“Oh, no! Mr Salis,” faltered the lady, who had hard work to keep back her tears.
“I only want the donor to know how I feel about an anonymous gift, which stings a poor man who has any pride in him.”
“But clergymen should not have any pride,” said Mary, coming to Mrs Berens’ help.
“Quite right, my dear, but they have, and a great deal too sometimes.”
He nodded shortly to both in turn, and stalked out of the room.
Mrs Berens had risen. So had the tears, in spite of a very gallant fight. She made one more effort to keep them back, but her emotion was too strong; and, woman-like, seeking sympathy of woman, she sank upon her knees by Mary’s side, sobbing as if her heart would break.
“Good-bye, Mary, dear,” she said at last. “I’m a weak, simple woman; but I can feel, and very deeply too.”
This, after a long weeping communion, during which Mary Salis understood the gentle-hearted widow better than she had ever grasped her character before.
There was a very tender embrace, and then, with her veil drawn down tightly, Mrs Berens left.
“Why not?” said Mary to herself as she lay back thinking. “She is very good and amiable, and she loves him very much. And if I die—poor Hartley will seem to be alone.—Why not?”