“Yes. Anna had suspected Sophie from the first. She saw her steal out of Miss Deveen’s room, and saw her sewing something into her stays at bed-time. But Anna kept it to herself until discovery had come.”
Tod could frown pretty well on ordinary occasions, but I never saw a frown like the one on his brow as he listened. And I thought—I thought—it was meant for Sophie Chalk.
“Lady Whitney, I expect, knows it all now, Tod. Perhaps Helen also. Old Brandon went over to the Hall to spend the day, and it was in consequence of what he heard from Lady Whitney and Miss Deveen that he came down here to look us up.”
“Meaning me,” said Tod. “Not us. Use right words, Johnny.”
“They did not know, you see, that Sophie Chalk was married. And they must have noticed that you cared for her.”
Tod made no comment. He just leaned against the shelf in silence. I was stacking my books.
“Good-night, Johnny,” he quietly said, without any appearance of resentment; and went into his room.
The next day was Palm Sunday. Tod lay in bed with a splitting headache, could not lift his head from the pillow, and his skin was as sallow as an old gander’s. “Glad to hear it,” said Mr. Brandon, when I told him; “it will give him a quiet day for reflection.”
A surprise awaited me that morning, and Mr. Brandon also. Miss Deveen was at Oxford, with Helen and Anna Whitney. They had arrived the evening before, and meant to stay and go up with Bill and with us. I did not tell Tod: in fact, he seemed too ill to be spoken to, his head covered with the bedclothes.
You can’t see many a finer sight than the Broad Walk presents on the evening of Palm Sunday. Every one promenades there, from the dean downwards. Our party went together: Miss Deveen, Helen, and Anna; Bill, I, and Mr. Brandon.