Kitabı oku: «Cursed by a Fortune», sayfa 5
“Call him; he isn’t above two miles off.”
“Aunt – aunt!” cried the girl, excitedly, and with the hot, indignant tears rising to her eyes.
“Gone to lie down, while I have a good long loving talk with you, darling. Ah, it’s of no use to struggle. Don’t be so foolish. There, you’ve fought long enough. All girls do the same, because it is their nature to fool it. There! now I’m master; give me a nice, pretty, long kiss, little wifie-to-be. I say, Kitty, you are a beauty. Let’s be married soon. You don’t know how happy I shall make you.”
Half mad now with indignation and fear, she wrested herself once more free, and, scorning to call for help, she ran toward the fire place. But before she could reach the bell he struck her hand on one side, caught her closely now in his arms, and covered her face once more with kisses.
This time a loud cry escaped her as she struggled hard, to be conscious the next moment of some one rushing into the room, feeling herself dragged away, and as the word “Hound!” fell fiercely upon her ear there was the sound of a heavy blow, a scuffling noise, and a loud crash of breaking wood and glass.
Chapter Eleven
“My poor darling child! – Lie still, you miserable hound, or I’ll half strangle you.”
The words – tender and gentle as if it were a woman’s voice, fierce and loud as from an enraged man – seemed to come out of a thick mist in which Kate felt as if she were sick unto death. Then by degrees she grew conscious that she was being held tightly to the breast of of some one who was breathing hard from exertion, and tenderly stroking and smoothing her dishevelled hair.
The next moment there was a wild cry, and she recognised her aunt’s voice, as, giddy and exhausted, she clung to him who held her.
“What is it? What is it? Oh, Claud, my darling! Help, help, help! He’s killed him – killed.”
“Here, what’s the matter? Who called?” came from a little distance. Then from close at hand Kate heard her uncle’s voice through the mist. “What’s all this, Maria – John Garstang – Claud? Damn it all, can no one speak? – Kate, what is it?”
“This,” cried Garstang, sternly. “I came back just now, and hearing shrieks rushed in here, just in time to save this poor, weak, suffering child from the brutal insulting attack of that young ruffian.”
“He has killed him. James – he has killed him,” shrieked Mrs Wilton. “On, my poor dear darling boy!”
“Back, all of you. Be off,” roared Wilton, as half a dozen servants came crowding to the door, which he slammed in their faces, and turned the key. “Now, please let’s have the truth,” he cried, hotly. “Here, Kate, my dear; come to me.”
She made no reply, but Garstang felt her cling more closely to him.
“Will some one speak?” cried Wilton, again.
“The Doctor – send for the Doctor; he’s dead, he’s dead,” wailed Mrs Wilton, who was down upon her knees now, holding her son’s head in her lap; while save for a slight quiver of the muscles, indicative of an effort to keep his eyes closed, Claud made no sign.
“He is not dead,” said Garstang, coldly; “a knockdown blow would not kill a ruffian of his calibre.”
“Oh,” exclaimed Mrs Wilton, turning upon him now in her maternal fury; “he owns to it, he struck him down – my poor, poor boy. James, why don’t you send for the police at once? The cruelty – the horror of it! Kate, Kate, my dear, come away from the wretch at once.”
“Then you own that you struck him down?” cried Wilton, whose face was now black with a passion which made him send prudence to the winds, as he rose in revolt against one who had long been his master.
“Yes,” said Garstang, quietly, and without a trace of anger, though his tone was full of contempt; “I told you why.”
“Yes, and by what right did you interfere? Some foolish romping connected with a boy and girl love, I suppose. How dared you interfere?”
“Boy and girl love!” cried Garstang, scornfully, as he laid one hand upon Kate’s head and pressed it to his shoulder, where she nestled and hid her face. “Shame upon you both; it was scandalous!”
“Shame upon us? What do you mean, sir? What do you mean? – Will you come away from him, Kate?”
“I mean this,” said Garstang, with his arm firmly round the poor girl’s waist, “that you and your wife have failed utterly in your duties towards this poor suffering child.”
