ossed the lawn
and made for the fields. It was a terrible day for her. She felt that
she couldn't go to church in her usual way, but stayed at home tortured
by the most hopeless and tragic anticipations of evil. At lunch time
he had not returned. It was with difficulty that she restrained
herself from sending Hollis out over the hill with a search party, but
the curious fatalism that had settled on her when once her decision was
made, compelled her to patience. It was his own battle, she reflected,
and if he had wanted her help he would have come to her. Evidently, he
had decided to fight it out alone. She went to her own room and prayed
desperately for his salvation.

In the evening he returned, tired out with ceaseless wandering. He had
eaten nothing all day and looked very old and haggard. She had
expected a tender scene of confidence and was ready to overwhelm him
with the consolations of her love; but even now he said nothing to her,
and she dared not take the first step herself. From his silent misery
she gathered that Gabrielle had not told him that she knew of the
secret. Evidently, and very wisely, she had given him general and
conventional reasons for her renunciation, treating it as a matter that
concerned themselves and no one else, denying Mrs. Payne the privilege
and pain of sharing in Arthur's disillusionment. Therefore, his mother
judged it wiser to behave as though she knew nothing of what he was
suffering, though she saw by the steadiness of his demeanour that he
had taken the blow squarely, and come through.

The fact that he didn't break down miserably, as she had expected he
would, convinced her more than ever that he had become a man. She felt
certain now that she had been right in following her instinct and
facing the risk that her action involved. She believed that she had
triumphed. Certainly, the boy who faced her at the dinner-table in
suffering and awkward silence was very different from the Arthur of six
months before. There was a look of determination in his eyes that made
her confident. He kissed her good-night without the least tremor, and
she went to bed herself full of serene thankfulness. Nor did she
forget how much she owed to the girl who was breaking her heart in the
loneliness of Lapton. She wrote to Gabrielle that night. "I think it
is all right," she said. "Heaven only knows what I owe you for your
generosity ... what Arthur owes you."

He never mentioned