by battle. His pity for her, and his eager championship, overwhelmed the spirit of compassion for the foolish wretched husband. Dolt, the man must be, Redworth thought; and he asked inwardly, Did the miserable tyrant suppose of a woman like this, that she would be content to shine as a candle in a grated lanthorn? The generosity of men speculating upon other men’s possessions is known. Yet the man who loves a woman has to the full the husband’s jealousy of her good name. And a lover, that without the claims of the alliance, can be wounded on her behalf, is less distracted in his homage by the personal luminary, to which man’s manufacture of balm and incense is mainly drawn when his love is wounded. That contemplation of her incomparable beauty, with the multitude of his ideas fluttering round it, did somewhat shake the personal luminary in Redworth. He was conscious of pangs. The question bit him: How far had she been indiscreet or wilful? and the bite of it was a keen acid to his nerves. A woman doubted by her husband, is always, and even to her champions in the first hours of the noxious rumour, until they had solidified in confidence through service, a creature of the wilds, marked for our ancient running. Nay, more than a cynical world, these latter will be sensible of it. The doubt casts her forth, the general yelp drags her down; she runs like the prey of the forest under spotting branches; clear if we can think so, but it has to be thought in devotedness: her character is abroad. Redworth bore a strong resemblance to, his fellowmen, except for his power of faith in this woman. Nevertheless it required the superbness of her beauty and the contrasting charm of her humble posture of kneeling by the fire, to set him on his right track of mind. He knew and was sure of her. He dispersed the unhallowed fry in attendance upon any stirring of the reptile part of us, to look at her with the eyes of a friend. And if…!—a little mouse of a thought scampered out of one of the chambers of his head and darted along the passages, fetching a sweat to his brows. Well, whatsoever the fact, his heart was hers! He hoped he could be charitable to women.
She rose from her knees and said: ‘Now, please, give me the letter.’
He was entreated to excuse her for consigning him to firelight when she left the room.
Danvers brought in a dismal tallow candle, remarking that her mistress had not expected visitors: her mistress had nothing but tea and bread and butter to offer him. Danvers uttered no complaint of her sufferings; happy in being the picture of them. ‘I’m not hungry,’ said he.
A plate of Andrew Hedger’s own would not have tempted him. The foolish frizzle of bacon sang in his ears as he walked from end to end of the room; an illusion of his fancy pricked by a frost-edged appetite. But the anticipated contest with Diana checked and numbed the craving.
Was Warwick a man to proceed to extremities on a mad suspicion?—What kind of proof had he?
Redworth summoned the portrait of Mr. Warwick before him, and beheld a sweeping of close eyes in cloud, a long upper lip in cloud; the rest of him was all cloud. As usual with these conjurations of a face, the index of the nature conceived by him displayed itself, and no more; but he took it for the whole physiognomy, and pronounced of the husband thus delineated, that those close eyes of the long upper lip would both suspect and proceed madly.
He was invited by Danvers to enter the dining-room.
There Diana joined him.
‘The best of a dinner on bread and butter is, that one is ready for supper soon after it,’ she said, swimming to the tea-tray. ‘You have dined?’
‘At the inn,’ he replied.
‘The Three Ravens! When my father’s guests from London flooded The Crossways, The Three Ravens provided the overflow with beds. On nights like this I have got up and scraped the frost from my window-panes to see them step into the old fly, singing some song of his. The inn had a good reputation for hospitality in those days. I hope they treated you well?’
‘Excellently,’ said Redworth, taking an enormous mouthful, while his heart sank to see that she who smiled to encourage his eating had been weeping. But she also consumed her bread and butter.
‘That poor maid of mine is an instance of a woman able to do things against the grain,’ she said. ‘Danvers is a foster-child of luxury. She loves it; great houses, plentiful meals, and the crowd of twinkling footmen’s calves. Yet you see her here in a desolate house, consenting to cold, and I know not what, terrors of ghosts! poor soul. I have some mysterious attraction for her. She would not let me come alone. I should have had to hire some old Storling grannam, or retain the tattling keepers of the house. She loves her native country too, and disdains the foreigner. My tea you may trust.’
Redworth had not a doubt of it. He was becoming a tea-taster. The merit of warmth pertained to the beverage. ‘I think you get your tea from Scoppin’s, in the City,’ he said.
That was the warehouse for Mrs. Warwick’s tea. They conversed of Teas; the black, the green, the mixtures; each thinking of the attack to come, and the defence. Meantime, the cut bread and butter having flown, Redwerth attacked the loaf. He apologized.
‘Oh! pay me a practical compliment,’ Diana said, and looked really happy at his unfeigned relish of her simple fare.
She had given him one opportunity in speaking of her maid’s love of native country. But it came too early.
‘They say that bread and butter is fattening,’ he remarked.
‘You preserve the mean,’ said she.
He admitted that his health was good. For some little time, to his vexation at the absurdity, she kept him talking of himself. So flowing was she, and so sweet the motion of her mouth in utterance, that he followed her lead, and he said odd things and corrected them. He had to describe his ride to her.
‘Yes! the view of the Downs from Dewhurst,’ she exclaimed. ‘Or any point along the ridge. Emma and I once drove there in Summer, with clotted cream from her dairy, and we bought fresh-plucked wortleberries, and stewed them in a hollow of the furzes, and ate them with ground biscuits and the clotted cream iced, and thought it a luncheon for seraphs. Then you dropped to the road round under the sand-heights—and meditated railways!’
‘Just a notion or two.’
‘You have been very successful in America?’
‘Successful; perhaps; we exclude extremes in our calculations of the still problematical.’
‘I am sure,’ said she, ‘you always have faith in your calculations.’
Her innocent archness dealt him a stab sharper than any he had known since the day of his hearing of her engagement. He muttered of his calculations being human; he was as much of a fool as other men—more!
‘Oh! no,’ said she.
‘Positively.’
‘I cannot think it.’
‘I know it.’
‘Mr. Redworth, you will never persuade me to believe it.’
He knocked a rising groan on the head, and rejoined ‘I hope I may not have to say so to-night.’
Diana felt the edge of the dart. ‘And meditating railways, you scored our poor land of herds and flocks; and night fell, and the moon sprang up, and on you came. It was clever of you to find your way by the moonbeams.’
‘That’s about the one thing I seem fit for!’
‘But what delusion is this, in the mind of a man succeeding in everything he does!’ cried Diana, curious despite her wariness.
