Richard felt like some offender against the law who had been foiled in an ingenious scheme by the stupidity rather than the sagacity of him he would have defrauded; or, rather, like one who has been brought to justice by misadventure—­through some blunder which Fate itself had suggested to his prosecutor.  He was filled with bitterness and mortification, and also with fear.  This miscarriage now imposed a necessity upon him, which he had contemplated, indeed, but never looked fairly in the face; he had always hoped it might be evaded.  The only alternative that presented itself was to give up his Harry; this swept across his mind for a single instant—­a black shadow that seemed to plunge his whole being in night—­then left it firmly set upon its perilous purpose.

He did not seek to see her before he left; he could not trust himself so far even as to turn his head and wave her a good-by, as he started from the inn door, although he felt that she was watching him from an upper window.  He was afraid of the anxiety that consumed him being visible to those loving eyes.  She knew upon what errand he was going, but not the dangers of it.  But he spoke cheerfully to Trevethick, who stood beneath the porch with moody brow, and testily found fault with horse and harness.

“The master’s in a queer temper to-day, Sir,” was the driver’s remark, as they slowly climbed the hill out of the village.

“So it seems,” answered Richard, absently.

The road they traveled was the same on which he had pursued Harry on that eventful night, now months ago; every object recalled her to him—­the ruined tower on the promontory, the Fairies’ Bower in the glen; but they suggested less of love than of the peril that, for love’s sake, he was about to undergo.  When they reached the point where he had met her first, on the margin of the moor, now bright with gorse and heather, and with its gray rocks sparkling in the sun, an overwhelming melancholy seized him.  Was it possible that the omen which had alarmed her simple mind was really in the course of fulfillment?  Was he, indeed, fated to be the cause of misfortune to her he loved so well?  If evil should befall him, it was only too certain that it would include her in its consequences.

“You seem a cup too low, Mr. Yorke,” said the driver, wondering at the young man’s unusual silence; for his habit was to be brisk and lively with every body.

“We’ll remedy that when we get to Turlock,” answered Richard, good-naturedly, “by taking a glass of what you will together.”

Accordingly, when they reached the little town, and while the post-horses were getting ready which were to take him on the next stage of his journey, Richard called for some liquor.

“Here’s your good health, Sir,” said the man, and added, in a roguish whisper, “and our young missus’s too, Sir.”

“By all means,” said Richard, coolly.  “But why couple hers with mine?”