Transcribed from the 1864 Chapman and Hall “Tales of All Countries”
edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org





                  THE PARSON’S DAUGHTER OF OXNEY COLNE.


THE prettiest scenery in all England—and if I am contradicted in that
assertion, I will say in all Europe—is in Devonshire, on the southern and
south-eastern skirts of Dartmoor, where the rivers Dart, and Avon, and
Teign form themselves, and where the broken moor is half cultivated, and
the wild-looking upland fields are half moor.  In making this assertion I
am often met with much doubt, but it is by persons who do not really know
the locality.  Men and women talk to me on the matter, who have travelled
down the line of railway from Exeter to Plymouth, who have spent a
fortnight at Torquay, and perhaps made an excursion from Tavistock to the
convict prison on Dartmoor.  But who knows the glories of Chagford?  Who
has walked through the parish of Manaton?  Who is conversant with
Lustleigh Cleeves and Withycombe in the moor?  Who has explored Holne
Chase?  Gentle reader, believe me that you will be rash in contradicting
me, unless you have done these things.

There or thereabouts—I will not say by the waters of which little river
it is washed—is the parish of Oxney Colne.  And for those who wish to see
all the beauties of this lovely country, a sojourn in Oxney Colne would
be most desirable, seeing that the sojourner would then be brought nearer
to all that he would wish to visit, than at any other spot in the
country.  But there in an objection to any such arrangement.  There are
only two decent houses in the whole parish, and these are—or were when I
knew the locality—small and fully occupied by their possessors.  The
larger and better is the parsonage, in which lived the parson and his
daughter; and the smaller is a freehold residence of a certain Miss Le
Smyrger, who owned a farm of a hundred acres, which was rented by one
Farmer Cloysey, and who also possessed some thirty acres round her own
house, which she managed herself; regarding herself to be quite as great
in cream as Mr. Cloysey, and altogether superior to him in the article of
cyder.  “But yeu has to pay no rent, Miss,” Farmer Cloysey would say,
when Miss Le Smyrger expressed this opinion of her art in a manner too
defiant.  “Yeu pays no rent, or yeu couldn’t do it.”  Miss Le Smyrger was
an old maid, with a pedigree and blood of her own, a hundred and thirty
acres of fee-simple land on the borders of Dartmoor, fifty years of age,
a constitution of iron, and an opinion of her own on every subject under
the sun.

And now for the parson and his daughter.  The parson’s name was
Woolsworthy—or Woolathy, as it was pronounced by all those who lived
around him—the Rev. Saul Woolsworthy; and his daughter was Patience
Woolsworthy, or Miss Patty, as she was known to the Devonshire world of
those parts.  That name of Patience had not been well chosen for her, for
she was a hot-tempered damsel, warm in her convictions, and inclined to
express them freely.  She had but two closely intimate friends in the
world, and by both of them this freedom of expression had now been fully
permitted to her since she was a child.  Miss Le Smyrger and her father
were well accustomed to her ways, and on the whole well satisfied with
them.  The former was equally free and equally warm-tempered as herself,
and as Mr. Woolsworthy was allowed by his daughter to be quite paramount
on his own subject—for he had a subject—he did not object to his daughter
being paramount on all others.  A pretty girl was Patience Woolsworthy at
the time of which I am writing, and one who possessed much that was
worthy of remark and admiration, had she lived where beauty meets with
admiration, or where force of character is remarked.  But at Oxney Colne,
on the borders of Dartmoor, there were few to appreciate her, and it
seemed as though she herself had but little idea of carrying her talent
further afield, so that it might not remain for ever wrapped in a
blanket.

She was a pretty girl, tall end slender, with dark eyes and black hair.
Her eyes were perhaps too round for regular beauty, and her hair was
perhaps too crisp; her mouth was large and expressive; her nose was
finely formed, though a critic in female form might have declared it to
be somewhat broad.  But her countenance altogether was wonderfully
attractive—if only it might be seen without that resolution for dominion
which occasionally marred it, though sometimes it even added to her
attractions.

It must be confessed on behalf of Patience Woolsworthy, that the
circumstances of her life had peremptorily called upon her to exercise
dominion.  She had lost her mother when she was sixteen, and had had
neither brother nor sister.  She had no neighbours near her fit either
from education or rank to interfere in the conduct of her life, excepting
always Miss La Smyrger.  Miss Le Smyrger would have done anything for
her, including the whole management of her morals and of the parsonage
household, had Patience been content with such an arrangement.  But much
as Patience had ever loved Miss Le Smyrger, she was not content with
this, and therefore she had been called on to put forth a strong hand of
her own.  She had put forth this strong hand early, and hence had come
the character which I am attempting to describe.  But I must say on
behalf of this girl, that it was not only over others that she thus
exercised dominion.  In acquiring that power she had also acquired the
much greater power of exercising rule over herself.

But why should her father have been ignored in these family arrangements?
Perhaps it may almost suffice to say, that of all living men her father
was the man best conversant with the antiquities of the county in which
he lived.  He was the Jonathan Oldbuck of Devonshire, and especially of
Dartmoor, without that decision of character which enabled Oldbuck to
keep his womenkind in some kind of subjection, and probably enabled him
also to see that his weekly bills did not pass their proper limits.  Our
Mr. Oldbuck, of Oxney Colne, was sadly deficient in these.  As a parish
pastor with but a small cure, he did his duty with sufficient energy, to
keep him, at any rate, from reproach.  He was kind and charitable to the
poor, punctual in his services, forbearing with the farmers around him,
mild with his brother clergymen, and indifferent to aught that bishop or
archdeacon might think or say of him.  I do not name this latter
attribute as a virtue, but as a fact.  But all these points were as
nothing in the known character of Mr. Woolsworthy, of Oxney Colne.  He
was the antiquarian of Dartmoor.  That was his line of life.  It was in
that capacity that he was known to the Devonshire world; it was as such
that he journeyed about with his humble carpet-bag, staying away from his
parsonage a night or two at a time; it was in that character that he
received now and again stray visitors in the single spare bedroom—not
friends asked to see him and his girl because of their friendship—but men
who knew something as to this buried stone, or that old land-mark.  In
all these things his daughter let him have his own way, assisting and
encouraging him.  That was his line of life, and therefore she respected
it.  But in all other matters she chose to be paramount at the parsonage.

