‘Oh, nonsense, Cyril! Such a young man as Kenrick might choose for himself. And in poor Beatrix’s position she would naturally have reciprocated his affection, if it had only been warmly offered.’ ‘I cannot agree with you there. But if you will go and see the poor girl----’ ‘I’ll put on my bonnet this instant. Will you come with me, Cyril?’ ‘I think not, I should be of no use.’ ‘Well, a man certainly is apt to be in the way under such circumstances. He never knows what to say, or what to leave unsaid.’ ‘And a woman never errs in leaving anything unsaid,’ remarked the Vicar, entering through the curtained archway. While Mrs. Dulcimer was putting on her bonnet, Cyril told the Vicar what Mr. Namby had said about the cause of Christian Harefield’s death, a detail which he had not communicated to Mrs. Dulcimer. ‘This makes it a painful business,’ said Cyril. ‘Very,’ answered the Vicar. ‘But I should not be surprised at Mr. Harefield having deliberately taken the dose that killed him.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘Because to my mind he was a likely subject for suicide. Look at the life he led. A man must sooner or later get tired of leading such a life. Some day he must say to himself, “Wherefore, to what end do I live?” And then, if he is half an infidel, if religion exercises no restraining influence over his acts, he will make up his mind, suddenly, perhaps, to end his existence. He has no love of his fellow-men to anchor him to earth, no hope of anything bright or good waiting for him in the coming years. He has a very faint belief--possibly none at all--in a tribunal beyond this world where he will have to answer for his deeds. It is very clear to me that for the last ten years Christian Harefield’s life has been burdened by some incurable sorrow. He may have grown weary of bearing the sorrow, as people grow weary of bearing pain.’ ‘You are probably right,’ said Cyril; ‘yet I should rather believe his death accidental.’ Mrs. Dulcimer went to the Water House, knowing no more than the fact of Mr. Harefield’s sudden death and his daughter’s desolation. She went up to Beatrix’s room, expecting that the stricken girl would throw herself into her arms and pour out all her woes upon that friendly bosom. Mrs. Dulcimer’s frills and puffings and broad bonnet-strings were in a flutter with the importance of her mission. She felt as if she were the young heiress’s legal guardian. ‘My dearest girl,’ she cried, ‘how my heart bleeds for you!’ But Beatrix was in a curious mood. She seemed not to want other people’s bleeding hearts. Indeed, her own heart was too deeply wounded to receive comfort from such sympathetic bleeding. Mrs. Dulcimer made all the customary speeches which are made and provided for such occasions. ‘You must come to the Vicarage with me, my love,’ she said. ‘You must not stop in this dreary house.’ But here Beatrix was firm. She would not leave the house in which her dead father was lying.