“It isn’t true,” cried Mrs Wilton. “We’ve treated her as if she were our own daughter; and my poor boy told me how he loved her, and he had only just come to talk to her for a bit. Oh, Claud, my darling! my precious boy!”
“Did I not tell you that your darling – your precious boy – was insulting her grievously? Shame upon you, woman,” cried Garstang. “It needed no words of mine to explain what had taken place. Your own woman’s nature ought to have revolted against such an outrage to the weak invalid placed by her poor father’s will in your care.”
“Don’t you speak to my wife like that!” cried Wilton, angrily.
“I will speak to your wife like that, and to you as well. I forbore to speak before: I had no right; but do you think I have been blind to the scandal going on here? The will gives you full charge of the poor child and her fortune, and what do I find when I come down? A dastardly cruel plot to ensnare her – to force on a union with an unmannerly, brutally coarse young ruffian, that he may – that you may, for your own needs and ends, lawfully gain possession of the fortune, to scatter to the winds.”
“It’s a lie – it’s a lie!” roared Wilton.
“It is the truth, sir. Your wife’s words just now confirmed what I had noted over and over again, till my very gorge rose at being compelled to accept the hospitality of such people, while I writhed at my own impotence, my helplessness when I wished to interfere. You know – she knows – how I have kept silence. Not one word of warning have I uttered to her. She must have seen and felt what was being hatched, but neither she nor I could have realised that the cowardly young ruffian lying there would have dared to insult a weak gentle girl whose very aspect claimed a man’s respect and protection. A lie? It is the truth, James Wilton.”
“Oh, my poor, poor boy!” wailed Mrs Wilton; “and I did beg and pray of you not to be too rash.”
“Will you hold your tongue, woman?” roared Wilton.
“Yes, for heaven’s sake be silent, madam,” cried Garstang; “there was no need for you to indorse my words, and lower yourself more in your poor niece’s eyes.”
“Look here,” cried Wilton, who was going to and fro beyond the library table, writhing under the lash of his solicitor’s tongue; “it’s all a bit of nonsense; the foolish fellow snatched a kiss, I suppose.”
“Snatched a kiss!” cried Garstang, scornfully. “Look at her: quivering with horror and indignation.”
“I won’t look at her. I won’t be talked to like this in my own house.”
“Your own house!” said Garstang, contemptuously.
“Yes, sir; mine till the law forces me to give it up. I won’t have it. It’s my house, and I won’t stand here and be bullied by any man.”
“Oh, don’t, don’t, don’t make things worse, James,” wailed Mrs Wilton. “Send for the Doctor; his heart is beating still.”
“You hold your tongue, and don’t you make things worse,” roared her husband. “As for him – curse him! – it’s all his doing.”
“But he’s lying here insensible, and you won’t send for help.”
“No, I won’t. Do you think I want Leigh and his sister, and then the whole parish, to know what has been going on? The servants will talk enough.”
“But he’s dying, James.”
“You said he was dead just now. Chuck some cold water over the idiot, and bring him to. Damn him! I should like to horsewhip him!”
“You should have done it often, years ago,” said Garstang, bitterly. “It is too late now.”
“You mind your own business,” shouted Wilton, turning upon him; “I can’t talk like you do, but I can say what I mean, and it’s this: I’m master here yet, and I’ll stand no more of it. I don’t care for your deeds and documents. I won’t have you here to insult me and my wife, and what’s more, if you’ve done that boy a mischief we’ll see what the law can do. You shall suffer as well as I. Now then: off with you; pack and go, and I’ll show you that the law protects me as well as you. Kate, my girl, you’ve nothing to be frightened about. Come to me here.”
She clung the more tightly to her protector.
“Then come to your aunt,” said Wilton, fiercely. “Get up, Maria,” he shouted. “Can’t you see I want you here?”
“Get up? Oh, James, James, I can’t leave my boy.”
