In the March and early April of the next year there was very bad
weather in England: snow, sleet and storm, killing sheep, starving
cattle, delaying railway-trains, and covering much in the woodland
nooks where the primrose roots were getting ready their buds for
sacrifice at Westminster in the drollest form of hero-worship which a
generation bereft of any sense of humor ever invented.
The moors were vast unbroken plains of virginal whiteness, and the
woods looked black against a steely sky as Hurstmanceaux got into the
express which had been signalled by telegram to stop for him at the
little station outside the park of a country house at which he had been
staying in the North Riding. The engine snorted, hissed and flung up
steam and fire into the chilly air as he hastened across the platform.
He got quickly into the carriage indicated to him by his servant,
pushing his dog before him, and the train had moved off before he
saw that there was a lady in the compartment, to whom he lifted his
Glengarry cap with a word of apology for the presence of his collie.
“I am very fond of dogs,” said the lady with a smile, and the collie
smelt the hem of her gown and the fur of her cloak with approval.
“Thanks!” said his master, and, as he looked at her, thought how
“well-groomed,” in his own vernacular, she was. She did not belong to
the county he felt sure. He had never seen her before, and he knew all
the Ridings well.
She was plainly dressed in dark cloth; but the sables lining her cloak
were of the finest; her gloves were of perfect fit and texture; her
buttoned velvet boots were admirably made; she had a little velvet
toque on a shapely head; she had an air of great distinction and
simplicity combined.
She resumed the perusal of her book, and he unfolded a morning paper.
The train swung on its way at great speed. The dog, Ossian, lay down in
the middle of the carriage. The glass of the windows was silvered with
hoar-frost; nothing was to be seen out of them of the country through
which they were being hurried. The snow fell continually; there was no
wind.
Ossian, waking out of his nap and yawning, much bored, began the
conversation by laying his muzzle on the lady’s knees.
“Pray forgive him!” said his master.
“There is nothing to forgive. What a beauty he is!”
“He is as good as he looks. But perhaps he ought to apologize for being
here.”
“Why?”
“Well, really, I do not know why; but it is expected that a dog’s owner
should say so.”
“Only when he writes to the _Times_,” said the lady, amused. “In
point of fact, it is I who am in the wrong place, for this is a
smoking-carriage.”
Ossian having thus broken the ice between them they continued to talk,
of the weather, of the news of the day, of the book she had brought
with her, of dogs in general, and of the collie in particular.
They were neither of them very talkative by temperament, or disposed
to be communicative usually, but they got on very well together. He
shifted his seat to the corner in front of her, and they continued to
skim over a variety of subjects, harmoniously and agreeably to both,
as the train glided over the frozen ground, scattering the fine white
powder of the snow in front of it.
“How fast it snows!” said the lady rather anxiously, trying to rub the
pane of glass nearest her clear with her handkerchief.
“Were you ever blocked up by a snowstorm?” asked Hurstmanceaux. “I
have been--once in Scotland and once in Canada. It is a disagreeable
experience.”
“It must be, indeed. I hope there will be no chance of that to-day?”
“Oh, no; men will have kept the line clear, no doubt!”
As he spoke the train slackened its speed, moved with a jerking and
dragging sound for some time, and a little while later stopped still
with a great noise of rushing steam, and a jar which shook the carriage
violently and flung Ossian against one of the doors.
The lady turned pale, but she did not move or scream; she looked a mute
inquiry.
“I suppose they have failed to keep the line clear,” he said, in answer
to the glance. “Allow me to look out a moment.”
He let down a window and leaned out of it; but the air was so dense
with steam and snow that he could not see a yard before him.
“Is it an accident?” she said.
“I do not think so. I imagine we have run into a snow-drift, nothing
more.”
The noise of the steam rushing out of the engine, and the shouts of
officials calling to each other, almost drowned his voice. He took his
railway-key out of his pocket and opened the door.
“I will go and see what it is, and return in a moment,” he said to her,
signing to Ossian to remain in the carriage, and leaving the door open.
She did not attempt to detain or to follow him.
“That is a thoroughbred woman,” he said to himself.
He did return in a few minutes, and brought word that they had stuck
fast in the snow. The engine-driver had slackened speed in time to
avoid an accident, but they might be detained for hours; the telegraph
wires were all down through the weight of the snow.
“It is extremely disagreeable, but it is not dangerous,” he said to
reassure her. “We shall be _quittes pour la peur_. We shall probably
have time to get dreadfully keen about eating, and have nothing to eat.
