If he had suffered, had not she? if he had borne, had not she? if he had found his cross almost heavier than he could endure, had not hers also bowed her to the very ground? had not she wept her tears, and fought with her anguish? Yea, truly; and yet Heather, looking at that pale, worn, haggard man, who came slowly lounging up the yard, thought of none of these things, but only of the blasted hopes, of the proud, disappointed, broken heart of the husband of her youth.
The sunlight, flaring down into the court-yard, shone full upon his face as he walked back from the entrance gates, swinging the great key on his forefinger; and Heather, sheltered from observation by the window-curtain, looked down on the man she had returned to comfort, not knowing exactly what to do—in what terms to announce her change of purpose.
The expression on his countenance, which had so struck her while the train moved out of the station, was on his countenance still. He was all alone, as he thought, now; with no need to put on a mask, with no necessity to smile, or speak, or deceive; and as Heather, watching him, beheld that look of misery deepen and deepen, while he walked so slowly back, an awful dread took possession of her—a dread of something being about to happen which made her tremble as though in an ague-fit.
He was now beside the well—an old-fashioned one, with rope and windlass, up which the men had in former days drawn buckets of water, but now neglected and disused. It had long been covered over for fear of accidents, and though the boards had shrunk one from another with the heat of many summers, still the planking was secure enough to render all fear of accident unnecessary.
Beside this well, Arthur now paused for a moment, apparently irresolute; then he stooped, and through the stillness the sound of a splash, of something falling down, and then touching water, ascended to where Heather stood.
At that moment she could not have moved had it been to save her life; but she could watch, and she did, to see Arthur rise with a face from which even despair was blotted out; for despair implies a certain ability left to wrestle against, or, at all events, to feel utter hopelessness; but now, the sun looked down upon a man who had passed even that stage, who had gone through his last struggle, cast his last die.
It was with the expression of a person already dead, Arthur turned from the well and walked across the court-yard, with the key no longer swinging on his forefinger.
What could he be intending to do? Heather dropped on her knees beside the window, and watched him enter the carpenter’s shop. She dared not have met him then. There came upon her such an access of terror when she heard that key splash into the water, as swept everything else out of her heart for the time being, save the most unconquerable, abject fear—a fear which prevented her even thinking, which took away the power of putting two and two together, and conceiving what project it might be Arthur had in hand.
She was like one in a dream—with a great horror on her, she fell on her knees and watched. Through it all, there was a vague, night-mare kind of consciousness that she and Arthur were locked up alone together—that escape for either of them was not possible—that if help were needed, help was now unattainable.
In her despair she prayed—holding on by the window-sill as if she were going to be torn from it, she framed some sort of petition to God to help her. Wearied and exhausted, frightened, and with that awful, vague, nameless dread at length taking a tangible form, it seemed to her as though, for a moment, everything faded from her eyes—as though, even while her lips were moving and her heart uttering some terrified words of supplication, her senses left her for a moment—the yard swam round, the buildings went up and down before her sight, the sunlight turned to darkness, and then——