At last I was really ill—or at any rate I was so reduced that unless relief came soon I must either capitulate or run away.
Even yet I found it hard to contemplate the former alternative. I met Harrison one morning in the passage. I suppose I must have looked specially miserable, for, contrary to his usual practice now, instead of looking away, he slackened speed as he came up and looked at me. Now was my time surely. I was famished for want of a friendly word or look, and my pride was at its last gasp. I believe I had actually begun to speak, when a sound in the passage startled us both, and we passed by as of old—strangers.
I rushed off to my study, ashamed and disappointed, and paced round it like a caged animal. What could I do? Should I write to some of the fellows? Should I tell Draven? or—should I escape?
Then it occurred to me, had not I a right to know why I was being treated like this? What had I done? Was I a sneak, or a leper, or a murderer, that I should thus be excommunicated and tortured? What a fool I had been, not to think of this before! Alas! it was too late now. My pride had made it impossible for me to speak the first word without surrendering all along the line; and even yet, at the eleventh hour, I could not face that. So I shut myself up for another day, miserable, nervous, and ill, and counted the minutes to bedtime.
The evening post brought a letter from Browne, and, thankful for any diversion, and the silent company even of a friendly piece of paper, I crawled off early to my study to make the most of my little comfort.
I started before I had read two lines, and uttered an exclamation of amazement.
“Dear Smither,—
“There’s been a most frightful mistake. By the same post as brought your letter I got enclosed from Williams. What a set of cads they’ve been, and all my fault! I’ve written to Williams that if it’s not all put right in twenty-four hours I’ll come down, disgraced as I am, and tell Draven. I’m in too great a rage to write more. Unless I get a telegram ‘All right!’ by ten to-morrow morning I’ll come.
“Yours ever,—
“P. Browne.”