‘Yes. You put a stop to that by your behaviour that night. After that it was impossible for me to have anything more to do with her.’
He laughed.
‘I never saw anything of her this time, so I thought she might have got married to some one, and cleared out.’
Neither his sister nor Magdalen saw how, as he spoke, he looked sideways at them. Magdalen was opening and shutting her fan. Eleanor had some trifle of fancy work in her hands.
He did not stay much longer, but had some talk with Magdalen at the door before he went away. He did not wait till Miss Strangforth’s carriage came, nor offer, as on a former occasion, to see her home. Magdalen returned to Eleanor when the door had closed behind Otho.
‘He is really exasperating. He will not give me his address now; says he is so uncertain: I must write through Gilbert, as usual. I declare he grows more and more mysterious. One might almost think he had some reason for wishing to conceal his whereabouts,’ Magdalen went on, reflectively. ‘Suppose one wanted to get at him suddenly, in any emergency, and everything had to be done through Gilbert. It might be most awkward.’
She spoke with entire tranquillity of mien and voice, and stood before the looking-glass over the mantelpiece, arranging the flowers in her corsage, with drooped eyelids and leisurely fingers. It was evidently a purely imaginary picture that she drew. But Eleanor looked up sharply, remembering what she had witnessed that very evening. Magdalen, however, was no person to whom she could disclose her vague and shadowy fears. There was nothing for it but silence. She gave a troubled sigh.
CHAPTER XXXVII
THE RETURN
With Otho’s absence and silence, the uneasiness and the fears which he seemed to bring with him, like so many invisible but potent attendants, gradually died away and were lulled into serenity. The great house was closed. The Thorsgarth shooting was let, so Eleanor heard. She never went near the place, and heard nothing of it all. Her own life was sweet to her just now, and full of hope. The most beautiful season of the year floated by like an ideal, a dream of peace and of calm, yet ample life.
It would be almost impossible to imagine anything more beautiful than the aspect of Teesdale—especially of that portion of Teesdale—in the months of September and October—when they are fine and seasonable that is, and bring such skies, such winds, and such suns as are due, in these two most gorgeous months of the year.