England is such a small place: one never thinks of ‘stoking’ when one
travels in it.”
“My poor maid!” she said anxiously. “I am afraid she must be very
frightened, wherever she is.”
“Can I look for her?”
“You are very kind, but how should you know her? I will get out myself.”
“It may be as well to get out. You would be warmer if you stayed in the
carriage, but there is the chance that a train may come up behind and
run into ours, though men have gone down the line with lamps.”
She had nothing with her except her book and a bouquet of violets.
Closely followed by Ossian, he accompanied her along the line, looking
into each compartment to find her maid. There were many people, both
in the train and out of it, talking confusedly, suggesting this, that,
and the other; the air was full of fog and snow; the engine, snorting
and smoking, stood with its brazen breast pushed against the high white
hillocks.
When they found the maid, a grey elderly person, she was in a panic of
terror, which made her perfectly useless. She was shaking from head to
foot, and repeating disconnected Scriptural texts; she resisted all
her mistress’s requests and entreaties to her to descend; she said she
wished to meet her God where she was.
“If there be any thieves in the train,” said Hurstmanceaux to the lady,
“they will have an easy time with your jewel-box.”
“I do not wear jewels,” said his fellow-traveler curtly.
He looked at her in some surprise. Her tone had asperity in it.
“Were you going up to town, may I ask?” he ventured to inquire.
“No,” she answered. “Only from one country house to another.”
He wished he knew what country houses they were, but he could not ask
that.
She argued with her maid very patiently and with great kindness, but
made no impression.
“Poor Danvers! She is out of her mind with fear. What shall I do?” she
said, appealing to him as though they had been old acquaintances.
“Are you afraid of a long walk?”
“No.”
“Will you come with me, then? I know the country. The nearest town is
four miles away. I am going there to send help. Will you like to come?”
She did not immediately reply.
“May I present myself?” he added, “I am Lord Hurstmanceaux.”
She looked up quickly.
“Indeed? You are very like your sister.”
“Which one? I have several.”
“Lady Kenilworth.”
He laughed.
“That is a great compliment. She is the beauty of the family. Do you
know her? She is one of the beauties of England.”
“Not I; but my people do. I have seen her, of course!”
The tone was rather repellant; by no means cordial.
“Well, we must not lose daylight,” said Ronald. “Will you come? The
snow is firm, and it will be fair cross-country walking. You will be
less chilled than staying here in inaction; and it is not more than
four miles to the town by short cuts which I know.”
She hesitated.
“But my poor woman? To leave her here alone----”
“I will tell my servant to stay and look after her. She will join you
in the town, and you will continue your journey. I think you had better
come with me. I must go myself, anyhow, for no one else knows the
country. I have hunted and ridden over it scores of times, and I know
every bush and briar.”
“I will come,” she said, without any further hesitation.
“You are a good walker?” he said a little anxiously.
She laughed a little.
“Oh, yes; I shall not break down and cast my shoes.”
“Come along, then. It soon grows dark in these early spring days. Our
Aprils are considerably worse than our Novembers.”
“He is rather too familiar,” she thought; but she perceived that it was
his natural manner, which, when he was not irritated, or sarcastic,
or--as he frequently was--silent, had great frankness and simplicity in
it.
“It is an odd thing to do,” she continued to say to herself, “to walk
across country in the snow with a man one does not know. But he is
certainly Lord Hurstmanceaux by his resemblance to his sister, and it
will be better to walk than to sit still in a railway-carriage, with
the chance of being frozen into bronchitis or smashed by an express
train.”
And she took her way across the bleak, blank pastures which stretched
around the scene of the accident, with little frozen brooks and ditches
and sunken fences dividing them, and no trees or hedges to relieve
the tedium of the level landscape, since scientific agriculture ruled
supreme.
“How well she carries herself,” thought Hurstmanceaux. “Who can she be
possibly, that I do not know her by sight? And her people know Mouse
and not me!”
The snow was hard, and afforded good footing. She crossed the ditches
and little streams as easily and with as much elasticity as Ossian did,
and went on her way quickly and with energy, carrying her bouquet of
violets close up to her mouth to keep out the biting wind.
She asked him the name of the town to which they were going, and if
they would be able to telegraph thence.
