The knowledge that Lady Heyburn and Flockart would exult over her downfall and exile to that tiny house in a sleepy little Northamptonshire village did not trouble her.  Her enemies had triumphed.  She had played the game and lost, just as she might have lost at billiards or at bridge, for she was a thorough sportswoman.  She only grieved because she saw the grave peril of her dear father, and because she now foresaw the utter hopelessness of her own happiness.

It was better, she reflected, far better, that she should go into the dull and dreary exile of an English village, with the unexciting companionship of Aunt Emily, an ascetic spinster of the mid-Victorian era, and make pretence of pique with Walter, than to reveal to him the shameful truth.  He would at least in those circumstances retain of her a recollection fond and tender.  He would not despise nor hate her, as he most certainly would do if he knew the real astounding facts.

How long she remained there, high up, with the chill winds of autumn tossing her silky, light-brown hair, she knew not.  Rainclouds were gathering, and the rugged hill before her was now hidden behind a bank of mist.  Time had crept on without her heeding it, for what did time now matter to her?  What, indeed, did anything matter?  Her young life, though she was still in her teens, had ended; or, at least, as far as she was concerned it had.  Was she not calmly and coolly contemplating telling the truth and putting an end to her existence after saving her father’s honour?

Her sad, tearful eyes gazed slowly about her as she suddenly awakened to the fact that she was far—­very far—­from home.  She had been dazed, unconscious of everything, because of the heavy burden of grief within her heart.  But now she looked forth upon the small, grey loch, with its dark fringe of trees, the grey and purple hills beyond, the grey sky, and the grey, filmy mists that hung everywhere.  The world was, indeed, sad and gloomy, and even Jock sat looking up at his young mistress as though regarding her grief in wonder.

Now and then distant shots came from across the hills.  They were shooting over the Drummond estate, she knew, for she had had an invitation to join their luncheon-party that day.  Lady Heyburn and Flockart had no doubt gone.

That, she told herself, was her last day in the Highlands, that picturesque, breezy country she loved so well.  It was her last day amid those familiar places where she and Walter had so often wandered together, and where he had told her of his passionate devotion.  Well, perhaps it was best, after all.  Down south she would not be reminded of him every moment and at every turn.  No, she sighed within herself as she rose to descend the hill, she must steel herself against her own sad reflections.  She must learn how to forget.