Of these things, as of others, she had come to her solitude¹ to think. She looked out over the marshes² scarcely seeing the wandering or resting sheep, scarcely hearing the crying plover⁴, because so much seemed to confront her, and she must look it all well in the face. She had fulfilled the promise she had made to herself as a child. She had come in search of Rosy⁵, she had found her as simple and loving of heart as she had ever been. The most painful discoveries she had made had been concealed⁶ from her mother until their aspect was modified. Mrs. Vanderpoel need now feel no shock at the sight of the restored Rosy. Lady Anstruthers had been still young enough to respond both physically⁷ and mentally to love, companionship, agreeable luxuries, and stimulating⁸ interests. But for Nigel's antagonism⁹ there was now no reason why she should not be taken home for a visit to her family, and her long-yearned-for New York, no reason why her father and mother should not come to Stornham, and thus establish the customary social relations between their daughter's home and their own. That this seemed out of the question was owing to the fact that at the outset of his married life Sir Nigel had allowed himself to commit errors in tactics. A perverse¹⁰ egotism, not wholly normal in its rancour, had led him into deeds which he had begun to suspect of having cost him too much, even before Betty herself had pointed¹¹ out to him their unbusinesslike indiscretion. He had done things he could not undo¹³, and now, to his mind, his only resource was to treat them boldly as having been the proper results of decision founded on sound judgment¹⁴, which he had no desire to excuse. A sufficiently¹⁵ arrogant¹⁶ loftiness of bearing would, he hoped, carry him through the matter. This Betty herself had guessed, but she had not realised that this loftiness of attitude was in danger of losing some of its effectiveness through his being increasingly stung and spurred by circumstances and feelings connected with herself, which were at once exasperating¹⁸ and at times almost overpowering. When, in his mingled¹⁹ dislike and admiration²⁰, he had begun to study his sister-in-law, and the half-amused weaving of the small plots which would make things sufficiently unpleasant to be used as factors in her removal from the scene, if necessary, he had not calculated, ever so remotely, on the chance of that madness besetting²² him which usually besets²³ men only in their youth. He had imagined no other results to himself than a subtly-exciting private entertainment, such as would give spice to the dullness of virtuous²⁴ life in the country. But, despite himself and his intentions, he had found the situation alter. His first uncertainty²⁵ of himself had arisen at the Dunholm ball, when he had suddenly realised that he was detesting²⁶ men who, being young and free, were at liberty to pay gallant²⁷ court to the new beauty.  
Perhaps the most disturbing thing to him had been his consciousness of his sudden leap of antagonism towards Mount Dunstan, who, despite his obvious lack of chance, somehow especially roused in him the rage of warring male instinct. There had been admissions he had been forced, at length, to make to himself. You could not, it appeared, live in the house with a splendid creature like this one—with her brilliant eyes, her beauty of line and movement before you every hour, her bloom, her proud fineness holding themselves wholly in their own keeping—without there being the devil to pay. Lately he had sometimes gone hot and cold in realising that, having once told himself that he might choose to decide to get rid of her, he now knew that the mere²⁸ thought of her sailing away of her own choice was maddening to him. There WAS the devil to pay! It sometimes brought back to him that hideous²⁹ shakiness of nerve which had been a feature of his illness when he had been on the Riviera with Teresita.
 
Of all this Betty only knew the outward signs which, taken at their exterior³⁰ significance, were detestable enough, and drove her hard as she mentally dwelt on them in connection with other things. How easy, if she stood alone, to defy his evil insolence³¹ to do its worst, and leaving the place at an hour's notice, to sail away to protection, or, if she chose to remain in England, to surround herself with a bodyguard³² of the people in whose eyes his disrepute relegated³³ a man such as Nigel Anstruthers to powerless nonentity³⁴. Alone, she could have smiled and turned her back upon him. But she was here to take care of Rosy. She occupied a position something like that of a woman who remains³⁵ with a man and endures outrage³⁶ because she cannot leave her child. That thought, in itself, brought Ughtred to her mind. There was Ughtred to be considered as well as his mother. Ughtred's love for and faith in her were deep and passionate³⁷ things. He fed on her tenderness for him, and had grown stronger because he spent hours of each day talking, reading, and driving with her. The simple truth was that neither she nor Rosalie could desert Ughtred, and so long as Nigel managed cleverly enough, the law would give the boy to his father.
 
