‘Young or old, there is no other Mary in the world,’ said Louis, sadly.

’We will say no more about it now.  I understand you, but you will think differently by-and-by.’

Louis did not answer.  He knew that others might have been deceived by the tardiness and uncertainty of his attachment, but that it had taken such deep root, that he believed he could no more detach himself from Mary than if she were his wife.  His heart fainted as he thought of years without the strength and soothing which her very letter breathed forth; as he pictured to himself alternations between his chill and stately home and the weary maze of London, foresaw persuasions from his father to induce him to form some new attachment, and dreaded to think of the facility with which, perhaps, he might still be led out of his own convictions.  Yet he still believed that patience and perseverance would win the day, and tried to derive encouragement and energy from the thought that this might be a trial sent for the very purpose of training him in steadfastness.

A strong impulse drew him to Bryanston Square, where Miss Ponsonby was very kind and warm, the more so because she had discovered how much easier it had been to say than to unsay, and strongly regretted the injustice she had done him.  He had the satisfaction of talking for a good hour about Mary, and of sending a message, that he did not write because he wished to be guided by her in everything, and that he was striving to work so as to please her.  The conversation ended with some good auguries as to the effect of Oliver’s return to Peru; and Louis went away cheered, bearing the final dismissal better than his father had expected.  Lord Ormersfield attributed his tranquillity to having his mind settled; and so it was, though not quite as his lordship imagined.

Meantime, there was a lull at Dynevor Terrace.  Oliver was gone to take possession and furnish the mansion, and Mrs. Frost’s great object was to keep the subject from irritating her grandson, so as to save him from binding himself by any rash vows.  Cheveleigh was treated in the domestic circle with judicious silence, Oliver’s letters were read by his mother in private, and their contents communicated to Jane alone, whose happiness was surpassing, and her contempt for Dynevor Terrace quite provoking to poor Mrs. Martha.

‘Really,’ said Charlotte one day, ’I don’t think a catastrophe is half so pretty as it ought to be.  Mr. Oliver is but a poor little puny man, and I never knew Mr. James so hard to please.’

Charlotte and Marianne had begun to merge their rivalry in honest friendship, cemented by Marianne’s increasing weakness, and difficulty in getting through even the light work her mistress required.  Jane petted her now still more than Charlotte, and was always promising her the delightful air and the luxuries of Cheveleigh.

‘See here, Charlotte,’ said Marianne, one afternoon when they sat down together to their sewing; Marianne’s eyes were brighter, and her cheeks pinker, than for many days—­’See here; it is for your good I show it you, that you mayn’t build on no false expectations.  It was marked private; but I think it but fair you should see.’