Of course, Miss Graham told Sir Oswald that she had witnessed this
strange scene in the most accidental manner. She had happened to be in
a walk that commanded a view of the fir-grove.
"And you saw my wife agitated, clinging to that man?"
"Lady Eversleigh was terribly agitated."
"And then you saw her take her place in the gig, of her own free will?"
"I did, Sir Oswald."
"Oh, what infamy!" murmured the baronet; "what hideous infamy!"
It was to himself that he spoke rather than to Miss Graham. His eyes
were fixed on vacancy, and it seemed as if he were scarcely aware of
the young lady's presence.
Lydia was almost terrified by that blank, awful look. She waited for a
few moments, and then, finding that Sir Oswald questioned her no
further, she crept quietly from the room, glad to escape from the
sorrow-stricken husband. Malicious though she was, she believed that
this time she had spoken the truth.
"He has reason to repent his romantic choice," she thought as she left
the library. "Perhaps now he will think that he might have done better
by choosing a wife from his own set."
The day wore on; Sir Oswald remained alone in the library, seated
before a table, with his arms folded, his gaze fixed on empty space--a
picture of despair.
The clock had struck many times; the hot afternoon sun blazed full upon
the broad Tudor windows, when the door was opened gently, and some one
came into the room.
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