“Get up, before you put me in a rage,” he yelled. “Now, then, Kate, come here; and I tell you this, John Garstang. I give you a quarter of an hour, and if you’re not gone then, the men shall throw you out.”
“What!” cried Garstang, sternly, as he drew himself up. “Go and leave this poor girl here to your tender mercies?”
“Yes, sir; go and leave ‘this poor girl,’ as you call her, to my tender mercies.”
“I can not; I will not,” said Garstang, firmly.
“But I say you shall, Mr Lawyer. You know enough of such things to feel that you must. Curse you and your interference. Kate, my dear, I am your poor dead father’s executor, and your guardian.”
“Yes, it is true,” said Garstang, bitterly. “Poor fellow, it was the one mistake of a good, true life. He had faith in his brother.”
“More than he had in you,” cried Wilton. “Do you hear what I say, Kate? Don’t visit upon your aunt and me the stupid folly of that boy, whose sin is that he is very fond of you, and frightened you by a bit of loving play.”
“Loving play!” cried Garstang, scornfully.
“Yes, my dear, loving play. I vouch for it, and so will his mother.”
“Yes, yes, yes, Kate, dear. He does love you. He told me so, and if he did wrong, poor, poor boy, see how he has been punished.”
“There, my dear, you hear,” cried Wilton, trying hard to speak gently and winningly to her, but failing dismally. “Come to your aunt now.”
“Yes, Kate, darling, do, do please, and help me to try and bring him round. You don’t want to see him lie a corpse at his sorrowing mother’s feet?”
“Come here, Kate,” cried Wilton, fiercely now. “Don’t you make me angry. I am your guardian, and you must obey me. Come away from that man.”
She shuddered, and began to sob now violently.
“Ah, that’s better. You’re coming to your senses now, and seeing things in their proper light. Now, John Garstang, you heard what I said – go.”
“Yes, my child,” said Garstang, taking one of Kate’s hands, and raising it tenderly to his lips, “your uncle is right. I have no place here, no right to protect you, and I must go, trusting that good may come out of evil, and that what has passed, besides opening your eyes to what is a thorough conspiracy, will give you firmness to protect yourself, and teach them that such a project as theirs is an infamy.”
“Don’t stand preaching there, man. Your time’s nearly up. Go, before you are made. Come here to your aunt, Kate.”
“No, my dear, do nothing of the sort,” said Garstang, gently, as she slowly raised her head and gazed imploringly in his face. “You are but a girl, but you must play the woman now – the firm, strong woman who has to protect herself. Go up to your room and insist upon staying there until you have a guarantee that this insolent cub, who is lying here pretending to be insensible, shall cease his pretensions or be sent away. There, go, and heaven protect you; I can do no more.”
Kate drew herself up erect and gazed at him mournfully for a few moments, and then said firmly:
“Yes, Mr Garstang, I will do as you say. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” he said, as he bent down and softly kissed her forehead. Then she walked firmly from the room.
“Brave girl!” said Garstang; “she will be a match for you and your plans now, James Wilton.”
“Will you go, sir?” roared the other.
“Yes, I will go. Then it is to be war between us, is it?”
“What you like; I’m reckless now; but you can’t interfere with me there.”
“No, and I will not trample upon a worm when it is down. I shall take no petty revenge, and you dare not persecute that poor girl. Good-bye to you both, and may this be a lesson to you and your foolish wife. As for you, you cur, if I hear that you have insulted your cousin again – a girl that any one with the slightest pretension to being a man would have looked upon as a sister – law or no law, I’ll come down and thrash you within an inch of your life. I’m a strong man yet, as you know.”
He turned and walked proudly out of the room; and as soon as his step had ceased to ring on the oaken floor of the hall Wilton turned savagely upon his son, where he lay upon the thick Turkey carpet, and roared:
“Get up!”
Mrs Wilton shrieked and caught at her husband’s leg, but in vain, for he delivered a tremendous kick at the prostrate youth, which brought him to his senses with a yell.
“What are you doing?” he roared.
“A hundred and fifty thousand pounds!” cried Wilton. “Curse you, I should like to give you a hundred and fifty thousand of those.”
