Afterwards, two carriages laden with luggage drove out of the village, taking the road that led to the neighbouring seaport town. The first contained the two little Channells and their nurses; in the second sat Rhoda and Nelly. And before the vehicles were out of sight, Robert Channell had turned his steps in the direction of the curate’s lodging.
He met the young man in the lane outside the sexton’s cottage, and gave him a kindly good morning.
“I am the bearer of startling news, Morgan,” he said, slipping a little note into his hand. “Let us come under the shade of the churchyard trees. And now, Morgan, before you read the note, I want to ask you to forgive my Nelly.”
“Forgive Nelly!” stammered the curate, thinking that if all could be known it would be Nelly’s part to forgive him.
“Yes,” the father answered. “Try to think of her as a dear, foolish child who has made a grave mistake. She has sent me to break off her engagement with you, Morgan. She begs you, through me, to forgive her for any pain that she may cause you. She wants you to remember her kindly always, but neither to write to her, nor seek to see her again.”
The curate was silent for some moments. No suspicion of the truth crossed his mind. He concluded, not unnaturally, that he had been too quiet and grave a lover for the bright girl. That was all.
When he spoke, his words were very few. Perhaps Nelly’s father respected him none the less because he made no pretence of great sorrow. His face was pale, and his voice trembled a little, as he said quietly,—
“If you will come into my lodging, Mr. Channell, I will give you Nelly’s letters and her portrait. She may like to have them back again without delay.”
They walked out of the churchyard, and down the lane to the sexton’s cottage. And then Morgan left Mr. Channell sitting in the little parlour, while he went upstairs to his room.