What indeed! Not once or twice, but every hour in the day did Lord Hardcastle ask himself the same question. He felt like a man walking in a circle, for ever on the verge of a mystery, but never approaching any nearer than a circle permitted. Become now one of the family at the High Elms, not a look, not a word, not a tone of any one of the household ever escaped his observation. Mrs. Warden’s severe illness had thoroughly incapacitated her for the exertion of receiving visitors, and the family had gradually become all but isolated from their neighbours. An occasional morning caller, leaving cards only, the daily visit of the doctor, and the arrival of the London post, was all that occurred to break the day’s monotony. Thus the summer wore slowly away, the short autumn days began to grow chill and stormy, the sad old house looked drear and gray among the tall, dark elms. Very drear and very gray Lord Hardcastle thought it, as he rode slowly along the steep avenue leading through the park. He had been transacting some business in Dunwich for Mr. Warden, and, somewhat weary and dispirited, was returning in the afternoon twilight. He looked right and left on a damp misty landscape. The equinoctial gales had set in early, and the trees were already brown and leafless. Heavy rains, too, had flooded the country round, and the stream running through the Park was swollen and turbid, threatening to overflow its banks. Dark clouds were gathering overhead, and a flight of rooks whirling low and flapping their black wings, with their mournful cawing, completed the desolateness of the scene. “It is like entering a graveyard,” he thought, as he rode along. Then his memory went back to one bright sunny morning, when riding up this same avenue he had met Amy and her father, well-mounted, coming from the house. Very lovely had she looked in the summer sunshine, with her fresh, girlish beauty, and almost royal dignity of manner. “_A bien-tôt_, Lord Hardcastle,” had been her salutation as she cantered past, and the sweet, ringing voice echoed in his ears still—aye, and would until he died. Was it the many-sidedness of Amy’s character (if the expression be allowed) which made her so dangerously fascinating? With Varley, generally speaking, her manner had been that of a finished coquette, alternately commanding or persuading, wilful or gentle, as the fancy seized her. With Hardcastle, on the contrary, her bearing was that of a stately, high-bred lady; her impatience and impetuosity of temper only shown in the vivacity and variety of her conversation. Was it, could it be all over now for ever? Was all this bright beauty and loveliness but a memory—a thing of the past? All this and much more passed through Lord Hardcastle’s mind as he drew near to the house, standing out grim and gray against the dark, threatening sky.