e; and he had been deferentially convinced by Major Waring's tone
that he ought rightly to give his hearing to an unknown young gentleman
against whom anger was due. He had listened to Edward without one
particle of comprehension, except of the fact that his behaviour was
extraordinary. He understood that every admission made by Edward with
such grave and strange directness, would justly have condemned him
to punishment which the culprit's odd, and upright, and even-toned
self-denunciation rendered it impossible to think of inflicting. He
knew likewise that a whole history was being narrated to him, and that,
although the other two listeners manifestly did not approve it, they
expected him to show some tolerance to the speaker.

He said once, "Robert, do me the favour to look about outside for t'
other." Robert answered him, that the man was far away by this time.

The farmer suggested that he might be waiting to say his word presently.

"Don't you know you've been dealing with a villain, sir?" cried Robert.
"Throw ever so little light upon one of that breed, and they skulk in
a hurry. Mr. Fleming, for the sake of your honour, don't mention him
again. What you're asked to do now, is to bury the thoughts of him."

"He righted my daughter when there was shame on her," the farmer
replied.

That was the idea printed simply on his understanding.

For Edward to hear it was worse than a scourging with rods. He bore it,
telling the last vitality of his pride to sleep, and comforting himself
with the drowsy sensuous expectation that he was soon to press the hand
of his lost one, his beloved, who was in the house, breathing the same
air with him; was perhaps in the room above, perhaps sitting impatiently
with clasped fingers, waiting for the signal to unlock them and fling
them open. He could imagine the damp touch of very expectant fingers;
the dying look of life-drinking eyes; and, oh! the helplessness of her
limbs as she sat buoying a heart drowned in bliss.

It was unknown to him that the peril of her uttermost misery had been
so imminent, and the picture conjured of her in his mind was that of a
gentle but troubled face--a soul afflicted, yet hoping because it had
been told to hope, and half conscious that a rescue, almost divine in
its suddenness and unexpectedness, and its perfect clearing away of all
shadows, approached.

Manifestly, by the pallid cast of his visage, he had tasted shrewd and
wasting grief of late.