you—your influence has passed on to me, along with all your inspiration. Listen, my dear. I saw a young man come to the house today. Later, I saw him walking through a hallway with you. You went into the ballroom with him. That room is full of traps. It’s lined with wood, and between the panels and the walls are hidden passages for the servants, with doors concealed in the woodwork. Lady Mountclere was aware of one of these and used it to sneak out her accomplice; Lord Mountclere knew of another and used it to sneak in himself. His eyesight isn’t great, but his hearing is sharp. A meeting was scheduled to take place at the west gate at half-past seven, unless a note passed from the balcony indicated a different time and place. He heard it all—hee-hee!

'When Lady Mountclere's confederate came for the note, I was in waiting above, and handed one down a few minutes before the hour struck, confirming the time, but changing the place. When Lady Mountclere handed down her note, just as the clock was striking, her confederate had gone, and I was standing beneath the balcony to receive it. She dropped it into her husband's hands-ho-ho-ho-ho!

'When Lady Mountclere's associate came for the note, I was waiting upstairs and handed one down a few minutes before the hour struck, confirming the time but changing the place. When Lady Mountclere passed down her note, just as the clock was striking, her associate had already left, and I was standing below the balcony to receive it. She dropped it into her husband's hands—ho-ho-ho-ho!'

'Lord Mountclere ordered a brougham to be at the west lodge, as fixed by Lady Mountclere's note. Probably Lady Mountclere's friend ordered a brougham to be at the north gate, as fixed by my note, written in imitation of Lady Mountclere's hand. Lady Mountclere came to the spot she had mentioned, and like a good wife rushed into the arms of her husband-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo!'

'Lord Mountclere arranged for a carriage to be at the west lodge, as stated in Lady Mountclere's note. It's likely that Lady Mountclere's friend arranged for a carriage to be at the north gate, as mentioned in my note, written to look like Lady Mountclere's handwriting. Lady Mountclere arrived at the place she had specified, and like a devoted wife, she ran into the arms of her husband—hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo!'

As if by an ungovernable impulse, Ethelberta broke into laughter also-laughter which had a wild unnatural sound; it was hysterical. She sank down upon the leaves, and there continued the fearful laugh just as before.

As if driven by an uncontrollable impulse, Ethelberta burst into laughter—laughter that had a wild, unnatural sound; it was hysterical. She sank down onto the leaves and continued the terrifying laugh just like before.

Lord Mountclere became greatly frightened. The spot they had reached was a green space within a girdle of hollies, and in front of them rose an ornamental cottage. This was the building which Ethelberta had visited earlier in the day: it was the Petit Trianon of Enckworth Court.

Lord Mountclere became very scared. The place they had arrived at was a green area surrounded by holly bushes, and in front of them stood a decorative cottage. This was the building that Ethelberta had visited earlier in the day: it was the Petit Trianon of Enckworth Court.

The viscount left her side and hurried forward. The door of the building was opened by a woman.

The viscount stepped away from her and rushed ahead. A woman opened the door to the building.

'Have you prepared for us, as I directed?'

'Have you gotten everything ready for us like I asked?'

'Yes, my lord; tea and coffee are both ready.'

'Yes, my lord; both the tea and coffee are ready.'

'Never mind that now. Lady Mountclere is ill; come and assist her indoors. Tell the other woman to bring wine and water at once.'

'Forget that for now. Lady Mountclere is sick; come help her inside. Tell the other woman to bring wine and water immediately.'

He returned to Ethelberta. She was better, and was sitting calmly on the bank. She rose without assistance.

He went back to Ethelberta. She was feeling better and was sitting calmly by the bank. She got up without any help.

'You may retire,' he said to the woman who had followed him, and she turned round. When Ethelberta saw the building, she drew back quickly.

'You can leave,' he told the woman who had followed him, and she turned around. When Ethelberta saw the building, she stepped back quickly.

'Where is the other Lady Mountclere?' she inquired.

'Where is the other Lady Mountclere?' she asked.

'Gone!'

'It's gone!'

'She shall never return-never?'

'She will never come back—never?'

'Never. It was not intended that she should.'

'Never. That was not meant to be.'

'That sounds well. Lord Mountclere, we may as well compromise matters.'

"That sounds good. Lord Mountclere, we might as well find a compromise."

'I think so too. It becomes a lady to make a virtue of a necessity.'

'I think so too. It's fitting for a lady to turn a necessity into a virtue.'

'It was stratagem against stratagem. Mine was ingenious; yours was masterly! Accept my acknowledgment. We will enter upon an armed neutrality.'

'It was strategy versus strategy. Mine was clever; yours was skillful! I acknowledge that. We will start a truce.'

'No. Let me be your adorer and slave again, as ever. Your beauty, dearest, covers everything! You are my mistress and queen! But here we are at the door. Tea is prepared for us here. I have a liking for life in this cottage mode, and live here on occasion. Women, attend to Lady Mountclere.'

'No. Let me be your fan and servant again, just like before. Your beauty, my dear, covers everything! You are my mistress and queen! But here we are at the door. Tea is ready for us. I enjoy this cottage lifestyle and live here sometimes. Ladies, please take care of Lady Mountclere.'

