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on one of these occasions。 'Crying over something？ A lock of hair？
Whose is it？'
'He's dead！' she murmured。
'Who？'
'I don't want to tell you； Will； just now； unless you insist！' she
said； a sob hanging heavy in her voice。
'O； all right。'
'Do you mind my refusing？ I will tell you some day。'
'It doesn't matter in the least； of course。'
He walked away whistling a few bars of no tune in particular； and
when he had got down to his factory in the city the subject came
into Marchmill's head again。
He； too； was aware that a suicide had taken place recently at the
house they had occupied at Solentsea。 Having seen the volume of
poems in his wife's hand of late； and heard fragments of the
landlady's conversation about Trewe when they were her tenants； he
all at once said to himself； 'Why of course it's he！ How the devil
did she get to know him？ What sly animals women are！'
Then he placidly dismissed the matter； and went on with his daily
affairs。 By this time Ella at home had come to a determination。
Mrs。 Hooper； in sending the hair and photograph； had informed her of
the day of the funeral； and as the morning and noon wore on an
overpowering wish to know where they were laying him took possession
of the sympathetic woman。 Caring very little now what her husband
or any one else might think of her eccentricities； she wrote
Marchmill a brief note； stating that she was called away for the
afternoon and evening； but would return on the following morning。
This she left on his desk； and having given the same information to
the servants； went out of the house on foot。
When Mr。 Marchmill reached home early in the afternoon the servants
looked anxious。 The nurse took him privately aside； and hinted that
her mistress's sadness during the past few days had been such that
she feared she had gone out to drown herself。 Marchmill reflected。
Upon the whole he thought that she had not done that。 Without
saying whither he was bound he also started off； telling them not to
sit up for him。 He drove to the railway…station； and took a ticket
for Solentsea。
It was dark when he reached the place； though he had come by a fast
train； and he knew that if his wife had preceded him thither it
could only have been by a slower train； arriving not a great while
before his own。 The season at Solentsea was now past： the parade
was gloomy； and the flys were few and cheap。 He asked the way to
the Cemetery； and soon reached it。 The gate was locked； but the
keeper let him in； declaring； however； that there was nobody within
the precincts。 Although it was not late； the autumnal darkness had
now become intense； and he found some difficulty in keeping to the
serpentine path which led to the quarter where； as the man had told
him； the one or two interments for the day had taken place。 He
stepped upon the grass； and； stumbling over some pegs； stooped now
and then to discern if possible a figure against the sky。
He could see none； but lighting on a spot where the soil was
trodden； beheld a crouching object beside a newly made grave。 She
heard him； and sprang up。
'Ell； how silly this is！' he said indignantly。 'Running away from
homeI never heard such a thing！ Of course I am not jealous of
this unfortunate man； but it is too ridiculous that you； a married
woman with three children and a fourth coming； should go losing your
head like this over a dead lover！ 。 。 。 Do you know you were locked
in？ You might not have been able to get out all night。'
She did not answer。
'I hope it didn't go far between you and him； for your own sake。'
'Don't insult me； Will。'
'Mind； I won't have any more of this sort of thing； do you hear？'
'Very well；' she said。
He drew her arm within his own； and conducted her out of the
Cemetery。 It was impossible to get back that night； and not wishing
to be recognized in their present sorry condition； he took her to a
miserable little coffee…house close to the station； whence they
departed early in the morning； travelling almost without speaking；
under the sense that it was one of those dreary situations occurring
in married life which words could not mend； and reaching their own
door at noon。
The months passed； and neither of the twain ever ventured to start a
conversation upon this episode。 Ella seemed to be only too
frequently in a sad and listless mood； which might almost have been
called pining。 The time was approaching when she would have to
undergo the stress of childbirth for a fourth time； and that
apparently did not tend to raise her spirits。
'I don't think I shall get over it this time！' she said one day。
'Pooh！ what childish foreboding！ Why shouldn't it be as well now as
ever？'
She shook her head。 'I feel almost sure I am going to die； and I
should be glad； if it were not for Nelly； and Frank； and Tiny。'
'And me！'
'You'll soon find somebody to fill my place；' she murmured； with a
sad smile。 'And you'll have a perfect right to； I assure you of
that。'
'Ell； you are not thinking still about thatpoetical friend of
yours？'
She neither admitted nor denied the charge。 'I am not going to get
over my illness this time；' she reiterated。 'Something tells me I
shan't。'
This view of things was rather a bad beginning； as it usually is；
and； in fact； six weeks later； in the month of May； she was lying in
her room； pulseless and bloodless； with hardly strength enough left
to follow up one feeble breath with another； the infant for whose
unnecessary life she was slowly parting with her own being fat and
well。 Just before her death she spoke to Marchmill softly：…
'Will； I want to confess to you the entire circumstances of that
about you know whatthat time we visited Solentsea。 I can't tell
what possessed mehow I could forget you so； my husband！ But I had
got into a morbid state： I thought you had been unkind； that you
had neglected me； that you weren't up to my intellectual level；
while he was； and far above it。 I wanted a fuller appreciator；
perhaps； rather than another lover'
She could get no further then for very exhaustion； and she went off
in sudden collapse a few hours later； without having said anything
more to her husband on the subject of her love for the poet。
William Marchmill； in truth； like most husbands of several years'
standing； was little disturbed by retrospective jealousies； and had
not shown the least anxiety to press her for confessions concerning
a man dead and gone beyond any power of inconveniencing him more。
But when she had been buried a couple of years it chanced one day
that； in turning over some forgotten papers that he wished to
destroy before his second wife entered the house； he lighted on a
lock of hair in an envelope； with the photograph of the deceased
poet； a date being written on the back in his late wife's hand。 It
was that of the time they spent at Solentsea。
Marchmill looked long and musingly at the hair and portrait； for
something struck him。 Fetching the little boy who had been the
death of his mother； now a noisy toddler； he took him on his knee；
held the lock of hair against the child's head； and set up the
photograph on the table behind； so that he could closely compare the
features each countenance presented。 There were undoubtedly strong
traces of resemblance； the dreamy and peculiar expression of the
poet's face sat； as the transmitted idea； upon the child's； and the
hair was of the same hue。
'I'm damned if I didn't think so！' murmured Marchmill。 'Then she
DID play me false with that fellow at the lodgings！ Let me see：
the datesthe second week in August 。 。 。 the third week in May 。 。
。 Yes 。 。 。 yes 。 。 。 Get away； you poor little brat！ You are
nothing to me！'
1893。
THE THREE STRANGERS
Among the few features of agricultural England which retain an
appearance but little modified by the lapse of centuries； may be
reckoned the high； grassy and furzy downs； coombs； or ewe…leases； as
they are indifferently called； that fill a large area of certain
counties in the south and south…west。 If any mark of human
occupation is met with hereon； it usually takes the form of the
solitary