The thing Elizabeth Tresham had done her best to prevent had really happened, but she was not much to blame. Circumstances quite unexpectedly had disarranged her plans and made her physically unable to keep her usual guard over her companion. In fact, Elizabeth’s own love-affairs that eventful Saturday demanded all her womanly diplomacy and decision.

Miss Tresham had the two lovers supposed to be the lot of most women––the ineligible one, whom she contradictively preferred, and the eligible one, who adored her in spite of all discouragements. The first was the young rector of St. Penfer, a man to whom Elizabeth ascribed every heavenly perfection, but who in the matter of earthly goods had not been well considered by the church he served. The living of St. Penfer was indeed a very poor one, but then the church itself was early Norman and the rectory more than two hundred years old. Elizabeth thought poverty might at least be picturesque under such conditions; and at nineteen years of 23 age poverty has a romantic colouring if only love paint it.

Robert Burrell, the other lover, had nothing romantic about him, not even poverty. He was unpoetically rich––he even trafficked in money. The rector was a very young man; Burrell was thirty-eight years old. The rector wrote poetry, and understood Browning, and recited from Arnold and Morris. Burrell’s tastes were for social science and statistics. He was thoughtful, intelligent, well-bred, and reticent; small in figure, with a large head and very fine eyes. The rector, on the contrary, was tall and fair, and so exceedingly handsome that women especially never perceived that the portal to all his senses was small and low and that he was incapable of receiving a great idea.

On that Saturday morning Robert Burrell resolved to test his fate, and he wrote to Miss Tresham. It was a letter full of that passionate adoration he was too timid to personally offer, and his protestations were honourably certified by the offer of his hand and fortune. It was a noble letter; a letter no woman could easily put aside. It meant to Elizabeth a sure love to guard and comfort her and an absolute release from the petty straits and anxieties of genteel poverty. It would make her the mistress of the finest domestic establishment in the neighbourhood––it would give her opportunities for helping Roland to the position in life he ought to occupy; and this thought––though an after one––had a great influence on Elizabeth’s mind.

After some consideration she took the letter to 24 her father. He was in one of his most querulous moods, ill-disposed to believe in any good thing coming to him. He read the letter under such influence, and yet he could not but be sensible of its importance.

“It is a piece of unexpected good fortune for you, Elizabeth,” he said with a sigh. “Of course it will leave me alone here, but I do not mind that now; all else has gone––why not you? I thought, however, the rector was your choice. I hope you have no entanglement there.”

“He has never asked me to be his wife, but he has constantly shown that he wished it. He is poor––I think he felt that.”

“He has made love to you, called you the fairest girl on earth, made you believe he lived only in your presence, and so on, and so on?”

“Yes, he has talked in that way for a long time.”

“He never intends to ask you to marry him. He asked Dr. Eyre if you had any fortune. Oh, I know his kind and their ways!”

“I think you are mistaken, father. If he knew Mr. Burrell wished to marry me he would venture to–––”

“You think he would? I am sure he would not––but here the gentleman comes. I will speak a few words to him and then he will speak to you, and after that you can answer Mr. Burrell’s letter. Stay a moment, Elizabeth. It is only fair to tell you that I have no money but my annuity. When I die you will be penniless.”

So Elizabeth went out of the room silent and with 25 her head drooping a little. The word “penniless” was a shock to her. She sat down in a large chair with her back to the light and shut her eyes. She wished to set the two men clearly before her. It would be easy to love Robert Burrell if she did not love the other. Did she love the other? She examined her heart pitilessly, and found always some little “if” crouching in a corner. In some way or other it was evident she did not believe “the other” would stand trial.

Mr. Tresham had the same opinion in a more positive form, and he was quite willing to test it. He met the rector with more effusion than was usual with him, and putting on his hat said:

“Walk around the garden with me, sir. I have something to say to you, and as I am a father you must permit me to speak very plainly. I believe you are in love with Elizabeth?”

There was no answer from the young man, and his face was pale and angry.

“Well, sir! Am I right or wrong?”

“Sir, I respect and like Miss Tresham. Everyone must do so, I think.”

“Have you asked her to marry you?”

“Oh, dear, no! Nothing of the kind, sir; nothing of the kind!”

“I thought not. Well, you see, sir, your dangling about my house keeps honest men outside, and I would be obliged to you, sir––in fact, sir, I require you at once to make Miss Tresham understand that your protestations are lies––simple and straightforward lies, sir. I insist on your telling her that your 26 love-making is your amusement and girls’ hearts the pawns with which you play. You will tell her that you are a scoundrel, sir! And when you have explained yourself to Miss Tresham, you had better give the same information to Miss Trelawny, and to Miss Rose Trefuses, and to that poor little sewing-girl you practise your recitations on. Sir, I have the greatest contempt for you, and when you have spoken to Miss Tresham, you will leave my house and come here no more.”

“It will give me pleasure to obey you, sir.”

With these words he turned from the contemptuous old man, and in a hurried, angry mood sought Elizabeth in her usual sitting-room.

She opened her eyes as he opened the door and looked at him. Then she rose and went toward him. He waved her away imperatively and said:

“No, Elizabeth! No! I have no caress for you to-day! I do not think I shall ever feel lovingly to you again. Why did you tell your father anything? I thought our love was a secret, sacred affair. When I am brought to catechism about my heart matters, I shut my heart close. I am not to be hectored and frightened into marrying any woman.”

“Will you remember whose presence you are in?”

“If you wanted to be my wife–––”

“I do not want to be your wife.”

“If you loved me in the least–––”

“I do not love you in the least.”

“I shall come here no more. O Elizabeth! Only to think!”