"My dear, how cold you are! Let me make you warm if I can."
And then, in his own quiet, tender way, Dr. Grey wrapped her up in her
shawl and rolled a rug about her feet. She took no notice, submitted
passively, and neither spoke a word more till they had driven on for
two or three miles, into a country road leading to a village where
Avonsbridge people sometimes went for summer lodgings.
Christian knew it well. There, just before her father's death, he and she
had lived, for four delicious, miserable, momentous weeks. She had
never seen the place since, but now she recognized it--every tree, every
field, the very farm-house garden, once so bright, now lying deep in
snow. She began tremble in every limb.
"Why are we here? This is not our right road. Where are we going?"
"I did not mean to come this way, but we missed the train, and cannot
reach London tonight; so I thought we would post across country to
E____," naming a quiet cathedral town, "where you can rest, and go on
when or where you please. Will that do?"
"Oh yes."
"You are not dissatisfied? We could not help missing the
Train, you see."
"Oh no."
The quick, sharp, querulous answers--that last refuge of a fictitious
strength that was momentarily breaking down--he saw it all, this good
man, this generous, pitiful-hearted man, who knew what sorrow was,
and who for a whole year had watched her with the acuteness which
love alone teaches, especially the love which, coming late in life, had a
calmness and unselfishness which youthful love rarely possesses.
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