Within half an hour the dog-cart bearing John Garstang and his portmanteau was grating over the gravel of the drive, and as he passed the further wing he looked up at an open window where Kate was standing pale and still.
He raised his hat to her as he passed, but she did not stir, only said farewell to him with her eyes.
But as the vehicle disappeared among the trees of the avenue she shrank away, to stand thinking of her position, of Garstang’s words, and how it seemed now that her girlish life had come to an end that day. For she felt that she was alone, and that henceforth she must knit herself together to fight the battle of her life, strong in her womanly defence, for her future depended entirely upon herself.
And through the rest of that unhappy afternoon and evening, as she sat there, resisting all requests to come down, and taking nothing but some slight refreshment brought up by her maid, she was trying to solve the problem constantly before her:
What should she do now?
Chapter Twelve
Kate was not the only one at the Manor House who declined to come down to dinner.
The bell had rung, and after Mrs Wilton had been up twice to her niece’s room, and reported the ill success of her visits to her lord, Wilton growled out:
“Well, I want my dinner. Let her stay and starve herself into her senses. But here,” he cried, with a fresh burst of temper, “why the devil isn’t that boy here? I’m not going to be kept waiting for him. Do you hear? Where is he?”
“He was so ill, dear, he said he was obliged to go upstairs and lie down.”
“Bah! Rubbish! He wasn’t hurt.”
“Oh, my dear, you don’t know,” sobbed Mrs Wilton.
“Yah! You cry if you dare. Wipe your eyes. Think I haven’t had worry enough to-day without you trying to lay the dust? Ring and tell Samuel to fetch him down.”
“Oh, pray don’t do that, dear; the servants will talk enough as it is.”
“They’d better. I’ll discharge the lot. I’ve been too easy with everybody up to now, and I’ll begin to turn over a new leaf. Stand aside, woman, and let me get to that bell.”
“No, no, don’t, pray don’t ring. Let me go up and beg of him to come down.”
“What! Beg? Go up and tell him that if he don’t come down to dinner in a brace of shakes I’ll come and fetch him with a horsewhip.”
“James, my dear, pray, pray don’t be so violent.”
“But I will be violent. I am in no humour to be dictated to now. I’ll let some of you see that I’m master.”
“But poor dear Claud is so big now.”
“I don’t care how big he is – a great stupid oaf! Go and tell him what I say. And look here, woman.”
“Yes, dear,” said Mrs Wilton, plaintively.
“I mean it. If he don’t come at once, big as he is, I’ll take up the horsewhip.”
Mrs Wilton stifled a sob, and went up to her son’s room and entered, to find him lying on his bed with his boots resting on the bottom rail, a strong odour of tobacco pervading the room, and a patch or two of cigar ashes soiling the counterpane.
“Claud, my dearest, you shouldn’t smoke up here,” she said, tenderly, as she laid her hand upon her son’s forehead. “How are you now, darling?”
“Damned bad.”
“Oh, not quite so bad as that, dearest. Dinner is quite ready.”
” – The dinner!”
“Claud, darling, don’t use such dreadful language. But please get up now, and let me brush your hair. Your father is so angry and violent because you are keeping him waiting. Pray come down at once.”
“Shan’t!”
“Claud, dearest, you shouldn’t say that. Please come down.”
“Shan’t, I tell you. Be off, and don’t bother me.”
“I am so sorry, my dear, but I must. He sent me up, dear.”
“I – shan’t – come – down. There!”
“But Claud, my dear, he is so angry. I dare not go without you. What am I to say?”
“Tell him I say he’s an old beast.”
“Oh, Claud, I can’t go and tell him that. You shouldn’t – you shouldn’t, indeed.”
“I’m too bad to eat.”
“Yes – yes; I know, darling, but do – do try and come down and have a glass of wine. It will do you good, and keep poor papa from being so violent.”
“I don’t want any wine. And I shan’t come. There!”
“Oh, dear me! Oh, dear me!” sighed Mrs Wilton; “what am I to do?”
