"I protest I do not know what you mean," cried Mr. Arkell.
"Not know! Did your chaise and your servant take him and that girl to Purford, or did they not?"
For reply, Mr. Arkell cast a look on his son—a look of stern inquiry. William could only speak the truth now, and Mr. Arkell's brow darkened as he listened.
"And you knew of this—this elopement?"
"No, on my word of honour. If I had known of it, I should not have lent him the carriage. Robert"—he raised his eyes to Mr. Carr's—"was not justified in playing me this trick."
"I don't believe a word of your denial," roughly spoke Mr. Carr, in his anger; "you and he planned this escape together; you were in league with him."
It is useless to contend with an angry man, and William calmly turned to his father: "All I know of the matter, sir, I told you this morning. I never suspected anything amiss until Philip came back with the carriage and related what had occurred."
George Arkell knew that his son's veracity might be depended on, nevertheless he felt terribly annoyed at being drawn into the affair. Mrs. Arkell did not mend the matter when she inquired whither Robert had gone.
Mr. Carr answered intemperately, speaking out the truth more broadly than he need have done: his scamp of a son and the shameless Hughes girl had taken flight together.
Tring, who had stood aghast during the short colloquy, not at first understanding what was amiss, stole away to her pantry, where the dressmaking was going on. Tring sunk down in a chair at once, and regarded the poor seamstress with open mouth and eyes, in which pity and horror struggled together. Tring was of the respectable school, and really thought death would be a light calamity in comparison with such a flight.