‘He must be like the Spanish Inquisition,’ said Charlotte indignantly. ‘Why isn’t he put in prison now there are proper laws?’
But Charles and Caroline still felt that it was less likely that the Murdstone man should be so hateful than that Rupert should be drawing long-bows to excuse his running away. If he had been timid and miserable they would have believed him more. As it was, he was easy when he wasn’t defiant.
You know that feeling—when you are not quite sure of some one you want to be kind to—when you can’t be quite certain that if you believe what they say you won’t be being unjust to somebody else. It is a hateful feeling. There is nothing more miserable than not being able to trust some one you want to trust. You know, perhaps, what that sensation is? Rupert, at any rate, must have known it, and must have known that the others were feeling it, for he suddenly pulled his hand out from his pocket.
‘Look here, then,’ he said. ‘But—no, I don’t blame you. I know it’s not the sort of thing you’d expect to be true. Yes. He did it. The first night. About the bread and milk. Came and did it after I was in bed. With a ruler.’
[Illustration: ‘_I_ believed you—without that,’ said Charlotte.]
‘It’ was a blue bruise and a slight red graze across the back of the hand that, till now, had been hidden.
‘_I_ believed you—without that,’ said Charlotte, with hot cheeks. ‘_I_ know there are people like that. Like _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_.’
‘We do believe you,’ said Caroline earnestly. ‘Who said we didn’t?’
And Charles said, ‘Of course we do—what nonsense! We’ll bring you a paper and pencil and an envelope, and you can write to your father. And we _will_ conceal you.’
They hushed, and, Rupert pointing through the blue gap between the oak and the honeysuckle, their eyes followed the pointing of his finger. A figure was coming up the drive—a figure in blue.
‘Go and see what it is,’ whispered Rupert, ‘but don’t let on.’
‘But what’ll you say if they ask you what you’ve come in for?’ Charles asked.
‘I shall say I’ve come in to fetch you a pocket-handkerchief,’ said Charlotte witheringly, ‘because you wanted one so badly. You always do.’
‘Look here,’ said Caroline, once more thrilling to the part of the protecting Saracen maiden. ‘Suppose they’re after you? Let’s cover you up with leaves and bracken, so that your tweediness won’t show through the trees if they look—and bracken over your head. Creep through the bracken; don’t crush it more than you can help.’