“We have taken a night to search our hearts.”
Wilson was not one of those creatures who carry their prejudices and opinions about with them like samples of snuff and insist on presenting them to friends and acquaintances. He was not a moral person in the ecclesiastical sense. A man of the world, he knew the thousand entanglements that are cast about those who dare to depart from the paths of propriety.
“Have you thought the matter over, sir?” he said at last, laying his hand with a look of affection on Jeffray’s shoulder.
“I am ready to face it, Dick,” he answered.
“It is a great lottery, sir—a great lottery.”
Jeffray’s lips twitched, but his face never lost its determination.
“I love this woman, Dick,” he said, simply; “I would risk my immortal soul for her. How can I send her back to this brute of a husband? What have I to lose in Sussex? If poor Lot dies, I cannot rest here with his blood upon my hands. The girl’s life, too, is in danger. They meant to shoot her, Dick—shoot her—by Heaven, that they shall not! How can I turn her away at such an hour?”
Wilson shook his head and stared sadly through the open window.
“It is a great lottery, lad,” he said—“a great lottery.”
Jeffray drew close to him and held out his hand.