"Well, anyhow, I shall see him again this evening," she said to herself, after a long pause. "I wonder if he has changed? I wonder if I have changed?"
She reached the outskirts of the village, then turned back, and in a moment or two came face to face with Sir Charles. The meeting was unexpected, and the Baronet looked a little confused.
"What, turning back so soon?" he questioned, nonchalantly.
"I only came out for a little exercise and fresh air," she answered.
"And you find the air too keen, eh?"
"Oh! not at all; I am enjoying it immensely."
So they passed each other. But a little way on, Madeline paused and looked back, but Sir Charles was out of sight.
"Now, I wonder if he followed me on purpose?" she said to herself. "Has he begun to suspect me? Did he imagine I had gone to call on Mr. Sterne in defiance of his wishes? I wish I hadn't grown suspicious; it spoils everything."
She was so busy with her thoughts that she scarcely noticed the turn in the road leading back to the Hall. Also there was no particular reason why she should return at once. So she tramped on into the country. The roads were dry and frosty. The keen wind hummed in the bare hazel bushes that crowned the tall hedges, the too brief glimmer of sunshine was fading on the hillside.
Her thoughts alternated between the Squire, Gervase and Rufus Sterne. It seemed to her as though a big stone had been dropped into the still and placid pool of her life and that the troubled waters refused to settle again. It seemed but yesterday that the plan of her life lay before her like an open book. Everything was just as it ought to be and there was no hitch anywhere. Now the book was shut, the map was destroyed, and her future lay before her a treeless, trackless, mist-shrouded desert. What was the reason of it? Was Sir Charles to blame, or Gervase, or Rufus Sterne? Or should she take all the blame to herself?