The woman who had seen Ethelberta in the morning was alarmed at recognizing her, having since been informed officially of the marriage: she murmured entreaties for pardon. They assisted the viscountess to a chair, the door was closed, and the wind blew past as if nobody had ever stood there to interrupt its flight.

The woman who had seen Ethelberta in the morning was worried upon recognizing her, having since officially learned about the marriage: she whispered pleas for forgiveness. They helped the viscountess to a chair, closed the door, and the wind blew by as if no one had ever been there to interrupt its path.

Full of misgivings, Christopher continued to wait at the north gate. Half-past seven had long since been past, and no Ethelberta had appeared. He did not for the moment suppose the delay to be hers, and this gave him patience; having taken up the position, he was induced by fidelity to abide by the consequences. It would be only a journey of two hours to reach Anglebury Station; he would ride outside with the driver, put her into the train, and bid her adieu for ever. She had cried for help, and he had heard her cry.

Full of doubt, Christopher kept waiting at the north gate. Half-past seven had come and gone, and Ethelberta still hadn’t shown up. For now, he didn’t think the delay was her fault, which gave him some patience; after taking his position, he felt compelled to stick around for the outcome. It was only a two-hour trip to reach Anglebury Station; he would ride on the outside with the driver, help her onto the train, and say goodbye for good. She had called for help, and he had heard her call.

At last through the trees came the sound of the Court clock striking eight, and then, for the first time, a doubt arose in his mind whether she could have mistaken the gate. She had distinctly told Sol the west lodge; her note had expressed the north lodge. Could she by any accident have written one thing while meaning another? He entered the carriage, and drove round to the west gate. All was as silent there as at the other, the meeting between Ethelberta and Lord Mountclere being then long past; and he drove back again.

At last, through the trees, he heard the Court clock strike eight, and for the first time, he started to doubt whether she might have mistaken the gate. She had clearly told Sol the west lodge; her note had mentioned the north lodge. Could she have accidentally written one thing and meant another? He got into the carriage and drove around to the west gate. It was just as quiet there as it was at the other gate, with the meeting between Ethelberta and Lord Mountclere already long over; so he drove back again.

He left the carriage, and entered the park on foot, approaching the house slowly. All was silent; the windows were dark; moping sounds came from the trees and sky, as from Sorrow whispering to Night. By this time he felt assured that the scheme had miscarried. While he stood here a carriage without lights came up the drive; it turned in towards the stable-yard without going to the door. The carriage had plainly been empty.

He got out of the carriage and walked into the park, slowly making his way to the house. Everything was quiet; the windows were dark; faint sounds drifted from the trees and the sky, like Sorrow whispering to Night. By now, he felt certain that the plan had failed. As he stood there, an unlit carriage approached the driveway; it turned into the stable yard instead of heading to the front door. It was clear that the carriage was empty.

Returning across the grass by the way he had come, he was startled by the voices of two men from the road hard by.

Returning across the grass the way he had come, he was surprised by the voices of two men from the nearby road.

'Have ye zeed anybody?'

'Have you seen anyone?'

'Not a soul.'

'No one.'

'Shall we go across again?'

'Should we go across again?'

'What's the good? let's home to supper.'

'What's the good? Let's head home for dinner.'

'My lord must have heard somebody, or 'a wouldn't have said it.'

'My lord must have heard someone, or he wouldn't have said it.'

'Perhaps he's nervous now he's living in the cottage again. I thought that fancy was over. Well, I'm glad 'tis a young wife he's brought us. She'll have her routs and her rackets as well as the high-born ones, you'll see, as soon as she gets used to the place.'

'Maybe he’s feeling anxious now that he’s back in the cottage. I thought that phase was behind him. Well, I’m glad he’s brought us a young wife. She’ll have her parties and her fun just like the socialites, you’ll see, once she settles in.'

'She must be a queer Christian to pick up with him.'

'She must be a strange Christian to get involved with him.'

'Well, if she've charity 'tis enough for we poor men; her faith and hope may be as please God. Now I be for on-along homeward.'

'Well, if she has charity, that's enough for us poor men; her faith and hope may be whatever God pleases. Now I'm off homeward.'

As soon as they had gone Christopher moved from his hiding, and, avoiding the gravel-walk, returned to his coachman, telling him to drive at once to Anglebury.

As soon as they left, Christopher came out of his hiding spot and, steering clear of the gravel path, went back to his coachman, instructing him to head straight to Anglebury.

Julian was so impatient of the futility of his adventure that he wished to annihilate its existence. On reaching Anglebury he determined to get on at once to Melchester, that the event of the night might be summarily ended; to be still in the neighbourhood was to be still engaged in it. He reached home before midnight.

Julian was so fed up with the uselessness of his adventure that he wanted to erase it completely. When he got to Anglebury, he decided to head straight to Melchester so he could wrap up the events of the night quickly; being near it meant he was still involved in it. He got home before midnight.

Walking into their house in a quiet street, as dissatisfied with himself as a man well could be who still retained health and an occupation, he found Faith sitting up as usual. His news was simple: the marriage had taken place before he could get there, and he had seen nothing of either ceremony or viscountess. The remainder he reserved for a more convenient season.

