TERROR
“No more! I’ll hear no more! Begone and leave me!”
“Not hear me? By my sufferings but you shall!”
OTWAY.
Gloria remained in her own room until the dinner-bell rang.
Then she arose, hastily arranged her dress, glanced into the mirror to
be sure that all traces of the morning’s stormy emotion had passed away
from her face at least, however it might still trouble her spirit or
influence her conduct, and finally she went down stairs and into the
dining-room.
There she found Colonel de Crespigney, looking ever paler than usual. He
fixed his large, dark, dreamy eyes upon her, not offensively now, but
with a mournfully appealing gaze, that went to her heart, as he gently
took her hand and murmured:
“I am very unhappy, Gloria. I frightened you this morning, dear. I do
not know how I did it. I did not mean to do it; and I beg your pardon,
my child.”
“Oh, uncle, dear, do not say that. It was I, myself, who was so rude and
absurd. I do not know why I was so. I never meant to be. I hope you will
forgive me,” she answered, speaking from the pity of her heart.
Then with an instantaneous reaction of fear that fell like a blow upon
her consciousness, she regretted her tenderness, and wished that she had
not spoken so warmly.
He—ah! he only heard her gracious words, only saw her sweet smile; he
could not perceive the changing, shrinking spirit. He beamed on her with
a look that made her shiver, as he drew her hand within his arm and led
her to the table with old-time princely courtesy, and then took his own
seat.
Laban had just placed the soup on the table, and now stood behind his
master’s chair to wait.
While the servant remained present there was no more conversation
between the guardian and the ward than the etiquette of the dinner hour
required.
But when the man had removed the cloth and placed the fruits, cake and
coffee on the table and had left the room, and the uncle and niece were
alone together, though the feelings of each towards the other were of
the kindliest nature, yet there fell a certain painful constraint on
their intercourse, such as had never existed in all their past lives,
but such as could never quite pass away in all their future days.
How was this?
For weeks Marcel de Crespigney had rendered his youthful ward very
uneasy by his manner toward her. On that morning he had frightened her
from her self-possession, and she had rushed from him in terror. Later
and cooler reflection had convinced her that she had really no actual
cause for offence or fear. And when he had made his humble apology, her
heart had been so touched that she had more than forgiven him, she had
spoken tenderly to him, and she had taken all the blame upon herself.
Then, with strange misgivings of wrong and woe, she had regretted her
graciousness, and when he beamed on her with a look of love and joy, she
had shrunk up into reserve and cautiousness.
She became possessed of that
“Surly fear and cold disgust,
Wonderful and most unjust,”
which she could neither comprehend nor conquer; for which she often
blamed herself, but which now held her tongue-tied and downcast in the
presence of her guardian.
He, on his own part, quick to perceive her state, felt that he had again
lost her confidence and filled her with fear; and he also grew reticent
in looks and speech, and consequently depressed and mournful.
She gave him a cup of coffee, without a word.
He took it with a silent bow.
Both were relieved when, at the end of the ceremony, they were free to
leave the dining-room.
She was the first to rise from the table. He followed her, opened the
door, and held it until she had passed out.
In the hall Gloria paused with indecision as to her next step.
She had always been accustomed, since her return home, to go into the
drawing-room, sit down at the grand piano and play some of Marcel de
Crespigney’s favorite music, and, later in the evening, just before
retiring, to sing some of his best-loved songs.
Now she stood for a moment in doubt. Her vague uneasiness made her wish
for the privacy and safety of her own chamber. Her benevolence made her
unwilling to wound her guardian’s feelings by any such avoidance of his
company.
Only for a moment she hesitated, and then she led the way to the
drawing-room, followed by Colonel de Crespigney.
She played and sang for him all the evening, as usual, and on bidding
him good-night, gave him her hand to kiss, as before.
He merely touched it with his lips, and dropped it without a word.
Gloria went to her room and retired to bed; but it was long before she
could compose herself to sleep, and when she did so her slumbers were
troubled with evil dreams that kept her tossing and starting all night.
Only towards morning she slept soundly—so soundly that she was first
awakened by the ringing of the breakfast-bell.
She arose in haste and dressed herself, and went down to the
breakfast-room, where she found her guardian pacing to and fro, waiting
for her.
“Good-morning, uncle, dear,” she said, holding out her hand.
