“Oh, no, sir. Something wrong with young Master.” Leigh uttered a sigh of relief, and stepped back for his hat.
“Mr Wilton, junior, taken ill, dear,” he said. “I heard, Pierce. Do kill him, or send him into a consumption.”
Chapter Fifteen.
Leigh hardly heard his sister’s words, for he hurried out and sprang into the dog-cart, where the groom was full of the past day’s trouble, and ready to pour into unwilling ears what he had heard from Samuel, who knew that Mr Garstang, the solicitor from London, knocked down young Master about money, he thought, and that he had heard Mr Claud say something about his father kicking him.
“Missus wanted to send for you last night, sir, but Master wouldn’t have it, and this morning they couldn’t make him hear in his room. Poor chap, I expect he’s very bad.”
The man would have gone on talking, but finding his companion silent and thoughtful, he relapsed into a one-sided conversation with the horse he drove, bidding him “come on,” and “look alive,” and “be steady,” till he turned in at the avenue and cantered up to the hall door.
Mrs Wilton was there, tearful and trembling.
“Oh, do make haste, Mr Leigh,” she cried. “How long you have been!”