en I would accede to his wishes. It may be painful, but it will
be better to have it over." Mr Whittlestaff, in giving this advice,
had thought much as to what the world would say of him. He had done
nothing of which he was ashamed,--nor had Mary. She had given him her
promise, and he was sure that she would not depart from it. It would,
he thought, be infinitely better for her, for many reasons, that she
should be married to him than to this wild young man, who had just
now returned to England from the diamond-mines, and would soon, he
imagined, go back there again. But the young man had asked to see the
girl whom he was about to marry alone, and it would not suit him to
be afraid to allow her so much liberty.

"I shall not hurt you, Mary," said John Gordon.

"I am sure you would not hurt me."

"Nor say an unkind word."

"Oh no! You could do nothing unkind to me, I know. But you might
spare me and yourself some pain."

"I cannot do it," he said. "I cannot bring myself to go back at once
after this long voyage, instantly, as I should do, without having
spoken one word to you. I have come here to England on purpose to see
you. Nothing shall induce me to abandon my intention of doing so, but
your refusal. I have received a blow,--a great blow,--and it is you
who must tell me that there is certainly no cure for the wound."

"There is certainly none," said Mary.

"Perhaps I had better leave you together," said Mr Whittlestaff, as
he got up and left the room.

CHAPTER VIII.

JOHN GORDON AND MARY LAWRIE.

The door was closed, and John Gordon and Mary were alone together.
She was still seated, and he, coming forward, stood in front of her.
"Mary," he said,--and he put out his right hand, as though to take
hers. But she sat quite still, making no motion to give him her hand.
Nor did she say a word. To her her promise, her reiterated promise,
to Mr Whittlestaff was binding,--not the less binding because it had
only been made on this very day. She had already acknowledged to
this other man that the promise had been made, and she had asked him
to spare her this interview. He had not spared her, and it was for
him now to say, while it lasted, what there was to be said. She had
settled the matter in her own mind, and had made him understand that
it was so settled. There was nothing further that she could tell him.
"Mary, now that we are alone, will you not speak to me?"

"I have nothing to say."

"Should I no