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I go and bring the victuals now?”

      “Yes, do,” she murmured languidly.

      When he had gone, and the dull sounds occasionally reached her ears of his movements in the kitchen, she forgot where she was, and had for a moment to consider by an effort what the sounds meant. After an interval which seemed short to her whose thoughts were elsewhere, he came in with a tray on which steamed tea and toast, though it was nearly lunch-time.

      “Place it on the table,” she said. “I shall be ready soon.”

      He did so, and retired to the door; when, however, he perceived that she did not move he came back a few steps.

      “Let me hold it to you, if you don’t wish to get up,” said Charley. He brought the tray to the front of the couch, where he knelt down, adding, “I will hold it for you.”

      Eustacia sat up and poured out a cup of tea. “You are very kind to me, Charley,” she murmured as she sipped.

      “Well, I ought to be,” said he diffidently, taking great trouble not to rest his eyes upon her, though this was their only natural position, Eustacia being immediately before him. “You have been kind to me.”

      “How have I?” said Eustacia.

      “You let me hold your hand when you were a maiden at home.”

      “Ah, so I did. Why did I do that? My mind is lost — it had to do with the mumming, had it not?”

      “Yes, you wanted to go in my place.”

      “I remember. I do indeed remember — too well!”

      She again became utterly downcast; and Charley, seeing that she was not going to eat or drink any more, took away the tray.

      Afterwards he occasionally came in to see if the fire was burning, to ask her if she wanted anything, to tell her that the wind had shifted from south to west, to ask her if she would like him to gather her some blackberries; to all which inquiries she replied in the negative or with indifference.

      She remained on the settee some time longer, when she aroused herself and went upstairs. The room in which she had formerly slept still remained much as she had left it, and the recollection that this forced upon her of her own greatly changed and infinitely worsened situation again set on her face the undetermined and formless misery which it had worn on her first arrival. She peeped into her grandfather’s room, through which the fresh autumn air was blowing from the open window. Her eye was arrested by what was a familiar sight enough, though it broke upon her now with a new significance.

      It was a brace of pistols, hanging near the head of her grandfather’s bed, which he always kept there loaded, as a precaution against possible burglars, the house being very lonely. Eustacia regarded them long, as if they were the page of a book in which she read a new and a strange matter. Quickly, like one afraid of herself, she returned downstairs and stood in deep thought.

      “If I could only do it!” she said. “It would be doing much good to myself and all connected with me, and no harm to a single one.”

      The idea seemed to gather force within her, and she remained in a fixed attitude nearly ten minutes, when a certain finality was expressed in her gaze, and no longer the blankness of indecision.

      She turned and went up the second time — softly and stealthily now — and entered her grandfather’s room, her eyes at once seeking the head of the bed. The pistols were gone.

      The instant quashing of her purpose by their absence affected her brain as a sudden vacuum affects the body — she nearly fainted. Who had done this? There was only one person on the premises besides herself. Eustacia involuntarily turned to the open window which overlooked the garden as far as the bank that bounded it. On the summit of the latter stood Charley, sufficiently elevated by its height to see into the room. His gaze was directed eagerly and solicitously upon her.

      She went downstairs to the door and beckoned to him.

      “You have taken them away?”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      “Why did you do it?”

      “I saw you looking at them too long.”

      “What has that to do with it?”

      “You have been heart-broken all the morning, as if you did not want to live.”

      “Well?”

      “And I could not bear to leave them in your way. There was meaning in your look at them.”

      “Where are they now?”

      “Locked up.”

      “Where?”

      “In the stable.”

      “Give them to me.”

      “No, ma’am.”

      “You refuse?”

      “I do. I care too much for you to give ’em up.”

      She turned aside, her face for the first time softening from the stony immobility of the earlier day, and the corners of her mouth resuming something of that delicacy of cut which was always lost in her moments of despair. At last she confronted him again.

      “Why should I not die if I wish?” she said tremulously. “I have made a bad bargain with life, and I am weary of it — weary. And now you have hindered my escape. O, why did you, Charley! What makes death painful except the thought of others’ grief? — and that is absent in my case, for not a sigh would follow me!”

      “Ah, it is trouble that has done this! I wish in my very soul that he who brought it about might die and rot, even if ’tis transportation to say it!”

      “Charley, no more of that. What do you mean to do about this you have seen?”

      “Keep it close as night, if you promise not to think of it again.”

      “You need not fear. The moment has passed. I promise.” She then went away, entered the house, and lay down.

      Later in the afternoon her grandfather returned. He was about to question her categorically, but on looking at her he withheld his words.

      “Yes, it is too bad to talk of,” she slowly returned in answer to his glance. “Can my old room be got ready for me tonight, Grandfather? I shall want to occupy it again.”

      He did not ask what it all meant, or why she had left her husband, but ordered the room to be prepared.

      Chapter 5

      An Old Move Inadvertently Repeated

       Table of Contents

      Charley’s attentions to his former mistress were unbounded. The only solace to his own trouble lay in his attempts to relieve hers. Hour after hour he considered her wants; he thought of her presence there with a sort of gratitude, and, while uttering imprecations on the cause of her unhappiness, in some measure blessed the result. Perhaps she would always remain there, he thought, and then he would be as happy as he had been before. His dread was lest she should think fit to return to Alderworth, and in that dread his eyes, with all the inquisitiveness of affection, frequently sought her face when she was not observing him, as he would have watched the head of a stockdove to learn if it contemplated flight. Having once really succoured her, and possibly preserved her from the rashest of acts, he mentally assumed in addition a guardian’s responsibility for her welfare.

      For this reason he busily endeavoured to provide her with pleasant distractions, bringing home curious objects which he found in the heath, such as white trumpet-shaped mosses, redheaded lichens, stone arrowheads used by the old tribes on Egdon, and faceted crystals from the hollows of flints. These he deposited on the premises in such positions that she should see them as if by accident.

      A

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