Kitabı oku: «Cursed by a Fortune», sayfa 9
Chapter Twenty
The soft light of the moon attracted Kate to her bedroom window, where she drew up the blind, and after standing gazing at the silvery orb for some minutes, she unfastened and threw open the casement, drew a chair forward, to sit there letting the soft air of the late autumn night give its coolness to her aching brow.
For the silence and calm seemed to bring rest, and by degrees the dull throbbing of her head grew less painful, the strange feeling of confusion which had made thinking a terrible effort began to pass away, and with her eyes fixed upon the skies she began to go over the events of the day, and to try and map out for herself the most sensible course to pursue. Go from Northwood she felt that she must, and at once; though how to combat the will of her constituted guardian was not clear. Garstang, in his encounter with Wilton, had put the case only too plainly, and there was not the vestige of a doubt in her mind as to the truth of his words. It had all been arranged in the family, and whatever might have been her cousin’s inclinations at first, he showed only too plainly that he looked upon her as his future wife.
She shuddered at the thought; but the weak girl passed away again, and her pale cheeks began to burn once more with indignant anger, and the throbbing of her brow returned, so that she was glad to rest her head upon her hand.
By degrees the suffering grew less poignant, and as the pain and mental confusion once more died out she set herself to the task of coming to some decision as to what she should do next day, proposing to herself plan after plan, building up ideas which crumbled away before that one thought: her uncle was her guardian and trustee, and his power over her was complete.
What to do? – what to do? The ever recurring question, till she felt giddy.
It seemed, knowing what he did, the height of cruelty for Garstang to have gone and left her, but she was obliged to own that he could do nothing more than upbraid his relatives for their duplicity.
But he had done much for her; he had thoroughly endorsed her own ideas as to her position and her uncle’s intentions; and at last, with the tears suffusing her eyes, as she gazed at the moon rising slowly above the trees, she sat motionless for a time, thinking of her happy life in the past; and owning to herself that the advice given to her was right, she softly closed the casement, drew down the blind, and determined to follow out the counsel.
“Yes, I must sleep on it – if I can,” she said softly. “Poor Liza is right, and I am not quite alone – I am never alone, for in spirit those who loved me so well must be with me still.”
There were two candles burning on the dressing-table, but their light troubled her aching eyes, and she slowly extinguished both, the soft light which flooded the window being ample for her purpose.
Crossing the room to the side furthest from the door, she bent down and bathed her aching forehead for a few minutes before beginning to undress, and was then about to loosen her hair when she was startled by a faint tap outside the window which sounded as if something had struck the sill.
She stopped, listening for a few minutes, but all was still, and coming to the conclusion that the sound had been caused by a rat leaping down somewhere behind the wainscot of the old room, she raised her hands to her head once more, but only for them to become fixed as she stood there paralysed by terror, for a shadow suddenly appeared at the bottom of the blind – a dark shadow cast by the moon; and as she gazed at it in speechless fear, it rose higher and higher, and looked monstrous in size.
She made an effort to cast off the horrible nightmare-like sense of terror, but as she realised that to reach the door she must pass the window it grew stronger.
The bell!
That was by the bed’s head, and for the time being she felt helpless, so completely paralysed that she could not even cry for help.
What could it mean? Someone had placed a ladder against the window sill and climbed up, and at the thought which now flashed through her brain the helpless feeling passed away, and the hot indignation made her strong, and gave her a courage which drove away her childish fear.
How dare he! It was Claud, and she knew what he would say – that he had come there when all was still in the house and no one could know, to ask her forgiveness for the scene that day.
Drawing herself up, she was walking swiftly towards the door, with the intention of going at once to Liza’s chamber, when there was a fresh movement of the shadow on the blind, and the dread returned, and her heart throbbed heavily.
Claud was a short-haired, smooth-faced boy – the shadow cast on the blind was the silhouette of a broad-shouldered, bearded man.
It was plain enough now – burglars must be trying to effect an entry, and in another moment she would have cried aloud for help, but just then there was a light tap on one of the panes, the shadow grew smaller and darker, as if the face had been pressed close to the window, and she heard her name softly uttered twice.
“Kate! Kate!”
She mastered her fear once more, telling herself it must be Claud; and she went slowly to the door; laid her hand upon the bolt to turn it, but paused again, for once more came the low distinct voice —
“Kate! Kate!”
