“Miss Atherton,” said he, looking not at her, but at Jeffreys, “have you forgotten we were to have a ride this morning?”
“I am so sorry, Mr Scarfe, but I have a headache, and don’t feel as if I could ride to-day. You will excuse me, won’t you?”
“Oh, certainly,” replied Scarfe; “don’t you think a turn in the park will do you good? May I have the pleasure of escorting you?”
Raby said, “Thank you.” She was very sorry to disappoint any one, and had no valid excuse against a walk.
“Miss Atherton,” said Scarfe, when they had gone some distance, chatting on indifferent topics, “I am anxious just to say a word to you, not in my own interest at all, but your own. Will you forgive me if I do?”
“What is it?” said Raby, mystified.
“I wish to put you on your guard against Jeffreys, who, I see, presumes on his position here to annoy you. You may not perhaps know, Miss Atherton, that not two years ago—”
“Excuse me, Mr Scarfe,” said Raby quietly, stopping in her walk, “I hate talking of people behind their backs. Mr Jeffreys has never annoyed me; he has been kind to me. Shall we talk of something else?”
“Certainly,” said Scarfe, startled at her decided tone. He had laid his plan for a little revelation, and it disconcerted him to see it knocked on the head like this.
However, just then he was not in the humour for making himself obnoxious to Miss Atherton, of whom, being a susceptible youth, he was decidedly enamoured. It was a deprivation, certainly, to find his tongue thus unexpectedly tied with regard to Jeffreys, of whose stay at Wildtree he had calculated on making very short work.