Chris Lisle heard the news without showing the slightest emotion, and as
soon as he was alone he sat down and wrote as follows:--
"_I pray God that you may be happy_.
"Chris Lisle."
That was all, and he dropped it into the post-box himself, turned back
to meet Trevithick on his way to the Fort, nodded to him and went
straight to his room, where he stood for a few moments in silence.
"Yes," he said slowly and solemnly, "I pray God that you may be happy."
Then, after a pause:
"But," he cried, with terrible earnestness, "if--"
There was another pause in which he silently continued that which he
might have said. Then, with a fierce light flashing from his eyes, he
clenched his hands and said in a whisper more startling than the loudest
words--
"I'll kill him as I would some venomous beast."
He threw himself into a chair and sat looking white and changed for
quite an hour before he rose up and drew a long deep breath.
"Dead!" he said softly; "dead! Now, then, to bear it--like a man--and
show no sign."
There was a gentle tap at the door.
"May I come in, sir, please?"
"Eh? Oh yes, Mrs Sarson. What is it?"
"I was going to--Oh my dear, dear boy!"
The poor woman caught his hand in hers, and kissed it, as her tears fell
fast.
"Why, Mrs Sarson," he said, smiling, "what's the matter?"
"Oh, my dear," she said; "you haven't lived here with me all these years
from quite a boy as you were, without me feeling just like a mother to
you. And you so alone in the world. I know what trouble you're in, and
what you must feel; and it hurts me too."
"There, there. You're a good soul," he said. "But that's all over.
Why, I've had the aching tooth taken out, and I'm quite a new man now."
"Oh, my dear--my dear!"
"I'm off for a few hours' fishing, and I shall want a good meat tea
about six. I sha'n't be later."
He nodded cheerfully, and took his creel and rod from the passage, Mrs
Sarson hurrying to the window, and watching till he was out of sight,
"Ah!" she said, shaking her head; "but it don't deceive me. I've read
of them as held their hands in the fire till they were burned away; and
he's a martyr, too, as would do it, without making a sign. But he can't
deceive me."
Meanwhile Trevithick had gone up to the Fort to see Claude about certain
business matters connected with the quarry, and with the full intent to
ask her a few questions about the missing money in spite of her former
words; but on his way that morning he had heard startling news, which
made his face look peculiarly serious, and he said to himself--
"Well, it was her father's wish, but if I don't make the tightest
marriage settlements ever drawn up I'm not an honest man."
He was admitted by Sarah Woodham, and shown into the library, where,
quite at home, he took his seat, unlocked his black bag, and began to
arrange a number of endorsed papers, tied up with red tape.
"Mrs Woodham does not seem to approve of the wedding," he said to
himself. "Not a cheerful woman."
Then he looked round the room, and in imagination searched Gartram's
safe and cash receptacles for the hundredth time.
"No," he said, giving one ear a vicious rub, "I can't get it that way.
It was someone who knew him and his ways pretty well stole that money,
or there would have been some record left. All those thousands short.
He never omitted keeping account of even trifling sums."
"And Miss Dillon does not approve of the wedding," he said to himself as
Mary entered, her eyes plainly showing that she had been weeping.
"Good-morning," she said, taking the chair placed for her with heavy
courtesy. "My cousin is unwell, Mr Trevithick, and cannot see you.
Will you either come over again or state your business to me?"
"I shall be only too glad," he said, smiling.
"I thought you would," replied Mary. "Of course you will make a charge
for this journey."
Trevithick looked at her aghast; and then flushed and perspired.
"I said I should be only too glad to discuss the business with you, Miss
Dillon," he said stiffly.
"No, you did not, Mr Trevithick."
"I beg pardon. That is what I meant."
"Oh! then please go on."
"Why will she always be so sharp with me?" thought the lawyer, as he
looked across the table wistfully.
"Yes, Mr Trevithick? I am all attention."
"Yes; of course," he said, suddenly becoming very business-like, for he
could deal with her then. "The little matters of business can wait, or
perhaps you could take the papers up for Miss Gartram's signature."
"Yes; of course," said Mary, sharply. "Where are they?"
"Here," he said, quietly; "but there is one, I might say two things, I
should like Miss Gartram's opinion upon. Will you tell her, please?"
"Do speak a little faster, Mr Trevithick, I have a great deal to do
this morning."
"I beg your pardon. Will you please tell Miss Gartram that I am, in
spite of her commands, much exercised in mind about that missing money.
