“It’s my dooty to tell him, sir; and I’m a-going to do it.”
“But I don’t know what effect it may have upon him, man.”
“It can’t have a bad one, sir; and it may rouse Sir James up into being the man he was afore the accident. I must make haste, please, sir, or I may be too late.”
“No, Monnick; you must not go.”
“Not go, sir? Well, sir, I don’t want to be disrespeckful to my master’s friends; but I’ve thought this over, and my conscience says it’s my dooty, and I shall go.” The old man shook himself free, and went off at a trot, leaving the doctor hesitating as to the course to pursue.
Should he run after and stop him? Should he go down the garden, interrupt the meeting, and enable them to escape? “No; a hundred times no!” he muttered, stamping his foot. “I must stop him at any cost.” He ran up the garden; but he was too late, for before he reached the house he heard low voices, and found that Scarlett had been tempted out by the beauty of the night—or by fate, as the doctor put it—and was half-way down the path when Monnick had met him.
“Who is this?” he said in a low, agitated voice, as the doctor met them.
“It is I, old fellow,” said the doctor, hastily.—“Now come, be calm. You must govern yourself. Has he told you something?”
“I wanted no telling, Jack,” groaned Scarlett. “The moment he opened his lips, I knew it. I have suspected it for long enough; but I could not stir—I would not stir. He, my own cousin, too; the man I have made my friend. O, heaven, is there no gratitude or manly feeling on the earth!”
“My dear boy, you must—you shall be cool,” whispered the doctor. “You are in a low nervous state, and—”