Massingbred walked to the window to hide the emotion these tidings produced; for, with all his self-command, the suddenness of the intelligence had unmanned him, and a cold and sickly feeling came over him. There was far more of outraged and insulted pride than love in the emotions which then moved him. The bitter thought of the moment was, how indifferent she felt about _him_,--how little _he_ weighed in any resolve she determined to follow. She had gone without a word of farewell,--perhaps without a thought of him. “Be it so,” said he to himself; “there has been more than enough of humiliation to me in our intercourse. It is time to end it! The whole was a dream, from which the awaking was sure to be painful. Better meet it at once, and have done with it.” There was that much of passion in this resolve that proved how far more it came from wounded pride than calm conviction; and so deeply was his mind engrossed with this feeling, that Martin had twice spoken to him ere he noticed his question. “Do you mean, then, to show that letter to my mother?” “Ay; I have written it with that object Scanlan asked me to be his interpreter, and I have kept my pledge.--And did she go alone,--unaccompanied?” “I fancy so; but, in truth, I never asked. The doctors were here, and all that fuss and confusion going on, so that I had really little head for anything. After all, I suspect she's a girl might be able to take care of herself,--should n't you say so?” Massingbred was silent for a while, and then said: “You 'll have to be on the alert about this business of yours, Martin; and if I can be of service to you, command me. I mean to start for London immediately.” “I 'll see my mother at once, then,” said he, taking up Massingbred's letter. “Shall I meet you in about an hour, in the Lichtenthal Avenue?” “Agreed,” said he; and they parted. We have no need, nor have we any right, to follow Massingbred as he strolled out to walk alone in an alley of the wood. Irresolution is an intense suffering to men of action; and such was the present condition of his mind. Week after week, month after month, had he lingered on in companionship with the Martins, till such had become the intimacy between them that they scrupled not to discuss before him the most confidential circumstances, and ask his counsel on the most private concerns. He fancied that he was “of them;” he grew to think that he was, somehow, part and parcel of the family, little suspecting the while that Kate Henderson was the link that bound him to them, and that without her presence they resolved themselves into three individuals for whom he felt wonderfully little of interest or affection. “She is gone, and what have I to stay for?” was the question he put to himself; and for answer he could only repeat it. CHAPTER XXV. A COMPROMISE