Jane was already at the door with the hissing urn. 'Tell her to
keep away, will you?' said Godfrey; and when the door was closed again
he exerted himself to speak more distinctly.
'Sit down, Nancy- there,' he said, pointing to a chair opposite
him. 'I came back as soon as I could, to hinder anybody's telling
you but me. I've had a great shock- but I care most about the shock
it'll be to you.'
'It isn't father and Priscilla?' said Nancy, with quivering lips,
clasping her hands together tightly on her lap.
'No, it's nobody living,' said Godfrey, unequal to the
considerate skill with which he would have wished to make his
revelation. 'It's Dunstan- my brother Dunstan, that we lost sight of
sixteen years ago. We've found him- found his body- his skeleton.'
The deep dread Godfrey's look had created in Nancy made her feel
these words a relief. She sat in comparative calmness to hear what
else he had to tell. He went on:
'The Stone-pit has gone dry suddenly- from the draining, I suppose;
and there he lies- has lain for sixteen years, wedged between two
great stones. There's his watch and seals, and there's my gold-handled
hunting whip, with my name on: he took it away, without my knowing,
the day he went hunting on Wildfire, the last time he was seen.'
Godfrey paused: it was not so easy to say what came next. 'Do you
think he drowned himself?' said Nancy, almost wondering that her
husband should be so deeply shaken by what had happened all those
years ago to an unloved brother, of whom worse things had been
augured.
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