“Sit down, sir. I want to hear about this ridiculous business.”
“It may seem so to thee,” said I; “I am glad if it amuses thee.”
“Stuff! Talk decent English, man. That was like your father. Is—are you—is any one hurt?”
I said that was what we went for, and so told her the whole sorry business.
“And it was for me, sir!” she cried; “for me! And my dear brave girl-boy! Is it dangerous?”
I hoped not. We had both left our marks on the English officers. That she liked. Then she was silent awhile.
“Here is come a note from the kitten. Will you have it? It may be all you will ever get of her. She says she has held her tongue; I can’t—I don’t believe her—and asks me to let her know if any are hurt. I will. Does she suppose gentlemen go out just to look at one another? Ridiculous!”
I spoke at last of my father; of how he would take this matter, of his increasing acerbity, and of my own unhappy life, where I found nothing to replace my mother’s love. My last disaster and poor Jack’s wound seemed like enough to widen the gap between me and my parent, and my Aunt Gainor was troubled.
“You must be first to tell him,” said my aunt. “I think he will say but little. He has given you up as a sheep lost in the darkness of iniquity, and too black to be found easily.”
I begged her not to jest. I was sore and sick at heart.