Kenrick went in quest of Cyril. After a good deal of inquiry he found him with a bedridden old woman, listening to a doleful story of the winter’s sufferings.
‘I want to talk to you, Cyril,’ said Kenrick, and, with a gentle apology, Cyril cut short the dame’s rambling account of her bodily ills.
‘What is the matter, Ken?’ asked Cyril, when they were outside in the windy road. ‘You look as pale as a ghost.’
‘There is to be no marriage. Beatrix has gone away—and you know all about it. You planned it together yesterday when you met in the churchyard.’
‘Upon my honour, Kenrick, I know nothing,’ answered the other, solemnly.
‘Why should I believe you? She, whom I thought the noblest of women, has fooled and jilted me. In whose honour am I to believe after that?’
‘Kenrick, I am deeply sorry for you.’
‘Pray spare me that. Your pity would be the last drop of gall in my cup. Will you swear to me that you do not know where she is gone—that you had nothing to do with her going?’
‘Directly, nothing,’ answered Cyril, very pale.
His conscience smote him for that scene of yesterday. He had given the reins to passion, he, a man who had hitherto shaped his life upon principle. He felt himself guilty.