“Do you expect to be working hard this term at Oxford?” said Raby, doing the kindest thing in turning the conversation.
It was hardly to be wondered at if she retired that night considerably perplexed and disturbed. There was some mystery attaching to Jeffreys, which, if she was to set any store by Scarfe’s insinuations, was of a disgraceful kind. And the agitation which both Scarfe and Jeffreys had shown on reading the telegram seemed to connect this Captain Forrester, or rather his son, whom Scarfe spoke of as “poor young Forrester,” with the same mystery. Raby was a young lady with the usual allowance of feminine curiosity, which, though she was charity itself, did not like to be baulked by a mystery.
She therefore opened a letter she had just finished to her father, to add the following postscript:—
“Was this brave Captain Forrester who saved the guns a friend of yours? Tell me all about him. Had he a wife and children? Surely something will be done for them, poor things.”
Early next morning Mrs Scarfe and her son left Wildtree.
Jeffreys, from Percy’s window, watched them drive away.
“Very glad you must be to see the back of them,” said Percy.
“I am glad,” responded Jeffreys honestly.
“I’m not so frightfully sorry,” said Percy. “Scarfe’s a jolly enough chap, but he’s up to too many dodges, don’t you know? And he’s dead on Raby, too. Quite as dead as you are, Jeff.”
“Percy, a fortnight’s congestion has not cured you of the bad habit of talking nonsense,” said Jeffreys.