“It was false—there was not a word of truth in it, Aunt Polly. I hope I may drop down dead in my tracks if there was,” cried Jane, trembling with rage and shame. “I was glad to see him go; Mary can tell you as much.”
“Then you have seen him?” questioned Aunt Polly—“then he was on the island last night, as he said?”
“I can’t help his coming to the island, Aunt Polly; every one comes here who has a boat, if he pleases; but I can say nobody wanted Walter Butler. He’s been a-visiting the Wintermoots off and on for three or four months. I invited him and the Wintermoots to my birthday party, and was a fool for my pains; but as for liking him, the Tory, the young outcast, I—I——”
Here Jane burst into a torrent of angry tears. Aunt Polly began to dry up this sorrow tenderly with her great cotton handkerchief, which seemed large enough to block up a mill-sluice.
“Don’t cry, Janey, don’t cry, that’s a dear. There, there, I shan’t tell anybody but yourself about the scamp’s boasting, not even Edward, though his father is my cousin.”
“No, don’t, Aunt Polly, don’t tell him, of all people in the world.”
“Why—why, Janey dear? How red you are! Tell me, you and Edward ain’t keeping company, nor nothing, are you?”
“Yes, we are, Aunt Polly, and have been this ever so long. He would kill that hateful villain if he knew half that he said at your house last night.”
“But he shan’t know it, child; you, and I, and Mary will settle that affair amongst ourselves, to say nothing of grandma, who would be worth us all if it came to a running scold.”
“Don’t—don’t say a word to Mary or grandma,” cried Jane, in breathless fear; “but you have not told me all yet.”