The strain upon Grace's mind in various ways was so great on this the

most desolate day she had passed there that she felt it would be

well-nigh impossible to spend another in such circumstances. The

evening came at last; the sun, when its chin was on the earth, found an

opening through which to pierce the shade, and stretched irradiated

gauzes across the damp atmosphere, making the wet trunks shine, and

throwing splotches of such ruddiness on the leaves beneath the beech

that they were turned to gory hues. When night at last arrived, and

with it the time for his return, she was nearly broken down with

suspense.

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The simple evening meal, partly tea, partly supper, which Grace had

prepared, stood waiting upon the hearth; and yet Giles did not come.

It was now nearly twenty-four hours since she had seen him. As the room

grew darker, and only the firelight broke against the gloom of the

walls, she was convinced that it would be beyond her staying power to

pass the night without hearing from him or from somebody. Yet eight

o'clock drew on, and his form at the window did not appear.

The meal remained untasted. Suddenly rising from before the hearth of

smouldering embers, where she had been crouching with her hands clasped

over her knees, she crossed the room, unlocked the door, and listened.

Every breath of wind had ceased with the decline of day, but the rain

had resumed the steady dripping of the night before. Grace might have

stood there five minutes when she fancied she heard that old sound, a

cough, at no great distance; and it was presently repeated. If it were

Winterborne's, he must be near her; why, then, had he not visited her?

A horrid misgiving that he could not visit her took possession of

Grace, and she looked up anxiously for the lantern, which was hanging

above her head. To light it and go in the direction of the sound would

be the obvious way to solve the dread problem; but the conditions made

her hesitate, and in a moment a cold sweat pervaded her at further

sounds from the same quarter.

They were low mutterings; at first like persons in conversation, but

gradually resolving themselves into varieties of one voice. It was an

endless monologue, like that we sometimes hear from inanimate nature in

deep secret places where water flows, or where ivy leaves flap against

stones; but by degrees she was convinced that the voice was

Winterborne's. Yet who could be his listener, so mute and patient; for

though he argued so rapidly and persistently, nobody replied.




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