Mr. Woolsworthy was a little man, who always wore, except on Sundays,
grey clothes—clothes of so light a grey that they would hardly have been
regarded as clerical in a district less remote.  He had now reached a
goodly age, being full seventy years old; but still he was wiry and
active, and showed but few symptoms of decay.  His head was bald, and the
few remaining locks that surrounded it were nearly white.  But there was
a look of energy about his mouth, and a humour in his light grey eye,
which forbade those who knew him to regard him altogether as an old man.
As it was, he could walk from Oxney Colne to Priestown, fifteen long
Devonshire miles across the moor; and he who could do that could hardly
be regarded as too old for work.

But our present story will have more to do with his daughter than with
him.  A pretty girl, I have said, was Patience Woolsworthy; and one, too,
in many ways remarkable.  She had taken her outlook into life, weighing
the things which she had and those which she had not, in a manner very
unusual, and, as a rule, not always desirable for a young lady.  The
things which she had not were very many.  She had not society; she had
not a fortune; she had not any assurance of future means of livelihood;
she had not high hope of procuring for herself a position in life by
marriage; she had not that excitement and pleasure in life which she read
of in such books as found their way down to Oxney Colne Parsonage.  It
would be easy to add to the list of the things which she had not; and
this list against herself she made out with the utmost vigour.  The
things which she had, or those rather which she assured herself of
having, were much more easily counted.  She had the birth and education
of a lady, the strength of a healthy woman, and a will of her own.  Such
was the list as she made it out for herself, and I protest that I assert
no more than the truth in saying that she never added to it either
beauty, wit, or talent.

I began these descriptions by saying that Oxney Colne would, of all
places, be the best spot from which a tourist could visit those parts of
Devonshire, but for the fact that he could obtain there none of the
accommodation which tourists require.  A brother antiquarian might,
perhaps, in those days have done so, seeing that there was, as I have
said, a spare bedroom at the parsonage.  Any intimate friend of Miss Le
Smyrger’s might be as fortunate, for she was equally well provided at
Oxney Combe, by which name her house was known.  But Miss Le Smyrger was
not given to extensive hospitality, and it was only to those who were
bound to her, either by ties of blood or of very old friendship, that she
delighted to open her doors.  As her old friends were very few in number,
as those few lived at a distance, and as her nearest relations were
higher in the world than she was, and were said by herself to look down
upon her, the visits made to Oxney Combe were few and far between.

But now, at the period of which I am writing, such a visit was about to
be made.  Miss Le Smyrger had a younger sister, who had inherited a
property in the parish of Oxney Colne equal to that of the lady who now
lived there; but this the younger sister had inherited beauty also, and
she therefore, in early life, had found sundry lovers, one of whom became
her husband.  She had married a man even then well to do in the world,
but now rich and almost mighty; a Member of Parliament, a lord of this
and that board, a man who had a house in Eaton Square, and a park in the
north of England; and in this way her course of life had been very much
divided from that of our Miss Le Smyrger.  But the Lord of the Government
Board had been blessed with various children; and perhaps it was now
thought expedient to look after Aunt Penelope’s Devonshire acres.  Aunt
Penelope was empowered to leave them to whom she pleased; and though it
was thought in Eaton Square that she must, as a matter of course, leave
them to one of the family, nevertheless a little cousinly intercourse
might make the thing more certain.  I will not say that this was the sole
cause of such a visit, but in these days a visit was to be made by
Captain Broughton to his aunt.  Now Captain John Broughton was the second
son of Alfonso Broughton, of Clapham Park and Eaton Square, Member of
Parliament, and Lord of the aforesaid Government Board.

“And what do you mean to do with him?” Patience Woolsworthy asked of Miss
Le Smyrger when that lady walked over from the Combe to say that her
nephew John was to arrive on the following morning.

“Do with him?  Why I shall bring him over here to talk to your father.”

“He’ll be too fashionable for that; and papa won’t trouble his head about
him if he finds that he doesn’t care for Dartmoor.”

“Then he may fall in love with you, my dear.”

“Well, yes; there’s that resource at any rate, and for your sake I dare
say I should be more civil to him than papa.  But he’ll soon get tired of
making love, and what you’ll do then I cannot imagine.”

That Miss Woolsworthy felt no interest in the coming of the Captain I
will not pretend to say.  The advent of any stranger with whom she would
be called on to associate must be matter of interest to her in that
secluded place; and she was not so absolutely unlike other young ladies
that the arrival of an unmarried young man would be the same to her as
the advent of some patriarchal paterfamilias.  In taking that outlook
into life of which I have spoken, she had never said to herself that she
despised those things from which other girls received the excitement, the
joys, and the disappointment of their lives.  She had simply given
herself to understand that very little of such things would come her way,
and that it behoved her to live—to live happily if such might be
possible—without experiencing the need of them.  She had heard, when
there was no thought of any such visit to Oxney Colne, that John
Broughton was a handsome, clever man—one who thought much of himself, and
was thought much of by others—that there had been some talk of his
marrying a great heiress, which marriage, however, had not taken place
through unwillingness on his part, and that he was on the whole a man of
more mark in the world than the ordinary captain of ordinary regiments.

Captain Broughton came to Oxney Combe, stayed there a fortnight,—the
intended period for his projected visit having been fixed at three or
four days,—and then went his way.  He went his way back to his London
haunts, the time of the year then being the close of the Easter holidays;
but as he did so he told his aunt that he should assuredly return to her
in the autumn.

“And assuredly I shall be happy to see you, John—if you come with a
certain purpose.  If you have no such purpose, you had better remain
away.”

“I shall assuredly come,” the Captain had replied, and then he had gone
on his journey.

The summer passed rapidly by, and very little was said between Miss Le
Smyrger and Miss Woolsworthy about Captain Broughton.  In many
respects—nay, I may say, as to all ordinary matters, no two women could
well be more intimate with each other than they were,—and more than that,
they had the courage each to talk to the other with absolute truth as to
things concerning themselves—a courage in which dear friends often fail.
But nevertheless, very little was said between them about Captain John
Broughton.  All that was said may be here repeated.

“John says that he shall return here in August,” Miss Le Smyrger said, as
Patience was sitting with her in the parlour at Oxney Combe, on the
morning after that gentleman’s departure.

“He told me so himself,” said Patience; and as she spoke her round dark
eyes assumed a look of more than ordinary self-will.  If Miss Le Smyrger
had intended to carry the conversation any further, she changed her mind
as she looked at her companion.  Then, as I said, the summer ran by, and
towards the close of the warm days of July, Miss Le Smyrger, sitting in
the same chair in the same room, again took up the conversation.

