He looked at old Richards as he spoke, but the old man was scowling at the wall.
“Would you have murdered your child, Richards?” said Tom Brough. “I tell you, man, that had your will been law the poor girl would not have lived a year, while now, with the husband she loves, she is waiting to ask your forgiveness for that for which I am solely to blame.”
“Keziah,” said Mr Brough softly, after a pause, and he whispered a few words in her ear—words whose effect was to send her from the room, but only to return in ten minutes, followed by Frank Marr, leading in his trembling wife.
Story 3--Chapter VIII.
Can’t it be To-Morrow?
There will doubtless be those ready to say that such things do not happen in real life—that rich men do not take poor men into partnership, nor yet give up handsome young wives on their wedding morn; but in spite of all that cynics may declare, there are men with hearts so large still to be found in this business-like world of ours—men who are ready to do any good to benefit another. And there are times when people do perform very eccentric acts, in proof of which must be related what took place in Walbrook that same evening, at a time when there was a merry party in the drawing-room, and old Richards’ face wore an expression that it had not worn for years. There came a ring at the door bell—a sneaking under-handed sort of ring; and on Keziah opening the door—behold Peter Pash!
“May I come in?” he said, modestly.
“Come in? yes, man,” cried Keziah, catching him by the coat, and giving him a snatch so that he was pulled into the passage, and the door banged behind him.