“I have seen it all along.  At first—­I don’t mind confessing it—­I took it for granted that you were on bad terms with yourself on account of the past.  I feared there was something wrong between you and your wife, and that you were regretting Anne.  But I soon put that idea from me, to replace it with a graver one.”

“What graver one?” he asked.

“Nay, I know not.  I want you to tell me.  Will you do so?”

He shook his head with an unmistakable gesture, unconsciously pressing her hands to pain.

“Why not?”

“You have just said I am dear to you,” he whispered; “I believe I am so.”

“As dear, almost, as my own children.”

“Then do not even wish to know it.  It is an awful secret; and I must bear it without sympathy of any sort, alone and in silence.  It has been upon me for some years now, taking the sweetness out of my daily bread; and it will, I suppose, go with me to my grave.  Not scarcely to lift it off my shoulders, would I impart it to you.”

She sighed deeply; and thought it must be connected with some of his youthful follies.  But she loved him still; she had faith in him; she believed that he went wrong from misfortune more than from fault.

“Courage, Val,” she whispered.  “There is a better world than this, where sorrow and sighing cannot enter.  Patience—­and hope—­and trust in God!—­always bearing onwards.  In time we shall attain to it.”

Lord Hartledon gently drew his hands away, and turned to the window for a moment’s respite.  His eyes were greeted with the sight of one of his own servants, approaching the Rectory at full speed, some half-dozen idlers behind him.

With a prevision that something was wrong, he said a word of adieu to Mrs. Ashton, went down, and met the man outside.  Dr. Ashton, who had seen the approach, also hurried out.

There had been some accident in the Park, the man said.  The pony had swerved and thrown little Lord Elster:  thrown him right under the other pony’s feet, as it seemed.  The servant made rather a bungle over his news, but this was its substance.

“And the result?  Is he much hurt?” asked Lord Hartledon, constraining his voice to calmness.

“Well, no; not hurt at all, my lord.  He was up again soon, saying he’d lash the pony for throwing him.  He don’t seem hurt a bit.”

“Then why need you have alarmed us so?” interrupted Dr. Ashton, reprovingly.

“Well, sir, it’s her ladyship seems hurt—­or something,” cried the man.

Lord Hartledon looked at him.

“What have you come to tell, Richard?  Speak out.”

Apparently Richard could not speak out.  His lady had been frightened and fainted, and did not come to again.  And Lord Hartledon waited to hear no more.

The people, standing about in the park here and there—­for even this slight accident had gathered its idlers together—­seemed to look at Lord Hartledon curiously as he passed them.  Close to the house he met Ralph the groom.  The boy was crying.