“Go and tell him I won’t come. Bad enough to be hit by that beastly old prize fighter, without him kicking me as he did. I’m not a door mat.”
“No, no, my dear; of course not.”
“An old brute! I believe he has injured my liver.”
“Claud, my darling, don’t, pray don’t say that.”
“Why not? The doctor ought to be fetched; I’m in horrid pain.”
“Yes, yes, my dear; and it did seem very hard.”
“Hard? I should think it was. I’m sure there’s a rib broken, if not two.”
“Oh, my own darling boy!” cried Mrs Wilton, embracing him.
“Don’t, mother; you hurt. Be off, and leave me alone. Tell him I shan’t come.”
“No, no, my dear; pray make an effort and come down.”
“Shan’t, I tell you. Now go!”
“But – but – Claud, dear, he threatened to come up with a horse whip and fetch you.”
“What!” cried Claud, springing up on the bed without wincing, and staring at his mother; “did he say that?”
“Yes, my love,” faltered the mother.
“Then you go down and tell him to come, and I’ll knock his old head off.”
“Oh, Claud, my dear boy, you shouldn’t. I can not sit here and listen to such parricidical talk.”
“Stand up then, and now be off.”
“But, my darling, you will come?”
“No, I won’t.”
“For my sake?”
“I won’t, for my own. I’m not going to stand it. He shan’t bully and knock me about I’m not a boy now. I’ll show him.”
“But, Claud, darling, for the sake of peace and quietness; I don’t want the servants to know.”
But dear Claud – his mother’s own darling – was as obstinate now as his father, whom he condemned loudly, then condemned peace and quietness, then the servants, and swore that he would serve Kate out for causing the trouble.
“I’ll bring her down on her knees – I’ll tame her, and make her beg for a kiss next time.”
“Yes, yes, my dear, you shall, but not now. You must be humble and patient.”
“Are you coming down, Maria?” ascended in a savage roar.
“Yes, yes, my dear, directly,” cried the trembling woman. “There, you hear, darling. He is in a terrible fury. Come down with me.”
“I won’t, I tell you,” cried the young man, making a snatch at the pillow, to raise it threateningly in his hands; “go, and tell him what I said.”
“Maria! Am I to come up?” ascended in a roar.
“Yes – no – no, my dear,” cried Mrs Wilton. “I’m – I’m coming down.”
She hurried out of the room, dabbed her eyes hastily, and descended to where the Squire was tramping up and down the hall, with Samuel, the cook, housemaid, and kitchen maid in a knot behind the swing baize door, which cut off the servants’ offices, listening to every word of the social comedy.
“Well,” roared Wilton, “is he coming?”
“N-n-not just now, my d-dear. He feels so ill and shaken that he begs you will excuse him.”
“Humbug, woman! My boy couldn’t have made up such a message. He said he wouldn’t, eh? Now then; no prevarication. That’s what he said.”
“Y-yes, my dear,” faltered the mother. “Oh, James dearest, pray – pray don’t.”
She clung to him, but he shook her off, strode to the umbrella stand, and snatched a hunting whip from where it hung with twisted thong, and stamped up the stairs, with his trembling wife following, sobbing and imploring him not to be so violent; but all in vain, for he turned off at the top of the old oaken staircase and stamped away to the door of his son’s bedroom – that at the end of the wing which matched to Kate’s.
Here Mrs Wilton made a last appeal in a hurried whisper.
“He is so bad – says his ribs are broken from the kick.”
“Bah!” roared the Squire; “he has no ribs in his hind legs – Here, you, Claud; come down to dinner directly or – Here, unlock this door.”
He rattled the handle, and then thumped and banged in vain, while Mrs Wilton, who had been ready to shriek with horror, began to breathe more freely.
“I thought you said he was lying down, too bad to get up?”
“Yes, yes, dear, he is,” faltered the poor woman.
“Seems like it. Able to lock himself in. Here, you sir; come down.”