“I fear the wires will be damaged there, too,” he answered. “It is
called Greater Thorpe. There is Lesser Thorpe, St. Mary’s Thorpe,
Monk’s Thorpe, Dane’s Thorpe--the two latter charming names suggestive
of the past. You would see the spire of Greater Thorpe from here if it
were a clear day, or what does duty in England as a clear day.”
“One’s greatest want in England is distance,” she answered. “I was in
India a little while ago. What an atmosphere! It is heaven only to live
in it.”
“Yes, the light is wonderful.”
“So golden and so pure. To think that the English dare to defile it
with factory smoke!”
“That is on a piece with all we do there.”
“How vulgar, how fussy, how common the conquerors look beside the
conquered! Go into a bank, a counting-house, a police-station, and see
the calm, stately, proud, reposeful natives in their flowing robes,
bullied and sworn at by some smug, sandy-haired, snub-nosed official in
a checked suit and a pot hat! One wishes for a second and successful
mutiny.”
“It must be admitted we are neither pliant nor picturesque. The
Russians, when they succeed us, will at least ‘compose’ better. In what
part of India were you?”
She told him, adding, “I have left with extreme regret.”
“You were in the Framlingham’s Presidency; did you know them?”
“I was on a visit to them.”
“If she would only say who she is!” thought Ronald, as a gust of wind
blew them apart and sent the snow spray into their faces; he felt sure
that she belonged to his world and that she was married; she had a
composure of tone and manner which made her seem much older than her
features looked. He was lost in admiration of the beauty of her feet as
the wind lifted her skirts, or as she lifted herself over the ditches
in a spring as easy as the dog’s.
“You enjoy this rough walk,” he said shortly to her.
“I think I do,” she answered. “But I should enjoy it more if I were
sure I could telegraph from this Greater Thorpe.”
“You wish to reassure your people?”
“I do.”
“If she would only say who they are!” he thought, but she did not.
They could only converse when the wind lulled, which was not very
often; it blew straight in their faces over the bare level land, and he
had some trouble in recognizing the landmarks in the white obliteration
of the always featureless landscape, and in avoiding the barbed wire
fencing which had many a day cost him many an angry oath as he had
hunted over those pastures.
“I used to be a good deal in this country,” he said, as they at last
left the wide level fields for a high road, and which was less exposed
to the wind. “I used to hunt with the Vale of Thorpe hounds. I do not
hunt anywhere now; and I have nothing now to bring me into the county
since my cousin, Lord Roxhall, sold his place.”
“Vale Royal?”
“Yes? Do you know it?”
“I have seen it.”
“A fine old place, the biggest beeches in England, and a herd of wild
cattle equal to the Chillingham. I only wish one of the red bulls would
gore the wretched cad who has bought it, or perhaps in strict justice
the bulls ought first to have gored Roxhall.”
She did not reply; she was walking as easily and quickly as ever,
though it was the fourth mile, and the cold of the bleak sunless day
grew more intense as the hours wore away.
“Vale Royal was given by Henry the Second to the Roxhalls of that
time,” he continued. “My cousin wanted money, it is true; but not
so desperately that he need have done so vile a thing. He was led
into it. The man who has bought it is a brute from the Northwestern
States; made his fortune in all kinds of foul ways, drinking-shops,
gambling-saloons, cattle-trading, opium-dealing, cheating poor
devils who landed with a little money and went to him for advice and
concessions; an unspeakable rascal, who after thirty years’ infamy out
there pulls himself together, praises God for all His mercies, and
comes back to this country to go to church, sit in Parliament, wear a
tall hat, and buy English society and English estates. Don’t you agree
with me that it is utterly disgraceful?”
She held her violets higher up to her face so that he saw nothing but
her eyes, which were looking down the long straight white road which
stretched out before them into a grey haze of fogs.
“I quite agree with you,” she said in very clear and incisive tones. “I
think it utterly disgraceful. But the disgrace is as much to the bought
as the buyer.”
“Certainly,” said Hurstmanceaux with great warmth. “A society is
utterly rotten and ruined when such a fungus as this can take root in
it. That I have always maintained. ‘Tell me whom you know and I will
tell you what you are,’ is as true when said of society as when it is
said of an individual. Certainly society only knows this man, this
Massarene, in a perfunctory supercilious way, and only gives him the
kind of nod which is the equivalent of a kick; but it does know him; it
drinks his wines and eats his dinners; it nods to him, it elects him,
it leaves cards on him; it lets him look ridiculous in white breeches
and a gilded coat at St. James’s, and it makes him pay through the nose
for all its amiabilities and tolerations. It is an infamy!”
