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The Rexton gossip soon ceased with the cessation of the young minister’s visits to Four Winds. A month later it suffered a brief revival when a tall grim-faced old woman, whom a few recognized as Captain Anthony’s housekeeper, was seen to walk down the Rexton road and enter the manse. She did not stay there long–watchers from a dozen different windows were agreed upon that–and nobody, not even Mrs. Danby, who did her best to find out, ever knew why she had called.

Emily looked at Alan with grim reproach when she was shown into his study, and as soon as they were alone she began with her usual abruptness, “Mr. Douglas, why have you given up coming to Four Winds?”

Alan flinched.

“You must ask Lynde that, Miss Oliver,” he said quietly.

“I have asked her–and she says nothing.”

“Then I cannot tell you.”

Anger glowed in Emily’s eyes.

“I thought you were a gentleman,” she said bitterly. “You are not. You are breaking Lynde’s heart. She’s gone to a shadow of herself and she’s fretting night and day. You went there and made her like you–oh, I’ve eyes–and then you left her.”

Alan bent over his desk and looked the old woman in the face unflinchingly.

“You are mistaken, Miss Oliver,” he said earnestly. “I love Lynde and would be only too happy if it were possible that I could marry her. I am not to blame for what has come about–she will tell you that herself if you ask her.”

His look and tone convinced Emily.

“Who is to blame then? Lynde herself?”

“No, no.”

“The Captain then?”

“Not in the sense you mean. I can tell you nothing more.”

A baffled expression crossed the old woman’s face. “There’s a mystery here–there always has been–and I’m shut out of it. Lynde won’t confide in me–in me who’d give my life’s blood to help her. Perhaps I can help her–I could tell you something. Have you stopped coming to Four Winds–has she made you stop coming–because she’s got such a wicked old scamp for a father? Is that the reason?”

Alan shook his head.

“No, that has nothing to do with it.”

“And you won’t come back?”

“It is not a question of will. I cannot–must not go.”

“Lynde will break her heart then,” said Emily in a tone of despair.

“I think not. She is too strong and fine for that. Help her all you can with sympathy but don’t torment her with any questions. You may tell her if you like that I advise her to confide the whole story to you, but if she cannot don’t tease her to. Be very gentle with her.”

“You don’t need to tell me that. I’d rather die than hurt her. I came here full of anger against you–but I see now you are not to blame. You are suffering too–your face tells that. All the same, I wish you’d never set foot in Four Winds. She wasn’t happy before but she wasn’t so miserable as she is now. Oh, I know Anthony is at the bottom of it all in some way but I won’t ask you any more questions since you don’t feel free to answer them. But are you sure that nothing can be done to clear up the trouble?”

“Too sure,” said Alan’s white lips.

* * * * *

The autumn dragged away. Alan found out how much a man may suffer and yet go on living and working. As for that, his work was all that made life possible for him now and he flung himself into it with feverish energy, growing so thin and hollow-eyed over it that even Elder Trewin remonstrated and suggested a vacation–a suggestion at which Alan merely smiled. A vacation which would take him away from Lynde’s neighbourhood–the thought was not to be entertained.

He never saw Lynde, for he never went to any part of the shore now; yet he hungered constantly for the sight of her, the sound of her voice, the glance of her luminous eyes. When he pictured her eating her heart out in the solitude of Four Winds, he clenched his hands in despair. As for the possibility of Harmon’s return, Alan could never face it for a moment. When it thrust its ugly presence into his thoughts, he put it away desperately. The man was dead–or his fickle fancy had veered elsewhere. Nothing else could explain his absence. But they could never know, and the uncertainty would forever stand between him and Lynde like a spectre. But he thought more of Lynde’s pain than his own. He would have elected to bear any suffering if by so doing he could have freed her from the nightmare dread of Harmon’s returning to claim her. That dread had always hung over her and now it must be intensified to agony by her love for another man. And he could do nothing–nothing. He groaned aloud in his helplessness.