“Not since your return, sir,” saith Mrs Packworth mighty demurely, but with something of mystery in her air that I could not understand.
“I must needs inquire his intention,” says I, scarce knowing what I said.
“Sure, sir,” says Mrs Sternhold, “your best course were to inquire of Mrs Brandon herself. She would be little like to relish our making a common talk of her matters, but she could scarce refuse to grant you such satisfaction as you may desire touching ’em from her own lips.”
“I must needs follow your counsel, madam,” says I. “Meanwhile, may I entreat of you and Mrs Packworth to dispense here with my further attendance? I see we are arrived at the path leading to the Hall through the woods, and I would fain hasten home.”
Thus speaking, and making apologies that I understood not while I did utter ’em, I left the coach, standing uncovered until it was departed, and hearing the voices of the two gentlewomen in contention, as though Mrs Sternhold desired to tell me that which her daughter had refused me. I could not doubt but they were triumphing over me, but I cared not a whit for their triumph. Though they had done no more, they had at the least fulfilled their purpose, in showing me my own heart, and they had doubtless rejoiced to have beheld me hasten into the wood, and cast myself, in my anguish, on the ground. And this because Mrs Packworth’s discourse had revealed to me on a sudden that I had misread my resentiments, and that, so far from my heart’s being dead, it was alive, and loved Dorothy. And this seemed to me so ironical a stroke of fate that I groaned aloud, namely, that when she had been free and waiting for me I had rejected her, but that now, when her love was given to another, I was returned, and had learned to love her. Thus I could not deny that I was rightly served, and could blame no one but myself, that had behaved so foolishly both in the one case and in the other.
And this led me to perceive that ’twould be prodigious unjust in me to cause Dorothy and her servant to suffer for either the one or the other of my faults, and that ’twas my duty to give all my pains henceforth to render them happy. And this arrived at, I did rise up from the ground, somewhat ashamed of this outburst of unmanly despair, and did turn my steps towards home, revolving many things in my mind. For I determined that if Dorothy’s unknown servant should prove a convenient match for her, as I could scarce doubt but he should, I would see them safely married and resign to them Ellswether for to dwell in, and return myself with Loll Duss to East India, entreating the Company to have me appointed to Bombaim or Bengall, whither few do go by choice, these places being esteemed deadly for the English. And musing upon these plans, I could not resist comparing ’em with my joyous anticipations in returning home, and bewailing myself therefor, and so wandered on (having forgot that I had told Mrs Packworth I must needs hasten home), until the darkness began to overtake me while I was yet in the wood. And upon this I made haste to find the right path, fearing lest it should become pitch-dark, and I miss my road. Hastening on, then, in the way I had chosen, I saw in front of me the form of a woman wrapped in a hooded cloak, hurrying very fast as though in fear. I could scarce believe my eyes, but yet to me that shape wan’t to be mistook, and I come up with the woman quickly, and touched her on the arm. She turned round with a face that was white even in the twilight, but cried out with delight for to see me.
“Oh, Ned, ’tis only you!” she said, and took my hand, for all the world as though we had been children together again.
“What do you here, cousin, at this hour and alone?” said I.
“I have been to see Jobson’s wife,” says she, “and to carry her some broth.”
“Jobson the poacher?” says I.