She looked straight before her down the road and did not reply.
“You said you agreed with me?” said Hurstmanceaux, surprised at her
silence.
“I agree with you entirely.”
But there was a chillness in her tone which suggested to him
that, however completely she shared his opinions, the subject was
disagreeable to her.
“She can’t belong to that class herself, she is thoroughbred down to
the ground,” he thought, as he said aloud, “I am afraid you are tired.
The cold is beginning to tell on you.”
“No; I am not at all cold,” she answered, holding up nearer to her the
poor violets shrivelling in the frost.
“What has come over her, I wonder,” he said to himself. “She was so
frank and natural and pleasant, and now she is chilly and stiff, and
scarcely opens her lips. It is since I spoke of Vale Royal. But she
said she agreed with me. Perhaps she knows Gerald, and is fond of him.
But he could hardly know anybody intimately whom I have never seen, or
never heard of, at the least.”
“Yet there is this to be said. You blame this person,” she added in
a low but clear tone as she walked on, looking straight before her.
“You admit that your world is more contemptible than he. What obliged
Lord Roxhall to live in such a manner that he was forced to sell his
old estate? Are not nearly all of you tradesmen and horse-dealers and
speculators? Who fill the markets with game, the wharfs with coal, the
shows with fat cattle and brood-mares? Who breed herds of Shetland
ponies to sell them to the cruel work of the mines? Who destroy all the
wild-bird life of three kingdoms, that the slaughter of the battues may
be wholesale and the pheasants sent in thousands to Leadenhall? Your
own order, your own order. What has it done, what does it ever do, to
make it so superior to the man from Dakota?”
Hurstmanceaux listened in extreme astonishment. He could not understand
the scorn and suppressed vehemence with which her words vibrated. He
was silent because, in his own mind, he found the indictment a just
one. But his aristocratic temper was in conflict with his intellectual
judgment.
“What have the English aristocracy brought into fashion? What do
they uphold by example and precept?” she continued. “Their life is
one course of reckless folly; the summer is wasted in crowded London
houses, varied by race-meetings and pigeon-shooting; the autumn and
winter are spent in the incessant slaughtering of birds and beasts;
their beautiful country houses are only visited at intervals, when they
are as crowded as a booth at a fair. What kind of example do they set
to ‘the man from Dakota’? What do they suggest to him of self-denial,
of culture, of true grace and courtesy, of contempt for ill-gotten
riches? They crowd around him as poultry around a feeding-pan! The
whole thing is discreditable. But perhaps the most shameful part in it
is not his!”
Hurstmanceaux was silent. He thought of Cocky and his sister, and he
felt his blood tingle under the lash of her stinging words.
“My own withers are unwrung,” he said at last with a smile. “I don’t do
those things. My estates are extremely unproductive, and I live, for
the chief part of the year, on one of them--Faldon.”
“It is on the sea, I think?”
“Yes; on the coast of Waterford.”
“Do you cut your timber?”
“I do not.”
“Do you preserve?”
“For sport? No. Wild life has a happy time of it, I assure you, with
me.”
“I am glad to hear any Englishman say so.”
“Are we such a set of barbarians?”
“Yes, you are very barbarous; much more so than the Hindoos whom you
have conquered. Compare the simplicity of their diet, the purity
of their arts, the beauty of their costume and their architecture,
with a Lord Mayor’s feast, a Royal Academy show, a Manchester
Canal, a Forth Bridge, a team of cyclists, a London woman’s gown!
Barbarians!--barbarians indeed, worse than any Goth or Vandal!--the
nation which destroyed Delhi!”
“She must surely be a Russian,” thought Hurstmanceaux. “They often
speak English with an admirable fluency. But why, if so, should Vale
Royal affect her so singularly?”
He was not impressionable in these ways; but his new acquaintance
attracted him extremely. He admired her, and her voice charmed him like
music.
At that moment Ossian, perceiving in a distant field some sheep feeding
on swedes in the snow, could not resist his hereditary instinct of
shepherding them, and caused his master some trouble, as the sheep
entirely mistook the collie’s good intentions and fled away in all
directions. The lady watched the scene, standing still under a
pollarded willow. When order was restored and they walked on again, she
asked him what had made him give up hunting; in herself she regretted
her late eloquence, and wished her companion to forget it.
“What made you give up hunting?” she asked suddenly, as if conscious
that the severity of her tone might appear strange to him.
