I went round to the stables, and had my horse saddled immediately.  No idea of proceeding in any particular direction occurred to me.  I simply felt resolved to pass my two days’ ordeal of suspense away from home—­far enough away to keep me faithful to my promise not to see Margaret.  Soon after I started, I left my horse to his own guidance, and gave myself up to my thoughts and recollections, as one by one they rose within me.  The animal took the direction which he had been oftenest used to take during my residence in London—­the northern road.

It was not until I had ridden half a mile beyond the suburbs that I looked round me, and discovered towards what part of the country I was proceeding.  I drew the rein directly, and turned my horse’s head back again, towards the south.  To follow the favourite road which I had so often followed with Clara; to stop perhaps at some place where I had often stopped with her, was more than I had the courage or the insensibility to do at that moment.

I rode as far as Ewell, and stopped there:  the darkness had overtaken me, and it was useless to tire my horse by going on any greater distance.  The next morning, I was up almost with sunrise; and passed the greater part of the day in walking about among villages, lanes, and fields, just as chance led me.  During the night, many thoughts that I had banished for the last week had returned—­those thoughts of evil omen under which the mind seems to ache, just as the body aches under a dull, heavy pain, to which we can assign no particular place or cause.  Absent from Margaret, I had no resource against the oppression that now overcame me.  I could only endeavour to alleviate it by keeping incessantly in action; by walking or riding, hour after hour, in the vain attempt to quiet the mind by wearying out the body.  Apprehension of the failure of my application to Mr. Sherwin had nothing to do with the vague gloom which now darkened my thoughts; they kept too near home for that.  Besides, what I had observed of Margaret’s father, especially during the latter part of my interview with him, showed me plainly enough that he was trying to conceal, under exaggerated surprise and assumed hesitation, his secret desire to profit at once by my offer; which, whatever conditions might clog it, was infinitely more advantageous in a social point of view, than any he could have hoped for.  It was not his delay in accepting my proposals, but the burden of deceit, the fetters of concealment forced on me by the proposals themselves, which now hung heavy on my heart.

That evening I left Ewell, and rode towards home again, as far as Richmond, where I remained for the night and the forepart of the next day.  I reached London in the afternoon; and got to North Villa—­without going home first—­about five o’clock.

The oppression was still on my spirits.  Even the sight of the house where Margaret lived failed to invigorate or arouse me.