Sir John prevailed.
“Jem,” he said, “if I knew who it was I’d shoot him ike a dog—curse him! No: I couldn’t wait to fire, I’d strangle him; but I can’t have this published abroad if we can hush it up. I won’t have my child dragged into a witness box to give evidence against the devil who has wrought us this ill. We must bear it, Jem, and wait.”
“But, my dear Jack—”
“But, my dear Jem—I am her father. What would our darling wish if she could speak to us—if we could speak to her upon what it would be best to do?”
The major bowed his head, and as far as possible a veil was drawn over the events of that night.
Rumour was pretty busy during the next month, during which period several stories were afloat, but only one bore the stamp of truth—that, out of despair some said, Captain Rolph obtained leave of absence, and went off to Norway, shooting, while Mrs Rolph and her niece accompanied him as far as Hull, and then continued their journey to Scarboro’.
That was perfectly true, Mrs Rolph having her hands pretty full with Marjorie, who also turned ill having bad, nervous, hysterical fits, and refusing absolutely to go outside The Warren door without having tight hold of Mrs Rolph’s arm; and even then she was constantly turning her eyes wildly round as if in expectation of seeing someone start out from behind bush or hedge.
“The shock to her system,” Mrs Rolph used to say to herself, and she became increasingly gentle toward the girl whose nerves had been shattered by the affair at The Hall.
By this time the shutters were all closed at Brackley, for, after Sir John had been severely blamed for not getting down some big physician when Glynne’s brain fever was at its worst, people came to the conclusion that he knew what he was about, for if ever a clever practitioner did settle down in a place, it was “Doctor” Oldroyd, who had cured the young lady in a wonderfully short space of time. For the month at its end found the Days in Italy, where Glynne had been recommended to go on account of her health.
Oldroyd consequently was on the road to fame—that is the fame which extended for a radius of six miles; but his pockets were very little the heavier, and he still looked upon men who kept banking accounts with a feeling akin to awe.