She turned away, but at
that instant there came a jingle of bells. It stopped at the gate.
Isabel went into the dark entry, and pressed her face against the
side-light. It was the parson. She knew him at once; no one in Tiverton
could ever mistake that stooping figure, draped in a shawl. Isabel
always hated him the more when she thought of his shawl. It flashed
upon her then, as it often did when revulsion came over her, how much
she had loved him until he had conceived this altogether horrible
attachment for her. It was like a cherished friend who had begun to cut
undignified capers. More than that, there lurked a certain cruelty in
it, because he seemed to be trading on her inherited reverence for his
office. If he should ask her to marry him, he was the minister, and how
could she refuse? Unless, indeed, there were somebody else in the room,
to give her courage, and that was hardly to be expected. Isabel began
casting wildly about her for help. Her thoughts ran in a rushing
current, and even in the midst of her tragic despair some sense of the
foolishness of it smote her like a comic note, and she could have
laughed hysterically.
"But I can't help it," she said aloud, "I am afraid. I can't put out
the light.
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