"He didn't say he was unwell?"

"No, I only supposed so."

She pa.s.sed on, and at the same moment Leonore appeared.

"There you are!" cried Sybil gaily. "Come along, and be sociable. You have been a most unsociable little creature all day. Now then, aren't you coming?"

But Leo was not coming. Obviously she was disconcerted at sight of her sister, and shook her head as though vexed at being accosted.

"Nonsense! Don't go hiding yourself again," resumed Sybil. "What's the use of moping? And it doesn't make it any pleasanter for the rest of us that Paul is in the dumps in one room, and you in another. We are none too cheerful without that."

"Where is Paul?"

"In the library. Over the fire. So Maud says, and declares he has lumbago. I don't believe it. He simply doesn't want to be bothered with her and her eternal 'plans'."

"You are sure he is there?"

"Go and look for yourself if you doubt Maud's word. Why? Do you want him?"

But Leo threw her a strange look, a look of such bitter, ironical meaning, that she appended hastily; "You are not such a little fool as to be worrying yourself over those two and their affairs? Maud won't thank you if you do. She is rather put out as it is, because I hinted that you took to heart our going more than she did. I didn't _say_ so, you know--but I should, if she had gone on much longer. However, she went off to Paul."

"And Paul is safe, in there?"

"Paul is safe--in there. Let sleeping dogs lie. Well? Oh, Leo, you really are too bad,--" for Leo had turned at the words, and was remounting the staircase.

"One can't say a word to her that she doesn't vanish on the instant,"

muttered Sybil; "how I do dislike that way she has got into! And when Maud goes, of course I shall have to take up with Leo. Hullo! Sue?"

"I was looking for Leo," said Sue.

"Did you look in the only place you were likely to find her? She has hardly been out of her room all day."

"Has she not been out-of-doors at all? Poor child!"

"I tried to get her to come for a walk this morning, but she wouldn't."

"She seems----" said Sue, and stopped short.

"Yes, we all know what she seems, and is: in an uncommonly bad temper, for some reason or other. There is nothing for it but to let her alone."

"I am rather anxious about her somehow, Syb."

"And now we shall have you in the blues too! For sheer pity bear up, and don't let me be the only one--and I suppose I have feelings too. It really is disgusting, every one giving way but me."

"I think I _must_ go and see what Leo is doing?"

"I think you _must_ do nothing of the kind. You will make nothing of her. I've tried. She was here just now."

"And did you not notice anything? It is not only her face; but her voice, her manner----"

"I told her she looked woebegone, and that it was no good. She frets about things that are no business of hers, if you must know," owned Sybil, reluctantly. "She has taken it into her head that Maud--that she and Paul aren't suited to each other, and has let the idea run away with her. I suppose I was stupid myself, not to put a veto upon it flat,--but the truth is I do think they are an ill-a.s.sorted couple, and can't make out how they ever came to take to each other."

"I once thought it was something else on Leo's part," said Sue, in rather a low voice. "If it is only that, I think, I hope, we are all mistaken."

"We?" cried Sybil, struck by the word.

"Because I think as you do," said Sue, quietly.

The short light of a November day was beginning to fade when Leonore, after a minute's cautious listening and watching from above, stole downstairs equipped to go out, and safely reached the garden-door without encountering any one. She was in the act of unlocking it, when Paul appeared.

"You are going out?" said he, mechanically.

"No, I am not," said she--and pa.s.sed out before his eyes.

For a few minutes she ran aimlessly hither and thither, crossing and recrossing her steps, while from time to time casting furtive glances at the windows of the house, as though to see if she were being watched or not--but satisfied apparently upon this point, she made a sudden dart for the woods beyond, and was almost immediately lost to view.

Yet here again she hesitated, for the paths were numerous.

There was the one she had first trodden on her return to the Abbey three years before. She recalled the beauty, the wild freshness of that twilight hour. It had so exhilarated her that while desirous of walking soberly as befitted the occasion, she had longed to run! Her first very real but transient sorrow had worn off, and there was no one to see her--yet something restrained her. It was not kind to G.o.dfrey's memory; he had been so good to her, so uniformly affectionate and indulgent towards her, that she would not seem to slight him even in solitude. As for the dancing blood in her veins, she told herself it was purely physical. She was so well and strong that she could not help feeling just a little happy.

And though she had often traversed the same narrow little winding path since, she had never perhaps felt quite the same again.

On the other hand, there lay the short cut to Claymount--that was Val's way. She would not take Val's way, although of late Val had ceased to frequent it. He had no object in doing so, since Leonore was never to be met with now.

Once or twice he had adverted to this, but she had replied evasively.

Val did not interest her, did not amuse her any longer. He grew tiresome since he had taken to making remarks upon her altered appearance, and putting direct, awkward questions.

Things might have been worse, of course; but on the whole she would even have preferred an open rupture and well-founded resentment, to this persistent determination to know how things were with her,--and others?

Val had no liking for Paul Foster now, though at first he had professed such. He had no reason to give, and an obstinate look would come over his face if pressed. Once he had murmured something of which Leo only caught the words, "jolly deceitful,"--and the next minute he denied having spoken them.

To herself Leo owned that she had not behaved well to poor Val, having made use of him for selfish ends; but the experiment had harmed neither, and no remorse need be wasted upon it.

With George b.u.t.ts it was the same; he was fair game, having come in search of her supposit.i.tious fortune, without even the excuse of an honest, jog-trot fidelity such as Val's. She had been scolded on George's account, but had not scolded herself, and had archly and triumphantly pointed out the recusant to Sue in a sly corner of a London balcony.

But young Andrews? Ah, _that_ stung. The home truths forced from those quivering lips, the agony of those imploring eyes--she quailed before them. They pierced her already shame-embittered soul, they were her dying wounds. For she had made another suffer what she herself was suffering, and had done it wantonly. There was no excuse for her,--none.

There should be no pity, no sorrow--if it were possible, no knowledge when--when all was over.

She crashed into the undergrowth.

But she could not go far; the mould was too soft, and the rotting leaves too thick and plentiful. She was forced to retrace her steps.

There was the dry track of a streamlet, along which a faint trickle oozed to the surface here and there. She tried it, but the sharp stones hurt her feet, and again she sprang into the path.

Then the sprawling arms of a bramble caught and ripped a bad tear in her skirt. Her new, black skirt--and just where a darn would show! How tiresome--how vexatious! And Bessie could not darn decently. She frowned and examined, condemning already Bessie's incapable hand, and slipshod work.