Great, therefore, was his surprise when he received a letter from her expressing her deep regret that she could not approve of his resolution. The exchange of the heart's affection, she said, between a man and a woman was a serious and solemn engagement. It was often a matter of life and death. Not only the happiness of the individuals themselves, but the welfare of society might depend upon it. It was really as binding as the marriage vow itself. No cooling of affection, no temporary estrangement, nothing but infidelity could be a reason for setting it aside. And as for his future happiness, he should not despair. By the use of tender and assiduous sympathy he had succeeded in rekindling healthy affection in many a degraded soul. Why should the influence which had been so effectual in the slums of Coaltown fail at his own fireside. Let him keep his promise like an honourable man and a Christian. Let him do the right, and trust in God for the result.
When Malcolm Blair was reading this letter, he felt like a criminal receiving sentence of death. Had anyone else than Miss Singleton offered this opinion, he would have spurned it. But she was his guardian angel, one who, in his belief, had never erred, and could never err. Besides, if he did what she considered a dishonourable action, he would forfeit her approval; and that was all the world to him. He therefore felt himself bound to follow her advice, although he broke his heart in doing it. He even forced himself to take up her sanguine view of the future, and hoped that by kind and sympathetic treatment, he would succeed in making Grace Bourhill into a useful minister's wife.
Four years have elapsed--four momentous years. Mr and Mrs Blair are seated at breakfast. He is wan and wasted, and stoops over his cup and plate as he drinks his weak tea and eats his thin toast. She is stout, red, and restless-eyed. A pervading air of discomfort is given to the room by the dirty discoloured tablecloth, the disarranged furniture, and the careless dress of the two occupants. The following is the conversation which passes between them.
"There!" says she, tossing to her husband a letter which she has just opened and glanced over, "there's Goodsir's, the grocer's account."