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Updated: June 4, 2025
Even if she were to cry out at the top of her voice she couldn't assert her identity; those huge passive folds of green country wouldn't believe her. They wouldn't accept the fact that she was Gabrielle Hewish, now called Considine. To them she was just the wife of a country parson dawdling through the leafy lanes in a pony-trap. She lashed the pony into a canter, but felt no better for it.
Sitting at the long table with Considine, a pile of papers before her, her attention would wander, and while her eyes watched the west wind blowing along the woods she would feel that she was not herself but another Hewish woman staring out of the library windows on a rough day in March a hundred years ago.
In a week the result of Considine's deliberations emerged, and, in a fortnight, Gabrielle, only daughter of Sir Jocelyn Hewish, Baronet, of Roscarna, County Galway, was married to the Rev. Marmaduke Considine at the church of Clonderriff. The Irish Times described the wedding as quiet. It is a curious task to enquire into the motives of Considine.
There were no nightingales in Devon, so that the first Hewish was under no necessity of importing them to complete his picture.
He did not even like her to take an intimate share in the management of the house. After all she was a Hewish and a cousin of the august Halbertons. That was why he had employed Mrs. Bemerton as housekeeper. "I shall be obliged," he said, "if you don't mention a matter that may possibly become unsavoury, to Mrs. Considine.
He knew well enough that this sort of accident was an everyday affair, in effect the usual prelude to matrimony, among the peasantry of Connaught; but that such an ugly circumstance should intrude itself into the Hewish family in the case of one of its female members seemed a monstrous calamity. He was in no condition to stand another shock, and Biddy's pronouncement completely knocked him over.
But he had his gravelled walks, his poets' avenue of yews, that grew kindly, his sundials with their graceful and melancholy admonitions, his box-hedges and white peacocks, and the fancy of some Hewish unknown had blossomed at last in a Palladian bridge of freestone, spanning the quiet river. Roscarna, in fact, was a bold experiment, destined from the first to fail.
Without doubt he felt under some obligation to the family of Hewish, and particularly to that dead lady Gabrielle's mother, and it is conceivable that he had known enough of Jocelyn during their eighteen years' acquaintance to have separated his good points from his weakness, and even to respect him.
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