“I got a letter from John this morning.  He says that he shall be here on
the third.”

“Does he?”

“He is very punctual to the time he named.”

“Yes; I fancy that he is a punctual man,” said Patience.

“I hope that you will be glad to see him,” said Miss Le Smyrger.

“Very glad to see him,” said Patience, with a bold clear voice; and then
the conversation was again dropped, and nothing further was said till
after Captain Broughton’s second arrival in the parish.

Four months had then passed since his departure, and during that time
Miss Woolsworthy had performed all her usual daily duties in their
accustomed course.  No one could discover that she had been less careful
in her household matters than had been her wont, less willing to go among
her poor neighbours, or less assiduous in her attentions to her father.
But not the less was there a feeling in the minds of those around her
that some great change had come upon her.  She would sit during the long
summer evenings on a certain spot outside the parsonage orchard, at the
top of a small sloping field in which their solitary cow was always
pastured, with a book on her knees before her, but rarely reading.  There
she would sit, with the beautiful view down to the winding river below
her, watching the setting sun, and thinking, thinking, thinking—thinking
of something of which she had never spoken.  Often would Miss Le Smyrger
come upon her there, and sometimes would pass by her even without a word;
but never—never once did she dare to ask her of the matter of her
thoughts.  But she knew the matter well enough.  No confession was
necessary to inform her that Patience Woolsworthy was in love with John
Broughton—ay, in love, to the full and entire loss of her whole heart.

On one evening she was so sitting till the July sun had fallen and hidden
himself for the night, when her father came upon her as he returned from
one of his rambles on the moor.  “Patty,” he said, “you are always
sitting there now.  Is it not late?  Will you not be cold?”

“No, papa,” said she, “I shall not be cold.”

“But won’t you come to the house?  I miss you when you come in so late
that there’s no time to say a word before we go to bed.”

She got up and followed him into the parsonage, and when they were in the
sitting-room together, and the door was closed, she came up to him and
kissed him.  “Papa,” she said, “would it make you very unhappy if I were
to leave you?”

“Leave me!” he said, startled by the serious and almost solemn tone of
her voice.  “Do you mean for always?”

“If I were to marry, papa?”

“Oh, marry!  No; that would not make me unhappy.  It would make me very
happy, Patty, to see you married to a man you would love—very, very
happy; though my days would be desolate without you.”

“That is it, papa.  What would you do if I went from you?”

“What would it matter, Patty?  I should be free, at any rate, from a load
which often presses heavy on me now.  What will you do when I shall leave
you?  A few more years and all will be over with me.  But who is it,
love?  Has anybody said anything to you?”

“It was only an idea, papa.  I don’t often think of such a thing; but I
did think of it then.”  And so the subject was allowed to pass by.  This
had happened before the day of the second arrival had been absolutely
fixed and made known to Miss Woolsworthy.

And then that second arrival took place.  The reader may have understood
from the words with which Miss Le Smyrger authorised her nephew to make
his second visit to Oxney Combe that Miss Woolsworthy’s passion was not
altogether unauthorised.  Captain Broughton had been told that he was not
to come unless he came with a certain purpose; and having been so told,
he still persisted in coming.  There can be no doubt but that he well
understood the purport to which his aunt alluded.  “I shall assuredly
come,” he had said.  And true to his word, he was now there.

Patience knew exactly the hour at which he must arrive at the station at
Newton Abbot, and the time also which it would take to travel over those
twelve uphill miles from the station to Oxney.  It need hardly be said
that she paid no visit to Miss Le Smyrger’s house on that afternoon; but
she might have known something of Captain Broughton’s approach without
going thither.  His road to the Combe passed by the parsonage-gate, and
had Patience sat even at her bedroom window she must have seen him.  But
on such a morning she would not sit at her bedroom window—she would do
nothing which would force her to accuse herself of a restless longing for
her lover’s coming.  It was for him to seek her.  If he chose to do so,
he knew the way to the parsonage.

Miss Le Smyrger—good, dear, honest, hearty Miss Le Smyrger, was in a
fever of anxiety on behalf of her friend.  It was not that she wished her
nephew to marry Patience—or rather that she had entertained any such wish
when he first came,—among them.  She was not given to match-making, and
moreover thought, or had thought within herself, that they of Oxney Colne
could do very well without any admixture from Eaton Square.  Her plan of
life had been that, when old Mr. Woolsworthy was taken away from
Dartmoor, Patience should live with her; and that when she also shuffled
off her coil, then Patience Woolsworthy should be the maiden mistress of
Oxney Combe—of Oxney Combe and Mr. Cloysey’s farm—to the utter detriment
of all the Broughtons.  Such had been her plan before nephew John had
come among them—a plan not to be spoken of till the coming of that dark
day which should make Patience an orphan.  But now her nephew had been
there, and all was to be altered.  Miss Le Smyrger’s plan would have
provided a companion for her old age; but that had not been her chief
object.  She had thought more of Patience than of herself, and now it
seemed that a prospect of a higher happiness was opening for her friend.

“John,” she said, as soon as the first greetings were over, “do you
remember the last words that I said to you before you went away?”  Now,
for myself, I much admire Miss Le Smyrger’s heartiness, but I do not
think much of her discretion.  It would have been better, perhaps, had
she allowed things to take their course.

“I can’t say that I do,” said the Captain.  At the same time the Captain
did remember very well what those last words had been.

“I am so glad to see you, so delighted to see you, if—if—if—,” and then
she paused, for with all her courage she hardly dared to ask her nephew
whether he had come there with the express purpose of asking Miss
Woolsworthy to marry him.

To tell the truth, for there is no room for mystery within the limits of
this short story,—to tell, I say, at a word the plain and simple truth,
Captain Broughton had already asked that question.  On the day before he
left Oxney Come, he had in set terms proposed to the parson’s daughter,
and indeed the words, the hot and frequent words, which previously to
that had fallen like sweetest honey into the ears of Patience
Woolsworthy, had made it imperative on him to do so.  When a man in such
a place as that has talked to a girl of love day after day, must not he
talk of it to some definite purpose on the day on which he leaves her?
Or if he do not, must he not submit to be regarded as false, selfish, and
almost fraudulent?  Captain Broughton, however, had asked the question
honestly and truly.  He had done so honestly and truly, but in words, or,
perhaps, simply with a tone, that had hardly sufficed to satisfy the
proud spirit of the girl he loved.  She by that time had confessed to
herself that she loved him with all her heart; but she had made no such
confession to him.  To him she had spoken no word, granted no favour,
that any lover might rightfully regard as a token of love returned.  She
had listened to him as he spoke, and bade him keep such sayings for the
drawing-rooms of his fashionable friends.  Then he had spoken out and had
asked for that hand,—not, perhaps, as a suitor tremulous with hope,—but
as a rich man who knows that he can command that which he desires to
purchase.

