breeches, and had his red coat ready at the fire while
he sat at breakfast. The meet was fifteen miles
off and he had sent on his hunter, intending to travel
thither in his dog cart. Just as he was cutting
himself a slice of beef the postman came, and of course
he read his letter. He read it with the carving
knife in his hand, and then he stood gazing at his
mother. “What is it, Larry?” she asked;
“is anything wrong?”
“Wrong,—well; I don’t know,”
he said. “I don’t know what you call
wrong. I shan’t hunt; that’s all.”
Then he threw aside the knife and pushed away his
plate and marched out of the room with the open letter
in his hand.
Mrs. Twentyman knew very well of his love,—as
indeed did nearly all Dillsborough; but she had heard
nothing of the two months and did not connect the
letter with Mary Masters. Surely he must have
lost a large sum of money. That was her idea till
she saw him again late in the afternoon.
He never went near the hounds that day or near his
business. He was not then man enough for either.
But he walked about the fields, keeping out of sight
of everybody. It was all over now. It must
be all over when she wrote to him a letter like that.
Why had she tempted him to thoughts of happiness and
success by that promise of two months’ grace?
He supposed that he was not good enough;—or
that she thought he was not good enough. Then
he remembered his acres, and his material comforts,
and tried to console himself by reflecting that Mary
Masters might very well do worse in the world.
But there was no consolation in it. He had tried
his best because he had really loved the girl.
He had failed, and all the world,— all
his world, would know that he had failed. There
was not a man in the club,—hardly a man
in the hunt,—who was not aware that he
had offered to Mary Masters. During the last two
months he had not been so reticent as was prudent,
and had almost boasted to Fred Botsey of success.
And then how was he to live at Chowton Farm without
Mary Masters as his wife? As he returned home
he almost made up his mind that he would not continue
to live at Chowton Farm.
He came back through Dillsborough Wood; and there,
prowling about, he met Goarly. “Well, Mr.
Twentyman,” said the man, “I am making
it all straight now with his Lordship.”
“I don’t care what you’re doing,”
said Larry in his misery. “You are an infernal
blackguard and that’s the best of you.”
Chowton Farm for Sale.
John Morton had returned to town soon after his walk
into Dillsborough and had there learned from different
sources that both Arabella Trefoil and Lord Rufford
had gone or were going to Mistletoe. He had seen
Lord Augustus who, though he could tell him nothing
else about his daughter, had not been slow to inform
him that she was going to the house of her noble uncle.
When Morton had spoken to him very seriously about