Walking into their house on a quiet street, as unhappy with himself as a man could be who still had his health and a job, he found Faith sitting up as usual. His news was straightforward: the marriage had happened before he could arrive, and he hadn't seen anything of either the ceremony or the viscountess. He saved the rest for a better time.

Edith looked anxiously at him as he ate supper, smiling now and then.

Edith watched him nervously while he had dinner, smiling occasionally.

'Well, I am tired of this life,' said Christopher.

'Well, I'm tired of this life,' said Christopher.

'So am I,' said Faith. 'Ah, if we were only rich!'

'So am I,' said Faith. 'Oh, if only we were rich!'

'Ah, yes.'

"Yeah, right."

'Or if we were not rich,' she said, turning her eyes to the fire. 'If we were only slightly provided for, it would be better than nothing. How much would you be content with, Kit?'

'Or if we weren't wealthy,' she said, looking at the fire. 'If we were just a bit better off, it would be better than nothing. How much would you be okay with, Kit?'

'As much as I could get.'

'As much as I could manage.'

'Would you be content with a thousand a year for both of us?'

'Would you be happy with a thousand a year for both of us?'

'I daresay I should,' he murmured, breaking his bread.

'I suppose I should,' he said quietly, breaking his bread.

'Or five hundred for both?'

"Or five hundred for all?"

'Or five hundred.'

'Or 500.'

'Or even three hundred?'

'Or maybe three hundred?'

'Bother three hundred. Less than double the sum would not satisfy me. We may as well imagine much as little.'

'Bother three hundred. Less than double that amount wouldn't satisfy me. We might as well imagine a lot as we do a little.'

Faith's countenance had fallen. 'O Kit,' she said, 'you always disappoint me.'

Faith's expression had soured. 'Oh Kit,' she said, 'you always let me down.'

'I do. How do I disappoint you this time?'

'I do. How am I disappointing you this time?'

'By not caring for three hundred a year-a hundred and fifty each-when that is all I have to offer you.'

'By not caring for three hundred a year—one hundred fifty each—when that's all I have to offer you.'

'Faith!' said he, looking up for the first time. 'Ah-of course! Lucy's will. I had forgotten.'

'Faith!' he said, looking up for the first time. 'Ah, of course! Lucy's will. I had forgotten.'

'It is true, and I had prepared such a pleasant surprise for you, and now you don't care! Our cousin Lucy did leave us something after all. I don't understand the exact total sum, but it comes to a hundred and fifty a year each-more than I expected, though not so much as you deserved. Here's the letter. I have been dwelling upon it all day, and thinking what a pleasure it would be; and it is not after all!'

'It's true, and I had planned such a nice surprise for you, and now you don’t care! Our cousin Lucy did leave us something after all. I don't understand the exact total amount, but it's a hundred and fifty a year each—more than I expected, but not as much as you deserved. Here’s the letter. I’ve been thinking about it all day, imagining how nice it would be; and it’s not nice after all!'

'Good gracious, Faith, I was only supposing. The real thing is another matter altogether. Well, the idea of Lucy's will containing our names! I am sure I would have gone to the funeral had I known.'

'Oh my gosh, Faith, I was just guessing. The real situation is completely different. Anyway, the thought of Lucy's will having our names in it! I definitely would have gone to the funeral if I'd known.'

'I wish it were a thousand.'

'O no-it doesn't matter at all. But, certainly, three hundred for two is a tantalizing sum: not enough to enable us to change our condition, and enough to make us dissatisfied with going on as we are.'

'O no—it doesn't matter at all. But, definitely, three hundred for two is a tempting amount: not enough to change our situation, and enough to make us unhappy with continuing as we are.'

'We must forget we have it, and let it increase.'

'We need to forget that we have it and allow it to grow.'

'It isn't enough to increase much. We may as well use it. But how? Take a bigger house-what's the use? Give up the organ?-then I shall be rather worse off than I am at present. Positively, it is the most provoking amount anybody could have invented had they tried ever so long. Poor Lucy, to do that, and not even to come near us when father died. . . . Ah, I know what we'll do. We'll go abroad-we'll live in Italy.'

'It's not enough to just increase it a bit. We might as well use it. But how? Get a bigger house—what's the point? Give up the organ? Then I'd be even worse off than I am now. Honestly, it's the most frustrating situation anyone could have come up with if they tried for ages. Poor Lucy, to do that, and not even come close to us when Dad died... Ah, I know what we'll do. We'll go abroad—we'll live in Italy.'

SEQUEL. ANGLEBURY-ENCKWORTH-SANDBOURNE

Two years and a half after the marriage of Ethelberta and the evening adventures which followed it, a man young in years, though considerably older in mood and expression, walked up to the 'Red Lion' Inn at Anglebury. The anachronism sat not unbecomingly upon him, and the voice was precisely that of the Christopher Julian of heretofore. His way of entering the inn and calling for a conveyance was more off-hand than formerly; he was much less afraid of the sound of his own voice now than when he had gone through the same performance on a certain chill evening the last time that he visited the spot. He wanted to be taken to Knollsea to meet the steamer there, and was not coming back by the same vehicle.

