“They will if that man don’t mind, Mrs Sarson,” cried Chris, as he hurried into his room. “Curse him! I feel as if I could go at once, get hold of him, and wring his neck.”
“Mr Christopher!” cried the poor woman, bursting into a fit of sobbing; “don’t—don’t do anything rash.”
“Look here, old lady,” he cried, catching her by the arm; “you are not going to join this wretched crew, are you, and to believe I could be such a wretch?”
“Oh, no, my dear! Oh, no.”
“That’s right. But think twice. If you have the least thought of the kind, I’ll go at once.”
“Indeed, no, my dear,” she sobbed; “and even if you had done it, I couldn’t be such a cruel wretch as to tell against you, for you must have been mad.”
“Hang it, woman! if you talk like that, you’ll make me mad.”
“I’ve done, my dear. There, I won’t say another word, only to defend you. But tell me, my dear, what are you going to do?”
“What an honest man should do, Mrs Sarson,” said Chris, excitedly. “Mind I’m not wild with you, only with the wretched fools out yonder,” he said more gently, as he took his landlady’s hands. “There, my good old soul, it’ll all come right some day, here or hereafter.”
“But you’ll go and tell the magistrate, won’t you, that it’s all false?”