She was so stiff and cramped and chilled that she staggered. Bram caught her arm, but she wrenched herself away with a sound like a sob, and in her eyes there came a fear, a shame so deep, so terrible, that Bram looked away from her, unable to meet it with his own mournful eyes.
“Why did you run away from me?” asked he, so kindly, with such a brave affectation of rough cheerfulness that the tears came rushing into the girl’s eyes. “You might have known I didn’t want to do you any harm, mightn’t you? I only wish I’d brought you some better news than I do.”
He took off his overcoat and covered her with it very gently.—Page 156.
He was looking away, through the tall, pointed arches, at the leafless trees beyond. He heard her draw a long breath. Then she asked, in a very low voice:—
“What news, then?”
“Your father wants you back. He’s very ill—very ill. He’s had an accident, and burnt his head and one of his hands badly. You’ve got to come back and nurse him; he doesn’t mind what anybody says, and he does foolish and rash things that only you can save him from. You’ll come back, won’t you?”
There was a pause. Bram looked at her, and she bowed her head in silent assent. She would not meet his eyes; she hung her head, and he saw that she was crying.
“We’d better make haste and get back to Chelmsley,” said he in a robust voice. “I forgot to look out a train; or rather I had hoped to have taken you back last night. But you gave me the slip; I can’t think why. You’ve got nothing but a cold night and perhaps a bad cough by your freak.”