“But ye’ve tore up his foiver!”
“I don’t care.” But alarmed at heart over her insane deed, she took the pieces from his unresisting hand and put them in her purse. “Don’t bolt me out or I’ll break the window.”
“But listen, dearie, Mr. Skindle won’t be there—the place’ll be shut up!”
“All the better. I’ll break it in.”
“But what’s the good o’ that? Poor old Methusalem’s out o’ his misery by now!”
Her heart stood still. “What do you mean?” She was white and shaking.
“ ’Lijah kills at seven,” he said, “afore his supper.”
“Oh, my God!” she gasped, the completeness of the tragedy impinging on her for the first time. “You sold him to be killed! No, no!” she cried, recovering. “He wouldn’t give five pounds just for a carcase!”
“Then ef that ain’t killed yet,” said the Gaffer, “that won’t be till to-morrow night.”
A sensible remark for once, Jinny thought, subsiding almost happily into a chair. It had been silly even to contemplate setting out afresh after all the day’s journeyings. In this weather the doomed horses would be shut up in Mr. Skindle’s field,—she recalled their joyous gambollings—the first thing in the morning she would set out to the rescue. And yet what if her grandfather should be wrong, what if Mr. Skindle killed before breakfast! No, delay might be fatal, and she started up afresh and, unlocking the stable-door, brought in her lantern.