Linley’s conduct was perfectly incomprehensible.  He had always borne the highest character—­a good landlord, a kind father, a devoted husband.  And yet, after more than eight years of exemplary married life, he had disgraced himself.  The minister of the parish, preaching on the subject, had attributed this extraordinary outbreak of vice on the part of an otherwise virtuous man, to a possession of the devil.  Assuming “the devil,” in this case, to be only a discreet and clerical way of alluding from the pulpit to a woman, the landlord was inclined to agree with the minister.  After what had happened, it was, of course, impossible that Mrs. Linley could remain in her husband’s house.  She and her little girl, and her mother, were supposed to be living in retirement.  They kept the place of their retreat a secret from everybody but Mrs. Linley’s legal adviser, who was instructed to forward letters.  But one other member of the family remained to be accounted for.  This was Mr. Linley’s younger brother, known at present to be traveling on the Continent.  Two trustworthy old servants had been left in charge at Mount Morven—­and there was the whole story; and that was why the house was shut up.

Chapter XXIII.

Separation.

In a cottage on the banks of one of the Cumberland Lakes, two ladies were seated at the breakfast-table.  The windows of the room opened on a garden which extended to the water’s edge, and on a boat-house and wooden pier beyond.  On the pier a little girl was fishing, under the care of her maid.  After a prevalence of rainy weather, the sun was warm this morning for the time of year; and the broad sheet of water alternately darkened and brightened as the moving masses of cloud now gathered and now parted over the blue beauty of the sky.

The ladies had finished their breakfast; the elder of the two—­that is to say, Mrs. Presty—­took up her knitting and eyed her silent daughter with an expression of impatient surprise.

“Another bad night, Catherine?”

The personal attractions that distinguished Mrs. Linley were not derived from the short-lived beauty which depends on youth and health.  Pale as she was, her face preserved its fine outline; her features had not lost their grace and symmetry of form.  Presenting the appearance of a woman who had suffered acutely, she would have been more than ever (in the eyes of some men) a woman to be admired and loved.

“I seldom sleep well now,” she answered, patiently.

“You don’t give yourself a chance,” Mrs. Presty remonstrated.  “Here’s a fine morning—­come out for a sail on the lake.  To-morrow there’s a concert in the town—­let’s take tickets.  There’s a want of what I call elastic power in your mind, Catherine—­the very quality for which your father was so remarkable; the very quality which Mr. Presty used to say made him envy Mr. Norman.  Look at your dress!  Where’s the common-sense, at your age, of wearing nothing but black?  Nobody’s dead who belongs to us, and yet you do your best to look as if you were in mourning.”