“How grateful we ought to be, Tom dear; and how proud I am of you!—for it's your character has affected every person, because you are so honourable and high-minded. Tom, something is wrong; oh, I can't bear it: don't cry... you are overstrung... lie down on the couch, and I'll bathe your forehead with eau de Cologne.”
“No, I am not ill, and I don't deserve any petting; if you knew how mean I have been you would never speak to me again. If they had scolded me I would not have cared; but I can't bear their kindness.
“Amy, you must not send for the doctor, else you will put me to shame; my mind is quite right, and it isn't overwork: it's... conscience: I am not worthy to be your husband, or the friend of these men.”
“You will break my heart if you talk in this way. You unworthy! when you are the kindest, truest, noblest man in all the world—don't say a word—and everybody thinks so, and you must let us judge. Now rest here, and I'll get a nice little supper for you,” and his wife kissed him again and again.
“It's no use trying to undeceive her,” Hatchard said to himself when she was gone; “she believes in me, and those fellows believe in me—Freddie more than anybody, after all he said; and please God they will not be disappointed in the end.”
III
“You've got here before me, Mac.,” cried Freddie Beazley, bursting into Oxley's private room, “and I simply scooted round. Oh, I say, you've broken every bone in my hand, you great Scotch ruffian: take the ruler out of his fist, Ox., for heaven's sake, or else he'll brain us.
“Ox., you old scoundrel, read that letter aloud. Mac wasn't a creditor—he wishes he was this day—and he doesn't know it verbatim, and I'm not sure about a word or two. Stand up, old man, and do the thing properly. There now we're ready.”
July 7, 1897.
“Dear Sir,—