“‘Uncle,’ and always ‘uncle,’” he sighed, in a tone of reproach, as he
held her hand and sought to meet her eyes. “I am not your uncle. I do
not like the name. I have told you so, my dear. And yet it is ‘uncle,’
and always ‘uncle.’”
“Yes, it is, and must be ‘uncle,’ and always ‘uncle,’ and nothing but
‘uncle,’ from me to you, uncle, dear,” she answered, persistently,
though in a trembling tone, keeping her eyes fixed upon the floor lest
they should encounter his gaze—for the gaze of those large, dark,
dreamy, mournful orbs was beginning to have a terror and fascination of
the serpent or the devil for her.
“You have not forgiven me yet, Gloria,” he answered.
“Indeed I have,” she replied, moving quickly to her place at the head of
the table and touching the call-bell to bring in Laban with the coffee
pot.
Breakfast passed off very much as the dinner of the preceding day had
done, in mutual constraint.
When it was over, and both left the table, Colonel de Crespigney passed
into the library, where he usually spent his mornings.
It had been Gloria’s unvarying custom to follow him thither with her
needlework and sit sewing in her little low chair, while he read or
wrote at the table.
Now, however, she could not bear to re-enter the place of the previous
day’s terror. She took her garden hat and shawl from the hall rack and
put them on.
“Where are you going, my dear?” inquired the colonel.
“For a little, solitary walk. I wish to be alone, and I need more air
and exercise than I can get here. The day is so beautiful, too, that I
must improve it. There are so few fine days left at this season of the
year,” she answered, as she drew on her gloves.
The colonel hesitated. He would rather have joined her; but her emphatic
declaration that she wished a solitary walk, forbade him to force his
unwelcome company upon her.
“Good-morning, uncle, dear; I shall return before lunch,” she said, as
she left the house.
He watched her until she closed the front door behind her, and then he
sighed and turned sadly to his study and shut himself in.
Gloria stood on the new portico above the new terrace and looked all
over the renovated domain. Terrace below terrace, the ground fell from
the house down to the park wall. Below that, encircling and enclosing
the round of the end, arose the high, strong, gray sea-wall, shutting
out the sight of the beach. It was so solid that the only egress in that
direction was through the little, substantial stone boat-house that was
built against it, and whose strong, iron-bound oak doors, both landward
and seaward, were kept locked.
The only means of leaving the promontory was by water through the
boat-house when the doors happened to be unlocked, or by land across the
Rogue’s Neck when the tide was low.
“Really, now that the sea-wall is rebuilt the place is more like a
penitentiary than ever,” said Gloria to herself, as she walked away from
the house.
She wanted to get off the promontory, to take a longer walk than she
could get within its limits, so she resolved to leave it by way of
Rogue’s Neck and indulge in a ramble through the wintry woods on the
main.
It was a really splendid day within about a week of the Christmas
holidays. No snow had fallen yet, nor were the trees of that latitude
stripped of the glorious autumnal regalia. Enough bright leaves had
fallen to carpet the ground with a carpet more brilliant than the looms
of Axminster or Brussels ever wove; but not enough to be missed from the
royal robes of the forest. The glorious beauty of the autumn woods seen
across the water, so attracted the young girl that she walked swiftly on
towards Rogue’s Neck, never thinking whether it were high or low tide,
only anxious to cross over and plunge into the depths of the grand
forest. But when she came in sight of the Neck she found, to her
disappointment, that the waves were dashing wildly over the whole length
and breadth of it. It was high tide, and it would be six hours before
the road would be passable again.
She turned away and—met David, the young fisherman, face to face!
Her disappointment was forgotten in an instant. Her eyes danced with
joy. Here was some one, at least, of whom she was not afraid—in whom she
could perfectly confide—who would never terrify, humiliate, or in any
way wound her.
“Oh! David Lindsay, I am so glad to see you!” she said, frankly, holding
out her hand to him.
He took it, bowed, and dropped it, all in silence.
“Oh! David Lindsay, why haven’t you come to see your old playmate all
this time? I have been home nearly three months, and you have not been
to see me once, not once. You promised to come the day after my arrival
to take me to see your grandmother. Well, I know it rained that day, and
for a week afterwards, and you didn’t come because you knew I could not
go out in such weather. But there has been very fine weather since then,
yet you have never come to see your old playmate, never once—and such
friends as we used to be! I take it very unkind of you, David Lindsay,
that I do!” she said, with an air of injury that she really felt.
