‘It is most extraordinary,’ exclaimed the Vicar. ‘She was in such a hurry to pay off those mortgages before her marriage. I thought she was romantically in love with you.’
‘You don’t understand,’ said Kenrick. ‘That was how she meant to make amends to me. She valued my love, my manhood, my self-respect at fifty thousand pounds. I am paid in full, she thinks, and I have no right to complain.’
‘Women are an inscrutable species,’ said the Vicar.
‘I am a most unlucky woman,’ wailed Mrs. Dulcimer. ‘I took such a pride in bringing Kenrick and Beatrix together—such an excellent match—so well suited to each other—a large fortune—a fine position in the county—title—everything.’
‘My love, it will not mend the matter for you to get hysterical,’ remonstrated the Vicar. ‘Where are you going, Kenrick?’ he asked, as Kenrick moved towards the door.
‘To the Water House. Where is Cyril?’
‘He got an early cup of tea from Rebecca, and went round to see some of his old parishioners. He promised to be at the church before eleven.’
‘A superfluous civility,’ said Kenrick. ‘No doubt he knew there would be no wedding.’
‘Kenrick,’ remonstrated Mrs. Dulcimer, but Kenrick was gone.
He walked down to the Water House faster than he had ever walked there in his life, though Love had lent him Mercury’s winged sandals. To-day rage and baffled love, and gnawing jealousy, drove him as fast as if they had been palpable scourges wielded by the Furies.