“It is from Dudley,” said that gentleman, placing the paper in his nephew’s hand. “Nice kettle of fish, is not it? We can catch the next train, I suppose?”
“What is the matter; what has happened?” inquired Mrs. Croft.
“Nothing, except that a gentleman on our board will not be reasonable,” answered Mr. Stewart. “He wants talking to, I think. Come, Douglas—that is, if you are coming with me. Good-bye, Arabella, we shall be down again to-morrow.”
“Good-bye, my dear,” repeated Mr. Croft. “Comfort yourself, as I do, that the parting is not for ever;” and the pair hurried off to St. Leonard’s Station, talking as they went about the telegram, which Mr. Stewart now tore up into little scraps, and scattered to the wind.
“My mind always misgave me concerning him,” said Mr. Stewart. “I asked Black specially if he had authority for putting his name on the direction.”
“It is an old trick of Black’s, I believe, that of using names without permission,” answered Mr. Croft; “you will see Frank, I suppose, and try to alter his purpose?”
“Yes, that is why I am now going to town; and I asked you to accompany me, thinking you would be glad of a holiday.”
“You are very kind. I do not fancy I should have much cared for a tête-à-tête with madam by the sad sea waves; and Mrs. Dudley refuses to be at home to me.”
“You can scarcely blame her for that,” remarked his uncle.
“I am not blaming her, only I think it is carrying the theory of husband and wife being one, a little too far. However, if such be her will, I must resign myself to it.”