By this time Miss Moffat and her companion had reached the plantations which divided the grounds of Maryville from the Castle Farm.
“Do not come any further,” she said pausing. “I would rather you did not.”
He attempted no remonstrance, but stood silent before her.
“By eight o’clock to-morrow morning,” she said, “the letter I spoke of shall be in your hands.”
He did not speak; he made no sign for a moment, then suddenly he broke out wildly,—
“I cannot go; it is useless. You ask more from me than I am able to do.”
Utterly astounded; utterly at a loss as to what he meant she remained mute, till suddenly comprehension came to her.
“Surely,” she exclaimed, “you cannot be so mad as to imagine Mrs. Brady would ever voluntarily look upon your face again!”
“Forgive me,” he entreated humbly. “I was no more to blame for that outbreak than the patient who shrinks under the surgeon’s knife. I know what I have to do, and I will do it. May God bless you for helping me upon my weary way.”
He was turning to go without further leave-taking, when she held out her hand.