There was force in this contention, and Mr Bailey’s persuasiveness proved irresistible. In his eagerness to be rid of Harry Noke, and of the responsibility the fellow sought to thrust upon him, he seized his arm and all but led him to the door. To the door but no further. One glance shewed him a street from which the darkness was lifting, a sky grown paler; and he turned quickly back into the room, his heart eased and comforted by the crunch and creak and rumble of the departing wagon. He addressed himself busily to the day’s work: unfastened the shutters, extinguished the candles, began sweeping the floor vigorously.
A step on the stairs disturbed him in the midst of these activities, and frightened him into wondering what he must tell the young lady. He was in no mind to be caught by her with a broom in his hand: an attitude much at variance with his notion of what was loverlike and gallant and genteel. Nor did he wish to be seen in his unwashed unshaven state by one to whom he had dedicated his life and soul. He was aware of having slept in his clothes, and felt incapable of sustaining a conversation upon the giddy heights he had reached last night with his charmer. Moreover he was a humane man, and dreaded the pain he must inflict on her by his tragic news. Already his attitude had insensibly changed. Exquisite and ravishing she still was, in his thoughts, but these things came second: she was now, first of all, a bereaved woman, and, by virtue of her bereavement, a child claiming protection. This was a sobering thought bringing many small anxieties in its train. His admiration was sincere; his devotion, he assured himself, was profound; but, when it came to protection, he could not shut his eyes to difficulties. He cast the broom from him, struggled back into his jacket, and assumed a selfconscious pose. All this, these thoughts and movements, occupied no more than a second or two. The next moment the stiffness of his attitude relaxed. He picked up the broom and resumed his sweeping. The footsteps drew nearer, and without alarming him, for he now knew that they were not those of the fair stranger. Yes, there were difficulties in the way of his offering protection to chance young women in trouble; and the chief of them, as his ears told him, was at this moment descending the stairs.
Twenty-five miles south of Marden Fee, and within an hour’s slow ride of the coast, stands the little town of Featherham. So it is spelt by pedantic and official persons, in church registers and the like; but most of us, in this mid-eighteenth century, are content to write it (if we write at all) as we speak it: Fedrum. It is a mellow and friendly town, very small and compact, very clean and bright. Its High Street is cobbled; its half-timbered houses lean across to each other like gossiping cronies; its church is ancient. But the general effect is one not of age but of a timeless perfection, something neither ancient nor modern but at once fresh and mature like this January morning. In Fedrum the sun shines more brightly than elsewhere; rain falls like a benediction; an east wind is the kind of foe that a man of spirit is glad to cross swords with; snow is a wonder, and frost a tingling delight. Here nothing can happen, whether fair or foul, but its beauty is enhanced, or its foulness redeemed, by the kindness and candour and quiet self-assurance that seem to pervade the very air. The quintessence of this genius loci is to be found in the white house that stands, surrounded by a high-walled garden, in the middle of the town. It is but twenty years old and built in the best modern style, though already, being of Fedrum, it is mellow in quality as well as serene and sensible in design; and it has recently become the residence of Dr Humphrey and his daughter. This last circumstance is a matter of no little interest to Jack Marden, whom we now see riding towards Fedrum in the company of the bereaved young woman who played such havoc in Mr Bailey’s breast a week ago. For she, it appears, has friends in Upchurch; and Upchurch lies but a few miles to the east of Fedrum. . . .