But there was no reply; not a sound in answer to his rattling and banging; and at last, in the culmination of his rage, the Squire drew back to the opposite wall to gain force so as to dash his foot through the panel if he could, but just then Eliza opened Kate’s door at the far end of the long corridor, and peered out.
That ended the disturbance.
“Come on down to dinner, Maria,” said the Squire.
“Yes, my dear,” she faltered, and they descended to dine alone, Mrs Wilton on water, her husband principally on wine, and hardly a word was spoken, the head of the house being very quiet and thoughtful in the calm which followed the storm.
Just as the untasted pheasants were being taken away, after the second course, Wilton suddenly said to the footman:
“Tell Miss Kate’s maid to come here.”
Mrs Wilton looked at her husband wonderingly, but he sat crumbling his bread and sipping his claret till the quiet, grave, elderly servant appeared.
“How is your mistress?” he said.
“Very unwell, sir.”
“Think the doctor need be sent for?”
“Well, no, sir, I hardly think that. She has been very much agitated.”
“Yes, of course; poor girl,” said Wilton, quietly.
“But I think she will be better after a good night’s rest, sir.”
“So do I, Eliza. You will see, of course, that she has everything she wants.”
“Oh, yes, sir. I did take her up some dinner, but I could not prevail upon her to touch it.”
“Humph! I suppose not. That will do, thank you. – No, no, Maria, there is no occasion to say any more.”
Mrs Wilton’s mouth was open to speak, but she shut it again quickly, fearing to raise another storm, and the maid left the room. But the mother would speak out as soon as they were alone.
“I should like to order a tray with one of the pheasants to be sent up to Claud, dear.”
“I daresay you would,” he replied. “Well, I shouldn’t.”
“May I send for Doctor Leigh?”
“What for? You heard what the woman said?”
“I meant for Claud, dear.”
“Oh, I’ll see to him in the morning. I shall have a pill ready for him when I’m cooled down. It won’t be so strong then.”
“But, James, dear – ”
“All right, old lady, I’m getting calm now; but listen to me. I mean this: you are not to go to his room to-night.”
“James!”
“Nor yet to Kate’s, till I go with you.”
“My dear James!”
“That’s me,” he said, with a faint smile, “and you’re a very good, affectionate, well meaning old woman; but if ever there was one who was always getting her husband into scrapes, it is you.”
“Really, dear!” she cried, appealingly.
“Yes, and truly. There, that will do. Done dinner?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Don’t you want any cheese or dessert?”
“No, dear.”
“Then let’s go. You’ll come and sit with me in the library to-night and have your cup of tea there.”
“Yes, dear, but mayn’t I go and just see poor Kate?”
“No.”
The word was said quietly, but with sufficient emphasis to silence the weak woman, who sat gazing appealingly at her husband, whom she followed meekly enough to the library, where she sat working, and later on sipped her tea, while he was smoking and gazing thoughtfully at the fire, reviewing the events of the day, and, to do him justice, repenting bitterly a great deal that he had said. But as the time went on, feeling as he did the urgency of his position and the need to be able to meet the demands which would be made upon him before long, he grew minute by minute more stubbornly determined to carry out his plans with respect to his ward.
“He’s only a boy yet,” he said to himself, “and he’s good at heart. I don’t suppose I was much better when I was his age, and excepting that I’m a bit arbitrary I’m not such a bad husband after all.”
At that moment he looked up at his wife, just in time to see her bow gently towards him. But knowing from old experience that it was not in acquiescence, he glanced at his watch and waited a few minutes, during which time Mrs Wilton nodded several times and finally dropped her work into her lap.
This woke her up, and she sat up, looking very stern, and as if going to sleep with so much trouble on the way was the last thing possible. But nature was very strong, and the desire for sleep more powerful than the sorrow from which she suffered; and she was dozing off again when her husband rose suddenly to ring the bell, the servants came in, prayers were read, and at a few minutes after ten Wilton took a chamber candlestick and led the way to bed.
He turned off, though, signing to Mrs Wilton to follow him, and on reaching his niece’s room, tapped at the door gently.