“Miss de la Vera,” gravely replied the young man, as soon as the
cessation of her scolding little tongue gave him the chance, “I have
been to see you many times within the last three months, but you have
always been denied to me.”
“Eh!” exclaimed Gloria, opening her eyes wide with incredulous
astonishment.
“I beg to repeat that I have come many times to pay my respects, but
have always been denied the privilege.”
“Now, who has dared to do that? Who has dared to profane my freedom in
that manner? David Lindsay, I never knew of your coming or I would have
seen you. Now tell me all about it,” she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling,
and her cheeks burning with the sense of wrong and outrage, as she
turned about to continue her walk. He also turned and went beside her,
as he answered:
“Miss de la Vera, the morning after your arrival home I came up to the
hall, not by appointment, not to take you to Sandy Isle, for I knew you
could not go in such a storm, but to ask you to fix another day when I
might have the honor of serving you. I was met by Colonel de Crespigney,
to whom I made known my errand. He told me that the weather would not
permit Miss de la Vera to go out that day, nor was it likely that it
would be any more favorable for a week to come, and when, in fact, it
should be so, and when his ward should desire to make a visit, he would
himself escort her. His manner told me that my visit was uncalled for,
unwelcome, and improper. I bowed very low, and left him.”
“He never told me that you had been here. I blamed you for neglect. And
it is all his fault. Oh! I am glad I met you, David Lindsay! Tell me
more! You came again?”
“Yes, many times, Miss de la Vera, but I was always met by Colonel de
Crespigney, who told me that you were occupied and could not see me.”
“But in the first place, you must have seen one of the servants. Did you
then ask for me, or for the colonel?”
“For you, Miss de la Vera. I always asked the servant I happened to see
to take my respectful message to yourself, that I waited on you,
according to your orders. And always Colonel de Crespigney came out and
told me that you were engaged, or words to the same effect, and so
dismissed me, showing by his manner that he considered my call
impertinent. Yet, as he did not actually forbid me to come again, and as
I considered that I was acting under your orders, I continued to come
once or twice a week. I was on my way to the house when we met.”
“Oh!” burst forth Gloria, with one of her irrepressible impulses. “I
think it was most outrageous for any one to interfere with my liberty of
action in that way! I will never submit to such control! Never! It was
the farthest thing from my dear father’s thoughts that my will should be
so hampered! He made every provision for my freedom and happiness!”
“Miss de la Vera,” said the young man, speaking conscientiously and
generously, “I think your guardian acted for the best. He had the right
to deny any visitor to you whom he disapproved of for any reason. My
grandmother said so when I told her of my failure. And she always said,
besides, that Colonel de Crespigney was the most indulgent guardian that
she ever heard of, and that you had more freedom, even when a child,
than any young lady she ever knew, having your own way in almost
everything. And you know my old grandmother is a wise and good woman.”
“Yes, I know she is, and I honor her, and I love her dearly, and that is
the reason why I wanted so much to go to see her, and asked you to come
and row me over in the boat. And to think you came so often and I did
not know it. Oh-h!”
“Perhaps I ought not to have persisted in coming. Perhaps I ought to
have taken a hint from the colonel’s manner, and stayed away after my
first repulse,” said the young fisherman.
“No, you ought not, David Lindsay. You ought to have minded me rather
than him!” said the little autocrat.
“Then I ought not to have told you of my repeated rebuffs to stir up
angry feelings in your bosom.”
“Now, how could you help it with such a catechiser as I am? You could
not tell a falsehood by saying that you had not been there, and you
could not act a falsehood by keeping silence.”
“True; but I beg you to be just to your guardian, Miss de la Vera.”
“Oh, David Lindsay, do you be just to yourself. Is your boat here?”
“Yes, Miss. It is near this end of the Neck. I cannot land at the old
fishing landing now, because of the new sea-wall and the locked
boat-house blocking off all from the beach in that direction.”
“I understand. The place is more like a prison than ever. Well, David
Lindsay, please to walk up with me to the house. I have a parcel there
for Granny Lindsay which I want you to help me carry to the boat; for I
am going to Sandy Isle to see her this morning,” said the young lady, in
a tone of decision that admitted of no reply.
So the young fisherman walked obediently by her side until they reached
the hall.
Gloria opened the front door, which, in that safe seclusion, was never
locked in the daytime, and invited the young man to follow her in.
