There was a pot of something on the fire, but it was just as well that Jerry was not hungry, for it had been burnt to a cinder long ago.
“I’ve been sitting up for you all night,” said Mr. Sumption. “When you didn’t come in, I went over to Worge, and Ivy said you’d been out with her, but had gone off by yourself, she didn’t know where. She’s a kind girl, and told me not to worry.”
“Father—I’ve lost her for ever.”
It was the first time he had said the words aloud, and their wretchedness swept over him, breaking his spirit, so that he began to cry.
“I’ve lost her ... I was mad ... and she’s gone.”
Mr. Sumption stood staring at the small, slight figure on the sofa, lying with its dirty face turned away, its back showing him the split tunic of a soldier of the King. His bowels yearned towards the son of the woman from Ihornden, and his rage switched violently from Jerry to the cause of his grief.
“Drat the girl! Drat the slut! What is she after, despising her betters? She’s led you on—she’s played with you. Don’t trouble about her, Jerry, my boy. She isn’t worth it.”
“I love her,” gasped Jerry—“and I’ve lost her. It’s my own fault. I went mad. I frightened her.... Father, I’m a beast—I reckon Satan’s got me.”
Mr. Sumption patted his shoulder.
“I reckon Satan’s got me,” moaned the boy—“or why did I go wild like that?”