“Any time. It doesn’t signify to me. The longer the better.”
I would not take up the idea seriously then, and tried to put it aside. But Cress brought it forward again and again, persistently, day after day. He said he was sick of London, and sick of home; and he wanted to see the world. After a while Robert and I began to feel that it might really be best. The constant strain between the two brothers was unsafe. Anything seemed better than to risk an open and permanent breach.
So Robert consulted with his and Cresswell’s employers, explaining how things stood, and asking their advice. He was most kindly met. They were just wanting to send out a young man to India on business, and they thought Cress might do. He was young, and a little disposed to laziness, they said, but hitherto he had on the whole proved capable and trustworthy. So they were willing to make trial of him in this new capacity.
The matter was quickly settled. Cress seemed delighted with the proposal; and very soon his mind was so full of coming travels, that he seemed quite to lose sight of his trouble about Maimie and his anger with Jack. Nothing was to be heard from him but talk about his outfit, his ship, his future tiger-hunts, and so on. Very short time was allowed for preparation, and perhaps this was so much the better.
Had my husband deferred speaking one day longer to his employers, it would have been too late; for the vacant post would have been filled up. As time went on, I felt thankful that the “one day longer” had not been allowed to pass. Much as I felt parting with Cress, I could not but see the plan to be a wise one.
All this while we heard no news of Aunt Briscoe. It seemed very extraordinary, and puzzled us much. I wrote again and again, but no answer came. Churton too seemed to have disappeared out of our life, neither calling nor sending a word by post. Without leave we dared not go to “The Gables.” Aunt Briscoe might not yet consider us safe.
“The truth is, Robert, mischief is going on there,” I said one day, breaking out with a thought which had long been in my mind.
“What sort of mischief?” Robert asked.
“Churton is gaining an influence over Aunt Briscoe’s mind, for his own ends. Perhaps he is setting her against us.”
“My dear, that is rather a wild supposition.”