I am afraid there was a little too much of this exacting spirit in Walter Wilson at all times, and especially at the time to which our history has brought us. It need scarcely be added that in indulging such a disposition, a man becomes his own worst enemy and tormentor.
"I won't write another line to her till she writes again to me, or not till I have heard from Mr. Rubric," said Walter, and he stuck to his determination.
Meanwhile, if Sarah and Mr. Rubric did not write, others did. To be sure, there was nothing new to be told about Sarah's "goings on;" but the old stories could be repeated. And besides this, every letter from his home now teemed with prognostications, ripened into certainties of "Uncle Mark's" speedy downfall, as well as details of his "shameful, disgraceful doings." And in the more recent ones, Walter was informed that "father has pretty near as good as got Squire Grigson's promise of High Beech Farm when uncle is turned out."
"I can't bear this any longer," said Walter one day to his two counsellors, as they sat together. "I shall go home and see all about it."
"I should if I were you, Walter," responded Ralph. "Don't you think so too, Mary?"
Mary was not quite sure. "You have not written to your cousin since you received her last letter—the one you gave us to read," she said.
"No, Miss Burgess, I haven't," replied Walter, bluntly.
"And that letter came nearly two months ago."
"Yes, I daresay it was as long ago as that. It seems to me a good bit longer," quoth he.
"Don't you think you ought to have answered it?" she asked, insinuatingly.