Mabyn began to breathe a little more quickly.  She had tried to be reasonable; she had even humbled herself and begged from him; now there was a sensation in her chest as of some rising emotion that demanded expression in quick words.  “You will try to make her marry you?” said she, looking him in the face.

“I will try to do nothing of the sort,” said he.  “She can do as she likes.  But she knows what an honorable woman would do.”

“And I,” said Mabyn, her temper at length quite getting the better of her, “I know what an honorable man would do.  He would refuse to bind a girl to a promise which she fears.  He would consider her happiness to be of more importance than his comfort.  Why, I don’t believe you care at all whether Wenna marries you or not:  it is only you can’t bear her being married to the man she really does love.  It is only envy, that’s what it is.  Oh, I am ashamed to think there is a man alive who would force a girl into becoming his wife on such terms!”

“There is certainly one considerable objection to my marrying your sister,” said he with great politeness.  “The manners of some of her relatives might prove embarrassing.”

“Yes, that is true enough,” Mabyn said with hot cheeks.  “If ever I became a relative of yours, my manners no doubt would embarrass you very considerably.  But I am not a relative of yours as yet, nor is my sister.”

“May I consider that you have said what you had to say?” said he, taking up his hat.

Proud and angry, and at the same time mortified by her defeat, Mabyn found herself speechless.  He did not offer to shake hands with her.  He bowed to her in passing out.  She made the least possible acknowledgment, and then she was alone.  Of course a hearty cry followed.  She felt she had done no good.  She had determined to be calm, whereas all the calmness had been on his side, and she had been led into speaking in a manner which a discreet and well-bred young lady would have shrunk from in horror.  Mabyn sat still and sobbed, partly in anger and partly in disappointment:  she dared not even go to tell her sister.

But Mr. Roscorla, as he went over the bridge again and went up to Basset Cottage, had lost all his assumed coolness of judgment and demeanor.  He felt he had been tricked by Wenna and insulted by Mabyn, while his rival had established a hold which it would be in vain for him to seek to remove.  He was in a passion of rage.  He would not go near Wenna again.  He would at once set off for London, and enjoy himself there while his holiday lasted:  he would not write a word to her; then, when the time arrived, he would set sail for Jamaica, leaving her to her own conscience.  He was suffering a good deal from anger, envy and jealousy, but he was consoled by the thought that she was suffering more.  And he reflected, with some comfort to himself, that she would scarcely so far demean herself as to marry Harry Trelyon so long as she knew in her heart what he, Roscorla, would think of her for so doing.