I do not wish to analyse the infernal art with which he excited the senses of an innocent and guileless woman; many who read these pages might take that as a guide—others would refuse to accept it as a warning.
Mr. Fortescue presently poured into her ear a passionate declaration of attachment, which she ought not to have listened to. He hung over her, he placed his arm round her waist, and before she was aware of it, his lips met hers. She struggled to release herself from his grasp, and said—
“Mr. Fortescue, release me. This conduct is unpardonable. Pray—”
She ceased suddenly, for a dark shadow fell across the room, and they both looked up. It was Richard Ashbrook standing on the threshold.
“I am glad you have come,” cried his wife.
He made no reply, but with one hand gestured for her to leave the room.
She crept past him with her head bowed upon her breast.
For a few brief moments the farmer stood still as if to reflect. His face was white, but very calm. Presently he made towards the door, locked it, and thrust the key into his pocket; after this he drew down the blinds.
Fortescue, who was perfectly astounded at the sudden appearance of the farmer, was at no loss to comprehend that he was made a prisoner. Trusting to bravado to save him he hummed an air from the last new opera.
“You infamous, deceptive scoundrel,” cried Ashbrook; “I’ve half a mind to shoot ’ee as I would shoot down a fox or a wolf. It would be no more than you deserve.”