“Kate – Kate, my dear,” he said, and Mrs Wilton looked at him wonderingly.
“Yes, uncle.”
“How are you now, my child?”
“Not very well, uncle.”
“Very sorry, my dear. Can your aunt get you anything?”
“No; I thank you.”
“Wish you a good night, then. I am very sorry about that upset this afternoon. – Come, my dear.”
“Good-night, Kate, my love,” said Mrs Wilton, with her ear against the panel; “I do hope you will be able to sleep.”
“Good-night, aunt,” said the girl quietly; and they went back to their own door.
“Won’t you come and say ‘good-night’ to poor Claud, dear?” whispered Mrs Wilton.
“No, ‘poor Claud’ has to come to me first. – Go in.”
He held open the door for his wife to enter, and then followed and locked it, and for some hours the Manor House was very still.
The next morning James Wilton was out a couple of hours before breakfast, busying himself around his home farm as if nothing whatever had happened and there was no fear of a foreclosure, consequent upon any action by John Garstang. He was back ready for breakfast rather later than his usual time, just as Mrs Wilton came bustling in to unlock the tea-caddy, and he nodded, and spoke rather gruffly:
“Claud not down?” he said.
“No, my dear; I saw you coming across the garden just as I was going to his room to see how he was.”
“Oh, Samuel,” – to the man, who entered with a dish and hot plates, – “go and tell Mr Claud that we’re waiting breakfast.”
The man went.
“Let me go up, my dear. Poor boy! he must feel a bit reluctant to come down and meet you this morning.”
“Poor fellow! he always was afflicted with that kind of timid shrinking,” said Wilton, ironically. “No, stop. How is Kate?”
“I don’t know, my dear; Eliza said that she had been twice to her room, but she was evidently fast asleep, and she would not disturb her.”
“Humph! I shall be glad when she can come regularly to her meals.”
“What shall you say to her this morning?”
“Wait and see – Well, is he coming down?”
“Beg pardon, sir,” said the footman. “I’ve been knocking ever so long at Mr Claud’s door, and I can’t get any answer.”
Mrs Wilton’s hand dropped from the tap of the tea urn, and the boiling water began to flow over the top of the pot.
“Humph! Sulky,” muttered Wilton – “Eh? What are you staring at?”
“Beg pardon, sir, but he didn’t put his boots outside last night, and he never took his hot water in.”
“Oh, James, James!” cried Mrs Wilton, wildly, “I knew it, I knew it. I dreamed about the black cow all last night, and there’s something wrong.”
“Stop a minute: I’ll come,” said Wilton, quickly, and a startled look came into his face.
“Take me – take me, too,” sobbed his wife. “Oh, my poor boy! If anything has happened to him in the night. I shall never forgive myself. Samuel – Samuel!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Run round to the stables and send one of the men over for Doctor Leigh at once.”
Wilton felt too much startled to counter-order this, but before the man had gone a dozen steps he shouted to him.
“Tell the gardener to bring a mallet and cold chisel from the tool shed.”
“Yes, sir,” and full of excitement the man ran off, while his master and mistress hurried upstairs to their son’s door. But before they reached it Wilton had recovered his calmness.
“What nonsense,” he muttered. Then softly: “Here, you speak to him. Gently. Only overslept himself.”
He tapped, and signed to his wife.
But her voice sounded full of agitation, as she said:
“Claud, dear; it’s getting very late.” Then louder: “Claud! Claud, my dear, are you unwell?” Then with aery of agony, “Claud! Claud, my darling! Oh, pray, pray speak to me, or you’ll break my poor heart!”
“Here, stand aside,” cried Wilton, who was thoroughly startled now. He seized the handle of the door, turned it, and tried to force it open, but in vain. The next moment he was about to lay his shoulder close down to the keyhole, when Kate’s maid came running up to them.
“Mrs Wilton! Mrs Wilton!” she cried; “pray, pray come! My dear young lady! Oh, help, help! I ought to have spoken sooner. What shall I do?”
