It seemed to him
that the two months would never be over. On the Monday he was out
early on the farm and then came down in his boots and breeches, and
had his red coat ready at the fire while he sat at breakfast. The
meet was fifteen miles off and he had sent on his hunter, intending
to travel thither in his dog cart. Just as he was cutting himself a
slice of beef the postman came, and of course he read his letter.
He read it with the carving knife in his hand, and then he stood
gazing at his mother. "What is it, Larry?" she asked; "is anything
wrong?"
"Wrong,--well; I don't know," he said. "I don't know what you call
wrong. I shan't hunt; that's all." Then he threw aside the knife
and pushed away his plate and marched out of the room with the open
letter in his hand.
Mrs. Twentyman knew very well of his love,--as indeed did nearly
all Dillsborough; but she had heard nothing of the two months and
did not connect the letter with Mary Masters. Surely he must have
lost a large sum of money. That was her idea till she saw him again
late in the afternoon.
He never went near the hounds that day or near his business. He was
not then man enough for either. But he walked about the fields,
keeping out of sight of everybody. It was all over now. It must be
all over when she wrote to him a letter like that.
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