In the morning I will
see you. Before this disaster my chill is sped. You are of my flesh. Cleave
unto me. In our bosoms let this abhorrent sore be buried. Seek
Fletcher."
The distraught man tottered to his room.
XI.
George went slowly down the stairs, bathing in the delicious thrills
of unfolding the wrappings from about his great idea. He had yet had
time but to feel its shape and hug it as a child will feel and hug a
doll packed in paper. Now he stripped the coverings, and his pulses
thumped as he saw how fine was it. Almost unconscious to his actions
he unbarred the door; stepped into the thin light; was not aroused
until, treading upon Mr. Fletcher's musket, his idea was suddenly
jolted from him.
Here the gun that gave the echoes; where the hand that started it?
A hoarse cry came to him: "Mr. George! Mr. George!"
He looked along the sound. Above a hedge below the lawn an apple-tree
raised its branches. Within them he could espy a dark mass that as he
approached took form. Mr. Fletcher.
The grass hushed George's footsteps. Rounding the hedge he came upon
the little drama that gave that note of dread to Mr. Fletcher's calls.
Beneath the gardener's armpits one branch of the apple-tree passed;
behind his knees another. Between them hung his heavy seat.
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