Now and then Audrey stole a furtive glance at him as he sat moodily looking out into the twilight. The handsome lad was still a good-looking man; but the deep-seated melancholy in the dark eyes oppressed Audrey almost painfully: there was a hopelessness in their expression that filled her with pity.
Why had he let that one failure, that sad lapse from honesty, stamp his old life with shame? Had he not expiated his sin? Why was he so beaten down and crushed with remorse and suffering that he had only longed to end an existence that seemed God-forsaken and utterly useless? And then, half unconsciously, she noted the one serious defect in his face—the weak, receding chin; and she guessed that the mouth hidden under the heavy moustache was weak too.
'I will not ask you what you think of Mat to-night,' observed Mr. O'Brien, as he accompanied Audrey to the gate; 'he has not been used to a lady's company, and he has grown into silent ways, living so much alone.'
'He looks terribly unhappy.'
'Ay, poor chap, he is unhappy enough; he has got a load on his heart that he is carrying alone. Sometimes it makes my heart ache, Miss Ross, to see him sitting there, staring into the fire, and fetching up a sigh now and then. But there, as Susan says, "The heart knoweth its own bitterness"; but if ever a man is in trouble, Mat is that man.'
And Audrey felt that her old friend was right.