’Still there are times like the present when Miss Eyre cannot be with you; her home is not with us; she has other duties.  I’ve been in great perplexity for some time; but at last I’ve taken a step which will, I hope, make us both happier.’

‘You’re going to be married again,’ said she, helping him out, with a quiet dry voice, and gently drawing her hand out of his.

’Yes.  To Mrs. Kirkpatrick—­you remember her?  They call her Clare at the Towers.  You recollect how kind she was to you that day you were left there?’

She did not answer.  She could not tell what words to use.  She was afraid of saying anything, lest the passion of anger, dislike, indignation—­whatever it was that was boiling up in her breast—­should find vent in cries and screams, or worse, in raging words that could never be forgotten.  It was as if the piece of solid ground on which she stood had broken from the shore, and she was drifting out to the infinite sea alone.

Mr. Gibson saw that her silence was unnatural, and half-guessed at the cause of it.  But he knew that she must have time to reconcile herself to the idea, and still believed that it would be for her eventual happiness.  He had, besides, the relief of feeling that the secret was told, the confidence made, which he had been dreading for the last twenty-four hours.  He went on recapitulating all the advantages of the marriage; he knew them off by heart now.

’She’s a very suitable age for me.  I don’t know how old she is exactly, but she must be nearly forty.  I shouldn’t have wished to marry any one younger.  She’s highly respected by Lord and Lady Cumnor and their family, which is of itself a character.  She has very agreeable and polished manners—­of course, from the circles she has been thrown into —­and you and I, goosey, are apt to be a little brusque, or so; we must brush up our manners now.’

No remark from her on this little bit of playfulness.  He went on,—­

’She has been accustomed to housekeeping—­economical housekeeping, too —­for of late years she has had a school at Ashcombe, and has had, of course, to arrange all things for a large family.  And last, but not least, she has a daughter—­about your age, Molly—­who, of course, will come and live with us, and be a nice companion—­a sister—­for you.’

Still she was silent.  At length she said,—­

’So I was sent out of the house that all this might be quietly arranged in my absence?’

Out of the bitterness of her heart she spoke, but she was roused out of her assumed impassiveness by the effect produced.  Her father started up, and quickly left the room, saying something to himself—­what, she could not hear, though she ran after him, followed him through dark stone passages, into the glare of the stable-yard, into the stables—­

’Oh, papa, papa—­I’m not myself—­I don’t know what to say about this hateful—­detestable——­’

He led his horse out.  She did not know if he beard her words.  Just as he mounted, he turned round upon her with a grey grim face,—­