Mildred was courageous, but she had not passed through the discipline that had developed her step-mother’s faculties.  So she burst into tears, saying, amidst her sobs, that Mark was allowed by all who knew him to be a young man of promise; that, for herself, she didn’t care how much coal-dust he had been through,—­that would wash off; that, at any rate, she loved him, and would never marry anybody else.

Mrs. Kinloch began to consider.  Anger had whirled her away once; a second explosion might create an irreparable breach between them.

“Don’t lay up what I have said, Mildred,” she urged, in a mild voice.  “If I object to your choice, it is because I am proud of you and want you to look high.  You can marry whom you choose; no rank or station need be considered above you.  Come, don’t cry, dear!”

But Mildred refused to be soothed.  She could not sympathize with the tropical nature, that smiled like sunshine at one moment, and the next burst into the fury of a tornado.  She pushed off the beseeching hand, turned from the offered endearments, and, with reddened, tear-stained face, left the room.

Hugh presently passed through the hall.  “Well, mother,” said he, “I suppose you think you’ve done it now.”

“Go about your business, you foolish boy!” she retorted.  “Go and try something that you do know about.  You can snare a partridge, or shoot a woodcock, perhaps!”

CHAPTER XIII.

Mildred had now no peace; after what had happened, she could not meet Hugh and his mother with any composure.  The scheming woman had risked everything in the appeal she made to her daughter,—­risked everything, and lost.  Nothing could restore harmony; neither could forget the struggle and live the old quiet life.  Mrs. Kinloch, always pursued by anxiety, was one day full of courage, fruitful in plans and resources, and the next day cast down into the pit of despair.  Now she clung to her first hope, believing that time, patience, kindness, would soften Mildred’s resolution; then, seeing the blank indifference with which she treated Hugh, she racked her invention to provide other means of attaining her end.

Again, the thought of her inexplicable loss came over her, and she was frightened to madness; creeping chills alternating with cold sweats tortured her.  It was a mystery she could not penetrate.  She could not but implicate Lucy:  but then Lucy might be in her grave.  After every circumstance had passed in review, her suspicions inevitably returned and fastened upon her lawyer, Clamp.  She almost wished he would come to see her again; for he, being naturally sulky at his first reception, had left the haughty woman severely alone.  She determined to send for him, on business, and then to try her fascinations upon him, to draw him out, and see if he held her secret.

“Aha!” thought the Squire, as he received the message, “she comes to her senses!  Give a woman like Mrs. Kinloch time enough to consider, and she will not turn her back on her true interest.  O Theophilus, you are not by any means a fool!  Slow and steady, slow and steady you go!  Let the frisky woman appear to have her way,—­you will win in the end!”