Mary found she was totally unsuspicious of the cause of her estrangement, and imputed it to a very different one.

“You have been a great stranger, my dear!” said she, as she affectionately embraced her; “but at such a time I could not expect you to think of me.”

“Indeed,” answered Mary, equally unconscious of her meaning, “I have thought much and often, very often, upon you, and wished I could have come to you; but—–­” she stopped, for she could not tell the truth, and would not utter a falsehood.

“I understand it all,” said Mrs. Lennox, with a sigh.  “Well—­well—­God’s will be done!” Then trying to be more cheerful, “Had you come little sooner, you would have met Charles.  He is just gone out with Lord Lindore.  He was unwilling to leave me, as he always is, and when he does, I believe it is as much to please me as himself.  Ah!  Mary, I once hoped that I might have lived to see you the happy wife of the best of sons.  I may speak out now, since that is all over.  God has willed otherwise, an may you be rewarded in the choice you have made!”

Mary was struck with consternation to find that her supposed engagement with Mr. Downe Wright had spread even to Rose Hall; and in the greatest confusion she attempted to deny it.  But after the acknowledgment she had just heard, she acquitted herself awkwardly; for she felt as if an open explanation would only serve to revive hopes that never could be realised, and subject Colonel Lennox and herself to future perplexities.  Nothing but the whole truth would have sufficed to undeceive Mrs. Lennox, for she had had the intelligence of Mary’s engagement from Mrs. Downe Wright herself, who, for better security of what she already considered her son’s property, had taken care to spread the report of his being the accepted lover before she left the country.  Mary felt all the unpleasantness of her situation.  Although detesting deceit and artifice of every kind, her confused and stammering denials seemed rather to corroborate the fact; but she felt that she could not declare her resolution of never bestowing her hand upon Mr. Downe Wright without seeming at the same time to court the addresss of Colonel Lennox.  Then how painful—­how unjust to herself, as well as cruel to him, to have it for an instant believed that she was the betrothed of one whose wife she was resolved she never would be!

In short, poor Mary’s mind was a complete chaos; and for the first time in her life she found it impossible to determine which was the right course for her to pursue.  Even in the midst of her distress, however, she could not help smiling at the naivete of the good old lady’s remarks.

“He is a handsome young man, I hear,” said she, still in allusion to Mr. Downe Wright:  “has a fine fortune, and an easy temper.  All these things help people’s happiness, though they cannot make it; and his choice of you, my dear Mary, shows that he has some sense.”