Mrs. Kite taunted him.
"You kill the man who won't let you pull down his house, and you would kill the man who throws down yours. What are you going to do now? Prosecute them for the mischief, and make them patch up again what they have broken? or will you give up the point, and let them have their own way, and the railway to run here, with a station to Chillacot?"
He did not answer. He was considering Mrs. Kite's reproach, not her question. Presently he threw the gun away, and turned from his wrecked house.
"It is true," he said. "Our ways are unequal; it is very true." He put his hand over his face, and passed it before his eyes; his hand was shaking. "I will go back to the Owl's Nest," he said in a low tone.
"What! Leave your house? Do you not want to secure what has not been broken?"
"I do not care about my house. I do not care about anything in it."
"But will you not go and see Marianne—your wife? You do not know where she is, into what place your son took her, and whether she is ill?"
He looked at her with a mazed expression, almost as if he were out of his senses, and said slowly—
"I do not care about her any more." Then, dimly seeing that this calmness needed justification, he added, "I have condemned in others what I allow in myself. I have measured to one in this way, and to myself in that."
He turned away, and went slowly along the brook to the point at which he had crossed it with Patience Kite after the death of Lord Lamerton, when she led him into the covert of the woods. Mrs. Kite accompanied him now.
They ascended the further hillside together, passing through the coppice, and he remained silent, mechanically
