Isoline made good her escape and slipped out through the kitchen and up into her room, her face flushing.
She knew very well that her uncle had been expecting a letter from Mr. Fenton daily, and would not let his visitor go without reference to it; he had been rather annoyed by the silence. She would not be dragged into it if she could help it, and, as she was unable to act until the Squire’s decision had been heard, there was no object in facing a needless trial. She snatched up her hat and ran down-stairs, across the orchard, down by the brookside and over the bridge. On it she paused a moment, then, reflecting that she was barely out of earshot, turned up into the fields through which Harry had chased Rebecca.
Lady Harriet had quick feelings, and they were always stirred by acts such as the one which had cost poor Howlie so much. She sat with him for some time, leaving behind her, when she went, a basket of things the like of which he had never tasted. He made an attempt to put up his hand to his forelock, which resulted in a twinge of pain.
The Vicar was waiting for her outside, and they strolled into the garden.
“Perhaps you have something to say to me, Lady Harriet,” he remarked.
“Yes,” she replied. “My husband had business to-day, and he and I—he couldn’t come himself. Mr. Lewis, I hope you will not be annoyed at my news, but this marriage is impossible. You know, I am sure, that we are anything but well off, and he says he cannot afford to do anything for Harry.”
“I know, I know,” said the Vicar.
“I am very sorry,” she went on, “sorry if I am hurting you, my friend, sorry for my boy, for he seems bent upon it, and sorry for your niece too.”
“Do not think of me,” said he, “and do not suppose that I cannot understand Mr. Fenton’s feelings. You have every right to expect Harry to make a much better marriage; and, even were it not so, I cannot quite feel that they are suited. I sometimes doubt if they would be happy.”