His back was to Robert as he uttered the injunction.  Robert took pen and paper, and did as he was bidden, with all the punctilious obedience of a man who consents perforce to see a better scheme abandoned.

One effect of the equality existing between these two of diverse rank in life and perfect delicacy of heart, was, that the moment Percy assumed the lead, Robert never disputed it.  Muttering simply that he was incapable of writing except when he was in a passion, he managed to produce what, in Percy’s eyes, were satisfactory epistles, though Robert had horrible misgivings in regard to his letter to Mrs. Lovell—­the wording of it, the cast of the sentences, even down to the character of the handwriting.  These missives were despatched immediately.

“You are sure she said that?” Major Waring inquired more than once during the afternoon, and Robert assured him that Mrs. Lovell had given him her word.  He grew very positive, and put it on his honour that she had said it.

“You may have heard incorrectly.”

“I’ve got the words burning inside me,” said Robert.

They walked together, before dark, to Sutton Farm, but Jonathan Eccles was abroad in his fields, and their welcome was from Mistress Anne, whom Major Waring had not power to melt; the moment he began speaking praise of Robert, she closed her mouth tight and crossed her wrists meekly.

“I see,” said Major Waring, as they left the farm, “your aunt is of the godly who have no forgiveness.”

“I’m afraid so,” cried Robert.  “Cold blood never will come to an understanding with hot blood, and the old lady’s is like frozen milk.  She’s right in her way, I dare say.  I don’t blame her.  Her piety’s right enough, take it as you find it.”

Mrs. Boulby had a sagacious notion that gentlemen always dined well every day of their lives, and claimed that much from Providence as their due.  She had exerted herself to spread a neat little repast for Major Waring, and waited on the friends herself; grieving considerably to observe that the major failed in his duty as a gentleman, as far as the relish of eating was concerned.

“But,” she said below at her bar, “he smokes the beautifullest—­smelling cigars, and drinks coffee made in his own way.  He’s very particular.”  Which was reckoned to be in Major Waring’s favour.

The hour was near midnight when she came into the room, bearing another letter from the Park.  She thumped it on the table, ruffling and making that pretence at the controlling of her bosom which precedes a feminine storm.  Her indignation was caused by a communication delivered by Dick Curtis, in the parlour underneath, to the effect that Nicodemus Sedgett was not to be heard of in the neighbourhood.

Robert laughed at her, and called her Hebrew woman—­eye-for-eye and tooth-for-tooth woman.

“Leave real rascals to the Lord above, mother.  He’s safe to punish them.  They’ve stepped outside the chances.  That’s my idea.  I wouldn’t go out of my way to kick them—­not I!  It’s the half-and-half villains we’ve got to dispose of.  They’re the mischief, old lady.”