Surely the man for whom she
was breaking her heart could not be wholly evil, nor yet wholly callous!
Somewhere behind those steely blue eyes, there must dwell some answer to
the riddle. It might be that Cynthia would find it, though he failed.
But he shrank, with an aversion inexpressible, from letting her try, so
deeply rooted had his conviction become that her cherished girlish fancy
was no more than the misty gold of dreams.
Yet for her sake he persevered--for the sake of those precious tears
that had so wrung his heart he would do that which he had set out to do,
notwithstanding the utmost discouragement. An insoluble enigma the man
might be to him, but he would not for that turn back from the task that
he had undertaken. West should have his chance in spite of it.
They were riding together over the crisp turf of the park one frosty
morning in November, when Babbacombe turned quietly to his companion,
pointing to the chimneys of a house half-hidden by trees, ahead of them.
"I want to go over that place," he said. "It is standing empty, and
probably needs repairs."
West received the announcement with a brief nod. He never betrayed
interest in anything.
"Shall I hold your animal?" he suggested, as they reached the gate that
led into the little garden.
"No. Come in with me, won't you? We can hitch the bridles to the post."
They went in together through a rustling litter of dead leaves.
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