In a whispering, sobbing tone, he told these particulars by degrees to Jane as they sat there. She tried to comfort him; said it might never be known beyond themselves at home; rather advocated his going away for a short time, as proposed, while things righted themselves, and their father’s anger cooled down. But Oliver could not be comforted. Then, leaving the unsatisfactory theme, she tried another, and began telling him of the wedding at Islip that morning, and of how Tom and Emma looked——
“Don’t, Jane,” he interrupted; and his wailing, shrinking tone seemed to betray the keenest pain of all.
They walked home together in silence, Jane clinging to his arm. The night shades lay upon the earth, the stars were shining in the sky. Oliver laid his hand upon the garden gate and paused.
“Do you remember, Jane, when I was coming in here for the first time, how a strange shiver took me, and you thought I must have caught a chill. It was a warning, my dear; a warning of the evil that lay in store for me.”
He would not go into the parlour to supper, but went softly up to his room and shut himself in for the night. Poor Oliver! Poor, poor Oliver!
The following day, Friday, Mr. Preen, allowing himself the unwonted luxury of a holiday for a day’s shooting, was away betimes. For the afternoon and evening, Mrs. Jacob Chandler’s daughters, Clementina, Georgiana, and Julietta, had organised a party to celebrate their cousin Tom’s wedding; Miss Julietta called it a “flare-up.”
Jane Preen had promised, for herself and for Oliver, to be there by three o’clock. For Oliver! She made herself ready after dinner; and then, looking everywhere for her brother, found him standing in the road just outside the garden gate. He said he was not going. Jane reproached him, and he quite laughed at her. He go into company now! she might know better. But Jane had great influence over him, and as he walked with her along the road—for she was going to walk in and walk back again at night—she nearly persuaded him to fetch her. Only nearly; not quite. Oliver finally refused, and they had almost a quarrel.
Then the tears ran down Jane’s cheeks. Her heart was aching to pain for him; and her object in pressing him to come was to take him out of his loneliness.
“Just this one evening, Oliver!” she whispered, clinging to him and kissing him. “I don’t ask you a favour often.”
And Oliver yielded. “I’ll come for you, Janey,” he said, kissing her in return. “That is, I will come on and meet you; I cannot go to the house.”