I sat down at once to write the letter, expressing myself in it as civilly, as clearly, and as briefly as possible.  Mr. Fairlie did not hurry his reply.  Nearly an hour elapsed before the answer was placed in my hands.  It was written with beautiful regularity and neatness of character, in violet-coloured ink, on note-paper as smooth as ivory and almost as thick as cardboard, and it addressed me in these terms—­

“Mr. Fairlie’s compliments to Mr. Hartright.  Mr. Fairlie is more surprised and disappointed than he can say (in the present state of his health) by Mr. Hartright’s application.  Mr. Fairlie is not a man of business, but he has consulted his steward, who is, and that person confirms Mr. Fairlie’s opinion that Mr. Hartright’s request to be allowed to break his engagement cannot be justified by any necessity whatever, excepting perhaps a case of life and death.  If the highly-appreciative feeling towards Art and its professors, which it is the consolation and happiness of Mr. Fairlie’s suffering existence to cultivate, could be easily shaken, Mr. Hartright’s present proceeding would have shaken it.  It has not done so—­except in the instance of Mr. Hartright himself.

“Having stated his opinion—­so far, that is to say, as acute nervous suffering will allow him to state anything—­Mr. Fairlie has nothing to add but the expression of his decision, in reference to the highly irregular application that has been made to him.  Perfect repose of body and mind being to the last degree important in his case, Mr. Fairlie will not suffer Mr. Hartright to disturb that repose by remaining in the house under circumstances of an essentially irritating nature to both sides.  Accordingly, Mr. Fairlie waives his right of refusal, purely with a view to the preservation of his own tranquillity—­and informs Mr. Hartright that he may go.”

I folded the letter up, and put it away with my other papers.  The time had been when I should have resented it as an insult—­I accepted it now as a written release from my engagement.  It was off my mind, it was almost out of my memory, when I went downstairs to the breakfast-room, and informed Miss Halcombe that I was ready to walk with her to the farm.

“Has Mr. Fairlie given you a satisfactory answer?” she asked as we left the house.

“He has allowed me to go, Miss Halcombe.”

She looked up at me quickly, and then, for the first time since I had known her, took my arm of her own accord.  No words could have expressed so delicately that she understood how the permission to leave my employment had been granted, and that she gave me her sympathy, not as my superior, but as my friend.  I had not felt the man’s insolent letter, but I felt deeply the woman’s atoning kindness.