She uttered a spasmodic cry, turned sharply round, and half ran to the window with every pulse throbbing with excitement, for she felt that the help she had prayed for last night had come.
Chapter Twenty One
There was no hesitation on the part of Kate Wilton. The dread was gone, and she rapidly drew up the blind and opened the casement window.
“You?” she said quickly, as she held out her hands, which were caught at once and held.
“Yes; who should it be, my child? Were you afraid that insolent young scoundrel would dare to do such a thing?”
“At first,” she faltered, and then quickly, “I hardly knew what to think; I was afraid someone was going to break in. Oh, Mr Garstang, why have you come?”
He uttered a little laugh.
“For the same reason, I suppose, that would make a father who knew his child was in peril act in the same way.”
“It is very, very kind of you; but you will be heard, and it will only cause fresh trouble.”
“It can cause no greater than has come to us, my child. I was half-way to London, but I could not go on; so I got out at a station ten miles away, walked into the village close by, and found a fly and a man to drive me over. I wanted to know how you were getting on. Have you seen them again?”
“No. I came straight to my room, and have not left it since.”
“Good girl! That was very brave of you. Then you took my advice.”
“Of course.”
“And Master Claud?”
He felt her start and shudder.
“Don’t talk about him, please. But there, I am very grateful to you for being so kind and thoughtful, and for your brave defence.”
“Brave nonsense, my child!” he said bluntly. “I did as any man of right feeling would have done if he found a ruffian insulting a weak, helpless girl. Kate, my dear, my blood has been boiling ever since. I could not go back and leave you in this state; I was compelled to come and see you and have a little consultation about your future. I felt that I must do it before seeing James Wilton again. Not a very reputable way, this, of coming to a man’s house, even if he is a connection of mine; not respectful to you, either, my child, but I felt certain that if I came to the door and asked to see you I should have been refused entrance.”
“Yes, yes,” said Kate, sadly. “I should not have been told of your coming, or I would have insisted upon seeing you.”
“You would! Brave girl! I like to hear you speak out so firmly. Well, there was nothing for it but for me, middle-aged man as I am, to play the daring gallant at the lady’s window – lattice, I ought to say.”
“Please don’t talk like this, Mr Garstang,” said Kate. “It does not sound like you to be playful in your manner.”
“Thank you, my child, you are right; it does not I accept the reproof. Now, then, to be businesslike. You have been thinking deeply, of course, since you have been alone?”
“Yes, very, very seriously about my position. Mr Garstang, it is impossible for me to stay here.”
“Quite impossible. The conduct to you of your aunt and uncle makes them – no matter what promises they may give you – quite unworthy of your trust. Well?”
“I have pretty well decided that I shall go away to-morrow with Eliza, our old nurse and maid.”
“A most worthy woman, my dear. You could not do better; but – ”
“But what?” said Kate, nervously.
“I do not wish to alarm you, but do you fully realise your position here?”
“Yes, and that is why I have decided to go.”
“Exactly; but you do not fully grasp my meaning. What about your uncle?”
“You mean that he will object?”
“Exactly.”
“But if I am firm, and insist, he will not dare to detain me,” said the girl warmly.
“You think so? Well, think again, my child. He is your guardian and trustee; he will absolutely refuse, and will take any steps which he considers right to prevent your leaving. I am afraid that by the power your poor father left in his hands he will consider himself justified in keeping you quite as a prisoner until you obey his wishes.”
“Mr Garstang, surely he dare not proceed to such extremities!”
“I am afraid that he has the power, and I grieve to say he is in such a position that he is likely to be reckless in his desire to gain his ends.”
Kate drew a deep breath, and gazed appealingly in the speaker’s face.
“As a solicitor and the husband of your aunt’s late sister, James Wilton naturally came to me for help in his money affairs, and I did the best I could for him. I found that he had been gambling foolishly on the Stock Exchange, instead of keeping to his farms, and was so involved that immediate payments had to be made to save him from absolute ruin.”
“But my father surely did not know of this?”
“Not a word. He kept his own counsel, and of course until the will was read I had no idea of what arrangements your father had made; in fact, I was somewhat taken aback, for I thought it possible that he would have made me one of your trustees. But that by the way. I helped your uncle all I could as a monetary agent, and found clients who were willing to advance him money on his estate, which is now deeply mortgaged. These moneys are now wanted, for the interest has not been fully paid for years. In short, James Wilton is in a desperate condition, and my visits here have been to try and extricate him from his monetary tangle in which he finds himself. Now do you begin to grasp what his designs are?”
