"Then I would accede to his wishes. It may be painful, but it will be better to have it over." Mr Whittlestaff, in giving this advice, had thought much as to what the world would say of him. He had done nothing of which he was ashamed,—nor had Mary. She had given him her promise, and he was sure that she would not depart from it. It would, he thought, be infinitely better for her, for many reasons, that she should be married to him than to this wild young man, who had just now returned to England from the diamond-mines, and would soon, he imagined, go back there again. But the young man had asked to see the girl whom he was about to marry alone, and it would not suit him to be afraid to allow her so much liberty.
"I shall not hurt you, Mary," said John Gordon.
"I am sure you would not hurt me."
"Nor say an unkind word."
"Oh no! You could do nothing unkind to me, I know. But you might spare me and yourself some pain."
"I cannot do it," he said. "I cannot bring myself to go back at once after this long voyage, instantly, as I should do, without having spoken one word to you. I have come here to England on purpose to see you. Nothing shall induce me to abandon my intention of doing so, but your refusal. I have received a blow,—a great blow,—and it is you who must tell me that there is certainly no cure for the wound."
"There is certainly none," said Mary.
"Perhaps I had better leave you together," said Mr Whittlestaff, as he got up and left the room.