the Trust from her possession when she had it in her hand was irreparable.  The one apparent compensation under the disaster—­in other words, the discovery that the Trust actually existed, and that George Bartram’s marriage within a given time was one of the objects contained in it—­was a compensation which could only be estimated at its true value by placing it under the light of Mr. Loscombe’s experience.  Every motive of which she was conscious was a motive which urged her to leave the house secretly while the chance was at her disposal.  She looked out into the passage, and called softly to old Mazey to come back.

“I accept your offer thankfully, Mr. Mazey,” she said.  “You don’t know what hard measure you dealt out to me when you took that letter from my hand.  But you did your duty, and I can be grateful to you for sparing me this morning, hard as you were upon me last night.  I am not such a bad girl as you think me—­I am not, indeed.”

Old Mazey dismissed the subject with another dreary wave of his hand.

“Let it be,” said the veteran; “let it be!  It makes no difference, my girl, to such an old rascal as I am.  If you were fifty times worse than you are, I should let you go all the same.  Put on your bonnet and shawl, and come along.  I’m a disgrace to myself and a warning to others—­that’s what I am.  No luggage, mind!  Leave all your rattle-traps behind you:  to be overhauled, if necessary, at his honor the admiral’s discretion.  I can be hard enough on your boxes, you young Jezebel, if I can’t be hard on you.”

With these words, old Mazey led the way out of the room.  “The less I see of her the better—­especially about the waist,” he said to himself, as he hobbled downstairs with the help of the banisters.

The cart was standing in the back yard when they reached the lower regions of the house, and Dawkes (otherwise the farm-bailiff’s man) was fastening the last buckle of the horse’s harness.  The hoar-frost of the morning was still white in the shade.  The sparkling points of it glistened brightly on the shaggy coats of Brutus and Cassius, as they idled about the yard, waiting, with steaming mouths and slowly wagging tails, to see the cart drive off.  Old Mazey went out alone and used his influence with Dawkes, who, staring in stolid amazement, put a leather cushion on the cart-seat for his fellow-traveler.  Shivering in the sharp morning air, Magdalen waited, while the preliminaries of departure were in progress, conscious of nothing but a giddy bewilderment of thought, and a helpless suspension of feeling.  The events of the night confused themselves hideously with the trivial circumstances passing before her eyes in the courtyard.  She started with the sudden terror of the night when old Mazey re-appeared to summon her out to the cart.  She trembled with the helpless confusion of the night when the veteran cast the eyes of indulgence on her for the last time, and gave her a kiss on the cheek at parting.  The next minute she felt him help her into the cart, and pat her on the back.  The next, she heard him tell her in a confidential whisper that, sitting or standing, she was as straight as a poplar either way.  Then there was a pause, in which nothing was said, and nothing done; and then the driver took the reins in hand and mounted to his place.