It was considerably past one o’clock, and the children’s dinner was upon the table in the dining parlour before anyone in the vicarage had seen Mary Lowther since the departure of the Squire. When she left Mr. Gilmore, she had gone to her own room, and no one had disturbed her. As the children were being seated, Fenwick returned, and his wife put into his hand the note which Gilmore had left for her.

“What passed between them?” he asked in a whisper.

His wife shook her head. “I have not seen her,” she said, “but he talks of speaking plainly, and I suppose it was bitter enough.”

“He can be very bitter if he’s driven hard,” said the Vicar; “and he has been driven very hard,” he added, after a while.

As soon as the children had eaten their dinner, Mrs. Fenwick went up to Mary’s room with the Squire’s note in her hand. She knocked, and was at once admitted, and she found Mary sitting at her writing-desk.

“Will you not come to lunch, Mary?”

“Yes,—if I ought. I suppose I might not have a cup of tea brought up here?”

“You shall have whatever you like,—here or anywhere else, as far as the vicarage goes. What did he say to you this morning?”

“It is of no use that I should tell you, Janet.”

“You did not yield to him, then?”

“Certainly, I did not. Certainly I never shall yield to him. Dear Janet, pray take that as a certainty. Let me make you sure at any rate of that. He must be sure of it himself.”

“Here is his note to me, written, I suppose, after you left him.” Mary took the scrap of paper from her hand and read it. “He is not sure, you see,” continued Mrs. Fenwick. “He has written to me, and I suppose that I must answer him.”

“He shall certainly never have to blush for me as his wife,” said Mary. But she would not tell her friend of the hard words that had been said to her. She understood well the allusion in Mr. Gilmore’s note, but she would not explain it. She had determined, as she thought about it in her solitude, that it would be better that she should never repeat to anyone the cruel words which her lover had spoken to her. Doubtless he had received provocation. All his anger, as well as all his suffering, had come from a constancy in his love for her, which was unsurpassed, if not unequalled, in all that she had read of among men. He had been willing to accept her on conditions most humiliating to himself; and had then been told, that, even with those conditions, he was not to have her. She was bound to forgive him almost any offence that he could bestow upon her. He had spoken to her in his wrath words which she thought to be not only cruel but unmanly. She had told him that she would never speak willingly to him again; and she would keep her word. But she would forgive him. She was bound to forgive him any injury, let it be what it might. She would forgive him;—and as a sign to herself of her pardon she would say no word of his offence to her friends, the Fenwicks. “He shall certainly never have to blush for me as his wife,” she said, as she returned the note to Mrs. Fenwick.

“You mean, that you never will be his wife?”

“Certainly I mean that.”

“Have you quarrelled with him, Mary?”

“Quarrelled? How am I to answer that? It will be better that we should not meet again. Of course, our interview could not be pleasant for either of us. I do not wish him to think that there has been a quarrel.”

“No man ever did a woman more honour than he has done to you.”

“Dearest Janet, let it be dropped;—pray let it be dropped. I am sure you believe me now when I say that it can do no good. I am writing to my aunt this moment to tell her that I will return. What day shall I name?”

“Have you written to your cousin?”

“No I have not written to my cousin. I have not been able to get through it all, Janet, quite so easily as that.”

“I suppose you had better go now.”

“Yes;—I must go now. I should be a thorn in his side if I were to remain here.”

“He will not remain, Mary.”

“He shall have the choice as far as I am concerned. You must let him know at once that I am going. I think I will say Saturday,—the day after to-morrow. I could hardly get away to-morrow.”

“Certainly not. Why should you?”

“Yet I am bound to hurry myself,—to release him. And, Janet, will you give him these? They are all here,—the rubies and all. Ah, me! he touched me that day.”

“How like a gentleman he has behaved always.”

“It was not that I cared for the stupid stones. You know that I care nothing for anything of the kind. But there was a sort of trust in it,—a desire to show me that everything should be mine,—which would have made me love him,—if it had been possible.”

“I would give one hand that you had never seen your cousin.”

“And I will give one hand because I have,” said Mary, stretching out her right arm. “Nay, I will give both; I will give all, because, having seen him, he is what he is to me. But, Janet, when you return to him these things say a gentle word from me. I have cost him money, I fear.”

“He will think but little of that. He would have given you willingly the last acre of his land, had you wanted it.”

“But I did not want it. That was the thing. And all these have been altered, as they would not have been altered, but for me. I do repent that I have brought all this trouble upon him. I cannot do more now than ask you to say so when you restore to him his property.”

“He will probably pitch them into the cart-ruts. Indeed, I will not give them to him. I will simply tell him that they are in my hands, and Frank shall have them locked up at the banker’s. Well;—I suppose I had better go down and write him a line.”

“And I will name Saturday to my aunt,” said Mary.

Mrs. Fenwick immediately went to her desk, and wrote to her friend.

Dear Harry,

I am sure it is of no use. Knowing how persistent is your constancy, I would not say so were I not quite, quite certain. She goes to Loring on Saturday. Will it not be better that you should come to us for awhile after she has left us. You will be less desolate with Frank than you would be alone.

Ever yours,

Janet Fenwick.

She has left your jewels with me. I merely tell you this for your information;—not to trouble you with the things now.

And then she added a second postscript.

She regrets deeply what you have suffered on her account, and bids me beg you to forgive her.

Thus it was settled that Mary Lowther should leave Bullhampton, again returning to Loring, as she had done before, in order that she might escape from her suitor. In writing to her aunt she had thought it best to say nothing of Walter Marrable. She had not as yet written to her cousin, postponing that work for the following day. She would have postponed it longer had it been possible; but she felt herself to be bound to let him have her reply before he left Dunripple. She would have much preferred to return to Loring, to have put miles between herself and Bullhampton, before she wrote a letter which must contain words of happy joy. It would have gratified her to have postponed for awhile all her future happiness, knowing that it was there before her, and that it would come to her at last. But it could not be postponed. Her cousin’s letter was burning her pocket. She already felt that she was treating him badly in keeping it by her without sending him the reply that would make him happy. She could not bring herself to write the letter till the other matter was absolutely settled; and yet, all delay was treachery to him; for,—as she repeated to herself again and again,—there could be no answer but one. She had, however, settled it all now. On the Saturday morning she would start for Loring, and she would write her letter on the Friday in time for that day’s post. Walter would still be at Dunripple on the Sunday, and on the Sunday morning her letter would reach him. She had studied the course of post between Bullhampton and her lover’s future residence, and knew to an hour when her letter would be in his hands.

On that afternoon she could hardly ............