CHAPTER L.
THE DISINHERITED.
Miss Gwynne and Rowland walked on quietly together for a little space. There was something in the heart of each, unknown to the other, that seemed to close up speech. It was nearly five o'clock, and a January evening; but for the 'pretty moon' and the white mist from the river, and the frost-bitten snow on the roads, it would have been dark; but it was really a fine, bright night. That river-mist rose from the meadows beneath like a large lake, and the moonlight pierced through it and mingled with it.
It was such a night as lovers of a healthy, natural tone of mind might rejoice in; frost and snow being no refrigerators of true, honest warmth, but rather tending to keep it alive, by exhilarating the spirits and clearing the atmosphere.
Rowland broke the silence, and so clear was the air, that his own voice startled him.
'I am going to London to-morrow, Miss Gwynne; may I give Mrs Jones some hope that you will soon be back again?'
'I fear not,' said Freda; 'my father wishes me to remain at home, and I have decided upon doing so.'
'Not entirely?' asked Rowland, in a voice that all his self-command could not render calm.
'I believe it is so settled. He makes a great point of it. Lady Mary is equally urgent, and I have promised. Do you not think it is right?'