“Referring to your letter of the 20th, I beg to state that I cannot do what you wish.  I am sorry that you have been in any way connected with me, and I can only ask you now not to remind me of an intimacy and of a relationship which I have cause to consider disgraceful.  Your name is mixed with the worst scandal that we have had in the town for years.  The girl would not speak a word against you, but her mother has said enough.”

The same relation furnished Desborough’s address to Mrs. Blanchflower, and a letter from the lady reached him:  “I have no reproaches to make, excepting that I am sorry you should think that we would pursue you.”

Desborough wrote back:  “I cannot do more than guess the accusation you lay against me.  I acted as I thought was best, and I give you my word that I would die before hurting you or yours.  I have a suspicion of the real cause of your cruel letter, and the suspicion almost kills me.  I cannot come back to mix myself with the sordid scandal, and I can only say that, whatever you may think of me, I deserve nothing but your kindest thoughts.”

His innocent precipitancy had involved the poor fellow in a web which he had not nerve or insight enough to break.  He saw that the woman he loved had allowed an accusation to be laid against him, and he saw that she wanted to shield her real lover, yet he would not baulk her by clearing himself.

How he spent the next year of his life it would be useless to tell.  At first he drank, but the blank misery that follows the wretched exaltation of drunkenness was too much for him, and he tried no more to seek relief that way.  It was then said that he tramped the country for many months, and that he worked as a common blacksmith with a man who travelled the roads in Cheshire.  Then one of his letters bore the post-mark of a small Norman town, and so from time to time rumours of him reached the place where his name was mentioned with anger by women and contempt by men.

Marion Blanchflower died, and the news of her death reached Desborough by the merest chance while he was prosecuting one of his aimless journeys among the hamlets of the Black Forest.  But it was then too late for him to go back.  For ten years all news of him ceased.  He never told anyone what he had done during these years of his life.  One after another the people who had known him in the old town died off, and when, at last, an impulse that he could not restrain forced him to see the place where his happiness had blossomed and died, no one knew that the bent figure with grizzled hair was that of Desborough.

The same indecision prompted him at last to hire the old cottage that stood on our moor, and thus it was that I came to see him.

A year afterwards I heard Desborough speak some very simple and touching words to a rough audience of fishermen.  The gnarled faces looked placid as the clever, broken man talked on, and Desborough’s own face seemed to have grown spiritual.  His eye had an expression of quiet sadness, but I liked him better as a preacher than as a philosopher.