Chapter CCII: Section 12: Thyrsis figured that the fatal document would reach Mr

Harding that afternoon; and the next morning in his anxiety he walked a mile or two to meet the mail-carrier on his way. Sure enough, there was a reply from the clergyman. He tore it open and read it swiftly:

“I received your letter, and I hasten to answer. I cannot tell you the distress of mind which it has caused me. There has been a most dreadful misundertanding, and I can only hope that it has not gone too far to be corrected. I beg you to believe me that there has been nothing between your wife and myself that could justify the inference you have drawn. Your wife was in terrible distress of spirit, and I visited her and tried to comfort her--such is my duty as a clergyman, as I conceive it. I did nothing but what a clergyman should properly do, and you have totally misunderstood me, and also your wife, who is the most innocent and gentle and trusting of souls. She is utterly devoted to you, and the idea that the help I have tried to give her should be the occasion of any misunderstanding between you is dreadful for me to contemplate.

“I must implore you to believe this, and dismiss these cruel suspicions from your mind. If I were to be the cause of breaking up your home, and wrecking Corydon’s life, it would be more than I could bear. I have a most profound belief in the sanctity of the institution of marriage, and not for anything in the world would I have been led to do, or even to contemplate in my own thoughts, anything which would trespass upon its obligations. I repeat to you with all the earnestness of which I am capable that your idea is without basis, and I beg you to banish it from your mind. You may rely upon it that I will not see your wife again, under any circumstances imaginable.”

Thyrsis read this, and then stared before him with knitted brows. “Why, what’s the matter with the man?” he said to himself. And then he read the letter over again, weighing its every phrase. “Did he think my letter was sarcasm?” he wondered. “Did he think I was angry?”

He went to his study and got the rough draft of his own letter, and reread and pondered it. No, he concluded, it was not possible that Mr. Harding had thought he was angry. “He’s trying to dodge!” he exclaimed. “He can’t bring himself to face the thing!”

But then again, he wondered. Could it be that the man was right; could it be that Corydon had misunderstood him and his attitude? Or had he perhaps experienced a reaction, and was now trying to deny his feelings?

For several hours Thyrsis pondered the problem; and then he went and sat by her, as she was reading on the piazza. “You haven’t heard anything more from Mr. Harding, have you?” he asked.

“Nothing,” said Corydon.

“What do you suppose he intends to do?”

“I--I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t think he means to come back.”

“But why not, dear?”

“He’s afraid to trust himself, Thyrsis.”

“You think he really cares for you, then?”

“Yes, dear.”

“But, how can you be sure?” he asked.

At which Corydon smiled. “A woman has ways of knowing about such things,” she said.

“I wish you’d tell me about it,” said he.

But after a little thought, she shook her head. “Maybe some day, but not now. It wouldn’t be fair to him. It isn’t going any further, and that’s enough for you to know.”

“He must be unhappy, isn’t he?” said Thyrsis, artfully.

“Yes,” she answered, “he’s unhappy, I’m sure. He takes things very seriously.”

Thyrsis paused a moment. “Did he tell you that he loved you?” he asked.

“No,” said Corydon. “He--he wouldn’t have permitted himself to do that. That would have been wrong.”

“But then--what did he do?”

“He looked at me,” she said.

“When he went off the other day--did he know how you still felt?”

“Yes, Thyrsis; why do you ask?”

“I thought you might have been deceiving yourself.”’

At which she smiled and replied, “I wouldn’t have bothered to tell you in that case.”