His sister was staring over his shoulder, but her sight was indifferent. “What is it?” she gasped. “What about the Zeniths?”
In a hushed voice he replied, “They rose seven-and-sixpence yesterday. They’re now worth ninety shillings a share. That means £22,500 for the five thousand. . . . That would be £11,260 for me—us. . . . I wonder if Symington shouldna sell now. Wait till I see if it says anything about them here.” He turned to some paragraphs, headed “Mining Notes.” . . . “Ay, here it is! Oh, listen, Rachel! It says they’ll likely go to eight pound! Almighty! We munna let him sell!”
She sighed and said, “It’s time the shop was open.”
“Ay, so it is—but wait a minute.”
With another headshake she began to clear the table.
He rose suddenly. “There’s the keys,” he said, throwing them on to the table. “Ye can open the shop. I’m going up to White Farm.”
CHAPTER IV
At the risk of offending a stray customer Kitty delayed opening the post-office until her outraged spirit had become a little calmer—only a little, for the mingled passions so brutally aroused would subside only through sheer exhaustion. She had no one to confide in, no one to count on for sympathy and comfort. She had thought she had grown used to being alone in the world, but she had never experienced loneliness like this. Her bosom heaved, but her eyes remained dry.
The sounds of her aunt opening the shop next door roused her from a sort of stupor. Taking the big key, she proceeded to open the office for the day’s business. There was some book-keeping to be done, also a schedule or two to fill up, but her hand shook so that she could scarcely write. And suddenly she realized that she was afraid, desperately afraid. She was so wholly dependent on that man next door; her very existence was in his hands; she was, to all intents and purposes, his prisoner.
A few pounds would have made all the difference now. She possessed less than two shillings. There was no escape.