"Not now, Mr John," I said.
"But my wife, she wants to see you."
"Yes, sir, and I want to see her; but not now."
"He is quite right, John," said Mr Raydon. "Let him stay for the
present."
Mr John looked from one to the other and then said seriously--"As you
will, Dan. Good-bye then for the present, Mayne. There, keep up your
heart. I'll talk to my brother, and I'll warrant that before long he
will see the truth as I do."
He stopped back to say this, and then went on after Mr Raydon, leaving
me to fling myself on the bench, rest my elbows on the table, and bury
my face in my hands. For it seemed to me that I had never felt so
miserable before, and as if fate was playing me the most cruel of
tricks. I felt indignant too with Mr Raydon, who had seemed to look
upon his brother-in-law's faith in me with a cruel kind of contempt,
treating him as if he were an enthusiast easily deceived.
And all this stung me cruelly. I was touched in my pride, and the worst
part of it seemed to be that Mrs John might have so much faith in her
brother, that she would be ready to believe his word before mine.
As I sat there thinking, I was obliged to own that matters did look
black against me, and that with such terrible evidence in array, there
was some excuse for Mr Raydon.
"But she might believe me," I said, half aloud. But even as I said
this, I recalled how he had evidently dreaded that I should betray the
secret, and watched me and Gunson at our last meeting, which certainly
did look suspicious when taken into consideration with the object of the
latter's visits to the neighbourhood.
"Gunson shall come here and tell him everything. He shall make him
believe," I said to myself; and then in a despondent way, I felt that I
could not go up to the camp without making Mr Raydon think worse of me
at once, and then Mrs John would believe in him more and more. And it
all seemed over, and as if the happy days I had looked forward to when
the travellers came, would never be, and that I was the most unfortunate
fellow that had ever breathed, when a hand was laid gently on my head,
and a voice said--
"Mayne."
I started to my feet, and there was Mrs John gazing at me sadly, but so
changed since I had seen her before my start, that I could only look at
her wonderingly, and when she held out her hand I caught it and was
about to raise it to my lips, but she drew me to her, and the next
moment she was seated on the bench I had left, and I was down upon my
knees gazing up into her sweet face, feeling that while she lived I had
one who would always take for me the part of the mother I had lost so
long.