‘Because he’s a fool,’ repeated young Askam, leaning his elbows on the balustrade of the bridge, to which they had now advanced, and staring down into the rushing brown river. The expression on the face, which the darkness concealed, was not a pleasant one. ‘Curse him!’ he muttered to himself, so low that even Gilbert did not hear him; but the river carried the sound, along with all the other messages with which it was laden, towards the sea.
‘Come along!’ said Gilbert, after a brief, silent pause. ‘There’s no use staying here any longer.’
Otho raised himself from the bridge, and they retraced their way through the silent passage, up the steep street, and to where a road to the right led in the direction of Thorsgarth. They had not spoken a word since leaving the mills.
‘I think it’s rather late for me to be going with you,’ said Gilbert, hesitating at the corner.
‘Not a bit! What’s ten o’clock? You’ve got a key, I suppose? You said you would come,’ said Otho, rapidly, and almost savagely. ‘And I want to speak to you.’
‘Oh, I am willing, and—well, Michael will see my father again before he goes to bed—sure to. He will be leaving Balder Hall by now, I daresay. They keep early hours there.’
‘Where there’s an old woman like that precious Aunt Martha, they must,’ said Otho. ‘Look here, Gilbert, how did your brother Michael get Magdalen Wynter to accept him?’
‘By being the only man in the world who proposed to her, or was likely to do so,’ said Gilbert, cynically.
‘I don’t see that. She is the handsomest woman I ever saw.’
‘She hasn’t a penny, and won’t have. She isn’t popular—but the reverse, and no man, except Michael, ever penetrates within those walls—oh, and you,’ he added, with a laugh, as he turned to Otho.