'"
It was one of the strangest, dullest, saddest lives that human being
ever led. That she wearied of it was no wonder. She was tired of the
sorrow, the suffering, the despair--so tired that after a time she fell
ill; and then she lay longing for death.
Chapter XXXII.
It was a glorious September, and the Scottish moors looked as they had
not looked for years; the heather grew in rich profusion, the grouse
were plentiful. The prospects for sportsmen were excellent.
Not knowing what else to do, Lord Arleigh resolved to go to Scotland for
the shooting; there was a sort of savage satisfaction in the idea of
living so many weeks alone, without on-lookers, where he could be dull
if he liked without comment--where he could lie for hours together on
the heather looking up at the blue skies, and puzzling over the problem
of his life--where, when the fit of despair seized him, he could indulge
in it, and no one wonder at him. He hired a shooting-lodge called
Glaburn. In his present state of mind it seemed to him to be a relief to
live where he could not even see a woman's face. Glaburn was kept in
order by two men, who mismanaged it after the fashion of men, but Lord
Arleigh was happier there than he had been since his fatal marriage-day,
simply because he was quite alone.
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