“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 tomorrow. I could hardly get away tomorrow.”
“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.
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 maintain the tranquillity of her usual demeanour when she met the Vicar before dinner. Not a word, however, was said about Gilmore. Fenwick partly understood that he and his wife were in some degree responsible for the shipwreck that had come, and had determined that Mary was to be forgiven—at any rate by him. He and his wife had taken counsel together, and had resolved that, unless circumstances should demand it, they would never again mention the Squire’s name in Mary Lowther’s hearing. The attempt had been made and had utterly failed, and now there must be an end of it. On the next morning he heard that Gilmore had gone up to London, and he went up to the Privets to learn what he could from the servants there. No
