"I make none."

"Then go your way, and let me go mine." She snatched away her hand,

touched the pony with the whip, and left him standing there, holding

the reversed glove.

Melbury's first impulse was to reveal his presence to Fitzpiers, and

upbraid him bitterly. But a moment's thought was sufficient to show

him the futility of any such simple proceeding. There was not, after

all, so much in what he had witnessed as in what that scene might be

the surface and froth of--probably a state of mind on which censure

operates as an aggravation rather than as a cure. Moreover, he said to

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himself that the point of attack should be the woman, if either. He

therefore kept out of sight, and musing sadly, even tearfully--for he

was meek as a child in matters concerning his daughter--continued his

way towards Hintock.

The insight which is bred of deep sympathy was never more finely

exemplified than in this instance. Through her guarded manner, her

dignified speech, her placid countenance, he discerned the interior of

Grace's life only too truly, hidden as were its incidents from every

outer eye.

These incidents had become painful enough. Fitzpiers had latterly

developed an irritable discontent which vented itself in monologues

when Grace was present to hear them. The early morning of this day had

been dull, after a night of wind, and on looking out of the window

Fitzpiers had observed some of Melbury's men dragging away a large limb

which had been snapped off a beech-tree. Everything was cold and

colorless.

"My good Heaven!" he said, as he stood in his dressing-gown. "This is

life!" He did not know whether Grace was awake or not, and he would not

turn his head to ascertain. "Ah, fool," he went on to himself, "to

clip your own wings when you were free to soar!...But I could not rest

till I had done it. Why do I never recognize an opportunity till I

have missed it, nor the good or ill of a step till it is

irrevocable!...I fell in love....Love, indeed!-"'Love's but the frailty of the mind

When 'tis not with ambition joined;

A sickly flame which if not fed, expires,

And feeding, wastes in self-consuming fires!' Ah, old author of 'The Way of the World,' you knew--you knew!" Grace

moved. He thought she had heard some part of his soliloquy. He was

sorry--though he had not taken any precaution to prevent her.

He expected a scene at breakfast, but she only exhibited an extreme

reserve. It was enough, however, to make him repent that he should

have done anything to produce discomfort; for he attributed her manner

entirely to what he had said. But Grace's manner had not its cause

either in his sayings or in his doings. She had not heard a single word

of his regrets. Something even nearer home than her husband's blighted

prospects--if blighted they were--was the origin of her mood, a mood

that was the mere continuation of what her father had noticed when he

would have preferred a passionate jealousy in her, as the more natural.




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