solitary
house, which had been an inn, but was now unoccupied, stood in the angle
formed by Manton Lane and the road; he scrutinised it. The big doors
leading to the stable-yard were ajar; but he looked in and she was not
there, though he noted that horses had stood there lately. For the rest,
the house was closed and shuttered, as he had seen it that morning, and
every day for days past.

Was it possible that she had changed her mind? That she had played or
was playing him false? His heart said no. Nevertheless he felt a chill
and a degree of disillusion as he rode down the lane to the foot-bridge;
and over it, and on as far as the first house of the village. Still he
saw nothing of her; and he turned. Riding back his search was rewarded
with a discovery. Beside the ditch, at the corner where the road and
lane met, and lying in such a position that it was not visible from the
highway, but only from the lower ground of the lane, lay a plain
black fan.

Sir George sprang down, picked it up, and saw that it was Julia's; and
still possessed by the idea that she was playing him a trick he kissed
it, and looked sharply round, hoping to detect her laughing face.
Without result; then at last he began to feel misgiving. The road under
the downs was growing dim and shadowy; the ten minutes he had lingered
had stolen away the warmth and colour of the day. The camps and
tree-clumps stood black on the hills, the blacker for the creeping mist
that stole beside the river where he stood. In another ten minutes night
would fall in the valley. Sir George, his heart sinking under those
vague and apparently foolish alarms which are among the penalties of
affection, mounted his horse, stood in his stirrups, and called her
name--'Julia! Julia!'--not loudly, but so that if she were within fifty
yards of him she must hear.

He listened. His ear caught a confused babel of voices in the direction
of Marlborough; but only the empty house, echoing 'Julia!' answered him.
Not that he waited long for an answer; something in the dreary aspect of
the evening struck cold to his heart, and touching his horse with the
spur, he dashed off at a hand-gallop. Meeting the Bristol night-wagon
beyond the bend of the road he was by it in a second. Nevertheless, the
bells ringing at the horses' necks, the cracking whips, the tilt
lurching white through the dusk somewhat reassured him. Reducing his
pace, and a little ashamed of his fears, he entered the inn gr