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Updated: June 1, 2025
But whether from oblivion, or from some instinct of grim humor toward Catherine, whom he had always vaguely disliked, the Squire said not one word about his wife to Robert, in the course of their talk of Madame de Netteville. Catherine took pains with her dress, sorely wishing to do Robert credit. She put on one of the gowns she had taken to Murewell when she married.
How at his age was he to find other work, and how was he to endure life at Murewell without his comfortable house, his smart gig, his easy command of spirits, and the cringing of the farmers? Tormented by the sordid misery of the situation almost as though it had been his own, Elsmere ran down impulsively in the evening to the agent's house.
The pressure exerted by the will had temporarily given way, and the deepest forces of the man's being had reasserted themselves. He could feel and love and pray again; and Catherine, seeing the old glow in the eyes, the old spring in the step, made the whole of life one thank-offering. On the evening following that moment of reaction in the Murewell library, Robert had written to the squire.
He had served the owner of the Murewell estate for fourteen years, and if he did not know that owner's peculiarities by this time, might he obtain certain warm corners in the next life to which he was fond of consigning other people!
By the time they were out on the wild ground between the market town and Murewell, Robert's spirits were as buoyant as thistle-down. He and the driver kept up an incessant gossip over the neighborhood, and he jumped down from the carriage as the man stopped with the alacrity of a boy. 'Go on, Tom; see if I'm not there as soon as you.
She went here and there obediently because he wished; but her youth seemed to be ebbing, the old Murewell gayety entirely left her, and people in general wondered why Elsmere should have married a wife older than himself, and apparently so unsuited to him in temperament. Especially was she tried at Madame de Netteville's.
'As I told you before, Squire, because there was nothing else for an honest man to do. The Squire turned round with a frown. 'What the deuce are you dawdling about, Benson? Give me my stick and get me out of this. By midnight all was still in the vast pile of Murewell. Outside, the night was slightly frosty.
Elsmere seemed to like London, to which Robert, busy in an opportune search for his guest's coat, made no reply. 'When are you coming to Murewell? the squire said to him abruptly, as he stood at the door muffled up as though it were December. 'There are a good many points in that last article you want talking to about. Come next month with Mrs. Elsmere.
She felt herself bereft, despoiled. And yet through it all, as she lay weeping, there came flooding a strange contradictory sense of growth, of enrichment. In such moments of pain does a woman first begin to live? Ah! why should it hurt so this long-awaited birth of the soul? The evening of the Murewell Hall dinner-party proved to be a date of some importance in the lives of two or three persons.
And when he stood up on Sundays to preach in Murewell Church, the worn and spiritual look of the man, and the knowledge warm at each heart of those before him of how the Rector not only talked but lived, carried every word home. This strain upon all the moral and physical forces, however, strangely enough, came to Robert as a kind of relief.
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