urch Times revealed the peculiar
sting that was working in his mind. "And I don't-- I do not like
Isabel to make one of that trio--in view of what's being said."

"She is with Mrs. Clowes," said Val shortly, and colouring all
over his face. Fling enough mud and some of it is sure to stick!
If his unworldly father could think Laura, though innocent, so
far compromised that Isabel was not safe in her care, what were
other people saying? Val got up. "I shall walk down and smoke a
pipe with Clowes. He won't go to bed till they come in."

The beechen way was dark and steep; roosting birds blundered out
from overhead with a sleepy clamour of alarm-notes and a great
rustle of leaf-brushed wings; one could have tracked Val's course
by the commotion they made. On the footbridge dark in alder-shadow
he lingered to enjoy the cool woodland air and lulling ripple
underfoot. Not a star pierced to that black water, it might have
been unfathomably deep; and though the village street was only a
quarter of a mile away the night was intensely quiet, for all
Chilmark went to bed after closing time. It was not often that Val,
overworked and popular, tasted such a profound solitude. Not a leaf
stirred: no one was near: under golden stars it was chilling towards
one of the first faint frosts of the year: and insensibly Val relaxed
his guard: a heavy sigh broke from him, and he moved restlessly,
indulging himself in recollection as a man who habitually endures
pain without wincing will now and then allow himself the relief of
defeat.

For it is a relief not to pretend any more nor fight: to let pain
take its way, like a slow tide invading every nerve and flooding
every recess of thought, till one is pierced and penetrated by
it, married to it, indifferent so long as one can drop the mask
of that cruel courage which exacts so many sacrifices. Val was
still only twenty-nine. Forty years more of a life like
this! . . . Lawrence had once compared him to a man on the rack.
But, though Lawrence knew all, Val had never relaxed the strain
before him: was incapable of relaxing it before any spectator.
He needed to be not only alone, but in the dark, hidden even from
himself: and even so no open expression was possible to him, not
a movement after the first deep sigh: it was relief enough for
him to be sincere with himself and own that he was unhappy. But
why specially unhappy now?

Midnight: the church clock had begun to strike in a