“Jeffreys is fortunate in his champion. Perhaps, at least, Miss Atherton, you will do me the credit of remembering that on one occasion your hero owed his life to me. I hope that, too, was not cowardly or cruel.”
“If he had known the ruin you had in store for him, he would not have thanked you.”
Raby spoke with downcast eyes, and neither she nor Scarfe perceived the poor tramp on the path, who, as they brushed past him, glanced wistfully round at their faces.
“He never thanked me,” said Scarfe.
They walked on some distance in silence. Then Scarfe said, “Miss Atherton, you are unfair to me now. You think I acted out of spite, instead of out of affection—for you.”
“It is a kind of affection I don’t appreciate, Mr Scarfe; and as the rain has nearly stopped I need not trouble you any more. Thank you for the shelter, and good-bye.”
“You really mean that you reject me—that you do not care for me?”
“I do not. I am sorry to say so—good-bye.”
And she left him there, bewildered certainly, but in no manner of doubt that she had done with him.
She told her father all about it that evening, and was a good deal reassured by his hearty approval of her conduct.