not in the least hurried; when we have for the moment no dominant feeling; when we are walking—as Robert Leslie was—in a quiet, country road, the twilight almost gone, the stars flashing out at wide intervals, and shadows, deep and soft, settling on the surrounding landscape. But Mr. Leslie had been communing with himself for many a long hour. He had been married for nearly two years, and, somehow, during this time his ideal happiness had slipped farther and farther away from his grasp, and a negative kind of content occupied its place. Was Milly happy? He was afraid not. How seldom her eye grew lighter, or her cheek brighter, when he came! And yet it had been what people call a love-match. Do we not see our own faults? There are moments of self-examination when their presence and identity are no less clearly recognised than our features are in the looking-glass before us; and Mr. Leslie felt that his extreme reserve—the result, perhaps, only of his early training—had chilled the heart of his wife, as distinctly as if some far-seeing friend had laid his finger on the fault and pointed it out to him. There have been some few fortunate people in the world, who have been able to gather up the tangled skeins of the destinies they marred, and have woven them afresh. Mr. Leslie was doing this; thinking how Milly’s should be made a brighter life; thinking, that gratefully as he had always acknowledged his mother’s sacrifices in his youth, they formed no claim for a certain degree of tyranny which she had since exercised in his household; thinking how much happier Milly would be away from the dull house in Trowchester; thinking joyfully, hopefully, as he felt he had reason to do of the future: when, having reached the road that led to Brentnor, he stood for a moment, waiting for a fly, which was coming up at full speed, to pass him. Was he dreaming? Had he thought of her till his mind was leaving him? A wild cry struck his ears. “Robert! Robert!” A wild cry, as if from a voice that had no power to shriek. If indeed he were sane, it must have come from the carriage that passed him. It was almost out of sight. Utterly bewildered, he was unaware of the approach of a person on horseback from the direction of the town, a middle-aged farmer on a large-limbed grey mare, which had carried him at a lazy pace for the last ten years. He recognised Mr. Leslie, and wished him good evening.
“Did a carriage pass you just now?” asked Mr. Leslie, hastily, without attending to his greeting.
“Surely,” was the reply.
“With a woman in it?”
“Surely.”
“Mr. Lindsay,—you will think it an odd request,—will you lend me your mare for half an hour? I’ll bring her back to you safe.”
“No fear of that, Mr. Leslie,” replied the farmer, good-naturedly, getting off as quickly as habitual slowness would permit him. “I’ll just walk down to the station, and be here by the time you are back.”
Mr. Leslie’s weight was about two-thirds less than his friend’s, and the mare, urged by voice and touch, started at a tolerable pace. In two or three minutes the fly was again in sight: he could see that the man seated on the box looked back several times, and the rate at which the vehicle was moving was almost doubled. On went the mare, gathering strength and spirit from her unwonted exertions: the space between the pursuer and the pursued lessening at every step; the way becoming more and more obscure.
How often in moments of strong excitement it has seemed as if dumb animals, our dogs or our horses, have sympathised more kindly with us than our fellow creatures! Leslie was breathless with eagerness as he came within hail of the fly, and the mare could with difficulty be held in. He shouted to the driver to stop, but his voice was disregarded, and in another moment he was abreast of the vehicle. He had endeavoured to overtake it, because he was persuaded he had heard his wife’s voice as it passed him; but yet he was almost stupified with astonishment when her pale face met his. To seize the driver’s arm, and possess himself of the reins, in spite of his resistance, was the work of a moment, when a heavy blow with the butt-end of a whip, aimed at his head, but falling on his shoulder, caused him to look for his assailant. It was with extreme surprise that he recognised Wareham.
They were at this juncture opposite one of the little roughly-built houses faced with round stones stuck in the clay, which are everywhere to be seen on the south coast. Here was to be sold “Beer to be drunk on the premises;” and two or three persons, who seemed by their bewilderment by no means to have disregarded the injunction, ran out to see what had happened. Mr. Leslie sprang off the mare, and having thrown the bridle to the first comer, forced the terrified driver to dismount. Wareham, too, had got down, perhaps still hoping that the horse might be urged on, if he could possess himself of the reins.
“Take care, Robert Leslie,” he said, as they met face to face; “you had better let me pass. This evening’s work will be the worst in your life, if you persist in stopping my way.”
Leslie, not heeding him, had opened the carriage door. Milly got out, with trembling steps.
“Why are you here?” he asked, impetuously.
“Mrs. Leslie is with me with her own full consent,” said Wareham. “I appeal to her to say whether this is not the truth.”
There was no reply. Leslie half-carried, half-dragged her into the house, and pushing open the first door, which was that of a little sanded parlour, looked in her face by the light of the solitary tallow candle which was burning there.
“I ask you,” said Leslie, steadying his voice, “why you are here?”
“Robert, forgive me; don’t think ill of me,” she said. “I have been tied by a sacred promise to keep a secret—”
“A secret with which he is acquainted?” said Leslie, indignantly pointing to Wareham, who had followed them into the room. “Till this night,” he said, turning to him, “I have looked upon you and treated you as a friend. In some underhand manner you have abused this trust.”
“I have abused no trust,” replied Mr. Wareham, with emphasis.