“Yes, I see,” said Kate, sadly; “it is to get some of the money which should be mine, to pay his debts.”
“Exactly, and the simplest way to do so is to marry you to Claud.”
“No: there is a simpler way, Mr Garstang. If my uncle had come to me and told me his position I should have felt that I could not have done a more kindly deed than to help my father’s brother by paying his debts.”
“Very kind and generous of you, my child; but he would not believe it possible, and I must say to you that, after what has passed, you would not be doing your duty to the dead by helping your uncle to this extent. Kate, my dear, since I have been talking to you it has occurred to me that there is but one way out of your difficulty.”
“Yes, what is it?” she cried eagerly.
“Of course, you cannot marry your cousin?”
“Mr Garstang!” she cried indignantly.
“It is impossible, of course; and if you stay here you will have to submit to endless persecution and annoyance, such as a highly strung, sensitive girl like you are will be unable to combat.”
“You do not know me yet, Mr Garstang.”
“Indeed? I think I do, as I have known you from a child. You are mentally strong, but you have been, and under these circumstances will be, further sapped by sickness, and it would need superhuman power to win in so cruel a fight. You must not risk it, Kate, my child. You must go.”
“Yes, I feel that I know I must go, but how can I? You, as a lawyer, should know.”
“A long and costly litigation, or an appeal to the Court of Chancery might save you, and a judge make an order traversing your father’s will, but I should shrink from such a course; I know too well the uncertainties of the law.”
“Then your idea for extricating me from my difficult position is of no value,” she said, despairingly.
“You have not heard it yet,” he said, “because I almost shrink from proposing such a thing to your father’s child.”
“Tell me what it is,” she said firmly.
“You desire me to?”
“Of course.”
“It is this – a simple and effective way of checkmating one who has proved himself unworthy. My idea was that you should transfer the guardianship to me.”
“Willingly, Mr Garstang; but can it be done?”
“It must and shall be done if you are willing, my child,” he said firmly, “but it would necessitate a very unusual, a bold and immediate step oh your part.”
“What is that, Mr Garstang?” she said quietly.
“You would have to place yourself under my guardianship at once.”
“At once?” she said, starting slightly.
“Yes. Think for yourself. It could not be done slowly and legally, for at the first suspicion that I was acting against him, James Wilton would place you immediately completely out of my reach, and take ample care that I had no further communication with you.”
“Yes,” she said quietly; “he would.”
“Yes,” he said, repeating her words, and speaking in a slow, passionless, judicial way; “if the thing were deferred, or if he were besieged, he would redouble his pressure. Kate, my dear, that was my idea; but it must sound almost as mad to you as it does to me. Yes, it is impossible; I ought not to have proposed such a thing, and yet I can not find it in my heart to give up any chance of rescuing you from your terrible position.”
He was silent, and she stood there gazing straight before her for a few moments before turning her eyes upon his.
“Tell me plainly what you mean, Mr Garstang.”
“Simply this: I did mean that you should take the opportunity of my being here and leave at once. I have the fly waiting, and I could take you to my town house and place you in the care of my housekeeper and her daughter. It would of course be checkmating your uncle, who could be brought to his knees; and then as the price of your pardon you could do something to help him out of his difficulties. Possibly a moderate payment to his creditors might free him on easy terms. But there, my child, the project is too wild and chimerical. It must almost sound to you like a romance.”
She stood there gazing full in his eyes as he ceased speaking; and at the end of a minute he said gently, “There, I must not keep you talking here in the cold night air. Your chest is still delicate; but strange as the visit may seem, I am after all glad I have come, if only to give you a little comfort – to show you that you are not quite alone in the world. There, say good-night, and, of course, you will not mention my visit to anyone. I must go now and catch the night mail at the station. To-morrow I will see a very learned old barrister friend, and lay the matter before him so as to get his advice. He may show me some way out of the difficulty. Keep a good heart. I must show you that you have one who will act as an uncle should. But listen to me,” he said, as he took her cold hand in his, “you must brace yourself up for the encounters to come. Even if I find that I can assist you, the law moves slowly, and it may be months before you can come out of prison. So no flinching; let James Wilton and that scoundrel Claud know that they have a firm, mentally strong woman to deal with; and now God bless you, my child! Good-night!”
