She could not, and the necessity for a sort of secrecy hurt her. She thought very long and deeply upon the subject, but saw no answer to Woodrow's arguments. He had frankly told her that he loved her; and while her mind stood still at the shock, he had asked her how it was possible to blame him for so doing. He had gone away into the world that he might seek peace, and he had found none. Instead, she had filled his sleeping and waking thoughts, and the mere memory of her had proved strong enough to stand as a sure shield and barrier between him and all other women. His love was an essence as pure and sweet as the air of the Moor. He had solemnly sworn it; and she dwelt on that, for it comforted her. She retraced other passages of their conversation, and marked how again and again it returned to her. And not only her did he discuss, but her husband also, and her child, and the future welfare of them all.
She fought with herself and blamed herself for being uneasy and cast down. What made her fearful? Why did sex move her to suspicion before his frank protestations? He was a very honest and truth-loving man. He hated hypocrisy, and cant, and the letter that killed; he stood for the spirit that quickened; he longed to see the world wiser, happier and saner. Such a fellow-creature was not to be feared or mistrusted.
She told herself that she ought to love him, as he loved her; and presently she assured herself that she did do so. He was a gentleman, delicate of speech, earnest, and—his eyes were beautiful to her. She found herself dwelling upon his outward parts, his gaze, his features, his thin, brown hands.
Prosperity must spring out of Woodrow's regard for Daniel, otherwise the professed friendship was vain. She assured herself of this; then she endeavoured to lift the problem of her mind into the domain of religion. Her husband worked hard to make her religious; now she brought her difficulties on to that higher plane, and strove to find more light upon them.
Nothing hurt her here. Religion, as she understood it, spoke clearly and did not reprove her. She must love her neighbour as herself, and seek to let a little of her own full cup of happiness flow over to brighten the hearts of those less blessed. The sole difficulty was in her teacher, not in her guides. How would Daniel approve such a large policy? She asked him. But she did not ask him quite honestly. She knew it, and she was very unhappy afterwards. And then she told herself that the end had justified the means; and then she doubted. And so the first real sorrow of her life dawned, became for a season permanent, and shamed her in her own eyes.
"I met Mr. Woodrow to-day, Daniel," she said, "and walked a bit beside his horse as I came back from Lydford. I thought once he was going to begin about you, and hoped to hear the good news that he meant to lift you up at last; but he didn't actually say it. Only he asked me to see him sometimes when I brought in the butter of a Friday—just to bring news of Ruddyford."
"Well, you do, don't you? If there's any message, Prout always sends it by you—by you, or anybody that happens to be going in."
"Yes; only I generally see Susan, or leave the message with Hephzibah. But Mr. Woodrow said he'd like me to call myself if he was in. And my first thought was 'no'; then I saw he was so much in earnest, that I said 'yes.'"
"You'll do no such thing, and 'twas very bold for him to ask it, or you to grant."
"Of course I won't, if you don't like; but listen a minute, Daniel. He was kinder about you than ever I remember him to be. 'Don't you fear for your husband,' he said. 'I'm a quiet man, but I'm wide awake. I know him. I know him better than Prout knows him, though Prout's never tired of praising him. Leave your husband's future in my hands. I mean to make the man in my own good time.' That's actually what he said, Dan. And he knew very well that I should tell you."