Cuthbert's mind was in an agony of prayer; but his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth. He would have said much; but he could speak nothing. He gave her alms; and telling her that he would do nothing against her will--nothing to make her unhappy, but that he would come and see her again--he raised her from her knees, and went upon his way homewards.
"My father would not thus have left her," was his first thought. "He would have found some way to break into her heart. Strange world--strange thing this human life! This old solitary miserable has been wrapped in swaddling clothes, even as others--has been suckled at a human breast--has grasped, with tiny hand, a father's finger--and been kissed, and muched; and now, she has survived all kindred--lost all defence of strength or money--hath none of wisdom, and because her back is crooked, and nose and chin have come well nigh together, she has been hunted from her kind, and dwells apart. As God is love,--and that he is I cannot doubt and live,--this is a mystery! It's a skein so much entangled that my poor wit can not unwind it."
Muttering to himself these wayward fancies, he hurried back to Milverton as to his heart's home. There he could see sunlight upon the earth, and feel warm in the comfort of it. Nor in his then mood was he sorry that the guest chambers would be full: he wished a day of cheerful cups, and pleasant voices, and music. Thus absorbed, he reached the mill, and passed it as swiftly as in the morning.
"There he goes," said the old miller, speaking to his daughter, who was spreading out some linen to bleach--"There he goes, as shy as a hare, and as fast as if he were making for his form. I never gets a bit of chat with him. He's not much for company."
"Why, father," replied the girl, coming upon the pathway, "he's a scholar, you know, and that's the fashion of them, you know."
"Well, it's a bad fashion to go poking about the woods as lonesome as a stray mule; no good comes of those crazy fashions. I like an open face, and an open hand, and a free tongue."
"Eh! he can talk fast enough, I'll warrant me, if he had a sweetheart to talk to."
"He talk to a sweetheart! She must be a poor silly body that would listen. There are merry men and merry hearts enough in old England for the lasses to choose from, without giving ear to such as he."