Part 20 (1/2)
”Yes, I have heard.”
Daphne shrank back at the sound of his voice. His face was like flint.
”Then--where is he?” she faltered. ”Windebank said----”
”I had him shot.”
Daphne stared at him incredulously.
”You had him _shot_?” she said slowly. ”_My_ Dawks?”
”Yes. It was rank cruelty on your part keeping the poor brute alive, after--after reducing him to that state.”
The last half of the sentence may have been natural and justifiable, but no one could call it generous. It is not easy to be merciful when one is at white heat.
Daphne stood up, very slim and straight, gazing stonily into her husband's face.
”Have you buried him?”
”I told one of the gardeners to do so.”
”Where?”
”I did not say, but we can----”
”I suppose you know,” said Daphne with great deliberation, ”that he was the only living creature in all this great house that loved me--really _loved_ me?”
Verily, here was war. There was a tense silence for a moment, and an almost imperceptible flicker of some emotion pa.s.sed over Juggernaut's face. Then he said, with equal deliberation--
”Without any exception?”
”Yes, without _any_ exception!” cried poor Daphne, stabbing pa.s.sionately in the dark. ”And since he is dead,” she added--”since you have killed him--I am going home to Dad and the boys! They love me!”
She stood before her husband with her head thrown back defiantly, white and trembling with pa.s.sion.
”Very good. Perhaps that would be best,” said Juggernaut quietly.
CHAPTER TWELVE.
CILLY; OR THE WORLD WELL LOST.
”Stiffy,” bellowed the new curate ferociously, ”what the--I mean, why on earth can't you keep that right foot steady? You edge off to leg every time. If you get a straight ball, stand up to it! If you get a leg-ball, turn round and have a slap at it! But for Heaven's sake don't go running _away_! Especially from things like pats of b.u.t.ter!”
”Awfully sorry, Mr Blunt!” gasped Stiffy abjectly, as another pat of b.u.t.ter sang past his ear. ”It's the rotten way I've been brought up!
I've never had any decent coaching before. Ough!... No, it didn't hurt a bit, really! I shall be all right in a minute.” He hopped round in a constricted circle, apologetically caressing his stomach.
They were in the paddock behind the Rectory orchard. The Reverend G.o.dfrey Blunt, a ruddy young man of cheerful countenance and ingenuous disposition, had rolled out an extremely fiery wicket; and within the encompa.s.sing net--Daphne's last birthday present--Stephen Blasius Vereker, impaled frog-wise upon the handle of his bat, and divided between a blind instinct of self-preservation and a desire not to appear ungrateful for favours received, was frantically endeavouring to dodge the deliveries of the church militant as they b.u.mped past his head and ricochetted off his ribs.
”That's better,” said Mr Blunt, as his pupil succeeded for the first time in arresting the course of a fast long-hop with his bat instead of his person. ”But don't play back to yorkers.”