“I’m so grateful, Pugh,” he exclaimed, “you can’t think; but it won’t do. The business would be all right with another, but I can’t take you away.”
“Why not?” said Dutch, sharply.
“Your poor little wife, my boy, I could never look her in the face again.”
“For God’s sake don’t mention her,” cried Dutch, passionately. “There, there,” he cried, mastering himself, “you need not consider that.”
“But, my dear Pugh, are you not too hasty—too ready to believe? No, no, it won’t do, you misjudge her. I won’t let you go. In a few days all will be well again.”
“Parkley,” exclaimed Dutch, hoarsely, “it will never be all right again. I speak to you as I would speak to no other man. Heaven knows how I have loved that woman. But I have no home now. I shall never see her again.”
“No, no, no, don’t speak like that, my dear boy. You are too rush. Come, have patience, and all will be right. You shall not go.”
Dutch smiled bitterly.
“You are mad just now, but it will pass off; and look here, my dear boy, it was all my fault for getting you to take the cursed scoundrel in.”
“Don’t speak of it, pray,” cried Dutch.