“What will mamma say?”

“I am thinking more, papa, of you,” she said putting her arm over his shoulder.  “You have always been so good to me, and so kind!” Here his heart misgave him, for he felt that during the last week he had not been kind to her.  “But you would not wish me to give myself to a man and then not to care for him.”

“No, my dear.”

“I couldn’t do it.  I should fall down dead first.  I have thought so much about it,—­for your sake; and have tried it with myself.  I couldn’t do it”

“Is there anybody else, Mary?” As he asked the question he held her hand beneath his own on the desk, but he did not dare to look into her face.  He had been told by his wife that there was somebody else; that the girl’s mind was running upon Mr. Surtees, because Mr. Surtees was a gentleman.  He was thinking of Mr. Surtees, and certainly not of Reginald Morton.

To her the moment was very solemn and when the question was asked she felt that she could not tell her father a falsehood.  She had gradually grown bold enough to assure herself that her heart was occupied with that man who had travelled with her to Cheltenham; and she felt that that feeling alone must keep her apart from any other love.  And yet, as she had no hope, as she had assured herself that her love was a burden to be borne and could never become a source of enjoyment, why should her secret be wrested from her?  What good would such a violation do?  But she could not tell the falsehood, and therefore she held her tongue.

Gradually he looked up into her face, still keeping her hand pressed on the desk under his.  It was his left hand that so guarded her, while she stood by his right shoulder.  Then he gently wound his right arm round her waist and pressed her to him.  “Mary,” he said, “if it is so, had you not better tell me?” But she was sure that she had better not mention that name even to him.  It was impossible that she should mention it.  She would have outraged to herself her own maiden modesty by doing so.  “Is it,”—­he asked very softly,—­“is it Surtees?”

“Oh no!” she said quickly, almost escaping from the grasp of his arm in her start.

Then he was absolutely at a loss.  Beyond Mr. Surtees or Larry Twentyman he did not know what possible lover Dillsborough could have afforded.  And yet the very rapidity of her answer when the curate’s name had been mentioned had convinced him that there was some other person,—­had increased the strength of that conviction which her silence had produced.  “Have you nothing that you can tell me, Mary?”

“No, papa.”  Then he gave her back the letter and she left the room without another word.  Of course his sanction to the letter had now been given, and it was addressed to Chowton Farm and posted before half an hour was over.  She saw him again in the afternoon of the same day and asked him to tell her stepmother what she had done.  “Mamma ought to know,” she said.