“Can he have been playing with her only? My child—my poor Lilias, is it possible?” she exclaimed aloud in her agitation. “What shall I do? How can I tell her?”
Just then a light, firm step sounded along the passage. Mrs Western shivered.
“If it is Lilias!” she whispered.
But it was not Lilias.
“Oh, Mary, my dearest, how thankful I am it is you!” she cried, as her second daughter entered the room. “Mary, what does this mean? Read it. How can we ever tell Lilias?” and as she spoke she held out the paper that trembled in her hands.
Mary trembled too, for an instant only, however. Then she drew herself together, as it were, by a vigorous effort, and read:
“Romary, February 19.
“My Dear Mrs Western,—
“I hardly know how to find words in which to apologise sufficiently for the ingratitude and discourtesy of which I shall appear guilty when I tell you that this note is to bid you all good-bye. For a time only, I trust and believe, but a time which seems terribly long for me to look forward to—for I am absolutely obliged to leave this neighbourhood at once, and for two years. I do not know how to thank you for all your goodness. I have never, in all my life, been so happy as under your roof, yet I have no choice but to go, without even bidding you all farewell in person.
“Will you think of me as kindly as you can, and will you allow me to send, through you, my farewell to Miss Western and her sisters, and the rest of the family? and believe me,—
“Yours most gratefully and truly,—
“Arthur Kenneth Beverley.”
Mary stood motionless. Her face grew pale, her lips compressed, but she did not speak.
“What does it mean? Mary, speak, child, tell me what it means,” said Mrs Western, with the petulance born of extreme anxiety. “It cannot be that Lilias has refused him?”
“No, mother, it is not that,” said Mary, “I wish it were.”