He let her hand fall, and lowered himself a round of the ladder; but she stood as if carved in marble in the bright moonlight, without uttering a word.
“Say good-night, my dear; and come, be firm.”
She made no reply.
“You are not hurt by my proposal?” he said quietly.
“No,” she said at last, “I was trying to weigh it. I must have time.”
“Yes, you must have time. Think it over, my child; it may strike you differently to-morrow, or you may see it in a more impossible light. So may I. You know my address: Bedford Row will find me. I am well known in London. Write to me if you require help, and at any cost I will come and see you, even if I bring police to force my way. Now, good-night, my dear. Heigho! Why did not I have a daughter such as you?”
“Let me think,” said Kate gravely.
“No; this is no time for thinking, my child. Once more, good-night.”
“No,” said Kate firmly. “I will trust you, Mr Garstang. You must not leave me to be kept a prisoner here.”
“Possibly they would not dare; and I must warn you that you are taking a very unusual step.”
“Not in trusting you, sir,” she said firmly. “Treat me as you have treated the daughter who might have been born to you, and save me at once from the position I am in. Wait while I go and waken Eliza. She must be with us.”
“Your maid?” he said.
“Yes, I can not leave her here.”
“They will not keep her a prisoner,” he said quietly, “and she can join us afterwards. No, my child, if you go with me now it must be alone and at once. I will not put any pressure on you. Come or stay. You still have me to work for you as far as in me lies. Which shall it be? Your hat and cloak, or good-night?”
“Don’t leave me, Mr Garstang. I am weak and hysterical still. I feel now, after the chance of freedom you have shown me, that I dare not face to-morrow alone.”
“Then you will come?” he said, in the same low passionless way.
“I will.”
Five minutes after, John Garstang was helping her carefully to descend the ladder, guarding her every footstep so that she could not fall; and as they reached the ground, he quietly offered her his arm.
“What a beautifully calm and peaceful night!” he said gravely. “Do you feel the cold?”
“No; my cheeks are burning,” she answered.
“Ah! yes, a little excitement; but don’t be alarmed. The fly is waiting about half a mile away. A sharp walk will bring back the correct circulation. Almost a shame, though, my child, to take you from the clear pure air of the country to my gloomy house in Great Ormond Street. Not very far from your old home.”
“Don’t talk to me, please, Mr Garstang,” she said painfully.
“I most, my dear; and about everything that will take your attention from the step you are taking. Are your shoes pretty stout? I must not have you suffering from wet feet. By the way, my dear, you were nineteen on your last birthday. You look much older. I thought so yesterday. Dear, dear, ii my poor wife had lived, how she would have blessed me for bringing her a daughter to our quiet home! How you would have liked her, my dear! A sweet, good, clever woman – so different to Maria Wilton. Well, well, a good woman, too, in spite of her weakness for her boy.”
He chatted on, with Kate walking by him in silence, till the fly was reached, with the horse munching the grass at the road side, and the driver asleep on the box, but ready to start into wakefulness at a word.
An hour later, Kate sat back in the corner of a first-class carriage, when her strength gave way, and she burst into a hysterical fit of sobbing. But she heard Garstang’s words:
“I am glad to see that, my child. Cry on; it will relieve your overburdened heart. You will be better then. You have done right; never fear. To-morrow you can rest in peace.”
Chapter Twenty Two
Jenny was almost breathless when she reached the park palings of the Manor House, some little distance from the gate at the end of the avenue; and here she paused for a few moments beneath an oak which grew within the park, but which, like many others, spread out three or four huge horizontal boughs right across the boundary lane, and made the way gloomy even on sunny days.
She looked sharply back in the direction by which she had come, but the evening was closing in more and more gloomy, and the mist exceedingly closely related to a rain, was gathering fast and forming drops on the edges of dead leaves and twigs, beside making the grass overhanging the footpath so wet that the girl’s feet and the lower parts of her skirts were drenched.
No one was in sight or likely to be in that secluded spot, and having gained her breath, she started off once more, heedless of the sticky mud of the lane, and followed it on, round by the park palings, where the autumn leaves lay thick and rustled as her dress swept over them. In a few minutes she reached a stile in the fence, where a footpath – an old right of way much objected to by Squire Wilton, as the village people called him – led across the little park, passing the house close by the end of the shrubbery, and entering another lane, which curved round to join the main road right at the far end of the village, a good mile away from the Doctor’s cottage.
