bidding Mr. Rangely knocked to ask
for Austen Vane, and Austen himself answered the summons. He held a book
in his hand, and as Rangely spoke she saw Austen's look turn quickly to
her, and met it through the gathering gloom between them. In an instant
he was at her side, looking up questioningly into her face, and the
telltale blood leaped into hers. What must he think of her for coming
again? She could not speak of her errand too quickly.

"Mr. Vane, I came to leave a message."

"Yes?" he said, and glanced at the broad-shouldered, well-groomed figure
of Mr. Rangely, who was standing at a discreet distance.

"Your father has had an attack of some kind,--please don't be alarmed,
he seems to be recovered now,--and I thought and Dr. Tredway thought you
ought to know about it. The doctor could not leave Ripton, and I offered
to come and tell you."

"An attack?" he repeated.

"Yes." Hilary and she related simply how she had found Hilary at
Fairview, and how she had driven him home. But, during the whole of
her recital, she could not rid herself of the apprehension that he
was thinking her interference unwarranted, her coming an indelicate
repetition of the other visit. As he stood there listening in the
gathering dusk, she could not tell from his face what he thought. His
expression, when serious, had a determined, combative, almost grim note
in it, which came from a habit he had of closing his jaw tightly;
and his eyes were like troubled skies through which there trembled an
occasional flash of light.

Victoria had never felt his force so strongly as now, and never had he
seemed more distant; at times--she had thought--she had had glimpses of
his soul; to-night he was inscrutable, and never had she realized the
power (which she had known he must possess) of making himself so. And
to her? Her pride forbade her recalling at that moment the confidences
which had passed between them and which now seemed to have been so
impossible. He was serious because he was listening to serious news--she
told herself. But it was more than this: he had shut himself up, he was
impenetrable. Shame seized her; yes, and anger; and shame again at the
remembrance of her talk with Euphrasia--and anger once more. Could he
think that she would make advances to tempt his honour, and risk his
good opinion and her own?

Confidence is like a lute-string, giving forth sweet sounds in its
perfection; there are none so discordant as when it snaps.