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That Stick
That Stick
CHAPTER I
HONOURS
‘Oh, there’s that stick. What can he want?’ sighed one of a pair of dignified elderly ladies, in black silk, to the other, as in a quiet country-town street they saw themselves about to be accosted by a man of about forty, with the air of a managing clerk, who came up breathlessly, with a flush on his usually pale cheeks.
‘Miss Lang; I beg pardon! May I be allowed a few words with Miss Marshall? I know it is unusual, but I have something unusual to tell her.’
‘Nothing distressing, I hope, Mr. Morton,’ said one of the ladies, startled.
‘Oh no, quite the reverse,’ he said, with a nervous laugh; ‘in fact, I have unexpectedly come into a property!’
‘Indeed!’ with great astonishment, ‘I congratulate you,’ as the colour mounted in his face, pleasant, honest, but with the subdued expression left by long years of patience in a subordinate position.
‘May I ask—’ began the other sister.
‘I hardly understand it yet,’ was the answer; ‘but I must go to town by the 5.10 train, and I should like her to hear it from myself.’
‘Oh, certainly; it does you honour, Mr. Morton.’
They were entering the sweep of one of those large substantial houses on the outskirts of country towns that have a tendency to become boarding-schools, and such had that of the Misses Lang been long before the days of the High School.
‘Fortunately it is recreation-time,’ said Miss Lang, as she conducted Mr. Morton to the drawing-room, hung round with coloured drawings, in good taste, if stiff, and chiefly devoted to interviews with parents.