tory seemed
to make that more, not less, explicable. Jenny, in honor pledged to
Fillingford, found that she wanted to marry Octon; she had not dared to
tell Fillingford so; hence all the subterfuges, the secret meetings, the
catastrophe, and the flight.

"In a day or two we shall get news of their marriage, no doubt. It's
very silly, and not very creditable--but it's hardly a tragedy, Austin.
Only--there goes Fillingford Manor forever! And what a master for
Breysgate!"

His was as plain and reasonable a view as the situation could be fitted
into. Jenny would now marry Octon, wait till the sensation was over, and
then come back to Breysgate with her husband. Or perhaps she would not
come back to Breysgate; perhaps she would not face the neighborhood with
her record behind her--and Octon by her side, ever recalling it. She
would break up all the fabric which she had made--and start anew
somewhere else. That did not seem unlikely; a suggestion of it filled
Cartmell with fresh dismay.

"A pretty thing that!" he said. "After all our tall talk about our love
for Catsford, and our Institute, and all the rest of it! How am I to
face Bindlecombe, eh? And look at the money she's put into the estate!
She'll never get that back on a sale."

I found Cartmell rather comforting--at least he created a diversion in
my thoughts. His care for the externals of the position, for the
material and even the pecuniary aspects of it, was a relief to an
imagination which, all against its will, had been engrossed in the state
and the struggle of Jenny's heart--dwelling on her intentions not about
her estate and her Institute, but about herself, picturing the strong
rush of feeling which had impelled her to her flight, asking whither it
would lead or had led her--and asking doubtfully.

Cartmell tapped my knee with the end of his stick. "The sooner we get
news of the marriage, the better--though bad's the best!" he said with a
solemn nod of his head.

He was right--but most heartily did I echo his "Bad's the best!" Had
Jenny herself ever thought differently--at least before that fatal
night? What was she thinking now--when the night was past?

Two days later a long letter reached Cartmell; he came up to me with it
directly after breakfast, when I was in my office at the Priory. A
lonely, weary great place was the house now--no life in it; Chat in bed
and probably in flutters--she had taken to both on the night of the
disaster, and clung to