“You should think more of this,” she had said to him at last.  “If you
would really have me for your wife, it will not be much to you to return
here again when time for thinking of it shall have passed by.”  With
these words she had dismissed him, and now he had again come back to
Oxney Colne.  But still she would not place herself at the window to look
for him, nor dress herself in other than her simple morning country
dress, nor omit one item of her daily work.  If he wished to take her at
all, he should wish to take her as she really was, in her plain country
life, but he should take her also with full observance of all those
privileges which maidens are allowed to claim from their lovers.  He
should contract no ceremonious observance because she was the daughter of
a poor country parson who would come to him without a shilling, whereas
he stood high in the world’s books.  He had asked her to give him all
that she had, and that all she was ready to give, without stint.  But the
gift must be valued before it could be given or received, he also was to
give her as much, and she would accept it as beyond all price.  But she
would not allow that that which was offered to her was in any degree the
more precious because of his outward worldly standing.

She would not pretend to herself that she thought he would come to her
that day, and therefore she busied herself in the kitchen and about the
house, giving directions to her two maids as though the afternoon would
pass as all other days did pass in that household.  They usually dined at
four, and she rarely in these summer months went far from the house
before that hour.  At four precisely she sat down with her father, and
then said that she was going up as far as Helpholme after dinner.
Helpholme was a solitary farmhouse in another parish, on the border of
the moor, and Mr. Woolsworthy asked her whether he should accompany her.

“Do, papa,” she said, “if you are not too tired.”  And yet she had
thought how probable it might be that she should meet John Broughton on
her walk.  And so it was arranged; but just as dinner was over, Mr.
Woolsworthy remembered himself.

“Gracious me,” he said, “how my memory is going.  Gribbles, from
Ivybridge, and old John Poulter, from Bovey, are coming to meet here by
appointment.  You can’t put Helpholme off till to-morrow?”

Patience, however, never put off anything, and therefore at six o’clock,
when her father had finished his slender modicum of toddy, she tied on
her hat and went on her walk.  She started with a quick step, and left no
word to say by which route she would go.  As she passed up along the
little lane which led towards Oxney Combe, she would not even look to see
if he was coming towards her; and when she left the road, passing over a
stone stile into a little path which ran first through the upland fields,
and then across the moor ground towards Helpholme, she did not look back
once, or listen for his coming step.

She paid her visit, remaining upwards of an hour with the old bedridden
mother of the tenant of Helpholme.  “God bless you, my darling!” said the
old woman as she left her; “and send you some one to make your own path
bright and happy through the world.”  These words were still ringing in
her ears with all their significance as she saw John Broughton waiting
for her at the first stile which she had to pass after leaving the
farmer’s haggard.

“Patty,” he said, as he took her hand, and held it close within both his
own, “what a chase I have had after you!”

“And who asked you, Captain Broughton?” she answered, smiling.  “If the
journey was too much for your poor London strength, could you not have
waited till to-morrow morning, when you would have found me at the
parsonage?”  But she did not draw her hand away from him, or in any way
pretend that he had not a right to accost her as a lover.

“No, I could not wait.  I am more eager to see those I love than you seem
to be.”

“How do you know whom I love, or how eager I might be to see them?  There
is an old woman there whom I love, and I have thought nothing of this
walk with the object of seeing her.”  And now, slowly drawing her hand
away from him, she pointed to the farmhouse which she had left.

“Patty,” he said, after a minute’s pause, during which she had looked
full into his face with all the force of her bright eyes; “I have come
from London to-day, straight down here to Oxney, and from my aunt’s house
close upon your footsteps after you, to ask you that one question—Do you
love me?”

“What a Hercules!” she said, again laughing.  “Do you really mean that
you left London only this morning?  Why, you must have been five hours in
a railway carriage and two in a postchaise, not to talk of the walk
afterwards.  You ought to take more care of yourself, Captain Broughton!”

He would have been angry with her—for he did not like to be quizzed—had
she not put her hand on his arm as she spoke, and the softness of her
touch had redeemed the offence of her words.

“All that I have done,” said he, “that I may hear one word from you.”

“That any word of mine should have such potency!  But let us walk on, or
my father will take us for some of the standing stones of the moor.  How
have you found your aunt?  If you only knew the cares that have sat on
her dear shoulders for the last week past, in order that your high
mightiness might have a sufficiency to eat and drink in these desolate
half-starved regions!”

“She might have saved herself such anxiety.  No one can care less for
such things than I do.”

“And yet I think I have heard you boast of the cook of your club.”  And
then again there was silence for a minute or two.

“Patty,” said he, stopping again in the path; “answer my question.  I
have a right to demand an answer.  Do you love me?”

“And what if I do?  What if I have been so silly as to allow your
perfections to be too many for my weak heart?  What then, Captain
Broughton?”

“It cannot be that you love me, or you would not joke now.”

“Perhaps not, indeed,” she said.  It seemed as though she were resolved
not to yield an inch in her own humour.  And then again they walked on.

“Patty,” he said once more, “I shall get an answer from you
to-night,—this evening; now, during this walk, or I shall return
to-morrow, and never revisit this spot again.”

“Oh, Captain Broughton, how should we ever manage to live without you?”

“Very well,” he said; “up to the end of this walk I can hear it all;—and
one word spoken then will mend it all.”

During the whole of this time she felt that she was ill-using him.  She
knew that she loved him with all her heart; that it would nearly kill her
to part with him; that she had heard his renewed offer with an ecstacy of
joy.  She acknowledged to herself that he was giving proof of his
devotion as strong as any which a girl could receive from her lover.  And
yet she could hardly bring herself to say the word he longed to hear.
That word once said, and then she knew that she must succumb to her love
for ever!  That word once said, and there would be nothing for her but to
spoil him with her idolatry!  That word once said, and she must continue
to repeat it into his ears, till perhaps he might be tired of hearing it!
And now he had threatened her, and how could she speak after that?  She
certainly would not speak it unless he asked her again without such
threat.  And so they walked on in silence.

“Patty,” he said at last.  “By the heavens above us you shall answer me.
Do you love me?”

