Every hour I could spare from duty was spent in hovering, like a spectre or a spy--an unquiet spirit certainly--in the vicinity of Walcot Park, till the lodge-keepers, who had been wont to touch their hats civilly at first, began ere long to view me with mistrust; and my horse knew every crook and turn of the Whitchurch-road quite as well as the way to his own stable. On the evening of the fifth day after I had written to Sir Madoc--a pleasant evening in the first days of September--I was again riding leisurely among the deep green lanes that border on Walcot Park, and which lay between dark green hedgerows then studded by scarlet dogberries, and the overarching branches of apple, pear, and damson trees, my heart, as usual, full of vague doubts, decided longings, and most undecided intentions, when I began slowly to walk my horse up a long, steep, and picturesque road, the vista of which was closed by an old village church, in the low and moss-grown wall surrounding which was a green wicket. It was on just such an evening as the last I have described, when the farewell gleam of the sun shone level along the fields, when the many-coloured foliage rustled in the gentle wind, and the voices of the blackbird, the thrush, and the lark came sweetly at times from the darkening copsewood, and when, as Clare writes in his rhyming calendar,
"The wagons haste the corn to load,
And hurry down the dusty road;
The driving boy with eager eye
Watches the church clock, passing by--
Whose gilt hands glitter in the sun--
To see how far the hours have run;
Right happy in the breathless day,
To see time wearing fast away."
Nearly covered with ivy, the square tower of the little church--a fane old as the days when the Saxons bent their bows in vain at Hastings; yea, old as the time of St. Ethelwold (the famous architect and Bishop of Winchester)--peeped up amid the rich autumnal foliage that almost hid it from the view. At the wicket, some hundred yards from me, in the twilight--for though the sun had not set, the density of the copsewood about the place rendered the light rather dim and obscure--were a lady and gentleman, the latter mounted, and the former on foot. At first they seemed to be in close and earnest conversation; then the lady gesticulated earnestly, raising her hands and face to him imploringly; but twice he thrust her back, almost violently, with the handle of his whip. This was a strange and unpleasant episode to encounter. I knew not whether to advance or retire. I feared to intrude on what I supposed was something more than a lovers' quarrel, or, from the man's utter indifference, was perhaps a matrimonial squabble; and I was equally loth to retire, and leave a woman--a lady evidently--to the violence or passion of this person, upon whose love or mercy--it might be both--by her gestures and even the distant tones of her voice, she was so evidently throwing herself in vain.
I checked my horse's pace, and, amid the thick rank grass of the narrow lane, his footsteps were unheeded by the two actors in this scene; moreover, without backing him well into one of the thick hedges, I could not have turned to retrace my way.
Her hands were clasped now; she had dropped her parasol, and her face, a very white one, was upturned pleadingly to his; but to whatever she said, this horseman, whose back was to me, replied scornfully and derisively by a low mocking laugh, which somehow I seemed to have heard before, but when, or where, I quite failed to remember. Anon she drew something from her bosom, and, kissing it, held it towards him, as if seeking to influence him, by an appeal through it to some past time of love, or truth, or happiness, or all together. Whatever it was she thus displayed, he snatched it roughly, even fiercely, from her with a curse, and, again thrusting her violently from him--so violently, that I believe he must have used his foot and the off-stirrup iron---she fell heavily against the low wall, which, at the same moment, he cleared by a flying leap, and then disappeared in the network of lanes, orchards, and hedgerows that lie about the churchyard. A low wail escaped her; and when I came cantering up, and dismounted, she was lying on the path beside the churchyard wicket in tears and despair. Her appearance was perfectly ladylike, and most prepossessing; yet I knew not very clearly what to say or how to interfere in the matter, though manhood and courtesy rendered some action imperatively necessary.
"I trust you are not hurt," said I, taking her hand and assisting her to rise.
"Thank you, sir--not bodily hurt," she replied, in a low and broken voice, while scarcely venturing to look at me, and pressing her left hand upon her heart, as if to restrain emotion, or as if she felt a pain there.
"Did that person rob you?" asked I.
"O no, no, sir," she answered, hurriedly.
"But he seemed to snatch or wrench something from you?"