Late on that evening the squire returned to Allington, Bernard having driven over to meet him at the station.  He had telegraphed to his nephew that he would be back by a late train, and no more than this had been heard from him since he went.  On that day Bernard had seen none of the ladies at the Small House.  With Bell at the present moment it was impossible that he should be on easy terms.  He could not meet her alone without recurring to the one special subject of interest between them, and as to that he did not choose to speak without much forethought.  He had not known himself, when he had gone about his wooing so lightly, thinking it a slight thing, whether or no he might be accepted.  Now it was no longer a slight thing to him.  I do not know that it was love that made him so eager; not good, honest, downright love.  But he had set his heart upon the object, and with the wilfulness of a Dale was determined that it should be his.  He had no remotest idea of giving up his cousin, but he had at last persuaded himself that she was not to be won without some toil, and perhaps also some delay.

Nor had he been in a humour to talk either to Mrs Dale or to Lily.  He feared that Lady Julia’s news was true,—­that at any rate there might be in it something of truth; and while thus in doubt he could not go down to the Small House.  So he hung about the place by himself, with a cigar in his mouth, fearing that something evil was going to happen, and when the message came for him, almost shuddered as he seated himself in the gig.  What would it become him to do in this emergency if Crosbie had truly been guilty of the villainy with which Lady Julia had charged him?  Thirty years ago he would have called the man out, and shot at him till one of them was hit.  Nowadays it was hardly possible for a man to do that; and yet what would the world say of him if he allowed such an injury as this to pass without vengeance?

His uncle, as he came forth from the station with his travelling-bag in his hand, was stern, gloomy, and silent.  He came out and took his place in the gig almost without speaking.  There were strangers about, and therefore his nephew at first could ask no question, but as the gig turned the corner out of the station-house yard he demanded the news.

“What have you heard?” he said.

But even then the squire did not answer at once.  He shook his head, and turned away his face, as though he did not choose to be interrogated.

“Have you seen him, sir?” asked Bernard.

“No, he has not dared to see me.”

“Then it is true?”

“True?—­yes, it is all true.  Why did you bring the scoundrel here?  It has been your fault.”

“No, sir; I must contradict that.  I did not know him for a scoundrel.”

“But it was your duty to have known him before you brought him here among them.  Poor girl! how is she to be told?”

“Then she does not know it?”