She now stood still, and almost trembled as she looked up into his face.
She stood opposite to him for a moment, and then placing her two hands on
his shoulders, she answered him.  “I do, I do, I do,” she said, “with all
my heart; with all my heart—with all my heart and strength.”  And then
her head fell upon his breast.

* * *

Captain Broughton was almost as much surprised as delighted by the warmth
of the acknowledgment made by the eager-hearted passionate girl whom he
now held within his arms.  She had said it now; the words had been
spoken; and there was nothing for her but to swear to him over and over
again with her sweetest oaths, that those words were true—true as her
soul.  And very sweet was the walk down from thence to the parsonage
gate.  He spoke no more of the distance of the ground, or the length of
his day’s journey.  But he stopped her at every turn that he might press
her arm the closer to his own, that he might look into the brightness of
her eyes, and prolong his hour of delight.  There were no more gibes now
on her tongue, no raillery at his London finery, no laughing comments on
his coming and going.  With downright honesty she told him everything:
how she had loved him before her heart was warranted in such a passion;
how, with much thinking, she had resolved that it would be unwise to take
him at his first word, and had thought it better that he should return to
London, and then think over it; how she had almost repented of her
courage when she had feared, during those long summer days, that he would
forget her; and how her heart had leapt for joy when her old friend had
told her that he was coming.

“And yet,” said he, “you were not glad to see me!”

“Oh, was I not glad?  You cannot understand the feelings of a girl who
has lived secluded as I have done.  Glad is no word for the joy I felt.
But it was not seeing you that I cared for so much.  It was the knowledge
that you were near me once again.  I almost wish now that I had not seen
you till to-morrow.”  But as she spoke she pressed his arm, and this
caress gave the lie to her last words.

“No, do not come in to-night,” she said, when she reached the little
wicket that led up to the parsonage.  “Indeed, you shall not.  I could
not behave myself properly if you did.”

“But I don’t want you to behave properly.”

“Oh!  I am to keep that for London, am I?  But, nevertheless, Captain
Broughton, I will not invite you either to tea or to supper to-night.”

“Surely I may shake hands with your father.”

“Not to-night—not till—John, I may tell him, may I not?  I must tell him
at once.”

“Certainly,” said he.

“And then you shall see him to-morrow.  Let me see—at what hour shall I
bid you come?”

“To breakfast.”

“No, indeed.  What on earth would your aunt do with her broiled turkey
and the cold pie?  I have got no cold pie for you.”

“I hate cold pie.”

“What a pity!  But, John, I should be forced to leave you directly after
breakfast.  Come down—come down at two, or three; and then I will go back
with you to Aunt Penelope.  I must see her to-morrow;” and so at last the
matter was settled, and the happy Captain, as he left her, was hardly
resisted in his attempt to press her lips to his own.

When she entered the parlour in which her father was sitting, there still
were Gribbles and Poulter discussing some knotty point of Devon lore.  So
Patience took off her hat, and sat herself down, waiting till they should
go.  For full an hour she had to wait, and then Gribbles and Poulter did
go.  But it was not in such matters as this that Patience Woolsworthy was
impatient.  She could wait, and wait, and wait, curbing herself for weeks
and months, while the thing waited for was in her eyes good; but she
could not curb her hot thoughts or her hot words when things came to be
discussed which she did not think to be good.

“Papa,” she said, when Gribbles’ long-drawn last word had been spoken at
the door.  “Do you remember how I asked you the other day what you would
say if I were to leave you?”

“Yes, surely,” he replied, looking up at her in astonishment.

“I am going to leave you now,” she said.  “Dear, dearest father, how am I
to go from you?”

“Going to leave me,” said he, thinking of her visit to Helpholme, and
thinking of nothing else.

Now, there had been a story about Helpholme.  That bedridden old lady
there had a stalwart son, who was now the owner of the Helpholme
pastures.  But though owner in fee of all those wild acres, and of the
cattle which they supported, he was not much above the farmers around
him, either in manners or education.  He had his merits, however; for he
was honest, well-to-do in the world, and modest withal.  How strong love
had grown up, springing from neighbourly kindness, between our Patience
and his mother, it needs not here to tell; but rising from it had come
another love—or an ambition which might have grown to love.  The young
man, after much thought, had not dared to speak to Miss Woolsworthy, but
he had sent a message by Miss Le Smyrger.  If there could be any hope for
him, he would present himself as a suitor—on trial.  He did not owe a
shilling in the world, and had money by him—saved.  He wouldn’t ask the
parson for a shilling of fortune.  Such had been the tenor of his
message, and Miss Le Smyrger had delivered it faithfully.  “He does not
mean it,” Patience had said with her stern voice.  “Indeed he does, my
dear.  You may be sure he is in earnest,” Miss Le Smyrger had replied;
“and there is not an honester man in these parts.”

“Tell him,” said Patience, not attending to the latter portion of her
friend’s last speech, “that it cannot be—make him understand, you
know—and tell him also that the matter shall be thought of no more.”  The
matter had, at any rate, been spoken of no more, but the young farmer
still remained a bachelor, and Helpholme still wanted a mistress.  But
all this came back upon the parson’s mind when his daughter told him that
she was about to leave him.

“Yes, dearest,” she said; and as she spoke she now knelt at his knees.
“I have been asked in marriage, and I have given myself away.”

“Well, my love, if you will be happy—”

“I hope I shall; I think I shall.  But you, papa?”

“You will not be far from us.”

“Oh, yes; in London.”

“In London?”

“Captain Broughton lives in London generally.”

“And has Captain Broughton asked you to marry him?”

“Yes, papa—who else?  Is he not good?  Will you not love him?  Oh, papa,
do not say that I am wrong to love him?”

He never told her his mistake, or explained to her that he had not
thought it possible that the high-placed son of the London great man
should have fallen in love with his undowered daughter; but he embraced
her, and told her, with all his enthusiasm, that he rejoiced in her joy,
and would be happy in her happiness.  “My own Patty,” he said, “I have
ever known that you were too good for this life of ours here.”  And then
the evening wore away into the night, with many tears, but still with
much happiness.

Captain Broughton, as he walked back to Oxney Combe, made up his mind
that he would say nothing on the matter to his aunt till the next
morning.  He wanted to think over it all, and to think it over, if
possible, by himself.  He had taken a step in life, the most important
that a man is ever called on to take, and he had to reflect whether or no
he had taken it with wisdom.

“Have you seen her?” said Miss Le Smyrger, very anxiously, when he came
into the drawing-room.

