Leycester had reached Carlyon on foot. He had left the house in the morning, simply saying that he was going for a walk, and that they were not to wait any meal for him. During the last few days he had wandered in this way, seemingly desirous of being alone, and showing no inclination toward even Charlie's society. Lady Wyndward half feared that the old black fits was coming on him; but Lenore displayed no anxiety; she even made excuses for him.
"When a man feels the last hour of his liberty approaching, he naturally likes to use his wings a little," she said, and the countess had smiled approvingly.
"My dear, you will make a model wife; just the wife that Leycester needs."
"I think so; I do, indeed," responded Lenore, with her frank, charming smile.
So Leycester was left alone to his own wild will during those last few days, while the dressmakers and upholsterers were hard at work preparing for "the" day.
He could not have told why he came to Carlyon. He did not even know the name of the little village in which he found himself. With his handsome face rather grave and weary-looking, he had tramped into the inn, and sunk down into the seat which had supported many a generation of Carlyon fisherman and many sea-coast travelers.
"This is Carlyon, sir," said the landlord, in answer to Leycester's question, eying the tall figure in its knee breeches and shooting jacket. "Yes, sir, this is Carlyon; have you come from St. Michael's, sir?"
Leycester shook his head; he scarcely heard the old man.
"No," he answered; "but I have walked some distance," and he mentioned the place.
The old man stared.