This letter roused in Mercy most conflicting emotions.  Wounded feeling at its coldness, a certain admiration for its tone of immovable resolution, anger at what seemed to her Stephen’s unjustifiable resentment of her effort to influence his action,—­all these blended in one great pain which was well-nigh unbearable.  For the time being, her distress in regard to the money seemed cast into shadow and removed by all this suffering in her personal relation with Stephen; but the personal suffering had not so deep a foundation as the other.  Gradually, all sense of her own individual hurts in Stephen’s words, in his acts, in the weakening of the bond which held them together, died out, and left behind it only a sense of bereavement and loss; while the first horror of Stephen’s wrong-doing, of the hopeless lack in his moral nature, came back with twofold intensity.  This had its basis in convictions,—­in convictions which were as strong as the foundations of the earth:  the other had its basis in emotions, in sensibilities which might pass away or be dulled.

Spite of Stephen’s having forbidden all reference to the subject, Mercy wrote letter after letter upon it, pleading sometimes humbly, sometimes vehemently.  It seemed to her that she was fighting for Stephen’s very life, and she could not give way.  To all these out-pourings Stephen made no reply.  He answered the letters punctually, but made no reference to the question of the money, save by a few short words at the end of his letter, or in a postscript:  such as, “It grieves me to see that you still dwell on that matter of which I said we must speak no more;” or, “Pray, dear Mercy, do not prolong that painful discussion.  I have nothing more to say to you about it.”

For the rest, his letters were faithful transcripts of the little events of his uneventful life, warm comments on any of Mercy’s writings which he read, and gentle assurances of his continued affection.  The old longings, broodings, and passionate yearnings, which he used to pour out, ceased.  Stephen was wounded to the very quick; and the wound did not heal.  Yet he felt no withdrawal from Mercy:  probably nothing she could do would ever drive him from her.  He would die, if worst came to worst, lying by her side and looking up in her eyes, like a dog at the feet of its master who had shot him.

Mercy was much moved by this tone of patience in his letters:  it touched her, as the look of patient endurance on his face used to touch her.  It also irritated her, it was so foreign to her own nature.

“How can he help answering these things I say?” she would exclaim.  “He has no right to refuse to talk with me about such a vital matter.”  If any one had said to Mercy, “He has as much right to refuse to discuss the question as you have to force it upon him,” she could not have seen the point fairly.