go. The consciousness of having now taken the
first step on the dreary journey which was
henceforth to separate my life from Miss Fairlie's,
seemed to have blunted my sensibility to every
consideration connected with myself. I had done
with my poor man's touchy pride; I had done
with all my little artist vanities. No insolence
of Mr. Fairlie's, if he chose to be insolent, could
wound me now.

The servant returned with a message for which
I was not unprepared. Mr. Fairlie regretted
that the state of his health, on that particular
morning, was such as to preclude all hope of his
having the pleasure of receiving me. He begged,
therefore, that I would accept his apologies, and
kindly communicate what I had to say, in the
form of a letter. Similar messages to this, had
reached me, at various intervals, during my
three months residence in the house. Throughout
the whole of that period, Mr. Fairlie had been
rejoiced to "possess" me, but had never been
well enough to see me for a second time. The
servant took every fresh batch of drawings, that
I mounted and restored, back to his master,
with my "respects;" and returned empty-handed
with Mr. Fairlie's "kind compliments," "best
thanks," and "sincere regrets" that the state of
his health still obliged him to remain a solitary
prisoner in his own room. A more satisfactory
arrangement to both sides could not possibly
have been adopted. It would be hard to say
which of us, under the circumstances, felt the
most grateful sense of obligation to Mr. Fairlie's
accommodating nerves.

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 down stairs 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.

On our way to the farm we arranged that Miss
Halcombe was to enter the house alone, and that
I was to wait outside, within call. We adopted
this mode of proceeding from an apprehension
that my presence, after what had happened in
the churchyard the evening before, might have
the effect of renewing Anne Catherick's nervous
dread, and of rendering her additionally distrustful
of the advances of a lady who was a stranger
to her. Miss Halcombe left me, with the intention
of speaking, in the first instance, to the
farmer's wife (of whose friendly readiness to help
her in any way she was well assured), while I
waited for her in the near neighbourhood of the
house.

I had fully expected to be left alone, for some
time. To my surprise, however, little more than
five minutes had elapsed, before Miss Halcombe
returned.

"Does Anne Catherick refuse to see you?" I
asked, in astonishment.

"Anne Catherick is gone," replied Miss
Halcombe.

"Gone!"

"Gone, with Mrs. Clements. They both left
the farm at eight o'clock this morning."

I could say nothing—I could only feel that
our last chance of discovery had gone with
them.

"All that Mrs. Todd knows about her guests,
I know," Miss Halcombe went on; "and it
leaves me, as it leaves her, in the dark. They
both came back safe, last night, after they left
you, and they passed the first part of the evening
with Mr. Todd's family, as usual. Just before
supper-time, however, Anne Catherick startled
them all by being suddenly seized with faintness.
She had had a similar attack, of a less alarming