white rage of the surf, and the multitudinous
glory of the leaping waves—but where was the
place on which she had once drawn idle figures
with her parasol in the sand; the place where
we had sat together, while she talked to me
about myself and my home, while she asked me
a woman's minutely observant questions about
my mother and my sister, and innocently
wondered whether I should ever leave my lonely
chambers and have a wife and a house of my
own ? Wind and wave had long since smoothed
out the trace of her which she had left in those
marks on the sand. I looked over the wide
monotony of the sea-side prospect, and the
place in which we two had idled away the
sunny hours, was as lost to me as if I had never
known it, as strange to me as if I stood already
on a foreign shore.

The empty silence of the beach struck cold to
my heart. I returned to the house and the
garden, where traces were left to speak of her
at every turn.

On the west terrace walk, I met Mr. Gilmore.
He was evidently in search of me, for he
quickened his pace when we caught sight of each
other. The state of my spirits little fitted me
for the society of a stranger. But the meeting
was inevitable; and I resigned myself to make
the best of it.

"You are the very person I wanted to see,"
said the old gentleman. "I had two words to
say to you, my dear sir; and, if you have no
objection, I will avail myself of the present
opportunity. To put it plainly, Miss Halcombe
and I have been talking over family affairs—
affairs which are the cause of my being here—
and, in the course of our conversation, she was
naturally led to tell me of this unpleasant matter
connected with the anonymous letter, and of the
share which you have most creditably and
properly taken in the proceedings so far. That
share, I quite understand, gives you an interest
which you might not otherwise have felt, in
knowing that the future management of the
investigation, which you have begun, will be placed
in safe hands. My dear sir, make yourself quite
easy on that point—it will be placed in my
hands."

"You are, in every way, Mr. Gilmore, much
fitter to advise and to act in the matter than I
am. Is it an indiscretion, on my part, to ask if
you have decided yet on a course of proceeding?"

"So far as it is possible to decide, Mr.
Hartright, I have decided. I mean to send
a copy of the letter, accompanied by a statement
of the circumstances, to Sir Percival
Glyde's solicitor in London, with whom I have
some acquaintance. The letter itself, I shall
keep here, to show to Sir Percival as soon as he
arrives. The tracing of the two women, I have
already provided for, by sending one of Mr.
Fairlie's servants—a confidential person—to the
station to make inquiries: the man has his
money and his directions, and he will follow the
women in the event of his finding any clue.
This is all that can be done until Sir Percival
comes on Monday. I have no doubt myself
that every explanation which can be expected
from a gentleman and a man of honour, he will
readily give. Sir Percival stands very high,
sir—an eminent position, a reputation above
suspicion—I feel quite easy about results; quite
easy, I am rejoiced to assure you. Things of
this sort happen constantly in my experience.
Anonymous letters—unfortunate woman—sad
state of society. I don't deny that there are
peculiar complications in this case; but the case
itself is, most unhappily, common—common."

"I am afraid, Mr. Gilmore, I have the misfortune
to differ from you in the view I take of the
case."

"Just so, my dear sir—just so. I am an old
man; and I take the practical view. You are a
young man; and you take the romantic view.
Let us not dispute about our views. I live,
professionally, in an atmosphere of disputation, Mr.
Hartright; and I am only too glad to escape
from it, as I am escaping here. We will wait
for events—yes, yes, yes; we will wait for events.
Charming place, this. Good shooting? Probably
not—none of Mr. Fairlie's land is preserved, I
think. Charming place, though; and delightful
people. You draw and paint, I hear, Mr.
Hartright? Enviable accomplishment. What style?"

We dropped into general conversation or,
rather, Mr. Gilmore talked, and I listened. My
attention was far from him, and from the topics
on which he discoursed so fluently. The solitary
walk of the last two hours had wrought its effect
on me—it had set the idea in my mind of hastening
my departure from Limmeridge House. Why
should I prolong the hard trial of saying farewell
by one unneccessary minute? What further
service was required of me by any one? There
was no useful purpose to be served by my
stay in Cumberland; there was no restriction of
time in the permission to leave which my
employer had granted to me. Why not end it, there
and then?

I determined to end it. There were some hours
of daylight still left—there was no reason why
my journey back to London should not begin on
that afternoon. I made the first civil excuse
that occurred to me for leaving Mr. Gilmore;
and returned at once to the house.

On my way up to my own room, I met Miss
Halcombe on the stairs. She saw, by the hurry
of my movements and the change in my manner,
that I had some new purpose in view; and asked
what had happened.

I told her the reasons which induced me to
think of hastening my departure, exactly as I
have told them here.

"No, no," she said, earnestly and kindly,
"leave us like a friend; break bread with us
once more. Stay here and dine; stay here and
help us to spend our last evening with you as
happily, as like our first evenings, as we can. It
is my invitation; Mrs. Vesey's invitation——"
she hesitated a little, and then added, "Laura's
invitation as well."

I promised to remain. God knows I had no
wish to leave even the shadow of a sorrowful
impression with any one of them.