Two and a half years after Ethelberta's marriage and the evening adventures that followed, a young man, though quite older in attitude and demeanor, approached the 'Red Lion' Inn in Anglebury. The anachronism suited him well, and his voice was exactly like that of the Christopher Julian from before. His manner of entering the inn and asking for a ride was much more casual than it used to be; he was far less self-conscious about his voice now compared to that chilly evening during his last visit. He wanted to be taken to Knollsea to catch the steamer there and wouldn’t be returning in the same vehicle.

It was a very different day from that of his previous journey along the same road; different in season; different in weather; and the humour of the observer differed yet more widely from its condition then than did the landscape from its former hues. In due time they reached a commanding situation upon the road, from which were visible knots and plantations of trees on the Enckworth manor. Christopher broke the silence.

It was a completely different day from his last trip down the same road; different in season, different in weather, and the mood of the observer was even more different from what it had been then than the landscape was from its earlier colors. Eventually, they reached a prominent spot on the road where they could see clusters and groups of trees on the Enckworth estate. Christopher broke the silence.

'Lord Mountclere is still alive and well, I am told?'

'Is Lord Mountclere still alive and well, I'm told?'

'O ay. He'll live to be a hundred. Never such a change as has come over the man of late years.'

'O yeah. He'll live to be a hundred. There’s never been such a change in a person as what’s happened to him in recent years.'

'Indeed!'

'Definitely!'

'O, 'tis my lady. She's a one to put up with! Still, 'tis said here and there that marrying her was the best day's work that he ever did in his life, although she's got to be my lord and my lady both.'

'O, it’s my lady. She's a tough one to deal with! But still, it's said here and there that marrying her was the best thing he ever did in his life, even though she’s got to be both my lord and my lady.'

'Is she happy with him?'

'She is very sharp with the pore man-about happy I don't know. He was a good-natured old man, for all his sins, and would sooner any day lay out money in new presents than pay it in old debts. But 'tis altered now. 'Tisn't the same place. Ah, in the old times I have seen the floor of the servants' hall over the vamp of your boot in solid beer that we had poured aside from the horns because we couldn't see straight enough to pour it in. See? No, we couldn't see a hole in a ladder! And now, even at Christmas or Whitsuntide, when a man, if ever he desires to be overcome with a drop, would naturally wish it to be, you can walk out of Enckworth as straight as you walked in. All her doings.'

'She's really tough on the poor man—whether he's happy, I couldn't say. He was a good-hearted old guy, despite his flaws, and would rather spend money on new gifts than pay off old debts. But things have changed now. It’s not the same place. Back in the day, I’ve seen the servants' hall floor covered with beer, nearly up to the soles of your boots, from what we poured aside because we couldn't see well enough to pour it right. You know? We couldn't see a hole in a ladder! And now, even at Christmas or Whitsun, when a guy would want to indulge a little, you can walk out of Enckworth just as straight as you walked in. It’s all her doing.'

'Then she holds the reins?'

'So she has the reins?'

'She do! There was a little tussle at first; but how could a old man hold his own against such a spry young body as that! She threatened to run away from him, and kicked up Bob's-a-dying, and I don't know what all; and being the woman, of course she was sure to beat in the long run. Pore old nobleman, she marches him off to church every Sunday as regular as a clock, makes him read family prayers that haven't been read in Enckworth for the last thirty years to my certain knowledge, and keeps him down to three glasses of wine a day, strict, so that you never see him any the more generous for liquor or a bit elevated at all, as it used to be. There, 'tis true, it has done him good in one sense, for they say he'd have been dead in five years if he had gone on as he was going.'

'She sure does! There was a little struggle at first, but how could an old man compete with such a lively young person? She threatened to run away from him and caused a scene, and who knows what else; and being the woman, of course, she was bound to win in the end. Poor old nobleman, she takes him to church every Sunday as regularly as a clock, makes him read family prayers that haven’t been read in Enckworth for the last thirty years, to my knowledge, and keeps him to just three glasses of wine a day, strictly, so you never see him getting any more generous with liquor or even slightly tipsy like he used to. It’s true that it has done him good in one way, because they say he would have been dead in five years if he had kept living the way he was before.'

'So that she's a good wife to him, after all.'

'Well, if she had been a little worse 'twould have been a little better for him in one sense, for he would have had his own way more. But he was a curious feller at one time, as we all know and I suppose 'tis as much as he can expect; but 'tis a strange reverse for him. It is said that when he's asked out to dine, or to anything in the way of a jaunt, his eye flies across to hers afore he answers: and if her eye says yes, he says yes: and if her eye says no, he says no. 'Tis a sad condition for one who ruled womankind as he, that a woman should lead him in a string whether he will or no.'

'Well, if she had been a little worse, it would have actually been a little better for him in one way, because he would have had more control. But he was a curious guy at one point, as we all know, and I guess that’s what he can expect; still, it's a strange turnaround for him. It’s said that whenever he's invited out to dinner or anything fun, his gaze instantly goes to hers before he responds: and if her eyes say yes, he says yes; and if her eyes say no, he says no. It’s a sad situation for someone who once had women at his command, that a woman now leads him around like a puppet, whether he likes it or not.'

'Sad indeed!'

'So sad!'

