occur to her that she might not see him again at all that day; and that, as far as he was concerned, there might be need for no lie.
She started off to walk down home, holding her right arm steadily against her body with her left hand. Of course she must give some account of herself when she got to the house; but it was of the account to be given to him that she thought. As to the others she cared little for them. “Here I am; my arm is broken; and you had better send for a doctor.” That would be sufficient for them.
When she got into the wood the path was very dark. The heavens were overcast with clouds, and a few drops began to fall. Then the rain fell faster and faster, and before she had gone a quarter of a mile down the beacon hill, the clouds had opened themselves, and the shower had become a storm of water. Suffering as she was she stood up for a few moments under a large tree, taking the excuse of the rain for some minutes of delay, that she might make up her mind as to what she would say. Then it occurred to her that she might possibly meet him again before she reached the house; and, as she thought of it, she began for the first time to fear him. Would he come out upon her from the trees and really kill her? Had he made his way round, when he got out of her sight, that he might fall upon her suddenly and do as he had threatened? As the idea came upon her, she made a little attempt to run, but she found that running was impracticable from the pain the movement caused her. Then she walked on through the hard rain, steadily holding her arm against her side, but still looking every moment through the trees on the side from which George might be expected to reach her. But no one came near her on her way homewards. Had she been calm enough to think of the nature of the ground, she might have known that he could not have returned upon her so quickly. He must have come back up the steep hillside which she had seen him descend. No;—he had gone away altogether, across the fells towards Bampton, and was at this moment vainly buttoning his coat across his breast, in his unconscious attempt to keep out the wet. The Fury was driving him on, and he himself was not aware whither he was driven.
Dinner at the Hall had been ordered at five, the old hour; or rather that had been assumed to be the hour for dinner without any ordering. It was just five when Kate reached the front door. This she opened with her left hand, and turning at once into the dining-room, found her uncle and her aunt standing before the fire.
“Dinner is ready,” said John Vavasor; “where is George?”
“You are wet, Kate,” said aunt Greenow.
“Yes, I am very wet,” said Kate. “I must go upstairs. Perhaps you’ll come with me, aunt?”
“Come with you,—of course I will.” Aunt Greenow had seen at once that something was amiss.
“Where’s George?” said John Vavasor. “Has he come back with you, or are we to wait for him?”
Kate seated herself in her chair. “I don’t quite know where he is,” she said. In the meantime her aunt had hastened up to her side just in time to catch her as she was falling from her chair. “My arm,” said Kate, very gently; “my arm!” Then she slipped down against her aunt, and had fainted.
“He has done her a mischief,” said Mrs Greenow, looking up at her brother. “This is his doing.”
John Vavasor stood confounded, wishing himself back in Queen Anne Street.
Chapter LVII.
Showing How the Wild Beast Got Himself Back From the Mountains
About eleven o’clock on that night,—the night of the day on which Kate Vavasor’s arm had been broken,—there came a gentle knock at Kate’s bedroom door. There was nothing surprising in this, as of all the household Kate only was in bed. Her aunt was sitting at this time by her bedside, and the doctor, who had been summoned from Penrith and who had set her broken arm, was still in the house, talking over the accident with John Vavasor in the dining-room, before he proceeded back on his journey home.
“She will do very well,” said the doctor. “It’s only a simple fracture. I’ll see her the day after tomorrow.”
“Is it not odd that such an accident should come from a fall whilst walking?” asked Mr Vavasor.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “One never can say how anything may occur,” said he. “I know a young woman who broke the os femoris by just kicking her cat;—at least, she said she did.”
“Indeed! I suppose you didn’t take any trouble to inquire?”
“Not much. My business was with the injury, not with the way she got it. Somebody did make inquiry, but she stuck to her story and nothing came of it. Good night, Mr Vavasor. Don’t trouble her with questions till she has had some hours’ sleep, at any rate.” Then the doctor went, and John Vavasor was left alone, standing with his back to the dining-room fire.
There had been so much trouble and confusion in the house since Kate had fainted, almost immediately upon her reaching home, that Mr Vavasor had not yet had time to make up his mind as to the nature of the accident which had occurred. Mrs Greenow had at once ascertained that the bone was broken, and the doctor had been sent for. Luckily he had been found at home, and had reached the Hall a little before ten o’clock. In the meantime, as soon as Kate recovered her senses, she volunteered her account of what had occurred.
Her brother had quarrelled with her about the will, she said, and had left her abruptly on the mountain. She had fallen, she went on to say, as she turned from him, and had at once found that she had hurt herself. But she had been too angry with him to let him know it; and, indeed, she had not known the extent herself till he had passed out of her sight. This was her story; and there was nothing in it that was false by the letter, though there was much that was false in the spirit. It was certainly true that George had not known that she was injured. It was true that she had asked him for no help. It was true, in one sense, that she had fallen, and it was true that she had not herself known how severe had been the injury done to her till he had gone beyond the reach of her voice. But she repressed all mention of his violence, and when she was pressed as to the nature of the quarrel, she declined to speak further on that matter.
Neither her uncle nor her aunt believed her. That was a matter of course, and she knew that they did not believe her. George’s absence, their recent experience of his moods, and the violence by which her arm must have been broken, made them certain that Kate had more to tell if she chose to tell it. But in her present condition they could not question her. Mrs Greenow did ask as to the probability of her nephew’s return.
“I can only tell you,” said Kate, “that he went away across the Fell in the direction of Bampton. Perhaps he has gone on to Penrith. He was very angry with us all; and as the house is not his own, he has probably resolved that he will not stay another night under the roof. But, who can say? He is not in his senses when he is angered.”
John Vavasor, as he stood alone after the doctor’s departure, endeavoured to ascertain the truth by thinking of it. “I am sure,” he said to himself, “that the doctor suspects that there has been violence. I know it from his tone, and I can see it in his eye. But how to prove it? and would there be good in proving it? Poor girl! Will it not be better for her to let it pass as though we believed her story?” He made up his mind that it would be better. Why should he take upon himself the terrible task of calling this insane relation to account for an act which he could not prove? The will itself, without that trouble, would give him trouble enough. Then he began
