Alas, no,--there was none. It was a frank, handsome face--a face that
was no polished mask beneath which the real man concealed himself. It
was a true and noble countenance, easy to read as an open book. Honoria
looked at it with despair in her heart, for she perceived but too
plainly that this man also despised her. She understood at once that he
had been told the story of his uncle's death, and regarded her as the
indirect cause of that fatal event.
And she was right. He had arrived at the chief inn in Raynham two hours
before, and there he had heard the story of Lady Eversleigh's flight
and Sir Oswald's sudden death, with some details of the inquest. Slow
to believe evil, he had questioned Gilbert Ashburne, before accepting
the terrible story as he had heard it from the landlord of the inn. Mr.
Ashburne only confirmed that story, and admitted that, in his opinion,
the flight and disgrace of the wife had been the sole cause of the
death of the husband.
Once having heard this, and from the lips of a man whom he knew to be
the soul of truth and honour, Lionel Dale had but one feeling for his
uncle's widow, and that feeling was abhorrence.
He saw her in her beauty and her desolation; but he had no pity for her
miserable position, and her beauty inspired him only with loathing; for
had not that beauty been the first cause of Sir Oswald Eversleigh's
melancholy fate?
"I wished to see you, madam," said Lionel Dale, after that silence
which seemed so long, "in order to apologize for a visit which might
appear an intrusion.
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