“Yes,” he said bitterly; “it is too late for that. Well, I must strive. Good heavens! she is only fit to be treated like a wilful child.”
“Oh, Hartley!”
“There, hush! little one,” he said tenderly; “we must bear it patiently.”
“You will wait up till she returns?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And you will not be violent?”
“Violent! Cui bono? No, Mary; I shall say very little; but she will have to go from here.”
There was a desolate sound in his voice—a look of misery in his eyes, which brought a sigh from Mary.
“Perhaps I ought to go raging up to the Hall, and try and find Tom Candlish,” said the curate; “but I don’t wish to repeat my last encounter with the scoundrel. It might be worse. There, you are suffering. Go to bed.”
“But I could not sleep!”