“You are obliged to prove things, you know, in a court of law,” he had said, as if with casual amiability³⁸, on a certain occasion. “Proving things is the devil. People lose their tempers and rush into rows which end in lawsuits³⁹, and then find they can prove nothing. If I were a villain⁴⁰,” slightly showing his teeth in an agreeable smile—“instead of a man of blameless life, I should go in only for that branch of my profession which could be exercised without leaving stupid evidence behind.”
 
Since his return to Stornham the outward decorum of his own conduct had entertained him and he had kept it up with an increasing appreciation⁴¹ of its usefulness in the present situation. Whatsoever⁴² happened in the end, it was the part of discretion¹² to present to the rural world about him an appearance of upright behaviour. He had even found it amusing to go to church and also to occasionally make amiable⁴³ calls at the vicarage. It was not difficult, at such times, to refer delicately to his regret that domestic discomfort⁴⁴ had led him into the error of remaining much away from Stornham. He knew that he had been even rather touching⁴⁵ in his expression of interest in the future of his son, and the necessity of the boy's being protected from uncontrolled hysteric influences. And, in the years of Rosalie's unprotected wretchedness, he had taken excellent care that no “stupid evidence” should be exposed to view.
 
Of all this Betty was thinking and summing up definitely, point after point. Where was the wise and practical course of defence? The most unthinkable thing was that one could find one's self in a position in which action seemed inhibited⁴⁶. What could one do? To send for her father would surely end the matter—but at what cost to Rosy, to Ughtred, to Ffolliott, before whom the fair path to dignified⁴⁷ security had so newly opened itself? What would be the effect of sudden confusion, anguish⁴⁸, and public humiliation⁴⁹ upon Rosalie's carefully rebuilt health and strength—upon her mother's new hope and happiness? At moments it seemed as if almost all that had been done might be undone⁵⁰. She was beset²¹ by such a moment now, and felt for the time, at least, like a creature tied hand and foot while in full strength.
 
Certainly she was not prepared for the event which happened. Roland stiffened⁵¹ his ears, and, beginning a rumbling⁵² growl⁵³, ended it suddenly, realising it an unnecessary precaution.
 
He knew the man walking up the incline of the mound⁵⁴ from the side behind them. So did Betty know him. It was Sir Nigel looking rather glowering⁵⁵ and pale and walking slowly. He had discovered where she had meant to take refuge, and had probably ridden to some point where he could leave his horse and follow her at the expense of taking a short cut which saved walking.
 
As he climbed the mound to join her, Betty rose to her feet.
 
“My dear girl,” he said, “don't get up as if you meant to go away. It has cost me some exertion⁵⁶ to find you.”
 
“It will not cost you any exertion to lose me,” was her light answer. “I AM going away.”
 
He had reached her, and stood still before her with scarcely a yard's distance between them. He was slightly out of breath and even a trifle livid. He leaned on his stick and his look at her combined leaping bad temper with something deeper.
 
“Look here!” he broke out, “why do you make such a point of treating me like the devil?”
 
Betty felt her heart give a hastened beat, not of fear, but of repulsion. This was the mood and manner which subjugated⁵⁷ Rosalie. He had so raised his voice that two men in the distance, who might be either labourers or sportsmen, hearing its high tone, glanced curiously⁵⁸ towards them.
 
“Why do you ask me a question which is totally absurd?” she said.
 
“It is not absurd,” he answered. “I am speaking of facts, and I intend to come to some understanding about them.”
 
For reply, after meeting his look a few seconds, she simply turned her back and began to walk away. He followed and overtook her.
 
“I shall go with you, and I shall say what I want to say,” he persisted. “If you hasten your pace I shall hasten mine. I cannot exactly see you running away from me across the marsh³, screaming. You wouldn't care to be rescued by those men ove............