Wessex Tales | Page 8

hand did
not, of course, suggest itself to Ella.
In the natural way of passion under the too practical conditions which
civilization has devised for its fruition, her husband's love for her had
not survived, except in the form of fitful friendship, any more than, or
even so much as, her own for him; and, being a woman of very living
ardours, that required sustenance of some sort, they were beginning to
feed on this chancing material, which was, indeed, of a quality far
better than chance usually offers.
One day the children had been playing hide-and-seek in a closet,
whence, in their excitement, they pulled out some clothing. Mrs.
Hooper explained that it belonged to Mr. Trewe, and hung it up in the
closet again. Possessed of her fantasy, Ella went later in the afternoon,
when nobody was in that part of the house, opened the closet,
unhitched one of the articles, a mackintosh, and put it on, with the
waterproof cap belonging to it.
'The mantle of Elijah!' she said. 'Would it might inspire me to rival him,
glorious genius that he is!'
Her eyes always grew wet when she thought like that, and she turned to

look at herself in the glass. HIS heart had beat inside that coat, and HIS
brain had worked under that hat at levels of thought she would never
reach. The consciousness of her weakness beside him made her feel
quite sick. Before she had got the things off her the door opened, and
her husband entered the room.
'What the devil--'
She blushed, and removed them
'I found them in the closet here,' she said, 'and put them on in a freak.
What have I else to do? You are always away!'
'Always away? Well . . . '
That evening she had a further talk with the landlady, who might
herself have nourished a half-tender regard for the poet, so ready was
she to discourse ardently about him.
'You are interested in Mr. Trewe, I know, ma'am,' she said; 'and he has
just sent to say that he is going to call to-morrow afternoon to look up
some books of his that he wants, if I'll be in, and he may select them
from your room?'
'O yes!'
'You could very well meet Mr Trewe then, if you'd like to be in the
way!'
She promised with secret delight, and went to bed musing of him.
Next morning her husband observed: 'I've been thinking of what you
said, Ell: that I have gone about a good deal and left you without much
to amuse you. Perhaps it's true. To-day, as there's not much sea, I'll take
you with me on board the yacht.'
For the first time in her experience of such an offer Ella was not glad.
But she accepted it for the moment. The time for setting out drew near,
and she went to get ready. She stood reflecting. The longing to see the
poet she was now distinctly in love with overpowered all other
considerations.
'I don't want to go,' she said to herself. 'I can't bear to be away! And I
won't go.'
She told her husband that she had changed her mind about wishing to
sail. He was indifferent, and went his way.
For the rest of the day the house was quiet, the children having gone
out upon the sands. The blinds waved in the sunshine to the soft, steady
stroke of the sea beyond the wall; and the notes of the Green Silesian

band, a troop of foreign gentlemen hired for the season, had drawn
almost all the residents and promenaders away from the vicinity of
Coburg House. A knock was audible at the door.
Mrs. Marchmill did not hear any servant go to answer it, and she
became impatient. The books were in the room where she sat; but
nobody came up. She rang the bell.
'There is some person waiting at the door,' she said.
'O no, ma'am! He's gone long ago. I answered it.'
Mrs. Hooper came in herself.
'So disappointing!' she said. 'Mr. Trewe not coming after all!'
'But I heard him knock, I fancy!'
'No; that was somebody inquiring for lodgings who came to the wrong
house. I forgot to tell you that Mr. Trewe sent a note just before lunch
to say I needn't get any tea for him, as he should not require the books,
and wouldn't come to select them.'
Ella was miserable, and for a long time could not even re-read his
mournful ballad on 'Severed Lives,' so aching was her erratic little heart,
and so tearful her eyes. When the children came in with wet stockings,
and ran up to her to tell her of their adventures, she could not feel that
she cared about