All this Winny told—every word going to my heart—in a rapid, excited manner, which increased in force as she went on, until she finished with a wild declaration that she would go to Godfrey and warn him of the traps which were being set for him, of the danger which awaited him on the morrow. He was her husband—her honourable, guiltless, noble husband! she almost shrieked. It was her duty to warn him, and, if needful, to be with him.
I had a dreadful job to pacify her; and I was obliged to hold out hopes which I knew to be false, and to explain away all that I had said. That all I told her now would be proved false the very next day, I well knew, and perhaps it was cruel to deceive her; but what was I to do? I was nearly mad. I did not show it so much as Winny, but I believe I was as bad.
Never was man in a more painful position on this earth. It was impossible for me to draw back; I could not and would not do so; yet the consequences of going on were frightful. Ruin to my daughter—a blight on her life which could never be removed—this I should bring about; and to do it would kill me.
I never closed my eyes all night; and by the haggard looks of Winny in the morning, I was sure it had been the same with her. I tried to talk as though I was not thinking of the horrible position we were in; but of course it was a dead failure. I said that as she did not seem very well, she had perhaps better not go to business that morning. If I had known what her answer would be, I should probably have held my tongue.
‘Do you think, father,’ she exclaimed, ‘that I can attend to business or to any duty to-day? I shall wait your return here. Remember, it was by your advice that I did not, as I know I ought to have done, go to my husband last night and warn him. You said it would be all for the best if I did not do so. I shall wait here until you bring me the news which proves I was right in taking, and you in giving such advice.’
I went out to keep my appointment, as miserable and wretched a man as any who that day crawled through the streets of London. How I blamed myself for meddling in painful and disagreeable business which I ought to have been done with for ever, and how I vowed to keep clear of everything of the kind, if I could only get out of this scrape. I met Sam’s wife; a pale, care-worn, thinly clad little woman; without a trace, I was sure, of the habitual criminal in her spare features, although I daresay she knew more of Sam’s doings than the law would have looked favourably on.
‘O Mr Holdrey!’ she said—she knew me, it seemed, better than I knew her—‘I am so glad you have come.—But, lor! how bad you look, sir!’
I did not answer her; I could not.
‘He’s going to make a bolt of it,’ she went on; ‘he means sailing for America in a day or two. He got the money from the old lady last night; and I have seen him since I have been here this morning.’
‘Seen him?—seen’—— I began. I knew very well whom she meant, but I was obliged to say something. Yet, it was impossible, I thought, when I recalled the previous night and many other incidents of the case, that young Harleston could be thinking of going abroad.