There were lights in the drawing-room and dining-room, making a dull glow on the thickening mist, as Jenny halted at the end of the shrubbery, and all was still as death, till a dog barked suddenly, and was answered by half a dozen others, pointers and retrievers, in the kennel by the stables. This lasted in a dismal, irritating chorus, which made the girl utter little ejaculations suggestive of impatience, as she waited for the noise to end.
She glanced round once more, but the evergreens grew thickly just over an iron hurdle fence, and she satisfied herself that as she could only indistinctly see the shrubs three or four yards away, it was impossible for her to be seen from the house.
The barking went on in a full burst for a few minutes. Then dog after dog finished its part; the sextette became a quartette, a trio, a duet; and then a deep-voiced retriever performed a powerful solo, ending it with a prolonged bay, and Jenny raised her hand to her lips, when the hill chorus burst out again, and the girl angrily stamped her foot in the wet grass.
“Oh, what a cold I shall catch,” she muttered. “Why will people keep these nasty dogs?”
The barking went on for some minutes, just as before, breaking off by degrees into another solo; but at last all was still, the little sighs and ejaculations Jenny had kept on uttering ceased too. Then she raised her head quickly, and a shrill chirp sounded dead and dull in the misty air, followed at intervals by two more.
It was not a regular whistle, but a repetition of such a call as a night bird might utter in its flight as it floated over the house.
The mist seemed to stifle the call, and the girl was about to repeat it, but it was loud enough for the dogs to hear, and they set up a fierce baying, which lasted till there was a loud commotion of yelps and cries, mingled with the rattling of chains, the same deep-mouthed dog breaking out in a very different solo this time, one suggestive of suffering from the application of boot toes to its ribs.
Then quiet, and Jenny with trembling hand once more raised the little silver whistle to her lips, and the shrill chirps rang out in their former smothered way.
“Oh,” sighed Jenny. “It will be a sore throat – I’m sure it will. I must go back; I dare not stay any longer. Ugh! How I do hate the little wretch. I could kill him!”
The girl’s pretty little white teeth grated together, and once more she stamped her foot, following up this display of irritation by stamping the other.
“Cold as frogs,” she muttered, “and the water’s oozy in my boots. Wretch!”
“Ullo!” came in a harsh whisper, followed by the cachination which often accompanies a grin. “You’ve come, then!”
There was a rustle of the bushes before her, and the dimly seen figure of Claud climbed over the iron hurdle, made a snatch at the girl’s arm with his right and a trial to fling his left about her waist, but she eluded him.
“Keep off,” she said sharply; “how dare you!”
“Because I love you so, little dicky-bird,” he whispered.
“I thought you didn’t mean to come.”
“No, you didn’t, pet. I heard you first time, but I had to go out and kick the dogs. They heard it, too, and thought it was poachers. Only one, though – come after me!”
“You!” she said, contemptuously. “You, sir! Who would come after you?”
“Why, you would.”
“Such vanity!”
“Then what did you come for?”
“To bring you back this rubbishing little whistle.”
“Nonsense; you’d better keep that.”
“I tell you I don’t want it. Take it, sir.”
“No, I shan’t take it. Keep it.”
“There it is, then,” she cried; and she threw it at him.
“Gone in among the hollies,” he said. “Well, I’m not going to prick myself hunting for it in the dark. What a little spit-fire it is! What’s the matter with you to-night?”
“Matter enough. I’ve come to tell you never to make signals for me to come out again.”
“Why? I say, what a temper you are in to-night. Here, let me help you over, and we’ll go round to the arbor. You’ll get your feet wet standing there.”
“They are wet, and I shall catch a cold and die, I hope.”
“Oh, I say, Jenny!”
“Silence, sir! How dare you speak to me like that!”
“Come over, then, into the arbor.”
“I have told you again and again that I never would!”
“You are a little tartar,” he whispered. “You get prettier every day, and peck and say nastier things to me. But there, I don’t mind; it only makes me love you more and more.”
“It isn’t true,” she cried furiously. “You’re a wicked story-teller, and you know it.”
“Am I?”
“Yes; that’s the same miserable sickly tale you have told to half-a-dozen of the silly girls in the village. I know you thoroughly now. How dare you follow me and speak to me? If I were to tell my brother he’d nearly kill you.”
