Cursed by a Fortune. Fenn George Manville

Help, help, help! He’s killed him – killed.”

      “Here, what’s the matter? Who called?” came from a little distance. Then from close at hand Kate heard her uncle’s voice through the mist. “What’s all this, Maria – John Garstang – Claud? Damn it all, can no one speak? – Kate, what is it?”

      “This,” cried Garstang, sternly. “I came back just now, and hearing shrieks rushed in here, just in time to save this poor, weak, suffering child from the brutal insulting attack of that young ruffian.”

      “He has killed him. James – he has killed him,” shrieked Mrs Wilton. “On, my poor dear darling boy!”

      “Back, all of you. Be off,” roared Wilton, as half a dozen servants came crowding to the door, which he slammed in their faces, and turned the key. “Now, please let’s have the truth,” he cried, hotly. “Here, Kate, my dear; come to me.”

      She made no reply, but Garstang felt her cling more closely to him.

      “Will some one speak?” cried Wilton, again.

      “The Doctor – send for the Doctor; he’s dead, he’s dead,” wailed Mrs Wilton, who was down upon her knees now, holding her son’s head in her lap; while save for a slight quiver of the muscles, indicative of an effort to keep his eyes closed, Claud made no sign.

      “He is not dead,” said Garstang, coldly; “a knockdown blow would not kill a ruffian of his calibre.”

      “Oh,” exclaimed Mrs Wilton, turning upon him now in her maternal fury; “he owns to it, he struck him down – my poor, poor boy. James, why don’t you send for the police at once? The cruelty – the horror of it! Kate, Kate, my dear, come away from the wretch at once.”

      “Then you own that you struck him down?” cried Wilton, whose face was now black with a passion which made him send prudence to the winds, as he rose in revolt against one who had long been his master.

      “Yes,” said Garstang, quietly, and without a trace of anger, though his tone was full of contempt; “I told you why.”

      “Yes, and by what right did you interfere? Some foolish romping connected with a boy and girl love, I suppose. How dared you interfere?”

      “Boy and girl love!” cried Garstang, scornfully, as he laid one hand upon Kate’s head and pressed it to his shoulder, where she nestled and hid her face. “Shame upon you both; it was scandalous!”

      “Shame upon us? What do you mean, sir? What do you mean? – Will you come away from him, Kate?”

      “I mean this,” said Garstang, with his arm firmly round the poor girl’s waist, “that you and your wife have failed utterly in your duties towards this poor suffering child.”

      “It isn’t true,” cried Mrs Wilton. “We’ve treated her as if she were our own daughter; and my poor boy told me how he loved her, and he had only just come to talk to her for a bit. Oh, Claud, my darling! my precious boy!”

      “Did I not tell you that your darling – your precious boy – was insulting her grievously? Shame upon you, woman,” cried Garstang. “It needed no words of mine to explain what had taken place. Your own woman’s nature ought to have revolted against such an outrage to the weak invalid placed by her poor father’s will in your care.”

      “Don’t you speak to my wife like that!” cried Wilton, angrily.

      “I will speak to your wife like that, and to you as well. I forbore to speak before: I had no right; but do you think I have been blind to the scandal going on here? The will gives you full charge of the poor child and her fortune, and what do I find when I come down? A dastardly cruel plot to ensnare her – to force on a union with an unmannerly, brutally coarse young ruffian, that he may – that you may, for your own needs and ends, lawfully gain possession of the fortune, to scatter to the winds.”

      “It’s a lie – it’s a lie!” roared Wilton.

      “It is the truth, sir. Your wife’s words just now confirmed what I had noted over and over again, till my very gorge rose at being compelled to accept the hospitality of such people, while I writhed at my own impotence, my helplessness when I wished to interfere. You know – she knows – how I have kept silence. Not one word of warning have I uttered to her. She must have seen and felt what was being hatched, but neither she nor I could have realised that the cowardly young ruffian lying there would have dared to insult a weak gentle girl whose very aspect claimed a man’s respect and protection. A lie? It is the truth, James Wilton.”

      “Oh, my poor, poor boy!” wailed Mrs Wilton; “and I did beg and pray of you not to be too rash.”

      “Will you hold your tongue, woman?” roared Wilton.

      “Yes, for heaven’s sake be silent, madam,” cried Garstang; “there was no need for you to indorse my words, and lower yourself more in your poor niece’s eyes.”

      “Look here,” cried Wilton, who was going to and fro beyond the library table, writhing under the lash of his solicitor’s tongue; “it’s all a bit of nonsense; the foolish fellow snatched a kiss, I suppose.”

      “Snatched a kiss!” cried Garstang, scornfully. “Look at her: quivering with horror and indignation.”

      “I won’t look at her. I won’t be talked to like this in my own house.”

      “Your own house!” said Garstang, contemptuously.

      “Yes, sir; mine till the law forces me to give it up. I won’t have it. It’s my house, and I won’t stand here and be bullied by any man.”

      “Oh, don’t, don’t, don’t make things worse, James,” wailed Mrs Wilton. “Send for the Doctor; his heart is beating still.”

      “You hold your tongue, and don’t you make things worse,” roared her husband. “As for him – curse him! – it’s all his doing.”

      “But he’s lying here insensible, and you won’t send for help.”

      “No, I won’t. Do you think I want Leigh and his sister, and then the whole parish, to know what has been going on? The servants will talk enough.”

      “But he’s dying, James.”

      “You said he was dead just now. Chuck some cold water over the idiot, and bring him to. Damn him! I should like to horsewhip him!”

      “You should have done it often, years ago,” said Garstang, bitterly. “It is too late now.”

      “You mind your own business,” shouted Wilton, turning upon him; “I can’t talk like you do, but I can say what I mean, and it’s this: I’m master here yet, and I’ll stand no more of it. I don’t care for your deeds and documents. I won’t have you here to insult me and my wife, and what’s more, if you’ve done that boy a mischief we’ll see what the law can do. You shall suffer as well as I. Now then: off with you; pack and go, and I’ll show you that the law protects me as well as you. Kate, my girl, you’ve nothing to be frightened about. Come to me here.”

      She clung the more tightly to her protector.

      “Then come to your aunt,” said Wilton, fiercely. “Get up, Maria,” he shouted. “Can’t you see I want you here?”

      “Get up? Oh, James, James, I can’t leave my boy.”

      “Get up, before you put me in a rage,” he yelled. “Now, then, Kate, come here; and I tell you this, John Garstang. I give you a quarter of an hour, and if you’re not gone then, the men shall throw you out.”

      “What!” cried Garstang, sternly, as he drew himself up. “Go and leave this poor girl here to your tender mercies?”

      “Yes, sir; go and leave ‘this poor girl,’ as you call her, to my tender mercies.”

      “I can not; I will not,” said Garstang, firmly.

      “But I say you shall, Mr Lawyer. You know enough of such things to feel that you must. Curse you and your interference. Kate, my dear, I am your poor dead