“And I have tried so hard not to be,” she cried, full of repentance now.
“My poor little girl, yes, you have,” he said, reaching forward to take and pat her hand. “Well, give me a few hours to think what will be best to do, and then we will decide whether to declare war against James Wilton and cover ourselves with the shield of the law, or go right away for a change. You will give me a few hours, my dear, say till this time to-morrow?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, with a sigh of relief. “Pray forgive me; I cannot help all this.”
“I know, I know,” he said, smiling. “By the way, to-morrow is my birthday; you must try and celebrate it a little for me.”
She looked at him wonderingly.
“I mean, make Sarah Plant prepare an extra dinner, and I will bring home plenty of fruit and flowers; and after dinner we will discuss our plans and strike for freedom. Ah, my dear, it will be a great relief to me, for I have been growing very, very anxious about you. Too tired to give me a little music?”
“No, indeed, no,” she said eagerly. “Your words have given me more relief than I can tell.”
“That’s right,” he said, “but to be correct, I ought to ask you to read to me, to be in accord with the poem. But no, let it be one of my favourite songs, and in that way,
“‘The night shall be filled with music,
And the cares which infest the day
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.’”
“Longer than I expected,” said Garstang, as she left him that night for her own room. “Now let us see.”