'She's steward, and agent, and everything. She has got a room called "my lady's office," and great ledgers and cash-books you never see the like. In old times there were bailiffs to look after the workfolk, foremen to look after the tradesmen, a building-steward to look after the foremen, a land-steward to look after the building-steward, and a dashing grand agent to look after the land-steward: fine times they had then, I assure ye. My lady said they were eating out the property like a honeycomb, and then there was a terrible row. Half of 'em were sent flying; and now there's only the agent, and the viscountess, and a sort of surveyor man, and of the three she does most work so 'tis said. She marks the trees to be felled, settles what horses are to be sold and bought, and is out in all winds and weathers. There, if somebody hadn't looked into things 'twould soon have been all up with his lordship, he was so very extravagant. In one sense 'twas lucky for him that she was born in humble life, because owing to it she knows the ins and outs of contriving, which he never did.'

'She's the steward, the agent, and everything else. She has a room called "my lady's office," with huge ledgers and cash books you’ve never seen before. Back in the day, there were bailiffs to manage the workers, foremen to oversee the tradesmen, a building steward to keep an eye on the foremen, a land steward to supervise the building steward, and a flashy grand agent to oversee the land steward: they certainly had a good time then, I assure you. My lady said they were draining the property like a honeycomb, and then there was a huge fuss. Half of them got kicked out; now, it’s just the agent, the viscountess, and a sort of surveyor, and of the three, she's said to do the most work. She marks the trees to be cut down, decides which horses to sell or buy, and is out in all kinds of weather. Honestly, if someone hadn’t looked into things, his lordship would have been in big trouble; he was so very extravagant. In a way, it was lucky for him that she was born into a humble life, because that’s how she learned the ropes of making things work, which he never did.'

'Then a man on the verge of bankruptcy will do better to marry a poor and sensible wife than a rich and stupid one. Well, here we are at the tenth milestone. I will walk the remainder of the distance to Knollsea, as there is ample time for meeting the last steamboat.'

'Then a man about to go bankrupt would be better off marrying a poor but sensible wife rather than a rich but foolish one. Well, here we are at the tenth milestone. I'll walk the rest of the way to Knollsea since there's plenty of time to catch the last steamboat.'

When the man was gone Christopher proceeded slowly on foot down the hill, and reached that part of the highway at which he had stopped in the cold November breeze waiting for a woman who never came. He was older now, and he had ceased to wish that he had not been disappointed. There was the lodge, and around it were the trees, brilliant in the shining greens of June. Every twig sustained its bird, and every blossom its bee. The roadside was not muffled in a garment of dead leaves as it had been then, and the lodge-gate was not open as it always used to be. He paused to look through the bars. The drive was well kept and gravelled; the grass edgings, formerly marked by hoofs and ruts, and otherwise trodden away, were now green and luxuriant, bent sticks being placed at intervals as a protection.

When the man left, Christopher slowly walked down the hill and reached the spot on the highway where he had once stood in the chilly November breeze, waiting for a woman who never showed up. He was older now and had stopped wishing he hadn’t been let down. There was the lodge, surrounded by trees that shone in the vibrant greens of June. Every twig held a bird, and every blossom attracted a bee. The roadside wasn’t covered in dead leaves like it had been back then, and the lodge gate wasn’t open like it always used to be. He stopped to look through the bars. The driveway was well-maintained and gravelled; the grass edges, which had once been trampled and marked by hooves and ruts, were now lush and green, with bent sticks placed at intervals to provide protection.

While he looked through the gate a woman stepped from the lodge to open it. In her haste she nearly swung the gate into his face, and would have completely done so had he not jumped back.

While he was looking through the gate, a woman came out of the lodge to open it. In her hurry, she almost swung the gate into his face, and she definitely would have if he hadn't jumped back.

'I beg pardon, sir,' she said, on perceiving him. 'I was going to open it for my lady, and I didn't see you.'

'I’m sorry, sir,' she said when she noticed him. 'I was about to open it for my lady, and I didn't see you.'

Christopher moved round the corner. The perpetual snubbing that he had received from Ethelberta ever since he had known her seemed about to be continued through the medium of her dependents.

Christopher rounded the corner. The constant rejection he had faced from Ethelberta since he met her seemed like it was going to keep going through her supporters.

A trotting, accompanied by the sound of light wheels, had become perceptible; and then a vehicle came through the gate, and turned up the road which he had come down. He saw the back of a basket carriage, drawn by a pair of piebald ponies. A lad in livery sat behind with folded arms; the driver was a lady. He saw her bonnet, her shoulders, her hair-but no more. She lessened in his gaze, and was soon out of sight.

A trotting sound, accompanied by the light clatter of wheels, became noticeable; then a vehicle came through the gate and turned up the road he had just come down. He saw the back of a basket carriage pulled by a pair of spotted ponies. A young man in livery sat behind with his arms crossed; the driver was a lady. He caught a glimpse of her bonnet, her shoulders, her hair—but nothing more. She faded from his view and was soon gone.

He stood a long time thinking; but he did not wish her his.

He stood there for a long time, thinking; but he didn't want her for himself.

In this wholesome frame of mind he proceeded on his way, thankful that he had escaped meeting her, though so narrowly. But perhaps at this remote season the embarrassment of a rencounter would not have been intense. At Knollsea he entered the steamer for Sandbourne.

