Instead of solitude, therefore, Delaine was aware of a most troublesome amount of society.  Aware also, deep down, that some test he resented but could not escape had been applied to him on this journey, by fortune—­and Elizabeth!—­and that he was not standing it well.  And the worst of it was that as his discouragement in the matter of Lady Merton increased, so also did his distaste for this raw, new country, without associations, without art, without antiquities, in which he should never, never have chosen to spend one of his summers of this short life, but for the charms of Elizabeth!  And the more boredom he was conscious of, the less congenial and sympathetic, naturally, did he become as a companion for Lady Merton.  Of this he was dismally aware.  Well! he hoped, bitterly, that she knew what she was about, and could take care of herself.  This man she had made friends with was good-looking and, by his record, possessed ability.  He had fairly gentlemanly manners, also; though, in Delaine’s opinion, he was too self-confident on his own account, and too boastful on Canada’s, But he was a man of humble origin, son of a farmer who seemed, by the way, to be dead; and grandson, so Delaine had heard him say, through his mother, of one of the Selkirk settlers of 1812—­no doubt of some Scotch gillie or shepherd.  Such a person, in England, would have no claim whatever to the intimate society of Elizabeth Merton.  Yet here she was alone, really without protection—­for what use was this young, scatter-brained brother?—­herself only twenty-seven, and so charming? so much prettier than she had ever seemed to be at home.  It was a dangerous situation—­a situation to which she ought not to have been exposed.  Delaine had always believed her sensitive and fastidious; and in his belief all women should be sensitive and fastidious, especially as to who are, and who are not, their social equals.  But it was clear he had not quite understood her.  And this man whom they had picked up was undoubtedly handsome, strong and masterful, of the kind that the natural woman admires.  But then he—­Delaine—­had never thought of Elizabeth Merton as the natural woman.  There lay the disappointment.

What was his own course to be?  He believed himself defeated, but to show any angry consciousness of it would be to make life very uncomfortable in future, seeing that he and the Gaddesdens were inevitably neighbours and old friends.  After all, he had not committed himself beyond repair.  Why not resume the friendly relation which had meant so much to him before other ideas had entered in?  Ah! it was no longer easy.  The distress of which he was conscious had some deep roots.  He must marry—­the estate demanded it.  But his temperament was invincibly cautious; his mind moved slowly.  How was he to begin upon any fresh quest?  His quiet pursuit of Elizabeth had come about naturally and by degrees.  Propinquity had done it.  And now that his hopes were dashed, he could not imagine how he was to find any other chance; for, as a rule, he was timid and hesitating with women.  As he hung, in his depression, over the river, this man of forty envisaged—­suddenly and not so far away—­old age and loneliness.  A keen and peevish resentment took possession of him.