He listened to nothing but his imperious passion, and murmured sweet
words for her, as if she were by: tender cherishing epithet's of love in
the nest. She was there--she moved somewhere about like a silver flame in
the dear old house, doing her sweet household duties. His blood began to
sing: O happy those within, to see her, and be about her! By some
extraordinary process he contrived to cast a sort of glory round the
burly person of Farmer Blaize himself. And oh! to have companionship with
a seraph one must know a seraph's bliss, and was not young Tom to be
envied? The smell of late clematis brought on the wind enwrapped him, and
went to his brain, and threw a light over the old red-brick house, for he
remembered where it grew, and the winter rose-tree, and the jessamine,
and the passion-flower: the garden in front with the standard roses
tended by her hands; the long wall to the left striped by the branches of
the cherry, the peep of a further garden through the wall, and then the
orchard, and the fields beyond--the happy circle of her dwelling! it
flashed before his eyes while he looked on the darkness. And yet it was
the reverse of hope which kindled this light and inspired the momentary
calm he experienced: it was despair exaggerating delusion, wilfully
building up on a groundless basis. "For the tenacity of true passion is
terrible," says The Pilgrim's Scrip: "it will stand against the hosts of
heaven, God's great array of Facts, rather than surrender its aim, and
must be crushed before it will succumb--sent to the lowest pit!" He knew
she was not there; she was gone. But the power of a will strained to
madness fought at it, kept it down, conjured forth her ghost, and would
have it as he dictated. Poor youth! the great array of facts was in due
order of march.

He had breathed her name many times, and once over-loud; almost a cry for
her escaped him. He had not noticed the opening of a door and the noise
of a foot along the gravel walk. He was leaning over Cassandra's uneasy
neck watching the one window intently, when a voice addressed him out of
the darkness.

"Be that you, young gentleman?--Mr. Fev'rel?"

Richard's trance was broken. "Mr. Blaize!" he said; recognizing the
farmer's voice.

"Good even'n t' you, sir," returned the farmer. "I knew the mare though I
didn't know you. Rather bluff to-night it be. Will ye step in, Mr.
Fev'rel? it's beginning' to spit,--going to be a wildish night, I
reckon."