“Well, I will write,” said he, “I believe you are acting wisely.”
“And ask her to let me come as soon as possible. I feel—I think—the change will be good. And I do not want to see any one, or to talk about what has happened. I need not, uncle, need I? Mr. Harry Fenton will not come here, will he?” Her voice trembled a little.
“Come here, child,” said he, holding out his hand, “and do not be afraid to speak out. You are going away to avoid seeing Harry again, are you not?”
A direct question demands a direct answer, and she hardly felt prepared to give one; she did not know to what it might commit her. She hesitated.
“I had rather not see him,” she said at last, slipping her hand out of the Vicar’s; “must I do it?”
“Well, I think so, if he wishes it,” he said slowly; “you are certainly doing sensibly in taking Mr. Fenton’s refusal of consent as final, for, in marrying, you would be condemning yourself to a life of poverty which you are not fitted to endure. But, though you now wish to free yourself, remember that you accepted Harry. If he wants to hear your decision from your own lips, I think he has a right to do so.”
“But why should he?” she asked plaintively, “surely he can believe you when you tell him, uncle?”
“Surely, my dear, if you ever loved him at all, you will understand how he feels.”
“I think it will be very inconsiderate of him if he comes here and makes a fuss when he knows it is impossible.”
“People are sometimes inconsiderate when they are in trouble—young people especially.”