“I wish you and Gutteridge to witness a paper for me, Jennings,” he said to the man. “Fetch him in here, please.” The two functionaries signed the sheet as he directed them. “Sign there, if you please, Jennings. And Gutteridge below your name. . . . That will do. Thank you.” He put the paper and a crumpled telegram together in a long envelope, sealed it, and wrote shortly on the outside. He locked it in his desk, then resumed his pacing of the room. As he walked his lips moved to frame words—“Impossible! Purity’s self. . . Her eyes ray innocence. . . .”
But he knew Tristram, and could not get his leisurely image away. And Tristram had been much at Misperton; and had a way of—his lips moved again—“My darling from the lions! From the power of the dog!” He went back to his desk, took out the envelope he had sealed, and would have torn it across—but did not. Instead, he put it in his breast-pocket, and left the house.
In the little parlour of Heath View he stood presently awaiting her. Jinny had seemed relieved to see him when she opened the door. Mary had been lying down, she said, and would come when she was tidy. He smiled and said he would wait. He was noticeably white and lined in the face.
She came into the room presently, flushed and very bright-eyed. He thought that she stood there like a mouse sensing the air for alarms, prompt to dart at a pinfall. His heart beat to see the youth and charm of her; his pain was swallowed up in longing for his treasured bliss. He almost sobbed as he held out his arms. “Mary—my child—my love;—” and when she ran in and clung to him with all her force, he clasped her in a frenzy. Whatever darksome fears his honest mind may have harboured, whatever beasts he may have fought, there were none after such a greeting as this. He poured out his love like water upon her, kissed her wet cheeks and shining eyes, and with, “There, my little lamb, there, my pretty one, be at rest, be at peace with me,” he soothed her, and felt the panic of her heart to die down. Then, sitting, he drew her to his knees and let her lie awhile with her head on his shoulder.
She whispered in his ear, “Oh, it was sweet of you to come! I wanted you dreadfully—you don’t know.”
“No, my precious one, I don’t indeed. But I am well content that you should have needed me. I pray that you always will, and that I may never fail you.”
She lifted her head back to look at him; she smiled like an April day. “You fail me! Oh, no, you’ll never do that.” And of her own accord she kissed him. The good man simply adored her.
“Now will you tell me what upset you so much?” he asked her, but she shook her head roguishly and said that she didn’t know. “It was my stupidity—I was frightened—suddenly frightened of all the grandeur—the great rooms, the butler and footmen—the people in carriages who called—” She stopped here, her large eyes full upon his own. She breathed very fast. Then she said, “That’s partly the truth—but there’s more.”
He could not bear it. He could not face what she had to say. He knew that he was a coward, but he could not; despised himself, but could not.
He clasped her close. “Tell me nothing more, darling child. You will reproach yourself, and I cannot bear it.”