I sighed, I could not help it. Then I reminded her of a great oak we had seen during an expedition with Dr. Hildyard into the adjacent county. We had paused to look at the giant, around whose spreading branches ivy had climbed and twisted until bough after bough was dying.
She had said:
“That ivy clings to the tree like I cling to you.”
“The ivy is choking the life out of the oak,” said I; “it is to be hoped you will not do the same by me.”
I said it, and she took it, jestingly. But, as I told her, if matters do not mend—if I cannot at least have freedom for study, or to go to town now and then on business and to look people up, my end may be the same as the oak’s.
She was all penitence, all promises; nor would she leave the study until I had given her my word that I would for the future go on my own way regardless of her feelings, which she would try to modify by degrees.
Before we retired for the night, I had promised to go to town to-day for some scientific works I particularly want, and to transact neglected business.
Sunday, May —.
Only two days! It seems weeks—weeks of horror, anxiety—since I wrote those last words.
I went to town, got my books, saw Dr. Hildyard, etcetera, and returned by the seven o’clock train. Thomas was to meet me at the station with the dogcart. He was there. At first I noticed nothing unusual, but the instant I reached my seat he drove off at a tremendous rate.