In this positive mindset, he continued on his way, grateful that he had narrowly avoided running into her. But maybe at this quiet time of year, the awkwardness of a chance meeting wouldn't have been so bad. At Knollsea, he boarded the steamer to Sandbourne.

Mr. Chickerel and his family now lived at Firtop Villa, in that place, a house which, like many others, had been built since Julian's last visit to the town. He was directed to the outskirts, and into a fir plantation where drives and intersecting roads had been laid out, and where new villas had sprung up like mushrooms. He entered by a swing gate, on which 'Firtop' was painted, and a maid-servant showed him into a neatly-furnished room, containing Mr. Chickerel, Mrs. Chickerel, and Picotee, the matron being reclined on a couch, which improved health had permitted her to substitute for a bed.

Mr. Chickerel and his family now lived at Firtop Villa, a house that had been built since Julian's last visit to the town. He was directed to the outskirts, into a fir plantation where roads and pathways had been created, and where new villas had popped up everywhere. He entered through a swing gate that said 'Firtop', and a maid showed him into a well-furnished room with Mr. Chickerel, Mrs. Chickerel, and Picotee inside, the matron resting on a couch that her improved health allowed her to use instead of a bed.

He had been expected, and all were glad to see again the sojourner in foreign lands, even down to the ladylike tabby, who was all purr and warmth towards him except when she was all claws and nippers. But had the prime sentiment of the meeting shown itself it would have been the unqualified surprise of Christopher at seeing how much Picotee's face had grown to resemble her sister's: it was less a resemblance in contours than in expression and tone.

He was expected, and everyone was happy to see the traveler from foreign lands again, even the refined tabby cat, who was all purrs and warmth towards him, except when she turned into all claws and nips. But the main feeling of the reunion was Christopher's complete surprise at how much Picotee's face had come to resemble her sister's: it was less about the shape and more about the expression and tone.

They had an early tea, and then Mr. Chickerel, sitting in a patriarchal chair, conversed pleasantly with his guest, being well acquainted with him through other members of the family. They talked of Julian's residence at different Italian towns with his sister; of Faith, who was at the present moment staying with some old friends in Melchester: and, as was inevitable, the discourse hovered over and settled upon Ethelberta, the prime ruler of the courses of them all, with little exception, through recent years.

They had an early tea, and then Mr. Chickerel, sitting in a big, comfortable chair, chatted casually with his guest, whom he knew well through other family members. They discussed Julian’s time living in various Italian cities with his sister; about Faith, who was currently visiting some old friends in Melchester; and, as was bound to happen, the conversation turned to Ethelberta, the key figure in everyone’s lives over the past few years, with few exceptions.

'It was a hard struggle for her,' said Chickerel, looking reflectively out at the fir trees. 'I never thought the girl would have got through it. When she first entered the house everybody was against her. She had to fight a whole host of them single-handed. There was the viscount's brother, other relations, lawyers, ladies, servants, not one of them was her friend; and not one who wouldn't rather have seen her arrive there in evil relationship with him than as she did come. But she stood her ground. She was put upon her mettle; and one by one they got to feel there was somebody among them whose little finger, if they insulted her, was thicker than a Mountclere's loins. She must have had a will of iron; it was a situation that would have broken the hearts of a dozen ordinary women, for everybody soon knew that we were of no family, and that's what made it so hard for her. But there she is as mistress now, and everybody respecting her. I sometimes fancy she is occasionally too severe with the servants and I know what service is. But she says it is necessary, owing to her birth; and perhaps she is right.'

'It was a tough battle for her,' Chickerel said, gazing thoughtfully at the fir trees. 'I never thought she would get through it. When she first arrived, everyone was against her. She had to face a whole crowd of them on her own. There was the viscount's brother, other relatives, lawyers, ladies, and servants; none of them were on her side, and not one of them would have preferred to see her show up in a good relationship with him rather than the way she actually did. But she stood her ground. She was really pushed to the limit, and one by one, they started to realize there was someone among them whose slightest gesture, if they insulted her, carried more weight than a Mountclere's authority. She must have had an iron will; it was a situation that would have crushed the spirits of a dozen ordinary women, especially since everyone quickly learned that we were of no status, and that made it even harder for her. But there she is now as the mistress, and everyone respects her. I sometimes think she can be a bit harsh with the servants, and I know what service is like. But she says it's necessary because of her background; maybe she’s right.'

'I suppose she often comes to see you?'

"I guess she visits you often?"

'Four or five times a year,' said Picotee.

'She cannot come quite so often as she would,' said Mrs. Chickerel, 'because of her lofty position, which has its juties. Well, as I always say, Berta doesn't take after me. I couldn't have married the man even though he did bring a coronet with him.'

'She can't come as often as she'd like,' said Mrs. Chickerel, 'because of her high status, which comes with its duties. Well, as I always say, Berta doesn't take after me. I couldn't have married the guy even though he did come with a coronet.'

'I shouldn't have cared to let him ask ye,' said Chickerel. 'However, that's neither here nor there-all ended better than I expected. He's fond of her.'

