“You are very obstinate, Fergus,” Mr. Penzance had said.

And Mount Dunstan had shaken his head fiercely and answered: 

“Don’t speak to me about it.  Only obstinacy will save me from behaving like—­other blackguards.”

Mr. Penzance, carefully polishing his eyeglasses as he watched him, was not sparing in his comment.

“That is pure folly,” he said, “pure bull-necked, stubborn folly, charging with its head down.  Before it has done with you it will have made you suffer quite enough.”

“Be sure of that,” Mount Dunstan had said, setting his teeth, as he sat in his chair clasping his hands behind his head and glowering into space.

Mr. Penzance quietly, speculatively, looked him over, and reflected aloud—­or, so it sounded.

“It is a big-boned and big-muscled characteristic, but there are things which are stronger.  Some one minute will arrive—­just one minute—­which will be stronger.  One of those moments when the mysteries of the universe are at work.”

“Don’t speak to me like that, I tell you!” Mount Dunstan broke out passionately.  And he sprang up and marched out of the room like an angry man.

Miss Vanderpoel did not go to Mrs. Welden’s cottage at once, but walked past its door down the lane, where there were no more cottages, but only hedges and fields on either side of her.  “Not well enough to make his rounds” might mean much or little.  It might mean a temporary breakdown from overfatigue or a sickening for deadly illness.  She looked at a group of cropping sheep in a field and at a flock of rooks which had just alighted near it with cawing and flapping of wings.  She kept her eyes on them merely to steady herself.  The thoughts she had brought out with her had grown heavier and were horribly difficult to control.  One must not allow one’s self to believe the worst will come—­one must not allow it.

She always held this rule before herself, and now she was not holding it steadily.  There was nothing to do.  She could write a mere note of inquiry to Mr. Penzance, but that was all.  She could only walk up and down the lanes and think—­whether he lay dying or not.  She could do nothing, even if a day came when she knew that a pit had been dug in the clay and he had been lowered into it with creaking ropes, and the clods shovelled back upon him where he lay still—­never having told her that he was glad that her being had turned to him and her heart cried aloud his name.  She recalled with curious distinctness the effect of the steady toll of the church bell—­the “passing bell.”

She could hear it as she had heard it the first time it fell upon her ear, and she had inquired what it meant.  Why did they call it the “passing bell”?  All had passed before it began to toll—­all had passed.  If it tolled at Dunstan and the pit was dug in the churchyard before her father came, would he see, the moment they met, that something had befallen her—­that the Betty he had known was changed—­gone?  Yes, he would see.  Affection such as his always saw.  Then he would sit alone with her in some quiet room and talk to her, and she would tell him the strange thing that had happened.  He would understand—­perhaps better than she.