“Well, I have never told anybody,” he answered, and paused.
Then he went on, in a rather embarrassed manner, nerved by the
confidence which his unknown companion roused in him:
“I was one day in my own woods at Faldon sketching; hounds were out,
but I was not with them. I was sitting in the bracken quite hidden by
it, and an old dog-fox slouched by me; his tail drooped, he was dead
beat, he could scarcely drag himself along; he had a bad gash in his
side from a stake or something; he went up to an old hollow oak, and
out of it came his bitch and three little cubs; and they welcomed him,
I assure you, just as his family might welcome a man going home after
a hard campaign, and the bitch fell to licking the gash in his side,
and the cubs frolicked around her. I never had the heart to hurt a fox
again. Hares I never did hunt; it is barbarous work. But that fox, too,
set me thinking. He cared for his home and his wife just like any good
citizen going home in the tram to Peckham Rise or Brixton. It was a
pretty sight that poor thing going home. I stopped there till dark to
make sure the pack didn’t come after him.”
“You did very right,” she said in her soft grave voice. “I wish more
men would pause and think like that.”
The wind rose and blew some more fine snow powder over them and in
their faces.
“It is half-past two o’clock,” he said, looking at his watch, “I am
sure you must miss your luncheon.”
“I should like a cup of tea,” she answered. “How much farther is it to
Thorpe?”
“About three-quarters of a mile. We shall get there before dark. But I
fear the Thorpe tea will not be up to your standard. However, they will
give you a good fire at the Bell Inn.”
“The Bell Inn! It sounds like Charles Dickens and Washington Irving.”
“Yes; but there is no longer the abundance and the comfort of the old
coaching-days; country inns, now, like most other things, hardly pay
their own expenses.”
“I am afraid I prefer the wayside station on the edge of the Indian
jungle, with ripe bananas brought to me on a cocoa-nut leaf, and the
monkeys looking down for a share from the reed roofs.”
“So do I,” he said, thinking that she looked pale and fatigued. “But
for our sins we are in Woldshire, and we shall have to put up with coal
fires and beefsteaks.”
She looked alarmed.
“Surely I shall not have to stay there?”
“That will depend on what state the roads and the lines are in; the
snow is less thick about here. Where are you going to? Of course,
horses cannot stir out in this frost.”
She avoided the direct question.
“Oh, well, it is an adventure; one must not complain. If I can get my
poor woman to the town I will support its indifferent accommodation.”
“We will do the best we can, but the Thorpe mind is slow and
uninventive. The rural brain in England is apt to be clogged with beer.
Fortunately, however, whatever be its density, it always retains its
perception of the value of shillings and sovereigns. We will try that
gentle stimulant so appreciated in politics, so especially appreciated
since bribery was made a crime.”
They had now come near enough to the town to perceive in the haze the
square shoulders of its roofs and the tower of its famous church,
all blurred and blotted by the fog like a too-much-washed water-color
drawing. She did not seem to be tired, but she had lost her elasticity
of movement; her eyes looked straight ahead, and no longer turned to
meet his own frankly as they had done before. She seemed to wish to
be silent, so he let the conversation drop, and walked on beside her
mutely, as the straggling suburbs of a country town began to show
themselves in the more frequent cottages, in the occasional alehouse,
and in the presence of people in the roads, and in the small wayside
gardens where they were scraping and sweeping clear little paths from
the gates to the doors. Some of these, recognizing him, touched their
hats; he spoke to the most capable-looking, told them briefly of the
accident, and sent them on to the station-master, whilst he took his
companion to the Bell Inn, an old house which had been a busy and
prosperous place in the posting and coaching times of which he had
spoken. It stood in the centre of a market-place, which was alive
and noisy with country-folks once a week, but was now a desolate and
well-nigh empty place filled with wind and driven snow.
“If you will rest here ten minutes,” he said to her, “I will come back
as soon as I have seen the authorities and heard what they propose to
do, and I will tell you if the lines are safe and the wires in working
order. I am afraid you will find it very rough and uncomfortable, but
they are lighting the fire and the landlady is a good soul; my cousins
used to come and have some of her soup on hunting mornings; you will
like her, I think.”
He held open the door of the only sitting-room, and as she passed
within bowed very low to her and went out into the street again.
As he reached the middle of the market-place he heard his name spoken,
and, turning at the sound, saw her to his surprise coming toward him
from the entrance of the inn. He went back a few steps to meet her. She
was very pale still, and there was a pride which was almost aggressive
in her attitude as she stood still on the slippery trodden stones and
faced him.