“Miss Woolsworthy you mean,” said he.  “Yes, I’ve seen her.  As I found
her out, I took a long walk, and happened to meet her.  Do you know,
aunt, I think I’ll go to bed; I was up at five this morning, and have
been on the move ever since.”

Miss Le Smyrger perceived that she was to hear nothing that evening, so
she handed him his candlestick and allowed him to go to his room.

But Captain Broughton did not immediately retire to bed, nor when he did
so was he able to sleep at once.  Had this step that he had taken been a
wise one?  He was not a man who, in worldly matters, had allowed things
to arrange themselves for him, as is the case with so many men.  He had
formed views for himself, and had a theory of life.  Money for money’s
sake he had declared to himself to be bad.  Money, as a concomitant to
things which were in themselves good, he had declared to himself to be
good also.  That concomitant in this affair of his marriage, he had now
missed.  Well; he had made up his mind to that, and would put up with the
loss.  He had means of living of his own, the means not so extensive as
might have been desirable.  That it would be well for him to become a
married man, looking merely to the state of life as opposed to his
present state, he had fully resolved.  On that point, therefore, there
was nothing to repent.  That Patty Woolsworthy was good, affectionate,
clever, and beautiful, he was sufficiently satisfied.  It would be odd
indeed if he were not so satisfied now, seeing that for the last four
months he had so declared to himself daily with many inward
asseverations.  And yet though he repeated, now again, that he was
satisfied, I do not think that he was so fully satisfied of it as he had
been throughout the whole of those four months.  It is sad to say so, but
I fear—I fear that such was the case.  When you have your plaything, how
much of the anticipated pleasure vanishes, especially if it be won
easily.

He had told none of his family what were his intentions in this second
visit to Devonshire, and now he had to bethink himself whether they would
be satisfied.  What would his sister say, she who had married the
Honourable Augustus Gumbleton, gold-stick-in-waiting to Her Majesty’s
Privy Council?  Would she receive Patience with open arms, and make much
of her about London?  And then how far would London suit Patience, or
would Patience suit London?  There would be much for him to do in
teaching her, and it would be well for him to set about the lesson
without loss of time.  So far he got that night, but when the morning
came he went a step further, and began mentally to criticise her manner
to himself.  It had been very sweet, that warm, that full, that ready
declaration of love.  Yes; it had been very sweet; but—but—; when, after
her little jokes, she did confess her love, had she not been a little too
free for feminine excellence?  A man likes to be told that he is loved,
but he hardly wishes that the girl he is to marry should fling herself at
his head!

Ah me! yes; it was thus he argued to himself as on that morning he went
through the arrangements of his toilet.  “Then he was a brute,” you say,
my pretty reader.  I have never said that he was not a brute.  But this I
remark, that many such brutes are to be met with in the beaten paths of
the world’s highway.  When Patience Woolsworthy had answered him coldly,
bidding him go back to London and think over his love; while it seemed
from her manner that at any rate as yet she did not care for him; while
he was absent from her, and, therefore, longing for her, the possession
of her charms, her talent and bright honesty of purpose had seemed to him
a thing most desirable.  Now they were his own.  They had, in fact, been
his own from the first.  The heart of this country-bred girl had fallen
at the first word from his mouth.  Had she not so confessed to him?  She
was very nice—very nice indeed.  He loved her dearly.  But had he not
sold himself too cheaply?

I by no means say that he was not a brute.  But whether brute or no, he
was an honest man, and had no remotest dream, either then, on that
morning, or during the following days on which such thoughts pressed more
quickly on his mind—of breaking away from his pledged word.  At breakfast
on that morning he told all to Miss Le Smyrger, and that lady, with warm
and gracious intentions, confided to him her purpose regarding her
property.  “I have always regarded Patience as my heir,” she said, “and
shall do so still.”

“Oh, indeed,” said Captain Broughton.

“But it is a great, great pleasure to me to think that she will give back
the little property to my sister’s child.  You will have your mother’s,
and thus it will all come together again.”

“Ah!” said Captain Broughton.  He had his own ideas about property, and
did not, even under existing circumstances, like to hear that his aunt
considered herself at liberty to leave the acres away to one who was by
blood quite a stranger to the family.

“Does Patience know of this?” he asked.

“Not a word,” said Miss Le Smyrger.  And then nothing more was said upon
the subject.

On that afternoon he went down and received the parson’s benediction and
congratulations with a good grace.  Patience said very little on the
occasion, and indeed was absent during the greater part of the interview.
The two lovers then walked up to Oxney Combe, and there were more
benedictions and more congratulations.  “All went merry as a marriage
bell,” at any rate as far as Patience was concerned.  Not a word had yet
fallen from that dear mouth, not a look had yet come over that handsome
face, which tended in any way to mar her bliss.  Her first day of
acknowledged love was a day altogether happy, and when she prayed for him
as she knelt beside her bed there was no feeling in her mind that any
fear need disturb her joy.

I will pass over the next three or four days very quickly, merely saying
that Patience did not find them so pleasant as that first day after her
engagement.  There was something in her lover’s manner—something which at
first she could not define—which by degrees seemed to grate against her
feelings.

He was sufficiently affectionate, that being a matter on which she did
not require much demonstration; but joined to his affection there seemed
to be—; she hardly liked to suggest to herself a harsh word, but could it
be possible that he was beginning to think that she was not good enough
for him?  And then she asked herself the question—was she good enough for
him?  If there were doubt about that, the match should be broken off,
though she tore her own heart out in the struggle.  The truth, however,
was this—that he had begun that teaching which he had already found to be
so necessary.  Now, had any one essayed to teach Patience German or
mathematics, with that young lady’s free consent, I believe that she
would have been found a meek scholar.  But it was not probable that she
would be meek when she found a self-appointed tutor teaching her manners
and conduct without her consent.

So matters went on for four or five days, and on the evening of the fifth
day Captain Broughton and his aunt drank tea at the parsonage.  Nothing
very especial occurred; but as the parson and Miss La Smyrger insisted on
playing backgammon with devoted perseverance during the whole evening,
Broughton had a good opportunity of saying a word or two about those
changes in his lady-love which a life in London would require—and some
word he said also—some single slight word as to the higher station in
life to which he would exalt his bride.  Patience bore it—for her father
and Miss La Smyrger were in the room—she bore it well, speaking no
syllable of anger, and enduring, for the moment, the implied scorn of the
old parsonage.  Then the evening broke up, and Captain Broughton walked
back to Oxney Combe with his aunt.  “Patty,” her father said to her
before they went to bed, “he seems to me to be a most excellent young
man.”  “Dear papa,” she answered, kissing him.  “And terribly deep in
love,” said Mr. Woolsworthy.  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” she
answered, as she left him with her sweetest smile.  But though she could
thus smile at her father’s joke, she had already made up her mind that
there was still something to be learned as to her promised husband before
she could place herself altogether in his hands.  She would ask him
whether he thought himself liable to injury from this proposed marriage;
and though he should deny any such thought, she would know from the
manner of his denial what his true feelings were.

