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Mr. Gilmore was standing on the doorsteps of his own house when
Mary's letter was brought to him. It was a modest-sized country
gentleman's residence, built of variegated uneven stones, black and
grey and white, which seemed to be chiefly flint; but the corners
and settings of the windows and of the door-ways, and the chimneys,
were of brick. There was something sombre about it, and many perhaps
might call it dull of aspect; but it was substantial, comfortable,
and unassuming. It was entered by broad stone steps, with iron
balustrades curving outwards as they descended, and there was an open
area round the house, showing that the offices were in the basement.
In these days it was a quiet house enough, as Mr. Gilmore was a man
not much given to the loudness of bachelor parties. He entertained
his neighbours at dinner perhaps once a month, and occasionally
had a few guests staying with him. His uncle, the prebendary from
Salisbury, was often with him, and occasionally a brother who was in
the army. For the present, however, he was much more inclined, when
in want of society, to walk off to the Vicarage than to provide it
for himself at home. When Mary's letter was handed to him with his
"Times" and other correspondence, he looked, as everybody does, at
the address, and at once knew that it came from Mary Lowther. He
had never hitherto received a letter from her, but yet he knew her
handwriting well. Without waiting a moment, he turned upon his heel,
and went back into his house, and through the hall to the library.
When there, he first opened three other letters, two from tradesmen
in London, and one from his uncle, offering to come to him on the
next Monday. Then he opened the "Times," and cut it, and put it down
on the table. Mary's letter meanwhile was in his hand, and anyone
standing by might have thought that he had forgotten it. But he
had not forgotten it, nor was it out of his mind for a moment.
While looking at the other letters, while cutting the paper, while
attempting, as he did, to read the news, he was suffering under the
dread of the blow that was coming. He was there for twenty minutes
before he dared to break the envelope; and though during the whole of
that time he pretended to deceive himself by some employment, he knew
that he was simply postponing an evil thing that was coming to him.
At last he cut the letter open, and stood for some moments looking
for courage to read it. He did read it, and t