They were busy cleaning--washing the paint,
etc., in the dining-room, so he did not find me there. I would not
go into the parlour to speak to him in papa's presence. He went out,
thinking he was not to see me; and indeed, till the very last moment,
I thought it best not. But perceiving that he stayed long before
going out at the gate, and remembering his long grief, I took courage
and went out, trembling and miserable. I found him leaning against
the garden door in a paroxysm of anguish, sobbing as women never sob.
Of course I went straight to him. Very few words were interchanged,
those few barely articulate. Several things I should have liked to
ask him were swept entirely from my memory. Poor fellow! But he
wanted such hope and such encouragement as I could not give him.
Still, I trust he must know now that I am not cruelly blind and
indifferent to his constancy and grief. For a few weeks he goes to
the south of England, afterwards he takes a curacy somewhere in
Yorkshire, but I don't know where.
'Papa has been far from strong lately. I dare not mention Mr.
Nicholls's name to him. He speaks of him quietly and without
opprobrium to others, but to me he is implacable on the matter.
However, he is gone--gone, and there's an end of it.
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