Of all the things she had anticipated, unkindness from her newly made husband had been farthest from her thoughts. Her maiden terrors had concerned themselves in the opposite direction. She had feared demonstrative display of feeling which as yet she must be unable to reciprocate. His attitude froze her timid efforts to make friends. The remaining words that passed between them during the journey were negligible, except for once, when he looked up suddenly--they were passing a lonely stretch of moorland, and he had been gazing from the window--and said: "So you think you will like living in the country?" "I know I shall. I have always lived in the country," she replied. "Not with me," was his comment, while a faint smile crossed his eyes. "No. Not with you," was her gentle answer. She wanted to speak to him, to tell him how well she meant to keep her new-made vows, that though her marriage was, as he must know, a marriage of convenience, she intended to do her duty to the utmost limit of her powers. But he said he did not like talking in the train; and her spirits were so exhausted that she dare not risk a breakdown. She remained, therefore, rapt in the silence which seemed the sole alternative, until they reached their journey's end. A brougham awaited them, drawn by a pair of fine horses. There followed a drive of more than five miles through country which grew each moment wilder and more beautiful. They came at last to a pine wood, set among swelling uplands. A lodge gate here flanked the road, and as the lodge-keeper's child opened it, and touched his forelock, Virginia guessed that they were in their own domain. The trees were so thick and dark as to produce a premature twilight. Through this they drove for the best part of a mile. The name of Omberleigh could be well understood. It was, indeed, a place of shadows. The house stood in the depths of the wood, so far as the side from which they approached was concerned. It was a Georgian house, straight and square, with a classic porch of grey stone, supported upon columns. The house door stood open, and revealed a dark hall, somewhat untidy, and furnished with big black cupboards, surmounted by foxes' masks, antlers, and stuffed fish. On its shabby turkey carpet stood an elderly man-servant, a middle-aged parlourmaid, and a grey-haired woman who was presumably a cook-housekeeper. All of them looked as though they were patiently trying to grapple with undeserved calamity in the shape of a new mistress. "Mrs. Wells, this is my wife," said Gaunt, in tones that sounded as if he were trying to conceal his triumph. "I am sure I wish you joy, ma'am," replied Mrs. Wells, with an implied despair of the fulfilment of any such wish. Virginia was used to a large household. She slipped off her glove, and shook hands kindly with Mrs. Wells. "Thank you so much. I am sure I shall be happy in this beautiful place," said she cordially.