Mr. Sowerby persevered for a long time, but he was quite unable to move the parson from this position. He would do nothing towards making what Mr. Sowerby called an arrangement, but persisted that he would remain at home at Framley, and that any one who had a claim upon him might take legal steps. “I shall do nothing myself,” he said; “but if proceedings against me be taken, I shall prove that I have never had a shilling of the money.” And in this resolution he quitted the Dragon of Wantly. Mr. Sowerby at one time said a word as to the expediency of borrowing that sum of money from John Robarts; but as to this Mark would say nothing. Mr. Sowerby was not the friend with whom he now intended to hold consultation in such matters. “I am not at present prepared,” he said, “to declare what I may do; I must first see what steps others take.” And then he took his hat and went off; and mounting his horse in the yard of the Dragon of Wantly—that horse which he had now so many reasons to dislike—he slowly rode back home. Many thoughts passed through his mind during that ride, but only one resolution obtained for itself a fixture there. He must now tell his wife everything. He would not be so cruel as to let it remain untold until a bailiff were at the door, ready to walk him off to the county gaol, or until the bed on which they slept was to be sold from under them. Yes, he would tell her everything,—immediately, before his resolution could again have faded away. He got off his horse in the yard, and seeing his wife’s maid at the kitchen door, desired her to beg her mistress to come to him in the book-room. He would not allow one half-hour to pass towards the waning of his purpose. If it be ordained that a man shall drown, had he not better drown and have done with it? Mrs. Robarts came to him in his room, reaching him in time to touch his arm as he entered it. “Mary says you want me. I have been gardening, and she caught me just as I came in.” “Yes, Fanny, I do want you. Sit down for a moment.” And walking across the room, he placed his whip in its proper place. “Oh, Mark, is there anything the matter?” “Yes, dearest; yes. Sit down, Fanny; I can talk to you better if you will sit.” But she, poor lady, did not wish to sit. He had hinted at some misfortune, and therefore she felt a longing to stand by him and cling to him. “Well, there; I will if I must; but, Mark, do not frighten me. Why is your face so very wretched?” “Fanny, I have done very wrong,” he said. “I have been very foolish. I fear that I have brought upon you great sorrow and trouble.” And then he leaned his head upon his hand and turned his face away from her. “Oh, Mark, dearest Mark, my own Mark! what is it?” and then she was quickly up from her chair, and went down on her knees before him. “Do not turn from me. Tell me, Mark! tell me, that we may share it.” “Yes, Fanny, I must tell you now; but I hardly know what you will think of me when you have heard it.”