'I shouldn't have bothered to let him ask you,' said Chickerel. 'Anyway, that’s beside the point—all turned out better than I expected. He's really into her.'

'And it is wonderful what can be done with an old man when you are his darling,' said Mrs. Chickerel.

'And it's amazing what you can do with an old man when you're his favorite,' said Mrs. Chickerel.

'If I were Berta I should go to London oftener,' said Picotee, to turn the conversation. 'But she lives mostly in the library. And, O, what do you think? She is writing an epic poem, and employs Emmeline as her reader.'

'If I were Berta, I'd visit London more often,' Picotee said, trying to change the subject. 'But she mostly hangs out in the library. And guess what? She's writing an epic poem and has Emmeline as her reader.'

'Dear me. And how are Sol and Dan? You mentioned them once in your letters,' said Christopher.

"Wow. How are Sol and Dan doing? You mentioned them in your letters," said Christopher.

'Berta has set them up as builders in London.'

'Berta has established them as builders in London.'

'She bought a business for them,' said Chickerel. 'But Sol wouldn't accept her help for a long time, and now he has only agreed to it on condition of paying her back the money with interest, which he is doing. They have just signed a contract to build a hospital for twenty thousand pounds.'

'She bought a business for them,' said Chickerel. 'But Sol wouldn’t accept her help for a long time, and now he’s only agreed to it on the condition that he pays her back the money with interest, which he’s doing. They’ve just signed a contract to build a hospital for twenty thousand pounds.'

Picotee broke in-'You knew that both Gwendoline and Cornelia married two years ago, and went to Queensland? They married two brothers, who were farmers, and left England the following week. Georgie and Myrtle are at school.'

Picotee interrupted, "You knew that both Gwendoline and Cornelia got married two years ago and moved to Queensland, right? They married two brothers who were farmers and left England the following week. Georgie and Myrtle are in school."

'And Joey?'

'We are thinking of making Joseph a parson,' said Mrs. Chickerel.

'We're considering making Joseph a pastor,' said Mrs. Chickerel.

'Indeed! a parson.'

"Totally! A pastor."

'Yes; 'tis a genteel living for the boy. And he's talents that way. Since he has been under masters he knows all the strange sounds the old Romans and Greeks used to make by way of talking, and the love stories of the ancient women as if they were his own. I assure you, Mr. Julian, if you could hear how beautiful the boy tells about little Cupid with his bow and arrows, and the rows between that pagan apostle Jupiter and his wife because of another woman, and the handsome young gods who kissed Venus, you'd say he deserved to be made a bishop at once!'

'Yes; it's a respectable living for the boy. And he has talents in that direction. Since he's been studying under teachers, he knows all the strange sounds the ancient Romans and Greeks used to make when they spoke, and the love stories of the old women as if they were his own. I assure you, Mr. Julian, if you could hear how beautifully the boy tells the tale of little Cupid with his bow and arrows, and the arguments between that pagan apostle Jupiter and his wife over another woman, and the handsome young gods who kissed Venus, you'd say he deserves to be made a bishop right away!'

The evening advanced, and they walked in the garden. Here, by some means, Picotee and Christopher found themselves alone.

The evening went on, and they walked in the garden. Here, somehow, Picotee and Christopher ended up alone.

'Your letters to my sister have been charming,' said Christopher. 'And so regular, too. It was as good as a birthday every time one arrived.'

"Your letters to my sister have been lovely," Christopher said. "And so consistent, too. It felt like a birthday every time one showed up."

Picotee blushed and said nothing.

Picotee blushed and stayed silent.

Christopher had full assurance that her heart was where it always had been. A suspicion of the fact had been the reason of his visit here to-day.

Christopher was completely confident that her heart was still in the same place it always had been. His suspicion about this was the reason for his visit today.

'Other letters were once written from England to Italy, and they acquired great celebrity. Do you know whose?'

'Other letters were once written from England to Italy, and they became very famous. Do you know who wrote them?'

'Walpole's?' said Picotee timidly.

'Walpole's?' Picotee asked timidly.

'Yes; but they never charmed me half as much as yours. You may rest assured that one person in the world thinks Walpole your second.'

'Yes; but they never captivated me as much as yours. You can be sure that one person in the world thinks Walpole is your second.'

'You should not have read them; they were not written to you. But I suppose you wished to hear of Ethelberta?'

'You shouldn’t have read them; they weren’t written for you. But I guess you wanted to hear about Ethelberta?'

'At first I did,' said Christopher. 'But, oddly enough, I got more interested in the writer than in her news. I don't know if ever before there has been an instance of loving by means of letters. If not, it is because there have never been such sweet ones written. At last I looked for them more anxiously than Faith.'

'At first I did,' Christopher said. 'But, strangely enough, I became more interested in the writer than in her news. I don’t know if there’s ever been a case of falling in love through letters before. If there hasn't, it's because no one has ever written such sweet ones. Eventually, I found myself looking for them with more eagerness than Faith.'

'You see, you knew me before.' Picotee would have withdrawn this remark if she could, fearing that it seemed like a suggestion of her love long ago.

'You see, you knew me before.' Picotee would have taken back this comment if she could, worried that it sounded like a hint at her feelings from long ago.

