“Eat your breakfast,” she said, “and get it over with your father.”
I hurried through the meal, and went upstairs, to find my sleeve full of
blood, although no harm had been done but what was easily set right by
what Dr. Rush called a bit of diachylon plaster. (I think I spell it
correctly.)
As I went by Darthea’s home I cast a glance up at the open window, and
saw my lady looking out. She was pale, and as she called to me I could
not but go in, for, indeed, she ran herself to open the door.
“Come in! Oh, just a moment!” she cried. “Your aunt has written me a
note, and it tells me almost nothing--nothing.”
I was in no very kindly humour with Miss Darthea. Since our talk about
my cousin she had been very high and mighty, and would have little to
say to me except unpleasant things about the angry politics of the day.
I said I was glad to have heard she had told no one of what my aunt’s
rash speech had let slip. I had better have held my own tongue. Darthea
was in another mood to-day, and all at once became quiet and dignified.
“I gave my word, Mr. Wynne. When you know me better you will learn that
I can keep it. Is--is Mr. Warder much hurt?”
“Yes,” I said; “he is in great peril.” I saw how anxious she was, and
was vexed enough to want to hurt her.
“Oh, you men! you men!” she cried. “Will he die, do you think? Poor
boy!” She sat down and began to cry. “He must not die; why did you lead
him into such wicked trouble?”
It was vain to explain how little I had to do with the matter. Did she
love Jack? I little knew in those days how tender was this gentle heart,
how it went out, tendril-like, seeking it knew not what, and was
for this reason ever liable to say too much, and to give rise to
misapprehension.
“O Darthea!” I cried. “Dost thou love my Jack? I shall be the last to
come in his way. I have said I love thee myself, and I can never change.
But how can it be? how can it be? And my cousin? O Darthea!”
“I love no one, sir. I love everybody. I--I think you are impertinent,
Mr. Wynne. Is it your business whom I love? My God! there is blood on
your hand! Are you hurt?”
It was true; a little blood was trickling down my wrist. She was all
tenderness again. I must not go; here was her handkerchief; and so
on--till I longed to take her in my arms, she made me so sorry for her I
said it was of no moment, and I must go.
“You will come soon again, and tell me about Jack.”