But though he accused her of fickleness, he would not doubt the genuineness, in its kind, of her partiality for him at Budmouth.  It was a short and shallow feeling—­not perfect love: 

          ’Love is not love
   Which alters when it alteration finds.’

But it was not flirtation; a feeling had been born in her and had died.  It would be well for his peace of mind if his love for her could flit away so softly, and leave so few traces behind.

Miss Aldclyffe had shown herself desperately concerned in the whole matter by the alacrity with which she had obtained the letter from Manston, and her labours to induce himself to marry his cousin.  Taken in connection with her apparent interest in, if not love for, Cytherea, her eagerness, too, could only be accounted for on the ground that Cytherea indeed loved the steward.

5.  DECEMBER THE FOURTH

Edward passed the night he scarcely knew how, tossing feverishly from side to side, the blood throbbing in his temples, and singing in his ears.

Before the day began to break he dressed himself.  On going out upon the landing he found his father’s bedroom door already open.  Edward concluded that the old man had risen softly, as was his wont, and gone out into the fields to start the labourers.  But neither of the outer doors was unfastened.  He entered the front room, and found it empty.  Then animated by a new idea, he went round to the little back parlour, in which the few wrecks saved from the fire were deposited, and looked in at the door.  Here, near the window, the shutters of which had been opened half way, he saw his father leaning on the bureau, his elbows resting on the flap, his body nearly doubled, his hands clasping his forehead.  Beside him were ghostly-looking square folds of parchment—­the leases of the houses destroyed.

His father looked up when Edward entered, and wearily spoke to the young man as his face came into the faint light.

‘Edward, why did you get up so early?’

‘I was uneasy, and could not sleep.’

The farmer turned again to the leases on the bureau, and seemed to become lost in reflection.  In a minute or two, without lifting his eyes, he said—­

’This is more than we can bear, Ted—­more than we can bear!  Ted, this will kill me.  Not the loss only—­the sense of my neglect about the insurance and everything.  Borrow I never will.  ’Tis all misery now.  God help us—­all misery now!’

Edward did not answer, continuing to look fixedly at the dreary daylight outside.

‘Ted,’ the farmer went on, ‘this upset of be-en burnt out o’ home makes me very nervous and doubtful about everything.  There’s this troubles me besides—­our liven here with your cousin, and fillen up her house.  It must be very awkward for her.  But she says she doesn’t mind.  Have you said anything to her lately about when you are going to marry her?’

‘Nothing at all lately.’