Part 28 (1/2)
”When you hear my story,” she said, composedly but with an underlying bitterness which was hardly to be concealed, ”the story of a long martyrdom of persecution--for it has been nothing less--you will acquit me of being guilty of anything disreputable. What I did was innocent enough and it moreover was forced upon me.”
”Tell me,” he urged tenderly.
”I must tell you,” she returned, ”if only to set myself right in your eyes who have been witness of the terrible sequel to it all. But not to-night; it is too late, and the story is long: it must be told at length. d.i.c.k will be home by this and I must go. I would ask you to come in, but there would be no opportunity for private talk there. Will you meet me to-morrow morning at half-past ten by the summer-house near the wood that runs up to James' farm? You know it?”
”Well. I will be there.”
”It is rather a long way for you to come,” she said, ”but there are reasons for avoiding the big wood with the rides.”
”I know,” he replied. ”Henshaw might be on the look-out there for you.”
Then he added in answer to her quick look of curiosity, ”I happened once by accident to see him there with you.”
”Ah, yes,” she admitted with a shudder, ”I will tell you about that.”
”I think I can guess,” he said quietly. ”Now in the meantime you will take no notice of this man if he writes or tries to see you. He will probably be exasperated by your not keeping the appointment this evening and may determine to put the screw on.”
”Yes,” she agreed with a lingering fear in her voice.
”Leave him to me to deal with,” Gifford said rea.s.suringly. ”And do make up your mind that all will be well.”
”I will, thanks to you, my friend in need.”
And so, with a warm pressure of the hands, they parted.
CHAPTER XXIII
EDITH MORRISTON'S STORY
Next morning Gifford was in good time at the rendezvous, a sequestered corner of the park, and Edith Morriston soon joined him. ”Let us come into the summer-house,” she suggested; ”it will be more convenient for my long story.”
”First of all, tell me,” Gifford said, ”has anything happened since last night? Has Henshaw made any move?”
She took out a note and handed it to him. ”Only that,” she said with an uneasy laugh.
”There must have been some misunderstanding last evening,” Gifford read.
”I cannot think that your not keeping the appointment was intentional.
Anyhow I can wait till to-night, then I shall be at the lane just beyond the church at 7.30. That you may not repent I hope you have not repented.” That was all.
”A thinly veiled threat,” Gifford observed. ”The man in his way seems as great a bully as his brother. May I keep this? I am going to see Mr.
Henshaw presently, and have a serious talk with him. After which I shall hope to be able to convince you that your troubles are at an end.”
”If you can do that--” she said.
”The knowledge that I have been of service to you will be my great reward. I hope I am sufficiently a gentleman not to ask or expect any other.”
She made no reply. They had entered the little rustic summer-house, and sat down.
”d.i.c.k has driven into Branchester,” Edith Morriston said, perhaps to end an embarra.s.sing pause. ”He will not be back till luncheon, so we are not likely to be interrupted.”
”That's well,” Gifford answered. ”Now please begin what I am most anxious to hear.”