Bunbury questioned Mary about him. Had he not been with her in the still-room, he inquired.
She told him the truth—as much of the truth as she could tell.
“I am afraid that his running away was due to me,” she said. “If so, I shall never forgive myself.”
“What can be your meaning, my dear?” he inquired. “I thought that you and he had always been the closest friends.”
“If we had not been such friends we should never have quarreled,” said she. “You know that our mother has had her heart set upon my acceptance of Colonel Gwyn. Well, she went to see Goldsmith at his cottage, and begged of him to come to me with a view of inducing me to accept the proposal of Colonel Gwyn.”
“I heard nothing of that,” said he, with a look of astonishment. “And so I suppose when he began to be urgent in his pleading you got annoyed and said something that offended him.”
She held down her head.
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” said he “Have you not seen long ago that that man is no more than a child in simplicity?”
“I am ashamed of myself,” said she. “I shall never forgive myself for my harshness.”
“That will not bring him back,” said her brother-in-law. “Oh! it is always the best of friends who part in this fashion.”