“Sit here in the hall, David Lindsay, while I run up to my room and get
my parcel,” she said, pointing to a chair.
At that moment the study door opened on the right, and Colonel de
Crespigney came out and looked about as if to see what was the matter.
Of course, his eyes fell at once upon the form of the young fisherman
just seated in the chair.
“David Lindsay is here, at my request, to take me to Sandy Isle to see
Dame Lindsay,” said Gloria, pausing, with her hand upon the lowest post
of the banisters, and her foot upon the lowest step of the stairs.
“Oh!” replied the colonel, not very graciously, as he looked slowly from
the girl to the young man.
Gloria paused as if inviting or defying him to any controversy on the
subject; but he never said another word, and after a minute’s delay went
back into his study and shut the door.
Gloria flew up stairs to her chamber, and in a few moments came down
with two parcels in her hand.
“I have made my bundle into two, you see; one for you to carry and one
for me,” she said, as she handed him the larger one; and perhaps she
could not have explained, even to herself, the subtle delicacy of
feeling that induced her to do this, so as not to seem to treat her old
playmate as a servant or a porter, to carry all her luggage.
David wished to take both, but her peremptory decision prevented him.
Just as they were starting to go, Colonel de Crespigney emerged from his
study, cloaked and gloved. He took his hat from the rack, saying
pleasantly:
“I hope you will permit me to make a third in this party, my dear. I
should like to go.”
Gloria was dumfounded with astonishment. Besides, what could she say in
opposition to so reasonable a proposal? She could say nothing.
The three walked out together, Colonel de Crespigney taking the little
parcel from his ward’s hand and carrying it himself.
She made no objection to this. She rather liked it, because David
Lindsay was also carrying a bundle.
“What are the contents of these parcels, if I may inquire, my dear?”
asked her guardian.
“Presents for my dee-ar Granny Lindsay that I brought all the way from
Edinboro’, but have not had the opportunity of taking to her before,
because David Lindsay, whom I requested to come and row me over to the
isle, was always denied me when he came to the house,” answered Gloria,
ruthlessly.
“Ah!” said her guardian; but he offered no explanation.
David led the way to his boat, and assisted the lady and gentleman to
enter it. He made them comfortable on the seats, and then taking both
oars, rowed vigorously and rapidly for the little sandhill.
In a very few moments they touched the beach, and the young boatman
secured the boat and assisted the passengers to land.
“Now,” said Gloria, addressing her two companions, as her queenly eyes
traveled slowly from one to the other, “you two will please to bring my
bundles as far as the door of the house, but no farther. I want you, if
you please, then to return to the boat and wait for me; for I want my
dee-ar Granny Lindsay all to myself to-day.”
“Very well, little despot; you shall be obeyed,” said Colonel de
Crespigney, answering for both, as they led the way to the dame’s
cottage, followed by the young girl.
The day was cold, though clear, so the cottage door was closed.
“Here, now, leave the bundles, and go your way. I will join you in the
boat, in half an hour,” said Gloria.
Her two servants set down their burdens where they were told to put
them, and went where they were ordered to go.
Gloria watched them—not out of sight, for that she could not, on the
tiny islet, where, from the rocky centre to the sandy circumference,
everything was distinctly visible; but she watched them go down to the
beach and begin to walk around it, before she knocked at the cottage
door.
“I wonder if uncle will say anything to David Lindsay? I hope he will
not, for it was I who brought him to the house this time,” she said to
herself, as she knocked again, for her first summons had not been
answered. Now, however, the door opened, and Dame Lindsay appeared,
smiling kindly, as of old, though looking rather feebler and more infirm
than Gloria had ever seen her.
“Ah, young lady, is it ’eeself at last come to see the old ’oman? I knew
’ee would sooner or later! Come in, dearie. Eh! then, what is all this?
and where is David, that he has not brought them for ’ee?” she said, on
espying the parcels.
“Oh, Granny Lindsay, he did bring them for me, he and uncle; but I would
not let them stop. I sent them back to the boat, because I wanted to
have you all to myself,” said Gloria, as she picked up one bundle, while
the old woman took the other, and they entered the house together.
“Now sit ’ee down, and take off ’ee things, dearie,” said the dame, as
she placed a chair.
“I will sit down, dear Granny Lindsay, but not take off my hat this
time, because uncle would come, and his doing so has prevented me from
spending the day with you as I wished so much to do; for, oh! I remember
what happy, happy days I used to have here with you and David! And
nothing is changed here! Nothing, nothing! The very chest of drawers and
table and chairs sit in the very places where they used to sit in the
sweet old time.”
