“What?”
The word came with almost a shout. Blachland had sat up in bed and was staring at his young kinsman in wild dismay. His pipe had fallen to the ground in his amazement over the announcement. “Since when, if it’s a fair question?” he added, somewhat recovering himself.
“Only this evening. I asked her to marry me and she consented.”
“Then you must break it off at once. I tell you this thing can’t come off, Percy. It simply can’t.”
“Can’t it? But it will. And look here, Hilary, you’re a devilish good chap, and all that—but I’m not precisely under your guardianship, you know. Nor am I dependent upon anybody. I’ve got a little of my own, and besides, I can work.”
“Oh, you young fool. Go to sleep. You may wake up more sensible,” he answered, not unkindly, and restraining the impulse to tell Percival the truth then and there, but the thought that restrained him was the coming interview with Hermia on the morrow. He was naturally reluctant to give her away unless absolutely necessary, but whatever the result of that interview, he would force her to free Percival from her toils. To do him justice, the idea that such an exposure would involve himself too did not enter his mind—at least not then.
“I think I will go to sleep, Hilary, as you’re so beastly unsympathetic,” answered the younger man good-humouredly. “But as to the waking up—well, you and I differ as to the meaning of the word ‘sensible.’ Night-night.”
And soon a succession of light snores told that he was asleep, probably dreaming blissfully of the crafty and scheming adventuress who had fastened on to his young life to strangle it at the outset. But Hilary Blachland lay staring into the darkness—thinking, and ever thinking.
“Confound those infernal fowls!” he muttered, as the cackling and clucking, mingled this time with some fluttering, arose outside, soon after the extinguishing of the light. But the disturbance subsided—nor did it again arise that night, as he lay there, hour after hour, thinking, ever thinking.