Part 57 (2/2)
”You are sure you were not dreaming?” says Rylton, making an effort, and growing careless once again in his manner.
Minnie Hescott smiles too.
”I never dream,” says she.
CHAPTER V.
HOW MISS GOWER GOES FOR A PLEASANT ROW UPON THE LAKE WITH HER NEPHEW; AND HOW SHE ADMIRES THE SKY AND THE WATER; AND HOW PRESENTLY FEAR FALLS ON HER; AND HOW DEATH THREATENS HER; AND HOW BY A MERE SCRATCH OF A PEN SHE REGAINS Sh.o.r.e AND LIFE.
”How delicious the water looks to-day!” says Miss Gower, gazing at the still lake beneath her with a sentimental eye. The eye is under one of the biggest sun-hats in Christendom. ”And the sky,” continues Miss Gower, now casting the eye aloft, ”is admirably arranged too.
What a day for a row, and so late in the season, too!”
”'Late, late, so late!'” quotes her nephew, in a gloomy tone.
”Nonsense!” sharply; ”it is not so very late, after all. And even if it were there would be no necessity for being so lugubrious over it.
And permit me to add, Randal, that when you take a lady out for a row, it is in the very worst possible taste to be in low spirits.”
”I can't help it,” says Mr. Gower, with a groan.
”What's the matter with you?” demands his aunt.
”Ah, no matter--no matter!”
”In debt, as usual, I suppose?” grimly.
”Deeply!” with increasing gloom.
”And you expect me to help you, I suppose?”
”No. I expect nothing. I hope only for one thing,” says Mr. Gower, fixing a haggard gaze upon her face.
”If it's a cheque from me,” says his aunt sternly, ”you will hope a long time.”
”I don't think so,” sadly.
”What do you mean, sir? Do you think I am a weatherc.o.c.k, to change with every wind? You have had your last cheque from me, Randal. Be sure of that. I shall no longer pander to your wicked ways, your terrible extravagances.”
”I didn't mean that. I wished only to convey to you the thought that soon there would be no room for hope left to me.”
”Well, there isn't _now!” _says Miss Gower cheerfully, ”if you are alluding to me. Row on, Randal; there isn't anything like as good a view from this spot as there is from the lower end!”
”I like the middle of the lake,” says Mr. Gower, in a sepulchral tone. As he speaks he draws in both oars, and leaning his arms upon them, looks straight across into her face. It is now neck or nothing, he tells himself, and decides at once it shall be neck.
”Aunt,” says he, in a low, soft, sad tone--a tone that reduces itself into a freezing whisper, _”Are you prepared to die?”_
”What!” says Miss Gower. She drops the ropes she has been holding and glares at him. ”Collect yourself, boy!”
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