“Yes, Uncle Struan, don’t you understand? Every one must have his ups and downs. I am having a long spell of downs just now.”
“My dear boy, my dear boy! Whatever have you done?”
“Do you mean to throw me over, Uncle Struan, as the rest of the world has beautifully done! Everything seems to be upset. What is the meaning of this broad, black stream?”
“Come into my study, and tell me all. I can let you in without sight of your aunt. The shock would be too great for her.”
Hilary followed, without a word. Mr. Hales led him in at the window, and warmed him, and covered him with his own dressing-gown, and watched him slowly recovering.
“Never mind the tar on your hands; it is an honest smell,” he said; “my poor boy, my poor boy, what you must have been through!”
“Whatever has happened to me,” answered Hilary, spreading his thin hands to the fire, “has been all of my own doing, Uncle Struan.”
“You shall have a cordial, and you shall tell me all. There, I have bolted the door. I am your parson as well as your uncle. All you say will be sacred with me. And I am sure you have done no great harm after all. We shall see what your dear aunt thinks of it.”
Then Hilary, sipping a little rum-and-water, wandered through his story; not telling it brightly, as once he might have done, but hiding nothing consciously.
“Do you mean to tell me there is nothing worse than that?” asked the Rector, with a sigh of great relief.