“I have received your letter, and also one from Ida, and I hope you will believe me when I say that I quite understand and sympathise with the motives which evidently led you to write it.  I am unfortunately—­ although I never regretted it till now—­a poor man, whereas my rival suitor is a rich one.  I shall, of course, strictly obey your injunctions; and, moreover, I can assure you that, whatever my own feelings may be in the matter, I shall do nothing, either directly or indirectly, to influence Ida’s ultimate decision.  She must decide for herself.”

To Ida herself he also wrote at length: 

“Dearest Ida,” he ended, “I can say nothing more; you must judge for yourself; and I shall accept your decision loyally whatever it may be.  It is unnecessary for me to tell you how inextricably my happiness in life is interwoven with that decision, but at the same time I do not wish to influence it.  It certainly to my mind does not seem right that a woman should be driven into sacrificing her whole life to secure any monetary advantage either for herself or for others, but then the world is full of things that are not right.  I can give you no advice, for I do not know what advice I ought to give.  I try to put myself out of the question and to consider you, and you only; but even then I fear that my judgment is not impartial.  At any rate, the less we see of each other at present the better, for I do not wish to appear to be taking any undue advantage.  If we are destined to pass our lives together, this temporary estrangement will not matter, and if on the other hand we are doomed to a life-long separation the sooner we begin the better.  It is a hard world, and sometimes (as it does now) my heart sinks within me as from year to year I struggle on towards a happiness that ever vanishes when I stretch out my hand to clasp it; but, if I feel thus, what must you feel who have so much more to bear?  My dearest love, what can I say?  I can only say with you, God help us!”

This letter did not tend to raise Ida’s spirits.  Evidently her lover saw that there was another side to the question—­the side of duty, and was too honest to hide it from her.  She had said that she would have nothing to do with Edward Cossey, but she was well aware that the matter was still an open one.  What should she do, what ought she to do?  Abandon her love, desecrate herself and save her father and her house, or cling to her love and leave the rest to chance?  It was a cruel position, nor did the lapse of time tend to make it less cruel.  Her father went about the place pale and melancholy—­all his jovial manner had vanished beneath the pressure of impending ruin.  He treated her with studious and old-fashioned courtesy, but she could see that he was bitterly aggrieved by her conduct and that the anxiety of his position was telling on his health.  If this was the case now, what, she wondered, would happen in the Spring, when steps were actually taken to sell the place?