It is very odd, though, how you cannot carry through these hot-blood thoughts in the cold blood. That momentary shyness which had come upon her in the train, when she had caught herself looking out for a remembered village-green and had been abashed, came upon her the moment she began to think of Cornwall with a view to going there. She found herself trembling, found herself delaying, drawing back. Had she been her old self, never sought and never mated, in this tremulous plight she had remained; but she had learned to face such difficulties, and did not shirk it. The more she thought of it the plainer it became that she could not have the cottage, could not sit down there and wait for Senhouse. Virgin as she was, and virginal as she was now become again, the picture of herself in such an attitude, and in such an act, filled her with shame. And if to picture it was dreadful, what would the day-long reality be but unendurable? But where, then, was her sense of comradeship, of perfect amity between him and her? She did not know. It was gone. And what would he—wondrous, clear-seeing friend—say to her for this prudery? That she did know: she could see him appeal for laughter to the skies. Alas, it could not be helped. She was a maiden, therefore might be wooed. She was a maiden, therefore could not go a-wooing. So he and she might never meet again! Better so—oh, infinitely better—than that they should meet by her act.
Thus it was that Polly Merritt came to learn about the other gentleman. Mary’s perplexities had been stated, and Polly was thrilled.
“Oh, Miss! And he’s never spoken?”
“No,” said Mary. “At least—not about that.”
“What was the nearest he ever got to?”
Mary looked wise. “He told me to go away, once.”
“He did! Why were you to go then?”
“Because—oh, because he could see, I suppose, that I didn’t want to; and——”
“Well?”
“Because—I sometimes fancy—he didn’t want me to. At least, I think he didn’t. He said, ‘You had better go home. I’m a man, you know.’”