'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!'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.
'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.'
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.
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:
1.How could she live near her acquaintance as his wife,even in his absence,without suffering martyrdom from the stings of their contempt?
2.Would not this entail total estrangement between Christine and her family also,and her own consequent misery?
3.Must not such isolation extinguish her affection 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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
