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Updated: May 12, 2025
It was a cheerless, gray December morning that John Wetherby came into his mother's room and found a sob-shaken little figure in the depths of the sumptuous, satin-damask chair. "Mother, mother, why, mother!" There were amazement and real distress in John Wetherby's voice. "There, there, John, I I didn't mean to truly I didn't!" quavered the little old lady.
"I never saw a man in such a stew.... No wonder, playing fast and loose with him the way you do." "I told him No!" flashed Lucy. "But Wetherby's not the kind to take no. And I'm not satisfied to let you mean it. Lucy Bostil, you don't know your mind an hour straight running. You've fooled enough with these riders of your Dad's.
'That's awfully good of you. 'Besides, I'm not going to be left alone to-night until I can jump into my little white bed and pull the clothes over my head. I'm scared, I'm just boneless with fright. And I wouldn't go anywhere near Lady Wetherby's doorstep with it. 'Him. 'It's no use, I can't think of it as "him." It's no good asking me to. Bill frowned thoughtfully.
To hear some one clear his throat at the back of a dark room, where there should rightfully be no throat to be cleared, would cause even your man of stolid habit a passing thrill. The thing got right in among Lord Wetherby's highly sensitive ganglions like an earthquake. He uttered a strangled cry, then dashed out and slammed the door behind him. 'There's someone in there!
Lady Wetherby's good-tempered mouth, far from good-tempered now, curled in a devastating sneer. She was looking at him as Claire, in the old days when they had toured England together in road companies, had sometimes seen her look at recalcitrant landladies. The landladies, without exception, had wilted beneath that gaze, and Mr Pickering wilted now.
Lord Dawlish stood in the doorway of the outhouse, holding the body of Eustace gingerly by the tail. It was a solemn moment. There was no room for doubt as to the completeness of the extinction of Lady Wetherby's pet. Dudley Pickering's bullet had done its lethal work. Eustace's adventurous career was over. He was through.
"I I was helping," quavered a deprecatory voice. Something in the appealing eyes sent a softer curve to Margaret Wetherby's lips. "Yes, mother; that was very kind of you," said John's wife gently. "But such work is quite too hard for you, and there's no need of your doing it. Nora will finish these," she added, lifting the pan of potatoes to the table, "and you and I will go upstairs to your room.
I'd fly off the handle quicker 'n no time, puttin' on airs like that." Miss Wetherby's back straightened. She made a desperate attempt to regain her usual stern self-possession. "I shall call ye 'Robert, boy. I don't like er that other name." There was a prolonged stare and a low whistle from the boy. Then he turned to pick up his bundle. "Come on, Bones, stir yer stumps; lively, now!
But I suppose the main point is to get rid of him. 'I know how we can do both. That's a good idea of yours about the woods. They are part of Lady Wetherby's property. I used to wander about there in the spring when the house was empty. There's a sort of shack in the middle of them. I shouldn't think anybody ever went there it's a deserted sort of place.
John's wife was indeed kind, acknowledged Madam Wetherby to herself, yet two big tears welled to her eyes and were still moist on her cheeks after she had fallen asleep. It was perhaps three days later that John Wetherby's mother climbed the long flight of stairs near her sitting-room door, and somewhat timidly entered one of the airy, sunlit rooms devoted to Master Philip Wetherby.
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