Julia, in her anxiety, was for staying with Thisbe and continuing the watch; but Crellock showed that he had not forgotten his promise, and a nameless dread took possession of the girl’s breast.
She told herself that it was absurd—that in spite of his roughness there seemed to be something genuine about her father’s companion; but, all the same, her dread increased, and it was the more painful, that she did not dare to communicate it to Mrs Hallam.
In fact, she was at a loss to explain her reasons for feeling alarmed to herself. Eaton seemed to be sleeping comfortably, and Crellock, when he came into the room, was gentle and respectful, more than was his wont.
“You two had better go to bed,” said Hallam at last roughly; and, pale and troubled looking, Mrs Hallam rose without a word, took Julia’s hand, and they left the room, but not to sleep; while Crellock’s watch began by his taking a candle, snuffing it, and holding it down close to Eaton’s face, scanning his features well before setting it on the chimney-piece, lighting a cigar, and going out into the verandah, to walk up and down, thinking deeply.
Sometimes he stopped to lean his arms on the wooden rail, and stare up at the great mellow stars that burned in the deep purple sky; but only to start as from a dream, to go back into the room, and see if the wounded man had moved.
When in the verandah he ground his teeth and clenched his hands.
“The fools!” he muttered; “they might have hit a little harder, and then—Pooh! what does he matter?”
At the end of an hour he stole back softly into the room to look at the sleeping man again.
“He’s not much hurt,” he muttered. “Who’s there?”
“Only me,” said Hallam, in a hoarse whisper. “Just coming to see how you were getting on.”