BOOK IX.


CHAPTER I.

THE SECRET WHICH GUY DARRELL DID NOT CONFIDE TO ALBAN MORLEY.

It was a serene noonday in that melancholy interlude of the seasons when
autumn has really ceased--winter not yet visibly begun. The same hired
vehicle which had borne Lionel to Fawley more than five years ago,
stopped at the gate of the wild umbrageous grass-land that surrounded
the antique Manor-house. It had been engaged, from the nearest railway-
station on the London road, by a lady, with a female companion who seemed
her servant. The driver dismounted, opened the door of the vehicle, and
the lady bidding him wait there till her return, and saying a few words
to her companion, descended, and, drawing her cloak round her, walked on
alone towards the Manor-house. At first her step was firm, and her pace
quick. She was still under the excitement of the resolve in which the
journey from her home had been suddenly conceived and promptly
accomplished. But as the path wound on through the stillness of
venerable groves, her courage began to fail her. Her feet loitered, her
eyes wandered round vaguely, timidly. The scene was not new to her. As
she gazed, rushingly gathered over her sorrowful shrinking mind memories
of sportive happy summer days, spent in childhood amidst those turfs and
shades-memories, more agitating, of the last visit (childhood then
ripened into blooming youth) to the ancient dwelling which, yet concealed
from view by the swells of the undulating ground and the yellow boughs of
the giant trees, betrayed its site by the smoke rising thin and dim
against the limpid atmosphere. She bent down her head, closing her eyes
as if to shut out less the face of the landscape than the images that