'Very well, Miss Egremont, I understand. I have had my answer,' he said, gathering up his papers and marching out of the room.
She stood still, offended, and not in the least inclined to run after him and take back her words. He, poor fellow, stumbled down the steps, and held by the garden rail to collect his senses and compose himself.
'What's the matter, Gerard, are you ill or giddy?' asked Miss Nugent, coming up in the winter twilight.
'No, oh no! Only the dream of my life is over,' he answered, scarce knowing what he said.
'You haven't—' cried Mary aghast.
'Oh no,' he said, understanding the blank, 'only she won't take the pledge!'
'I don't see how she could or ought,' responded Mary. 'Is that all?'
'I had made it the test,' muttered poor Gerard. 'It is right! It is all over now. I shall know how to go on my way. It is best so—I know it is—only I did not know whether anything was due to her.' It was almost a sob.
'Dear old Gerard,' said Mary, 'I see you meant to do right. It is well your mind should be settled. I think you'll find comfort in your good work.'
He wrung her hand, and she went in, half amused, for she was fully aware of the one-sidedness of the mania for temperance under which he acted, yet honouring his high, pure motives, and rejoicing that he had found this indirect mode of gauging Nuttie's feelings towards him—that is, if he was right about them, and there was no revulsion.