So the dark-haired lady was “the Obstacle!” That impassioned declaration on Yampton Hill had been—what? Mr. Wynyard was merely experimenting on her credulity; he wished to discover how far he might go, how much she would believe? A gay Hussar, who had got into such trouble that he was compelled to hide his whereabouts and name, until he could return to the world after a decent interval of obscurity and repentance! Meanwhile, he played the mysterious adorer, and amused himself with “a country heart,” pour passer le temps.
And yet—and yet—when she recalled his steadfast eyes, the tremulous ardour of his bearing in the garden, and, on the hillside, he had looked in desperate earnest.
“Yes,” jeered another voice, “and in deadly earnest in the Drum window!”
And she? She had actually believed that he was hopelessly in love; and she, who had been ready to stand by him against all her kindred, who had blushed and trembled before his eyes and voice, had kissed her own glove where his lips had pressed it! As these memories raced through her brain an awful sensation of sinking down into the solid earth possessed her. Aurea groped blindly for the gate and rested her head upon it. It seemed to her as if, under the shade of those beeches, a something not of this world, some terrible and relentless force, had fought and wrested from her, her unacknowledged hopes, and her happy youth.
Half an hour later she toiled up the drive with dragging, unsteady steps. Prayers were over when she entered the library—a white ghost of herself, and, with a mumbled apology, she went over and bade her father good-night, and touched his cheek with lips that were dry and feverish. He, simple, blind man, absorbed in proofs, barely lifted his head, and said—
“Good-night, my child, sleep well!”
And his child, evading Norris with a gesture of dismissal, hurried to the seclusion of her own apartment, and locked the door.
Three days later, Miss Morven left home somewhat unexpectedly; but it was conceded even by her Aunt Bella that the shock of Captain Ramsay’s death had upset the girl. She wanted a change, and a lively place and lively society would divert her mind.
Wynyard had not once seen her since their never-to-be-forgotten walk, and the news of her departure came as a shock—although his outward composure was admirable—when he was informed that Miss Morven had left home, to be followed by her father. The Rector would return in three weeks, but Ottinge was not likely to see his daughter for a considerable time. Miss Davis had taken over the surplices, Miss Jones the girls’ sewing-class, and Miss Norris the altar flowers.
Wynyard put artful and carefully guarded inquiries, respecting her niece, to his friend, Miss Susan, who was never reticent, and talked as long as she found a sympathetic and intelligent listener.