Van Diemen imitated the disconsolate appearance of a gallows body, in one of those rapid flashes of spontaneous veri-similitude which spring of an inborn horror painting itself on the outside.

“A Deserter!” he moaned.

He succeeded in impressing the terrible nature of the stigma upon Annette’s imagination.

The guest at Elba was busy in adding up the sum of his own impressions, and dividing it by this and that new circumstance; for he was totally in the dark.  He was attracted by the mysterious interview of Mrs. Cavely and Annette.  Tinman’s calling and departing set him upon new calculations.  Annette grew cold and visibly distressed by her consciousness of it.

She endeavoured to account for this variation of mood.  “We have been invited to dine at the house on the beach to-morrow.  I would not have accepted, but papa . . . we seemed to think it a duty.  Of course the invitation extends to you.  We fancy you do not greatly enjoy dining there.  The table will be laid for you here, if you prefer.”

Herbert preferred to try the skill of Mrs. Crickledon.

Now, for positive penetration the head prepossessed by a suspicion is unmatched; for where there is no daylight; this one at least goes about with a lantern.  Herbert begged Mrs. Crickledon to cook a dinner for him, and then to give the right colour to his absence from the table of Mr. Tinman, he started for a winter day’s walk over the downs as sharpening a business as any young fellow, blunt or keen, may undertake; excellent for men of the pen, whether they be creative, and produce, or slaughtering, and review; good, then, for the silly sheep of letters and the butchers.  He sat down to Mrs. Crickledon’s table at half-past six.  She was, as she had previously informed him, a forty-pound-a-year cook at the period of her courting by Crickledon.  That zealous and devoted husband had made his first excursion inland to drop over the downs to the great house, and fetch her away as his bride, on the death of her master, Sir Alfred Pooney, who never would have parted with her in life; and every day of that man’s life he dirtied thirteen plates at dinner, nor more, nor less, but exactly that number, as if he believed there was luck in it.  And as Crickledon said, it was odd.  But it was always a pleasure to cook for him.  Mrs. Crickledon could not abide cooking for a mean eater.  And when Crickledon said he had never seen an acorn, he might have seen one had he looked about him in the great park, under the oaks, on the day when he came to be married.

“Then it’s a standing compliment to you, Mrs. Crickledon, that he did not,” said Herbert.

He remarked with the sententiousness of enforced philosophy, that no wine was better than bad wine.

Mrs. Crickledon spoke of a bottle left by her summer lodgers, who had indeed left two, calling the wine invalid’s wine; and she and her husband had opened one on the anniversary of their marriage day in October.  It had the taste of doctor’s shop, they both agreed; and as no friend of theirs could be tempted beyond a sip, they were advised, because it was called a tonic, to mix it with the pig-wash, so that it should not be entirely lost, but benefit the constitution of the pig.  Herbert sipped at the remaining bottle, and finding himself in the superior society of an old Manzanilla, refilled his glass.