And he, too, on that night, during his silent walk with Miss Le Smyrger,
had entertained some similar thoughts.  “I fear she is obstinate,” he
said to himself; and then he had half accused her of being sullen also.
“If that be her temper, what a life of misery I have before me!”

“Have you fixed a day yet?” his aunt asked him as they came near to her
house.

“No, not yet; I don’t know whether it will suit me to fix it before I
leave.”

“Why, it was but the other day you were in such a hurry.”

“Ah—yes—I have thought more about it since then.”

“I should have imagined that this would depend on what Patty thinks,”
said Miss Le Smyrger, standing up for the privileges of her sex.  “It is
presumed that the gentleman is always ready as soon as the lady will
consent.”

“Yes, in ordinary cases it is so; but when a girl is taken out of her own
sphere—”

“Her own sphere!  Let me caution you, Master John, not to talk to Patty
about her own sphere.”

“Aunt Penelope, as Patience is to be my wife and not yours, I must claim
permission to speak to her on such subjects as may seem suitable to me.”
And then they parted—not in the best humour with each other.

On the following day Captain Broughton and Miss Woolsworthy did not meet
till the evening.  She had said, before those few ill-omened words had
passed her lover’s lips, that she would probably be at Miss Le Smyrger’s
house on the following morning.  Those ill-omened words did pass her
lover’s lips, and then she remained at home.  This did not come from
sullenness, nor even from anger, but from a conviction that it would be
well that she should think much before she met him again.  Nor was he
anxious to hurry a meeting.  His thought—his base thought—was this; that
she would be sure to come up to the Combe after him; but she did not
come, and therefore in the evening he went down to her, and asked her to
walk with him.

They went away by the path that led to Helpholme, and little was said
between them till they had walked some mile together.

Patience, as she went along the path, remembered almost to the letter the
sweet words which had greeted her ears as she came down that way with him
on the night of his arrival; but he remembered nothing of that sweetness
then.  Had he not made an ass of himself during these last six months?
That was the thought which very much had possession of his mind.

“Patience,” he said at last, having hitherto spoken only an indifferent
word now and again since they had left the parsonage, “Patience, I hope
you realise the importance of the step which you and I are about to
take?”

“Of course I do,” she answered.  “What an odd question that is for you to
ask!”

“Because,” said he, “sometimes I almost doubt it.  It seems to me as
though you thought you could remove yourself from here to your new home
with no more trouble than when you go from home up to the Combe.”

“Is that meant for a reproach, John?”

“No, not for a reproach, but for advice.  Certainly not for a reproach.”

“I am glad of that.”

“But I should wish to make you think how great is the leap in the world
which you are about to take.”  Then again they walked on for many steps
before she answered him.

“Tell me, then, John,” she said, when she had sufficiently considered
what words she should speak; and as she spoke a bright colour suffused
her face, and her eyes flashed almost with anger.  “What leap do you
mean?  Do you mean a leap upwards?”

“Well, yes; I hope it will be so.”

“In one sense, certainly, it would be a leap upwards.  To be the wife of
the man I loved; to have the privilege of holding his happiness in my
hand; to know that I was his own—the companion whom he had chosen out of
all the world—that would, indeed, be a leap upwards; a leap almost to
heaven, if all that were so.  But if you mean upwards in any other
sense—”

“I was thinking of the social scale.”

“Then, Captain Broughton, your thoughts were doing me dishonour.”

“Doing you dishonour!”

“Yes, doing me dishonour.  That your father is, in the world’s esteem, a
greater man than mine is doubtless true enough.  That you, as a man, are
richer than I am as a woman, is doubtless also true.  But you dishonour
me, and yourself also, if these things can weigh with you now.”

“Patience,—I think you can hardly know what words you are saying to me.”

“Pardon me, but I think I do.  Nothing that you can give me—no gifts of
that description—can weigh aught against that which I am giving you.  If
you had all the wealth and rank of the greatest lord in the land, it
would count as nothing in such a scale.  If—as I have not doubted—if in
return for my heart you have given me yours, then—then—then you have paid
me fully.  But when gifts such as those are going, nothing else can count
even as a make-weight.”

“I do not quite understand you,” he answered, after a pause.  “I fear you
are a little high-flown.”  And then, while the evening was still early,
they walked back to the parsonage almost without another word.

Captain Broughton at this time had only one full day more to remain at
Oxney Colne.  On the afternoon following that he was to go as far as
Exeter, and thence return to London.  Of course, it was to be expected
that the wedding day would be fixed before he went, and much had been
said about it during the first day or two of his engagement.  Then he had
pressed for an early time, and Patience, with a girl’s usual diffidence,
had asked for some little delay.  But now nothing was said on the
subject; and how was it probable that such a matter could be settled
after such a conversation as that which I have related?  That evening,
Miss Le Smyrger asked whether the day had been fixed.  “No,” said Captain
Broughton, harshly; “nothing has been fixed.”  “But it will be arranged
before you go?”  “Probably not,” he said; and then the subject was
dropped for the time.

“John,” she said, just before she went to bed, “if there be anything
wrong between you and Patience, I conjure you to tell me.”

“You had better ask her,” he replied.  “I can tell you nothing.”

On the following morning he was much surprised by seeing Patience on the
gravel path before Miss Le Smyrger’s gate immediately after breakfast.
He went to the door to open it for her, and she, as she gave him her
hand, told him that she came up to speak to him.  There was no hesitation
in her manner, nor any look of anger in her face.  But there was in her
gait and form, in her voice and countenance, a fixedness of purpose which
he had never seen before, or at any rate had never acknowledged.

“Certainly,” said he.  “Shall I come out with you, or will you come up
stairs?”

“We can sit down in the summer-house,” she said; and thither they both
went.

“Captain Broughton,” she said—and she began her task the moment that they
were both seated—“you and I have engaged ourselves as man and wife, but
perhaps we have been over rash.”

“How so?” said he.

“It may be—and indeed I will say more—it is the case that we have made
this engagement without knowing enough of each other’s character.”

