'We cannot,' said Madge, 'all of us come to terms after this fashion

with our consciences, but we have had enough of these discussions on

morality. Let us go out.'

They went out, and, as some relief from the straight road, they

turned into a field as they came home, and walked along a footpath

which crossed the broad, deep ditches by planks. They were within

about fifty yards of the last and broadest ditch, more a dyke than a

ditch, when Frank, turning round, saw an ox which they had not

noticed, galloping after them.

'Go on, go on,' he cried, 'make for the plank.'

He discerned in an instant that unless the course of the animal could

be checked it would overtake them before the bridge could be reached.

The women fled, but Frank remained. He was in the habit of carrying

a heavy walking-stick, the end of which he had hollowed out in his

schooldays and had filled up with lead. Just as the ox came upon

him, it laid its head to the ground, and Frank, springing aside,

dealt it a tremendous, two-handed blow on the forehead with his

knobbed weapon. The creature was dazed, it stopped and staggered,

and in another instant Frank was across the bridge in safety. There

was a little hysterical sobbing, but it was soon over.

'Oh, Mr Palmer,' said Mrs Hopgood, 'what presence of mind and what

courage! We should have been killed without you.'

'The feat is not original, Mrs Hopgood. I saw it done by a tough

little farmer last summer on a bull that was really mad. There was

no ditch for him though, poor fellow, and he had to jump a hedge.'

'You did not find it difficult,' said Madge, 'to settle your problem

when it came to you in the shape of a wild ox.'

'Because there was nothing to settle,' said Frank, laughing; 'there

was only one thing to be done.'

'So you believed, or rather, so you saw,' said Clara. 'I should have

seen half-a-dozen things at once--that is to say, nothing.'

'And I,' said Madge, 'should have settled it the wrong way: I am

sure I should, even if I had been a man. I should have bolted.'

Frank stayed to tea, and the evening was musical. He left about ten,

but just as the door had shut he remembered he had forgotten his

stick. He gave a gentle rap and Madge appeared. She gave him his

stick.

'Good-bye again. Thanks for my life.'

Frank cursed himself that he could not find the proper word. He knew

there was something which might be said and ought to be said, but he

could not say it. Madge held out her hand to him, he raised it to

his lips and kissed it, and then, astonished at his boldness, he

instantly retreated. He went to the 'Crown and Sceptre' and was soon

in bed, but not to sleep. Strange, that the moment we lie down in

the dark, images, which were half obscured, should become so

intensely luminous! Madge hovered before Frank with almost tangible

distinctness, and he felt his fingers moving in her heavy, voluptuous

tresses. Her picture at last became almost painful to him and shamed

him, so that he turned over from side to side to avoid it. He had

never been thrown into the society of women of his own age, for he

had no sister, and a fire was kindled within him which burnt with a

heat all the greater because his life had been so pure. At last he

fell asleep and did not wake till late in the morning. He had just

time to eat his breakfast, pay one more business visit in the town,

and catch the coach due at eleven o'clock from Lincoln to London. As

the horses were being changed, he walked as near as he dared venture

to the windows of the cottage next door, but he could see nobody.

When the coach, however, began to move, he turned round and looked

behind him, and a hand was waved to him. He took off his hat, and in

five minutes he was clear of the town. It was in sight a long way,

but when, at last, it disappeared, a cloud of wretchedness swept over

him as the vapour sweeps up from the sea. What was she doing?

talking to other people, existing for others, laughing with others!

There were miles between himself and Fenmarket. Life! what was life?

A few moments of living and long, dreary gaps between. All this,

however, is a vain attempt to delineate what was shapeless. It was

an intolerable, unvanquishable oppression. This was Love; this was

the blessing which the god with the ruddy wings had bestowed on him.

It was a relief to him when the coach rattled through Islington, and

in a few minutes had landed him at the 'Angel.'




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