Magnus, who was very weak, lay back thinking.
“Why,” continued Artingale, “you are bound to succeed. What could be better? She was insulted, and you seized the scoundrel who insulted her, and became seriously injured in her service. Nothing could be more fortunate.”
“Have you found out anything more about that fellow?” said Magnus, at last.
“No: nothing; and the police have given it up. I want you to get well and help me.”
“Nothing more has been seen of him, then?”
“Indeed but there has,” said Artingale; “he has turned up no less than three times by the carriage when the girls have been out, and poor Julia has been frightened almost into hysterics. Come, you must get well, Mag, for if ever poor girl wanted a stout protector, it is Julia Mallow.”
“Tell me about her engagement.”
“What for? To make you worse?”
“It will not make me worse, Harry. Tell me. She is engaged to Perry-Morton, is she not?”
“Hang him! Well, I suppose there is something of the kind. My respected papa-in-law-to-be seems to have run mad over the fellow, and suffers himself to be regularly led by the nose. But it can’t last; it’s impossible. No sane man could go on long without finding out what an ass the fellow is, with his vain conceit and pretensions to art and poetry. It is all the Rector’s doing, and he is everything; poor Mrs Mallow, as you know, never leaves her couch.”