Margaret went along the walk under the pear-tree wall.
She had never been along it since she paced it at Henry Lennox's side.
Here, at this bed of thyme, he began to speak of what she must not think of now.
Her eyes were on that late-blowing rose as she was trying to answer; and she had caught the idea of the vivid beauty of the feathery leaves of the carrots in the very middle of his last sentence.
Only a fortnight ago And all so changed!
Where was he now?
In London,—going through the old round; dining with the old Harley Street set, or with gayer young friends of his own.
Even now, while she walked sadly through that damp and drear garden in the dusk, with everything falling and fading, and turning to decay around her, he might be gladly putting away his law-books after a day of satisfactory toil, and freshening himself up, as he had told her he often did, by a run in the Temple Gardens, taking in the while the grand inarticulate mighty roar of tens of thousands of busy men, nigh at hand, but not seen, and catching ever, at his quick turns, glimpses of the lights of the city coming up out of the depths of the river.
He had often spoken to Margaret of these hasty walks, snatched in the intervals between study and dinner. At his best times and in his best moods had he spoken of them; and the thought of them had struck upon her fancy.
Here there was no sound.
The robin had gone away into the vast stillness of night.
Now and then, a cottage door in the distance was opened and shut, as if to admit the tired labourer to his home; but that sounded very far away.
A stealthy, creeping, cranching sound among the crisp fallen leaves of the forest, beyond the garden, seemed almost close at hand.
Margaret knew it was some poacher.
Sitting up in her bed-room this past autumn, with the light of her candle extinguished, and purely revelling in the solemn beauty of the heavens and the earth, she had many a time seen the light noiseless leap of the poachers over the garden-fence, their quick tramp across the dewy moonlit lawn, their disappearance in the black still shadow beyond.
The wild adventurous freedom of their life had taken her fancy; she felt inclined to wish them success; she had no fear of them.
But to-night she was afraid, she knew not why.
She heard Charlotte shutting the windows, and fastening up for the night, unconscious that any one had gone out into the garden.
A small branch—it might be of rotten wood, or it might be broken by force—came heavily down in the nearest part of the forest, Margaret ran, swift as Camilla, down to the window, and rapped at it with a hurried tremulousness which startled Charlotte within.
'Let me in!
Let me in!
It is only me, Charlotte!' Her heart did not still its fluttering till she was safe in the drawing-room, with the windows fastened and bolted, and the familiar walls hemming her round, and shutting her in.
She had sate down upon a packing case; cheerless, Chill was the dreary and dismantled room—no fire nor other light, but Charlotte's long unsnuffed candle.
Charlotte looked at Margaret with surprise; and Margaret, feeling it rather than seeing it, rose up.
'I was afraid you were shutting me out altogether, Charlotte,' said she, half-smiling. 'And then you would never have heard me in the kitchen, and the doors into the lane and churchyard are locked long ago.'
'Oh, miss, I should have been sure to have missed you soon.
The men would have wanted you to tell them how to go on.
And I have put tea in master's study, as being the most comfortable room, so to speak.'
'Thank you, Charlotte.
You are a kind girl.
I shall be sorry to leave you.
You must try and write to me, if I can ever give you any little help or good advice.
I shall always be glad to get a letter from Helstone, you know.
I shall be sure and send you my address when I know it.'
The study was all ready for tea.
There was a good blazing fire, and unlighted candles on the table.
Margaret sat down on the rug, partly to warm herself, for the dampness of the evening hung about her dress, and overfatigue had made her chilly.
She kept herself balanced by clasping her hands together round her knees; her head dropped a little towards her chest; the attitude was one of despondency, whatever her frame of mind might be.
But when she heard her father's step on the gravel outside, she started up, and hastily shaking her heavy black hair back, and wiping a few tears away that had come on her cheeks she knew not how, she went out to open the door for him.
He showed far more depression than she did.
She could hardly get him to talk, although she tried to speak on subjects that would interest him, at the cost of an effort every time which she thought would be her last.
'Have you been a very long walk to-day?' asked she, on seeing his refusal to touch food of any kind.
'As far as Fordham Beeches.
I went to see Widow Maltby; she is sadly grieved at not having wished you good-bye.
She says little Susan has kept watch down the lane for days past.—Nay, Margaret, what is the matter, dear?'
The thought of the little child watching for her, and continually disappointed—from no forgetfulness on her part, but from sheer inability to leave home—was the last drop in poor Margaret's cup, and she was sobbing away as if her heart would break.
Mr. Hale was distressingly perplexed.
He rose, and walked nervously up and down the room.
Margaret tried to check herself, but would not speak until she could do so with firmness.
She heard him talking, as if to himself.