“I have not thought so.”

“The time will perhaps come when you will so think, but for the sake of
all that we most value, let it come before it is too late.  What would be
our fate—how terrible would be our misery—if such a thought should come
to either of us after we have linked our lots together.”

There was a solemnity about her as she thus spoke which almost repressed
him,—which for a time did prevent him from taking that tone of authority
which on such a subject he would choose to adopt.  But he recovered
himself.  “I hardly think that this comes well from you,” he said.

“From whom else should it come?  Who else can fight my battle for me;
and, John, who else can fight that same battle on your behalf?  I tell
you this, that with your mind standing towards me as it does stand at
present, you could not give me your hand at the altar with true words and
a happy conscience.  Am I not true?  You have half repented of your
bargain already.  Is it not so?”

He did not answer her; but getting up from his seat walked to the front
of the summer-house, and stood there with his back turned upon her.  It
was not that he meant to be ungracious, but in truth he did not know how
to answer her.  He had half repented of his bargain.

“John,” she said, getting up and following him, so that she could put her
hand upon his arm, “I have been very angry with you.”

“Angry with me!” he said, turning sharp upon her.

“Yes, angry with you.  You would have treated me like a child.  But that
feeling has gone now.  I am not angry now.  There is my hand;—the hand of
a friend.  Let the words that have been spoken between us be as though
they had not been spoken.  Let us both be free.”

“Do you mean it?”

“Certainly I mean it.”  As she spoke these words her eyes filled with
tears, in spite of all the efforts she could make; but he was not looking
at her, and her efforts had sufficed to prevent any sob from being
audible.

“With all my heart,” he said; and it was manifest from his tone that he
had no thought of her happiness as he spoke.  It was true that she had
been angry with him—angry, as she had herself declared; but nevertheless,
in what she had said and what she had done, she had thought more of his
happiness than of her own.  Now she was angry once again.

“With all your heart, Captain Broughton!  Well, so be it.  If with all
your heart, then is the necessity so much the greater.  You go to-morrow.
Shall we say farewell now?”

“Patience, I am not going to be lectured.”

“Certainly not by me.  Shall we say farewell now?”

“Yes, if you are determined.”

“I am determined.  Farewell, Captain Broughton.  You have all my wishes
for your happiness.”  And she held out her hand to him.

“Patience!” he said.  And he looked at her with a dark frown, as though
he would strive to frighten her into submission.  If so, he might have
saved himself any such attempt.

“Farewell, Captain Broughton.  Give me your hand, for I cannot stay.”  He
gave her his hand, hardly knowing why he did so.  She lifted it to her
lips and kissed it, and then, leaving him, passed from the summer-house
down through the wicket-gate, and straight home to the parsonage.

During the whole of that day she said no word to any one of what had
occurred.  When she was once more at home she went about her household
affairs as she had done on that day of his arrival.  When she sat down to
dinner with her father he observed nothing to make him think that she was
unhappy; nor during the evening was there any expression in her face, or
any tone in her voice, which excited his attention.  On the following
morning Captain Broughton called at the parsonage, and the servant-girl
brought word to her mistress that he was in the parlour.  But she would
not see him.  “Laws, miss, you ain’t a quarrelled with your beau?” the
poor girl said.  “No, not quarrelled,” she said; “but give him that.”  It
was a scrap of paper, containing a word or two in pencil.  “It is better
that we should not meet again.  God bless you.”  And from that day to
this, now more than ten years, they never have met.

“Papa,” she said to her father that afternoon, “dear papa, do not be
angry with me.  It is all over between me and John Broughton.  Dearest,
you and I will not be separated.”

It would be useless here to tell how great was the old man’s surprise and
how true his sorrow.  As the tale was told to him no cause was given for
anger with any one.  Not a word was spoken against the suitor who had on
that day returned to London with a full conviction that now at least he
was relieved from his engagement.  “Patty, my darling child,” he said,
“may God grant that it be for the best!”

“It is for the best,” she answered stoutly.  “For this place I am fit;
and I much doubt whether I am fit for any other.”

On that day she did not see Miss Le Smyrger, but on the following
morning, knowing that Captain Broughton had gone off, having heard the
wheels of the carriage as they passed by the parsonage gate on his way to
the station,—she walked up to the Combe.

“He has told you, I suppose?” said she.

“Yes,” said Miss Le Smyrger.  “And I will never see him again unless he
asks your pardon on his knees.  I have told him so.  I would not even
give him my hand as he went.”

“But why so, thou kindest one?  The fault was mine more than his.”

“I understand.  I have eyes in my head,” said the old maid.  “I have
watched him for the last four or five days.  If you could have kept the
truth to yourself and bade him keep off from you, he would have been at
your feet now, licking the dust from your shoes.”

“But, dear friend, I do not want a man to lick dust from my shoes.”

“Ah, you are a fool.  You do not know the value of your own wealth.”

“True; I have been a fool.  I was a fool to think that one coming from
such a life as he has led could be happy with such as I am.  I know the
truth now.  I have bought the lesson dearly,—but perhaps not too dearly,
seeing that it will never be forgotten.”

There was but little more said about the matter between our three friends
at Oxney Colne.  What, indeed, could be said?  Miss Le Smyrger for a year
or two still expected that her nephew would return and claim his bride;
but he has never done so, nor has there been any correspondence between
them.  Patience Woolsworthy had learned her lesson dearly.  She had given
her whole heart to the man; and, though she so bore herself that no one
was aware of the violence of the struggle, nevertheless the struggle
within her bosom was very violent.  She never told herself that she had
done wrong; she never regretted her loss; but yet—yet—the loss was very
hard to bear.  He also had loved her, but he was not capable of a love
which could much injure his daily peace.  Her daily peace was gone for
many a day to come.

Her father is still living; but there is a curate now in the parish.  In
conjunction with him and with Miss Le Smyrger she spends her time in the
concerns of the parish.  In her own eyes she is a confirmed old maid; and
such is my opinion also.  The romance of her life was played out in that
summer.  She never sits now lonely on the hill-side thinking how much she
might do for one whom she really loved.  But with a large heart she loves
many, and, with no romance, she works hard to lighten the burdens of
those she loves.

As for Captain Broughton, all the world know that he did marry that great
heiress with whom his name was once before connected, and that he is now
a useful member of Parliament, working on committees three or four days a
week with a zeal that is indefatigable.  Sometimes, not often, as he
thinks of Patience Woolsworthy, a gratified smile comes across his face.