"But you won't believe me! I tell you again, Miss Strange, it doesn't matter a bit. And again, if you like! And again!"
She looked fixedly at him, and stretched out her hand towards the letters.
"Very well," she said. "Shall I post these for you as I go back?"
He brought down his tilted chair with sudden emphasis, and sprang up.
"No!"
He had lost all, but at least his pride was safe. His mother and old Mr. Harding need never learn how nearly they had had their way. He knew what deadly offence he had given by the silence which would be taken for a calculated insult, but he would a thousand times rather face their anger than appeal to their pity with a lame story of a letter delayed. Besides, it was too late. Old Harding was a man of his word, the place was filled up, the chance was gone.
"No!" cried Reynold.
"There!" the girl exclaimed. "I knew it! I saw your face when you looked at the letters first—and now again! You do not choose to tell me what I have done. Very well, why don't you say so at once? You treat me as if I were a baby!"
Her cheeks were flushed, her mouth quivered, she looked childishly ready to cry.
"You do not choose to tell me what I have done." No, why should he? The one thing he saw clearly was that the mischief was irreparable; the less said about it, therefore, the better. There was but one avenue to fortune and love for him, and it was closed before his eyes by this night's revelation. Some men would have set to work at once to make another, but not Reynold Harding. He simply accepted the decree of Fate, and felt that he had half expected it all the time. And after all, what had Barbara done? Most likely he would have failed, even if his letter had been duly sent. His ill-luck would have dogged him on his way to wealth. Perhaps it was more merciful, when, with one sharp stroke, it spared him the long struggle. What right had he to find fault with Barbara, the timid messenger of misfortune? Was he to answer her brutally—"You have ruined me!"—and throw the weight of his failure on the little throbbing heart which had never been so burdened before? The very idea was absurd. It was absurd to look back, absurd to murmur; the dream of Mitchelhurst was over and done with, it was not worth a withered leaf. Let it lie where it had fallen.