For the first time a little mist of darkness gathered in his heart—a suspicion born of the unaccountable secrecy that was the main condition of his inheritance.
Presently he looked up with a troubled face.
“Then Whimple and his sister,” he said, “were early put in charge of the deserted place?—but they were, of course. The fellow told me so himself.”
“Aye, aye,” said Sir David. “He was only a lad of eighteen when he first came—a great weedy gawk with scared eyes.”
“Twenty years haven’t improved upon that. My God! what an existence!”
“Well, sir, it may suit a being or not. We ain’t all built for coal-porters. The measure of a man’s work is his willingness to it; and Dennis is no Jackalent for all his diffidence. He knows a spavin from a thrush; and I’ll tell ye somethin’ more—he can put rhymes together equal to Milton or Mr. Pye.”
“Umph!” said the other.
CHAPTER XV.
Miss Angela came out on the steps to wave farewell to her brother’s guest of the night. This was in itself a particular favour; for she made it rather less than a rule to submit her charms to the broad search-light of the early morning. But—to speak figuratively—to withhold a curtesy after yielding a kiss is to value the shadow at more than the substance; for, so it was, she had already vouchsafed her gallant her company while yet the grey of dawn was melting on the blinds.
It came about in this manner—that into Mr. Tuke’s waking dreams stole a strain of music very sweet and melancholy. The rogue slept lightly and unvexedly, as sinners do; and, moved by the mystic cadence, he rose, dressed with great dispatch, and descended the stairs in obedience to the alluring summons.