Mr Goldsworthy penetrated to the morning-room, where something of the same tale was repeated to him.  Yes, Guthrie Carey was alive and well, and had been up to see them.  Yes, he had asked for Mary—­now that he was a captain—­but she had finally decided against marrying a sailor.  Wisely, perhaps; at any rate, it was her business; the family did not wish to discuss the matter.

When Mr Goldsworthy found that Mary did not come to dinner, he drew some conclusions for himself.  He told himself there was something “fishy” in the affair—­something behind, that was purposely kept from him.  But he was hungry, and the fragrant soup steamed under his nose and glittered in his spoon—­it was so admirably clear.  Just now the doings of the Redford cook were of more concern to him than Mary’s doings.

But although he enjoyed the meal to which he had looked forward all day, he enjoyed it much less than usual.  A more sensitive person in his place must have found it wretched.  Deb was a chilling hostess.  Her frigid dignity and forced politeness caused discomfort even to him, thereby lowering her status in his eyes, lessening the ardour of his admiration for her.  Mr Pennycuick, such a stickler for hospitality, scarcely spoke a word to the guest.  Rose was a nobody, but still might have done something in the way of entertainment; and she quite ignored him, looking down as if to hide eyes that had been crying.  Frances was eager to engage in conversation, but was bidden roughly by her father to hold her tongue.  The stately governess wore only more ostentatiously than usual the detached air that always marked her out of school; and it was left to poor Miss Keene, with her timid platitudes, to keep up an appearance of civility.

Mr Pennycuick vanished abruptly after dinner; it was presently rumoured that he was not well, and had gone to bed.  Frances was taken away to prepare lessons.  Rose and Deborah came and went.  Coffee was served.  The parson was again left to Miss Keene, who would not be pumped for confidences, further than to admit that Mary was keeping her room with a headache, in consequence of the agitating visit of Captain Carey, but laboriously talked parish to him, without appearing to know anything of the subject.  So the poor man actually became so bored that he changed his mind about staying for the night.  He remembered that there was a good moon, and that he had an early engagement next morning, and ordered his buggy soon after nine o’clock.  Afterwards he believed that it was the direct voice of the Lord that had called him to take his journey home at that hour.

He drove alone, having a steady (Redford) mare, that stood quietly at gates and doors, and no groom—­a luxury almost unknown amongst country parsons, who must all keep horses.  The night was beautiful, still, cool and clear, the moon so full that he could see for miles.  Because of this, he took his daylight short cuts across country, preferring grass when he could get it to the dusty summer road.  And one of his short cuts led along the top of the embankment of the big dam.