old man kept his bed for a week, and the cause of death was called bronchitis; but there are people I know who have their own idea about the General's death, and a very ugly idea it is."
"Your friends have a penchant for ugly ideas, Falconer," answered Bothwell coolly.
He did not believe a word of the subaltern's story, and yet the thought of it troubled him as he sat alone in his corner of the smoking-carriage, trying to solace himself with a pipe, trying to think only of the girl he loved, and of his brightening prospects.
That mention of a lover! How much or how little did it mean? Could it be true that General Harborough had knocked a man down in his own house? Such an act on the part of the most chivalrous of men must have been the result of extraordinary provocation. Only a deliberate insult to a woman could excuse such an outrage against the laws of hospitality. He remembered that Lady Valeria had talked of borrowing money from Sir George Varney; and what could she expect but insult if she placed herself under obligation to a notorious roue? He had warned her of the folly of such a course. He had urged her to confide in her husband. And now that good and loyal friend and protector was gone; and this last act of his wife's had left her to face the world with a damaged reputation.
He told himself that there must be some grain of truth in the subaltern's story, some fire behind this smoke. The scandal too nearly touched actual facts to be altogether false.
"God help her if her good name is at the mercy of such a scoundrel as Varney!" thought Bothwell.
He left Penmorval in a dog-cart next morning, carrying his portmanteau and a box of books at the back. He was to have the use of the dog-cart and Glencoe while he stayed at Trevena, so that he should not feel himself altogether banished. He could ride over to Penmorval occasionally.
"You must not come too often, mind," said Dora, when she was bidding him good-bye. "Indeed, on reflection, I think you had better only come when you are invited. You may have no discretion otherwise. It will not do for you to be really living here, and only pretending to live at Trevena."
"It is unkind of you to suggest that a man must be an utter imbecile because he is in love, Dora," remonstrated Bothwell. "Of course I understand that I am sent away as a sacrifice to the proprieties. I am banished in order that Mrs. Grundy may be satisfied—that same Mrs. Grundy who was willing to suspect me of murder on the very smallest provocation. No, my dear Dora, I am not going to be troublesome. I will only come when I have your permission. I suppose I may come next Sunday?"
"O Bothwell, this is Wednesday; Sunday is very near."
