And then suddenly there came a frown across his face, as she stood looking at him. She was getting to know the manner of that frown. Now she stooped down to kiss it away from his brow. It was a brave thing to do; but she did it with a consciousness of her courage. "Now I may burn the letter," she said, as though she were about to depart upon the errand.
"No, by heaven!" he said. "Let me have a sandwich and a glass of wine, for I shall start in an hour."
With a glance of his thoughts he had answered all those questions. He had taught himself what ordinary selfishness allowed. Ordinary selfishness,--such selfishness as that of which he would have permitted himself the indulgence,--must have allowed him to disregard the misery of John Gordon, and to keep the girl to himself. As far as John Gordon was concerned, he would not have cared for his sufferings. He was as much to himself,--or more,--than could be John Gordon. He did not love John Gordon, and could have doomed him to tearing his hair,--not without regret, but at any rate without remorse. He had settled that question. But with Mary Lawrie there must be a never-dying pang of self-accusation, were he to take her to his arms while her love was settled elsewhere. It was not that he feared her for himself, but that he feared himself for her sake. God had filled his heart with love of the girl,--and, if it was love, could it be that he would destroy her future for the gratification of his own feelings? "I tell you it is no good," he said, as she crouched down beside him, almost sitting on his knee.
At this moment Mrs Baggett came into the room, detecting Mary almost in the embrace of her old master. "He's come back again, sir," said Mrs Baggett.
"Then you may tell him to go about his business. He is not wanted, at any rate. You are to remain here, and have your own way, like an old fool."
"There is not any one coming to interfere with you."
Then Mary got up, and stood sobbing at the open window. "At any rate, you'll have to remain here to look after the house, even if I go away. Where is the Sergeant?"
"Well, no; he's not drunk. I think his wooden leg is affected sooner than if he had two like mine, or yours, sir. And he did manage to go in of his self, now that he knows the way. He's there among the hay, and I do think it's very unkind of Hayonotes to say as he'll spoil it. But how am I to get him out, unless I goes away with him?"