On the other hand, in spite of arguments that seemed irresistible, she could not dismiss the question:  Does Thyrza know anything of Egremont’s by-gone passion?  That she could know anything of the compact which had run its two years, was of course impossible; but Walter’s persistence in urging that, if once she had learnt his love for her, that, together with the circumstances of her life, would make sufficient ground for hope—­this persistence had impressed Mrs. Ormonde.  In a second long conversation the subject had been gone over, point by point, for a second time.  ‘If harm come,’ Mrs. Ormonde said to herself, ’I am indeed to blame, for, though his wishes oppose it, I had but to show doubt and he would have taken the manly part and have gone to Thyrza.’  She did not seek to defend herself by saying—­as she might well have done—­that throughout he encouraged her in her resistance.  He was of firmer substance than two years ago, yet had not become, nor ever would, a vigorously independent man.  In her hands the decision had lain—­and the affair was decided.

On Tuesday, the day after Egremont’s departure for the North of England, she was still thinking these thoughts.  At four o’clock in the afternoon, having seen her children come in from the garden and gather for tea, she went with a book to spend an hour in the arbour where she had had that fateful conversation with Walter on the summer night.  As she drew near to the covered spot, it seemed to her that there was a footfall behind on the grass.  She turned her head, and with surprise saw Thyrza.

With something more than surprise.  As she looked in Thyrza’s face, that slight uneasiness in her mind changed to a dark misgiving, and from that to the certainty of fear.  Thyrza had never regarded her thus; and she herself had never seen features so passionately woe-stricken.  The book fell from her hand; she could not utter a greeting.

‘I want to speak to you, Mrs. Ormonde.’

‘Come in here, Thyrza.  Why have you come?  What has happened?’

She drew back under the shelter of leaf-twined trellis, and Thyrza followed.  Mrs. Ormonde met the searching eyes, and compassion helped her to self-command.  She could not doubt what the first words spoken would be, yet the mystery of the scene was inscrutable to her.

‘I want to ask you about Mr. Egremont,’ Thyrza said, resting her trembling hand on the little rustic table.  ’I want to know where he is.’

Prepared as she had been, the words, really spoken, struck Mrs. Ormonde with new consternation.  The voice was not Thyrza’s; it had no sweetness, but was like the voice of one who had suffered long exhaustion, who speaks with difficulty.

‘Yes, I will tell you where he is, Thyrza,’ the other replied, her own accents shaken with sympathy.  ’Why do you wish to hear of Mr. Egremont?’

‘I think you needn’t ask me that, Mrs. Ormonde.’

’Yes, I must ask.  I can’t understand why you should come like this, Thyrza.  I can’t understand what has happened to make this change in you since I saw you last.’