“It will not need,” said Edgerton, striving again to rise, and staggering up with difficulty.
“It will need. You must not overtask yourself. The walk is a long one before us.”
Meantime, Wharton was already on his way. It was a tedious interval which followed before his return with the carriage, which found considerable difficulty in picking a track through the woods. Julia, after recovery, had wandered off about a hundred yards from the party. She betrayed no concern—no uneasiness—made no inquiries after Edgerton, of whose condition she knew nothing—and, by this very course, convinced me that she was conscious of too deep an interest in his fate to trust her lips in referring to it. All that she said to me was, that “she had been so terrified on seeing him fall, that she did not even know that she had screamed.”
“Natural enough!” said my demon. “Had she been able to have controlled her utterance, she would have taken precious good care to have maintained the silence of the grave. But her feelings were too strong for her policy.”
And I took this reasoning for gospel.
The carriage came. Edgerton was put into it, but Julia positively refused to ride. She insisted that she was perfectly equal to the walk and walk she would. I was pleased with this determination, but not willing to appear pleased. I expostulated with her even angrily, but found her incorrigible. Chagrin and disappointment were obvious enough on the face of William Edgerton.
I took my seat beside him, and left Kingsley and Wharton to escort my wife home. We had scarcely got in motion before a rash determination seized my mind.
“You must go home with me, Edgerton. It will not do, while you are in this feeble state, to remain at a public tavern.”
He said something very faintly about crowding and inconveniencing us.
“Pshaw—room enough—and Julia can be your nurse.”