'Then, on my return, I thought I would just call and see you, and go away and think what would be best for me to do with a view to the future. But since I have been here I have felt that I could not go away to think without first asking you what you think on one point-whether you could ever marry me?'

'Then, when I got back, I thought I'd just stop by and see you, and then leave to consider what would be best for my future. But since I've been here, I feel like I can't just leave to think without first asking you one thing—do you think you could ever marry me?'

'I thought you would ask that when I first saw you.'

'Did you. Why?'

'Did you? Why?'

'You looked at me as if you would.'

'You looked at me like you would.'

'Well,' continued Christopher, 'the worst of it is I am as poor as Job. Faith and I have three hundred a year between us, but only half is mine. So that before I get your promise I must let your father know how poor I am. Besides what I mention, I have only my earnings by music. But I am to be installed as chief organist at Melchester soon, instead of deputy, as I used to be; which is something.'

'Well,' continued Christopher, 'the worst part is that I'm as broke as Job. Faith and I have three hundred a year between us, but only half of that is mine. So before I get your promise, I need to let your father know how poor I am. Besides that, all I have is my income from music. But I’m about to be promoted to chief organist at Melchester soon, instead of being a deputy like I used to be; so that’s something.'

'I am to have five hundred pounds when I marry. That was Lord Mountclere's arrangement with Ethelberta. He is extremely anxious that I should marry well.'

'I will receive five hundred pounds when I get married. That was Lord Mountclere's deal with Ethelberta. He really wants me to marry someone suitable.'

'That's unfortunate. A marriage with me will hardly be considered well.'

'That's too bad. A marriage with me won't exactly be viewed positively.'

'O yes, it will,' said Picotee quickly, and then looked frightened.

'O yes, it will,' Picotee said quickly, then looked scared.

Christopher drew her towards him, and imprinted a kiss upon her cheek, at which Picotee was not so wretched as she had been some years before when he mistook her for another in that performance.

Christopher pulled her close and kissed her cheek, which made Picotee feel better than she had a few years earlier when he had mistaken her for someone else during that moment.

'Berta will never let us come to want,' she said, with vivacity, when she had recovered. 'She always gives me what is necessary.'

'Berta will never let us go without,' she said, energetically, once she had recovered. 'She always gives me what I need.'

'We will endeavour not to trouble her,' said Christopher, amused by Picotee's utter dependence now as ever upon her sister, as upon an eternal Providence. 'However, it is well to be kin to a coach though you never ride in it. Now, shall we go indoors to your father? You think he will not object?'

'We'll try not to bother her,' said Christopher, amused by Picotee's complete reliance on her sister, just like always. 'Still, it's good to have a connection to a coach even if you never use it. So, should we head inside to see your dad? Do you think he won't mind?'

'I think he will be very glad,' replied Picotee. 'Berta will, I know.'

'I think he will be really happy,' replied Picotee. 'Berta will be, I know.'

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CONTENTS

Click on the ## before each title to view a linked table of contents for each of the twelve volumes.

Click on the title itself to open the original online file.

TABLES OF CONTENTS OF VOLUMES

FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD

By Thomas Hardy

CONTENTS

TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES

A Pure Woman

Faithfully presented by

Thomas Hardy

CONTENTS

THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE

by Thomas Hardy

THE MAYOR OF CASTERBRIDGE

by Thomas Hardy

JUDE THE OBSCURE

By Thomas Hardy

CONTENTS

A PAIR OF BLUE EYES

by Thomas Hardy

CONTENTS

THE WOODLANDERS

By Thomas Hardy

CONTENTS

SATIRES OF CIRCUMSTANCE LYRICS AND REVERIES WITH MISCELLANEOUS PIECES

By Thomas Hardy

CONTENTS

DESPERATE REMEDIES

By Thomas Hardy

CONTENTS

POEMS OF THE PAST AND THE PRESENT

By Thomas Hardy

CONTENTS

MOMENTS OF VISION AND MISCELLANEOUS VERSES

By Thomas Hardy

CONTENTS

A LAODICEAN: A STORY OF TO-DAY

By Thomas Hardy

CONTENTS

THE WELL-BELOVED

A SKETCH OF A TEMPERAMENT

By Thomas Hardy

CONTENTS

LATE LYRICS AND EARLIER WITH MANY OTHER VERSES

By Thomas Hardy

CONTENTS

LIFE'S LITTLE IRONIES

And a set of tales with some colloquial sketches entitled:

A FEW CRUSTED CHARACTERS

By Thomas Hardy

CONTENTS

A GROUP OF NOBLE DAMES

By Thomas Hardy

WESSEX TALES

By Thomas Hardy

A CHANGED MAN AND OTHER TALES

By Thomas Hardy

THE HAND OF ETHELBERTA-A COMEDY IN CHAPTERS

By Thomas Hardy

LIFE'S LITTLE IRONIES

And a set of tales with some colloquial sketches entitled:

A FEW CRUSTED CHARACTERS

By Thomas Hardy

THE SON'S VETO

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

FOR CONSCIENCE' SAKE

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

A TRAGEDY OF TWO AMBITIONS

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

ON THE WESTERN CIRCUIT

Click on the ## before each title to view a linked
table of contents for each of the twelve volumes.