“Quite, p’raps, with a drop out of one of his bottles.”
“I can never forgive myself for having listened to the silly, contemptible flattery of the cast-off lover of a labourer’s daughter.”
“Oh, I like that, Jenny; what’s the good of bringing all that up? That’s been over ever so long. It was only sowing wild oats.”
“The only sort that you are ever likely to have to sow. I know all now – everything; so go to her, and never dare to speak to me again.”
“What? Go back to Sally? Well, you are a jealous little thing.”
“I, jealous – of you?” she said, with contempt in her tone and manner.
“Yes, that’s what’s the matter with you, little one. But go on; I like it. Shows me you love me.”
“I? Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Jenny derisively. “Do you think I don’t know everything?”
“I daresay you do. You’re such a clever little vixen.”
“Do you suppose it has not reached my ears about your elopement with your cousin?”
“I don’t care what you’ve heard; it ain’t true. But I say, don’t hold me off like this, Jenny; you know I love you like – like anything.”
“Yes, anything,” she retorted angrily; “any thing – your dogs, your horses, your fishing-rods and gun.”
“Oh, I say.”
“You miserable, deceitful trickster, I ought not to have lowered myself to even speak to you, or to come out again to-night, but I wanted to tell you what I thought about you, and it’s of no use to treat such thick-skinned creatures as you with contempt.”
“Well, you are wild to-night, little one. Don’t want me to show my teeth, too, and go, do you?”
“Yes, and the sooner the better, sir; go back to your wife.”
“Go back to my wife!” he cried, in tones which carried conviction to her ears. “Oh, I say; you’ve got hold of that cock-and-bull story, have you?”
“Yes, sir, I have got hold of the miserable cock-and-bull story, as you so elegantly turn it.”
“Oh, I don’t go in for elegance, Jenny; it ain’t my way; but as for that flam, it ain’t true.”
“You dare to tell me that, when the whole place is ringing with it, sir!” she cried, angrily.
“The whole place rings with the noise when that muddle-headed lot got pulling the bells in changes. But it’s only sound.”
“Don’t, pray don’t try to be witty, Claud Wilton; you only fail.”
“All right; go on.”
“Do you dare to tell me that you did not elope with your cousin the other night?”
“Say slope, little one; elope is so old-fashioned.”
“And I suppose you’ve married her for the sake of her money.”
“Do you?” he said, sulkily; “then you suppose jolly well wrong. It’s all a lie.”
“Then you haven’t married her?”
“No, I haven’t married her, and I didn’t slope with her; so now then.”
“Do you dare to tell me that you did not go up to London?”
“No, I don’t, because I did.”
“With her, in a most disgraceful, clandestine manner?”
“No; I went alone with a very jolly good-tempered chap, whom everybody bullies and calls a liar.”
“A nice companion; and pray, who was that?”
“This chap – your sweetheart; and I came back with him too.”
“Then where is your cousin?”
“How should I know?”
“She did go away, then, the same night?”
“Yes. Bolted after a row we had.”
“Is this true?”
“Every blessed word of it; and I haven’t seen her since. Now, tell me, you’re very sorry for all you’ve said.”
“Tell me this; has she gone away with some one else?”
“What do you want to know for?”
“I want to find out that you are not such a wicked story-teller as I thought.”
“Well, I have told you that.”
“Who can believe you?”
“You can. Come, I say; I thought you were going to be really a bit loving to me at last when I heard the whistle. It’s been like courting a female porcupine up to now.”
“You know whom your cousin has gone with?”
“Pretty sure,” he said, sulkily.
“Who is it?”
“Oh, well, if you must know, Harry Dasent.”
“That cousin I saw here?”
“Yes, bless him! Only wait till we meet.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Jenny, and then she turned to go; but Claud caught her arm.
“No, no; you might say something kind now you’ve found out you’re wrong.”
“Very well then, I will, Claud Wilton. First of all, I never cared a bit for you, and – ”
“Don’t believe you. Go on,” he said, laughing.
“Secondly, take my advice and go away at once, for if my brother should meet you there will be a terrible scene. He believes horrible things of you, and I know he’ll kill you.”
“Phew!” whistled Claud. “Then he has found out?”
“Take my advice and go. He is terrible when he is roused, and I don’t know what he’d do.”
“I say, this ain’t gammon, is it?”
“It is the solemn truth. Now loose my arm; you hurt me.”