“Pray do not come back to me,” she said coldly. “I can have all I need
here till my woman can join me. But there is something I ought to
tell you, and I ought also to thank you for all your good nature and
courtesy.”
She paused a moment whilst he looked at her in silence and surprise.
She was evidently speaking under the influence of some strong and
personal feeling.
“It is to Vale Royal that I am going,” she added with a visible effort.
“I am Katherine Massarene.”
The blood leapt up into Hurstmanceaux’s face; he was dumb with
amazement and regret; he forgot utterly that he was standing bareheaded
in a snowy sloppy market-place with a dozen yokels staring and
grinning about the gates of the inn yard. He drew a very long breath.
“I beg your pardon,” he said gravely and with great humility. “I am
shocked----”
“You have no need to be so,” she replied, “I quite agreed with your
views. But I cannot alter my father, nor you your world.”
She stroked the uplifted head of Ossian and turned to go back to the
door of the Bell Inn. He strode after her and reached her side.
“I am extremely sorry,” he murmured. “I am shocked at my gross
indiscretion. I cannot look for your forgiveness. But pray do let me
beg of you to take off those pretty velvet boots at once, and let the
woman rub your feet with spirits of some sort, failing eau de Cologne.
I wish I had thought to take your dressing-bag from your woman.”
“Thanks.”
She looked at him a moment as she said the word, and he thought there
were tears in her large serious eyes. Then she went inside the old
posting-house and he saw her no more.
“That cad’s daughter, heavens and earth!” he said to himself as he
brushed the men aside and hastened across the market-place.
He scarcely knew what he said to the frightened station-master and the
obsequious mayor, and the bustling town clerk, and all the good people
who crowded to welcome a live lord and hear of a railway accident. He
was intensely surprised, disproportionately irritated, and sincerely
vexed with himself for having spoken so incautiously. He knew that
every one of his words must have cut like a knife into the sensitive
nerves of this woman whom he had admired and who had looked to him so
thoroughbred.
He had felt more attracted to her than he had ever felt to any
stranger, and to receive this shock of disillusion left him colder than
he had been all day in the mists and the snow.
Suddenly it flashed across his memory that she must be the heiress whom
Mouse had desired him to marry. Suspicion awoke in him.
He had not known her but it was very possible she had known him when
he had entered the railway-carriage; she had spoken of his likeness to
his sister. Her avoidance of any hint as to who she was or whither she
was going appeared to him to suggest design. Why had she not disclosed
her name until the very last moment? Though a poor man, for his rank,
he had been a great deal run after by women on account of his physical
beauty, and he was wary and suspicious where women were in question.
She had caught him off his guard and he repented it.
If she were in truth William Massarene’s daughter she probably knew
the share which his sister had so largely taken in the sales of Vale
Royal and Blair Airon; and in the persuasion of society to accept the
purchasers. He did not know the details of his sister’s diplomacy,
but he guessed enough of them for him to burn with shame at the mere
conjecture. When his own kith and kin were foremost in this disgraceful
traffic what could his own condemnation of it look like--hypocrisy,
affectation, subterfuge?
What had possessed him to talk of such subjects on a public road to a
stranger. He never by any chance “gave himself away.” Why had he done
so this day merely because he had felt as if he had known for years a
woman who had beautiful feet in fur-rimmed boots and a big bouquet of
violets?
He was furious at his own folly, and he had told her that story of the
fox too, which he had buried so closely in his own breast as men like
him do secrete all their best impulses and emotions of which they are
more ashamed than of any of their sins and vices! He had never been
so incensed and troubled about a trifle in his whole life; and all
the high breeding in him made him feel the keenest regret to have so
cruelly mortified a woman about her own father and her own position.
To a gentleman the knowledge that he has insulted a person who cannot
punish him for it is a very dreadful thing.
He had said no more than he meant, no more than he felt, and nothing
which he would have retracted; but he was extremely sorry that he had
said it to the daughter of the man Massarene. To the man himself he
would have had the greatest pleasure in saying it.
“What was I about to walk across country with a stranger and talk so
indiscreetly to her?” he asked himself in self-reproach as sincere as
it was useless.
She asked herself the same question as she dried her snow-wet clothes
before the fire of the Bell Inn, and offered all the notes and gold in
her purse to have an old post-chaise got ready at once, and the shoes
of two horses roughed.