’Well, perhaps you may as well, now we are so mixed in together.  You know, no time has ever been mentioned to her at all, first or last, and I think it right that now, since she has waited so patiently and so long—­you are almost called upon to say you are ready.  It would simplify matters very much, if you were to walk up to church wi’ her one of these mornings, get the thing done, and go on liven here as we are.  If you don’t I must get a house all the sooner.  It would lighten my mind, too, about the two little freeholds over the hill—­not a morsel a-piece, divided as they were between her mother and me, but a tidy bit tied together again.  Just think about it, will ye, Ted?’

He stopped from exhaustion produced by the intense concentration of his mind upon the weary subject, and looked anxiously at his son.

‘Yes, I will,’ said Edward.

‘But I am going to see her of the Great House this morning,’ the farmer went on, his thoughts reverting to the old subject.  ’I must know the rights of the matter, the when and the where.  I don’t like seeing her, but I’d rather talk to her than the steward.  I wonder what she’ll say to me.’

The younger man knew exactly what she would say.  If his father asked her what he was to do, and when, she would simply refer him to Manston:  her character was not that of a woman who shrank from a proposition she had once laid down.  If his father were to say to her that his son had at last resolved to marry his cousin within the year, and had given her a promise to that effect, she would say, ’Mr. Springrove, the houses are burnt:  we’ll let them go:  trouble no more about them.’

His mind was already made up.  He said calmly, ’Father, when you are talking to Miss Aldclyffe, mention to her that I have asked Adelaide if she is willing to marry me next Christmas.  She is interested in my union with Adelaide, and the news will be welcome to her.’

‘And yet she can be iron with reference to me and her property,’ the farmer murmured.  ‘Very well, Ted, I’ll tell her.’

6.  DECEMBER THE FIFTH

Of the many contradictory particulars constituting a woman’s heart, two had shown their vigorous contrast in Cytherea’s bosom just at this time.

It was a dark morning, the morning after old Mr. Springrove’s visit to Miss Aldclyffe, which had terminated as Edward had intended.  Having risen an hour earlier than was usual with her, Cytherea sat at the window of an elegant little sitting-room on the ground floor, which had been appropriated to her by the kindness or whim of Miss Aldclyffe, that she might not be driven into that lady’s presence against her will.  She leant with her face on her hand, looking out into the gloomy grey air.  A yellow glimmer from the flapping flame of the newly-lit fire fluttered on one side of her face and neck like a butterfly about to settle there, contrasting warmly with the other side of the same fair face, which received from the window the faint cold morning light, so weak that her shadow from the fire had a distinct outline on the window-shutter in spite of it.  There the shadow danced like a demon, blue and grim.