It was the universal opinion in Little Yafford--a kind of foregone conclusion--that Mr. Harefield would wander for years, and return to the Water House after a decade or two, with long gray hair and a bent backbone, and the general appearance of a pilgrim. He disappointed everybody’s expectations by coming back early in the spring and taking up his abode permanently in the grave old house, which now put on that mantle of silence and gloom which had never been lifted from it since. Under this shadow of gloom, encircled by this perpetual silence and monotony, Beatrix had grown from childhood to womanhood. You could hear the dropping of the light wood ashes in a distant room as you stood in the hall at the Water House, or the chirping of a winter robin in the garden outside the windows, or the ticking of the dining-room clock, but of human voice or motion there was hardly anything to be heard. The kitchens and offices were remote, and the servants knew the value of good wages and a comfortable home too well to let any token of their existence reach Mr. Harefield’s ears. The master of that silent house sat in his library at the end of the low corridor, and read, or smoked, or mused, or wrote in solitude. Sometimes he took his daily ride or walk in all weathers, for months at a stretch; at other times he would remain for several weeks without leaving the house. He received no guests--he visited no one, having taken the trouble, immediately after his return, to let people know that he had come to the Water House in search of solitude, and not sympathy. Scratchell, his lawyer and agent, and Mr. Namby, the family doctor, were the only two men freely admitted to his presence, and of these he saw as little as possible. He allowed Bella Scratchell to be with his daughter as much as Beatrix pleased to have her, but, save on Sundays, he never sat at meals with them or honoured them with his society. His hours were different from theirs, and they had Miss Scales to take care of them. What could they want more? One day, when Beatrix was between sixteen and seventeen, Mrs. Dulcimer met the misanthrope in one of his solitary walks on the Druids’ moor, and ventured, not without inward fear and trembling, to attack him on the subject of his daughter’s solitary life. ‘It must be very dull for Beatrix at the Water House,’ she said. ‘I dare say it is, madam,’ answered Christian Harefield, with austere civility, ‘but I don’t mind that. Dulness is good for young women, in my opinion.’ ‘Oh, but, dear Mr. Harefield,’ cried the Vicar’s wife, emboldened by his politeness, ‘there you differ from all the rest of the world.’ ‘I have not generally found the rest of the world so wise, my dear madam, as to distress myself because its opinions and mine happen to be at variance,’ Mr. Harefield answered coldly.