So, after all, Constance would be his wife.  One moment’s glimpse of a dread possibility that neither she nor May Tomalin benefited by Lady Ogram’s will had sufficed to make him more than contented with the actual issue of his late complications.  He had seen himself overwhelmed with disaster, reduced to the alternative of withdrawing into ignominious obscurity or of again seeking aid from Mrs. Woolstan, aid which might or not be granted, and in any case would only enable him to go through with the contest at Hollingford, a useless effort if he had nothing henceforth to live upon.  As it was, he saw Constance and seventy thousand pounds, with the prosperous little paper-mill to boot.  He did not love Constance, but the feeling of dislike with which he had recently come to regard her had quite passed away.  He did not love Constance, but what a capable woman she was!—­and what a help she would be to him in his career!  Her having detected his philosophic plagiarism seemed to him now rather a good thing than otherwise; it spared him the annoyance of intellectual dishonesty in his domestic life, and put them in a position to discuss freely the political and social views by which he was to stand.  After all, Constance was the only woman he knew whose intelligence he really respected.  After all, remembering their intimacy long ago at Alverholme, he felt a fitness in this fated sequel.  It gave him the pleasant sense of honourable conduct.

He smiled at the thought that he had fancied himself in love with May Tomalin.  The girl was a half-educated simpleton, who would only have made him ridiculous.  Her anonymous letter pointed to a grave fault of breeding; it would always have been suggestive of disagreeable possibilities.  May was thoroughly plebeian in origin, and her resemblance to Lady Ogram might develop in a way it made him shudder to think of.  Constance Bride came of gentlefolk, and needed only the favour of circumstances to show herself perfectly at ease in whatever social surroundings.  She had a natural dignity, which, now he came to reflect upon it, he had always observed with pleasure.  What could have been more difficult than her relations with Lady Ogram?  Yet she had always borne herself with graceful independence.

Poor girl!  She had gone through a hard time these last four weeks, and no wonder if she broke down under the strain of a situation such as that which ended in Lady Ogram’s death.  He would make up to her for it all.  She should understand him, and rest in perfect confidence.  Yes, he would reveal to her his whole heart and mind, so that no doubt of him, no slightest distrust, could ever disturb her peace.  Not only did he owe her this complete sincerity; to him it would be no less delightful, no less tranquillising.

He sat down to write a note.

“Dear Constance—­” yes, that sufficed.  “When can I see you?  Let it be as soon as possible.  Of course you have understood my silence.  Do you stay at Rivenoak a little longer?  Let me come to-morrow, if possible.”