“Why, dearie, everything sits where it must sit. In a room like this
everything is put into the place where it fits best, and there it has to
stay. There is no room for alterations, dearie.”
“Well, I like to see it as it used to be. Now, dear Granny Lindsay, I
must tell you that I wanted to come to see you the day after my arrival
home; but it was raining that day and for a week afterwards, and when it
cleared off and David Lindsay so kindly came to fetch me, he was told
that I was engaged. Well, I might have been doing something, and
probably was, but it was nothing that I would not have willingly dropped
for the sake of coming to see you, if I had only been told that David
Lindsay had come for me; but I was not told—I was never told. I should
never have known if I had not met him by chance this morning.”
“I know, I know, dearie, David told me. It was ’ee good guardian’s
prudence, dearie, as I explained to David. ’Ee must mind ’ee guardian,
dearie, and be guided and governed by him until ’ee comes of a proper
age, little lady, and all the more must ’ee submit ’eeself to him who
stands in a father’s place, because ’ee has no mother, dearie,” said the
dame, speaking conscientiously and affectionately.
“Ah,” thought the poor girl, “if she knew how he frightens and
distresses me, she would not say that! I wonder if I could tell her? No,
because I could not explain! How could I explain? There is nothing to
explain.”
With a sigh Gloria turned from her perplexed thoughts to the pleasant
task before her.
She lifted both bundles from the floor to the table. She untied and
opened one, and displayed a large double shawl of a fine black and white
check, saying:
“Now dee-ar Granny Lindsay, I know you love old Scotland, where your
forefathers came from, and you would like any good thing that came from
Scotland. Now, I brought this from Edinboro’ for you.”
“Did ’ee, dearie? How beautiful it is! How lovely and soft, and large,
and warm it is! How kind and thoughtful it was of ’ee to bring it to the
old woman! But that is nothing new. ’Ee was always good, my dearie. Now,
I’ll tell ’ee how much I needed just such a shawl. My old gray woolen
one is worn quite thin and threadbare. So ’ee sees how much good ’ee has
done me, dearie.”
“Oh, Granny Lindsay, I feel so grateful to you for liking it so much.
And look here—oh, I hope you will like these, too!” said the young girl,
as she unrolled the other bundle and displayed a dress of shepherd’s
cloth of a deep blue shade, and two woven underskirts of thick red
flannel.
“Oh, dearie! What can I say to ’ee now for all ’ee gracious gifts? What?
The old woman is almost dumb-struck, dearie, but her heart is full,”
said the dame, in a voice very low, and trembling with the emotion that
filled her aged eyes with tears.
“Do you like them? Will they make you more comfortable? Oh, I am so
glad!”
“And here is something I got for David Lindsay. It is only a dozen
Scotch pocket-handkerchiefs; but I have worked his name in the corners
with my hair. Will you give them to him from his old playmate?”
“Yes, dearie, surely, if ’ee wishes it,” replied the dame, in a subdued
and broken voice, for she could now refuse nothing to the affectionate
girl who had remembered her, even in a foreign country, and brought home
comforts for her age.
“And now, dee-ar Granny Lindsay, I must leave you. My half hour is up.”
“I wish ’ee could stay all day, dearie.”
“So do I; I meant to stay, but—but my guardian came with me and spoiled
all my plans.”
“’Ee gardeen means ’ee well, dearie. ’Ee mustn’t rebel against his just
authority.”
“Good-by, dee-ar Granny Lindsay.”
“Good-by, since ’ee must go. The good Lord keep ’ee, dearie.”
And so Gloria left the cottage, and walked rapidly down to the boat,
where she found her guardian and the young fisherman waiting for her.
She entered and seated herself in the stern.
David Lindsay took up the oars and rowed quickly to the boat-house,
which they reached in a few minutes.
Colonel de Crespigney handed his ward to the steps, and with a
cool—“Thanks. Good-day,” to the young boatman, led her up the stairs and
through to the other side of the wall.
“I wish, uncle dear, that you would leave the key in the lock always. It
makes the place feel like a prison to have the boat-house, which is the
only gateway and passage through the sea-wall, locked up all the time.”
“I will do anything you wish, my dear Gloria. You have only to make your
will known and it shall be obeyed,” replied the colonel.
