Few village confinements were honoured with so much interest. The darkness in the street was now intense, heightened by the snow that continued to float down in large, soft flakes; only the little yellow lights in the windows broke it, all on the ground-floor level but for the significant exception of Daisy’s window, whose lighted rectangle on the upper storey threw its beams out against the falling snow. All was silent in the Lovels’ house; ever Mrs. Blagdon seemed to have fallen into the clandestine habits of her hosts, for she had not once run out across the street in an interval for a moment’s gossip with a neighbour; only the shadow passed upon the blind, enormous and suggestive, to show that any life stirred within the house. The snow fell thicker; the few black holes left by the hoofs of Lovel’s horse had been long since blotted out, and Lovel himself had disappeared into the night as completely as though he had no intention of ever coming back. Hours had passed, suppers were finished and cleared away in all the little lighted kitchens, still the good wives were reluctant to move upstairs to bed, while careful to conceal their reluctance from the men. And Mrs. Blagdon, when she finally threw up a window in spite of the steely cold, to call out in an irritable and impatient voice, “Anybody seen anything of Lovel?” was answered by a dozen voices in negation.
“How’s things, Mrs. Blagdon?”
“Turned round the wrong way,” came the reply laconically.
The street fell back into its silence after the small disturbance. Women who had been through the experience gave a moment’s pity to Daisy. Gorwyn, the smith, knocking out his pipe against his hearthstone, reiterated the opinion that Lovel would not be seen again that night. Peter, his son, stirred uneasily. “Is it all up with her, would you think, mother?” But Mrs. Gorwyn was contemptuous. “Lord, no; a solid girl like Daisy’d stand a deal more than that.”
Country news, that most unaccountable traveller, spread even to Starvecrow in its isolation. Mrs. Quince was full of it,—she who towards Clare had kept herself so very prim and respectfully reserved. “You will remember, madam, the girl you saw in the attic bedroom here, Daisy Morland by name?”
“I remember perfectly, Mrs. Quince; what of her?”
“You will remember she was stitching at some baby-linen,—she was married to that good-for-nothing Lovel,—Gipsy Lovel, they call him,—a fortnight later,—a matter of three weeks before you were married yourself, madam.”
“Yes, Mrs. Quince?”
“She was brought to bed of a son in the early hours of this morning, madam,” said Mrs. Quince importantly.
“Really. I hope she is well?”