'It seems a very strange kind of present from my father's friend,'
she continued, meditatively; 'but it is a very kind one for all that.
But, Henry, you surely are still very unwell; your heart is thumping
underneath my ear like a fire-engine.'
'They are all love-thumps for Winifred,' I said, with pretended
jocosity; 'they are all love-thumps for my Winnie.'
'But of course,' said she, 'this is quite a secret about the precious
stones. My father enjoined me to tell no one, because the temptation
to people is so great, and the cottage might be robbed, or I might be
waylaid going to London. But of course I may tell you; he never
thought of _you_.'
'No, Winnie, he never thought of me. You are very fond of him; very
fond of your father, are you not?'
'Oh yes,' said she, 'I love him more than all the world--next to
you.'
'Then he is kind to you, Winnie?' 'Ye--yes, as kind as he can
be--considering--'
'Considering what, Winnie?'
'Considering that he's often--unwell, you know.'
'Winnie.' I said, as I gazed in the innocent eyes, 'whom are you
considered to be the most like, your father or your mother?'
'I never knew my mother, but I am said to be partly like her. Why do
you ask?'
'Only an idle question. You love me, Winnie?'
'What a question!'
'And you will do what I ask you to do, if I ask you very earnestly,
Winnie?'
'Certumly,' said Winifred, giving, with a forced laugh, the lisp with
which that word had been given on a now famous occasion.
'Well, Winifred, I told you that I feel an interest in precious
stones, and have some knowledge of them. There are certain stones to
which I have the greatest antipathy: diamonds and rubies are the
chief of these.
Now I want you to promise that diamonds and rubies and beryls shall
never touch these fingers, these dear fingers, Winnie, which are
mine, you know; they are mine now,' and I drew the smooth nails
slowly along my lips. 'You are mine now, every bit.'
'Every bit,' said Winifred, but she looked perplexed.
She saw, however, by my face that, for some reason or other, I was
deeply in earnest. She gave the promise. And I knew at least that
those fingers would not be polluted, come what would. As to her going
to London with the spoil, I knew how to prevent that.
But what course of action was I now to take? At this very moment
perhaps Winifred's father was violating my father's tomb, unless
indeed the crime might even yet he prevented. There was one hope,
however. The drunken scoundrel whose daughter was my world I knew to
be a procrastinator in everything. His crime might, even yet, be only
a crime in intent; and, if so, I could prevent it easily enough. My
first business was to hurry to the church, and, if not yet too late,
keep guard over the tomb. But to achieve this I must get quit of
Winifred without a moment's delay. Now Winifred's most direct path to
the cottage was the path I myself must take to the church, the
gangway behind Flinty Point. Yet _she_ must not pass the church with
me, lest an encounter with her father should take place. There was
thus but one course open. I must induce her to take the gangway
behind the other point of the cove; and how was this to be compassed?
That was what I was racking my brain about.
'Winifred,' I said at last, as we sat and looked at the sea, 'I begin
to fear we must be moving.'
She started up, vexed that the hint to move had come from me.
'The fact is,' I said, 'I particularly want to go into the old
church.'
'Into the old church to-night?' said Winifred, with a look of
astonishment and alarm that I could not understand.
'Yes; something was left undone there this afternoon at the funeral,
and I must go at once. But why do you look so alarmed?'
'Oh, don't go into the old church to-night,' said Winifred.