“I beg pardon,” he said, “for being so late. Good-morning, Lady Royland; good-morning, Roy. I slept so dreadfully soundly.”
“You need not apologise, Master Pawson,” said the lady, gravely; and she noted that his quick eyes had rested upon the fragments of the torn-up letter scattered about the room, where she had tossed them contemptuously. “You are looking at the letter I received this morning.”
“A letter?” he cried, eagerly; “from Sir Granby?”
“No,” said Lady Royland, with a sigh which she could not restrain; “it is from close at hand—from some of our neighbours. I wish I had kept it for you to see.”
“Not bad news, I hope,” he said, looking pale.
“Yes; very bad news,” said Lady Royland. “I have been waiting for days—it is right that you should know—hoping to get promises of help from the different friends we have round, but till now the answer to my appeal has been silence. This morning they gave me their reason for not replying.”
“May I ask from whom you have heard?”
“I cannot tell you,” said Lady Royland; “the letter is signed ‘a friend,’ and it advocates total surrender to the rebellious power of which we hear so much.”
“But you will not surrender, Lady Royland?”
“Surrender? No!” cried Roy. “Never!”