She went on sketching with inconceivable rapidity, the drawing keeping pace almost with her words.
But Tony no longer took the interest he had done before in the picture, but seemed lost in some deep and difficult reflection.
“Shall we have a bridge—a mere plank will do—over the river here, Tony? and then this zigzag pathway will be a short way up to the cottage.”
He never heard her words, but arose and left the room. He passed out into the little garden in front of the house, and, leaning on the gate, looked out into the dark still night.
Poor Tony! impenetrable as that darkness was, it was not more difficult to peer through than the thick mist that gathered around his thoughts.
“Is that Tony?” cried his mother from the doorway.
“Yes,” said he, moodily, for he wanted to be left to his own thoughts.
“Come here, Tony, and see what a fine manly letter your friend Mr. M'Gruder writes in answer to mine.”
Tony was at her side in an instant, and almost tore the letter in his eagerness to read it. It was very brief, but well deserved all she had said of it. With a delicacy which perhaps might scarcely have been looked for in a man so educated and brought up, he seemed to appreciate the existence of a secret he had no right to question; and bitterly as the resolve cost him, he declared that he had no longer a claim on Dolly's affection.
“I scarcely understand him, mother; do you?” asked Tony.