“I thank you, dear uncle. And since you are so kind, will you give
orders that in future, whenever David Lindsay comes to take me to see my
dee-ar old friend on the islet, I may promptly be informed of his
presence?” inquired Gloria, with a grave earnestness that was more like
a gracious command than a request.
“My dearest, yes! even that, if you make a point of it.”
“I do make a point of it.”
“I sent the young man away, I should explain, because I wished you
quietly rid of him.”
“Rid of David Lindsay, uncle! Why should I be rid of him?”
“Gloria, I appreciate your need of a mother’s guidance; but—is it
possible that you have no intuitions to direct you?” gravely and sadly
inquired the colonel.
“If by intuitions, uncle, you mean inward teachings, yes. I have them;
they are, perhaps, the best, if not the only instructions I have; and
from them I learn to understand, respect, and trust him—David
Lindsay—more than I can any other human being, except, perhaps, his
grandmother and—yourself.”
“His grandmother and myself! Thank you, my dear,” said the colonel,
wincing.
Gloria laughed. She very seldom laughed, but when she did the silver
cadence of her laughter was like the shiver of silver bells, a delight
to hear.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, “I beg your pardon, uncle! I should have said the
Emperor Napoleon and yourself; only, unfortunately, I am not intimate
enough with his imperial majesty to know whether I respect him or not.”
“Nonsense, Gloria. Be serious, my child. You may respect this young man,
who has grown up on the estate; you may understand and respect him in
his proper place, as much as you please; but if you make a companion of
him, who is to understand you?—not to ask, who is to respect you, my
dear?”
“Uncle!” exclaimed Gloria, flushing to the very edges of her radiant
hair. “Uncle! Is it making a companion of David Lindsay to have him row
me in a boat where I wish to go?”
“Yes, Gloria, decidedly so, when the boat is his own and he takes you to
his own home.”
“How dreadfully you put the case, uncle!” exclaimed the girl, crimson
with humiliation.
“I put it truly, dear Gloria,” answered the colonel, pursuing his
advantage unsparingly. “I put it truly. You will injure yourself
irreparably by such eccentric unconventionality. My poor child, it is
your mother who should instruct you in all these matters, not a profane
heathen of a man; only unfortunately you have no mother, and so you must
even be guided by so poor a counsellor as myself.”
“I do not see what harm can come of my going to see Dame Lindsay in her
grandson’s boat.”
“No, you do not see; but others will, my child, and they will criticise
you. Objectionable attachments have been formed and improper marriages
contracted before now between ladies of rank and men of low degree, and
you——”
“Sir! I PROTEST against this talk!” she indignantly interrupted. “To
whom do your remarks point? To me? To David Lindsay? Do you dare to
suppose, Colonel de Crespigney, that I should ever dream—that he would
ever think of—oh! what an odious thought is in your mind! Never do you
dare, sir, to hint such a thing to me again!”
“I hope never to have the occasion, my dear,” coolly replied the
colonel.
“Detestable, revolting, abhorrent, odious! Oh! that you should dare to
hint such a humiliation to me! I can never forgive you for it, Colonel
de Crespigney! I feel more, much more than offended! I feel insulted,
dishonored, humiliated! I do!” cried Gloria, vehemently.
But in all her indignation there was no scorn of David Lindsay, or of
his humble calling; for in her innocent and loyal way she loved and
respected her old playmate, even as she did his aged relative on the
islet. It was the hypothesis of “an objectionable attachment” and “an
improper marriage” at which she revolted. And if, instead of a poor,
uncultivated young fisherman, the most accomplished prince on earth had
been in question, she would have felt equally offended.
They had now reached the steps leading up to the portico of the front
door.
Colonel de Crespigney paused there, and with his hand resting on one of
the iron posts, he inquired:
“Well, shall I give the orders you requested me to issue? Shall I say
that the young fisherman must be admitted to your presence whenever he
may come here and ask to see you?”
“No! On your soul!” impetuously answered the girl. “No! You have killed
David Lindsay! You have murdered the harmless playmate of my happy
childhood! I shall never, never see him more! He is dead and buried!”
“‘_Requiescat in pace_,’” replied the colonel solemnly, lifting his hat.
Gloria passed him, opened the front door, and fled up into the safety of
her room.
Her “intuitions” warned the motherless child to avoid a _tête-à-tête_
with Colonel de Crespigney.