“And when are you coming back?” said the widow to him one evening when they were all talking of his leaving England.

“That I don’t know,” he said.

“Of course,” she said, “you don’t mean to remain in the West Indies.  I suppose lots of people have to go there for some object or other, but they always come back when it is attained.”

“They come back to attain some other object here,” said Mr. Roscorla.

“Then we’ll soon find you that,” the general burst in.  “No man lives out of England who can help it.  Don’t you find in this country enough to satisfy you?”

“Indeed I do,” Mr. Roscorla said, “especially within the last few days.  I have enjoyed myself enormously.  I shall always have a friendly recollection of Brighton.”

“Are you going down to Cornwall before you leave?” Sir Percy asked.

“No,” said he slowly.

“That isn’t quite so cheerful as Brighton, eh?”

“Not quite.”

He kept his word.  He did not go back to Cornwall before leaving England, nor did he send a single line or message to any one there.  It was with something of a proud indifference that he set sail, and also with some notion that he was being amply revenged.  For the rest, he hated “scenes,” and he had encountered quite enough of these during his brief visit to Eglosilyan.

CHAPTER XL.

AN OLD LADY’S APOLOGY.

When Wenna heard that Mr. Roscorla had left England without even bidding her good-bye by letter, she accepted the rebuke with submission, and kept her own counsel.  She went about her daily duties with an unceasing industry:  Mrs. Trelyon was astonished to see how she seemed to find time for everything.  The winter was coming on, and the sewing club was in full activity, but even apart from the affairs of that enterprise, Wenna Rosewarne seemed to be everywhere throughout the village, to know everything, to be doing everything that prudent help and friendly counsel could do.  Mrs. Trelyon grew to love the girl in her vague, wondering, simple fashion.

So the days and the weeks and the months went by, and the course of life ran smoothly and quietly in the remote Cornish village.  Apparently there was nothing to indicate the presence of bitter regrets, of crushed hopes, of patient despair; only Mabyn used to watch her sister at times, and she fancied that Wenna’s face was growing thinner.

The Christmas festivities came on, and Mrs. Trelyon was pleased to lend her protegee a helping hand in decorating the church.  One evening she said, “My dear Miss Wenna, I am going to ask you an impertinent question.  Could your family spare you on Christmas evening?  Harry is coming down from London:  I am sure he would be so pleased to see you.”

“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Trelyon,” Wenna said, with just a little nervousness.  “You are very kind, but indeed I must be at home on Christmas evening.”