“There, my dear, you hear,” cried Wilton, trying hard to speak gently and winningly to her, but failing dismally. “Come to your aunt now.”
“Yes, Kate, darling, do, do please, and help me to try and bring him round. You don’t want to see him lie a corpse at his sorrowing mother’s feet?”
“Come here, Kate,” cried Wilton, fiercely now. “Don’t you make me angry. I am your guardian, and you must obey me. Come away from that man.”
She shuddered, and began to sob now violently.
“Ah, that’s better. You’re coming to your senses now, and seeing things in their proper light. Now, John Garstang, you heard what I said—go.”
“Yes, my child,” said Garstang, taking one of Kate’s hands, and raising it tenderly to his lips, “your uncle is right. I have no place here, no right to protect you, and I must go, trusting that good may come out of evil, and that what has passed, besides opening your eyes to what is a thorough conspiracy, will give you firmness to protect yourself, and teach them that such a project as theirs is an infamy.”
“Don’t stand preaching there, man. Your time’s nearly up. Go, before you are made. Come here to your aunt, Kate.”
“No, my dear, do nothing of the sort,” said Garstang, gently, as she slowly raised her head and gazed imploringly in his face. “You are but a girl, but you must play the woman now—the firm, strong woman who has to protect herself. Go up to your room and insist upon staying there until you have a guarantee that this insolent cub, who is lying here pretending to be insensible, shall cease his pretensions or be sent away. There, go, and heaven protect you; I can do no more.”
Kate drew herself up erect and gazed at him mournfully for a few moments, and then said firmly:
“Yes, Mr Garstang, I will do as you say. Good-bye.”