Tell her, please, that I have studied it from every point of view, and I
am compelled to say that it is her duty to Mr Gartram deceased--that
most exact of business men--to instruct me to make further inquiries
into the matter."
"It would be of no use, Mr Trevithick. I am sure your cousin would not
allow it. Is that all?"
"Will you not appeal to her from me?"
"No. I am sure she would not listen to any such suggestion. Now, is
that all?"
Mary spoke in a quick, excited way, as if she wanted to get out of the
room, and yet wished to stay.
"Well--no," he answered softly, as he kept on taking up and laying down
his papers in different order.
"Mr Trevithick!"
"Pray, give me time, Miss Dillon," he protested. "The fact is I have
heard very important news this morning."
"Of course you have. You mean about my cousin's approaching marriage."
"Then it is true?"
"Of course it is."
Trevithick sighed.
"Well, Mr Trevithick, is that all?"
"No, madam, I may say that I am very sorry."
"Well, is that all?" cried Mary, impatiently.
"No. As the late Mr Gartram's trusted, confidential adviser, I was
aware that this was his wish, but, all the same, I am deeply grieved."
"Of course, and so is everybody else," said Mary passionately. "I
mean," she said, checking herself, "it seems sad for it to be so soon.
That is all, I suppose."
"No, Miss Dillon; this being so I should have liked to discuss with Miss
Gartram the question of the settlements. I presume, as she has
continued to trust me as her father trusted me, that she would wish me
to see to all the legal matters connected with her fortune."
"What a stupid question. Why, of course."
"Well, forgive me; hardly a stupid question. Perhaps too retiring--for
a lawyer."
"Mr Trevithick, you are not half decided and prompt enough. Well,
then; my cousin anticipated all this, and said, `tell Mr Trevithick to
do what is right and just, and that I leave myself entirely in his
hands. Tell him to do what he would have done had my father been
alive.'"
"Ah!" said the lawyer slowly. "Yes; then I will proceed at once. It is
a great responsibility, as Miss Gartram has neither relative nor
executor to whom she could appeal. A very great responsibility, but I
will do what is just and right in her interest, tying down her property
as under the circumstances should be done."
"Do--do Mr Trevithick--dear Mr Trevithick, pray do," cried Mary,
starting from her seat, and advancing to the table--her old, sharp
manner gone, and an intense desire to hasten the lawyer's proposals
flashing from her eyes.
"I will," he said firmly; and he held out his hand. "You will trust me,
Mary Dillon, as your cousin trusts me?"
"Indeed, I will," she said eagerly, and she placed her thin little white
hand in his.
"Hah!" he ejaculated with a long expiration of the breath; and his great
hand closed and prisoned the little one laid therein. "You told me just
now that I was not decided and prompt enough."
"Yes, I did. But you are holding my hand very tightly, Mr Trevithick."
"Yes," he said quietly, "I am. That is because you are wrong. I am
very decided and prompt sometimes, and I am going to be now. Mary
Dillon, will you be my wife?"
"What!" she cried, flushing scarlet, and struggling to release her hand,
as her eyes flashed and seemed to be reading him through and through.
"Absurd!"
"No--no," he said gravely; "don't say that, even if my way and manner
are absurd."
"I did not mean that," she cried quickly. "I meant to--Oh, it is
absurd!" she said again, though her heart was throbbing violently, and
she struggled vainly to withdraw her hand. "Look at me--weak,
misshapen, pitiful. Mr Trevithick, you are mad."
"Don't try to take your hand away," he said slowly; it makes me afraid
of hurting you; and don't speak again like that--you hurt me very--very
much.
"But, Mr Trevithick! It is too dreadful. I cannot--I must not listen
to you."
"Why? You are quite free; and you are not an heiress."
"I!" she cried bitterly. "No; I have nothing but a pitiful few hundred
pounds. Now you know the truth. Do you hear me? I am a pauper,
dependent on my cousin's charity."
"I am very glad," he said, gazing at her thoughtfully, and still
speaking in his slow and deliberate way. "I was afraid that perhaps you
had money of which I did not know. But you will say `yes'?"
"No; impossible. Are you blind? Look at me."
"I might say, `Look at me,'" he retorted, with a frank, honest laugh,
which lit up his countenance pleasantly. "I wish you could look at me
as I do at you, and see there something that you could love. Yes," he
said, his genuine passion making him speak fluently and well; "for all
these long, long months, Mary, I have always had your sweet, earnest
eyes before me, and your clever, bright face. I have seemed to listen
to your voice, and sometimes I have been sad as I have asked myself what
a woman could find in me to love."
"Ah!" ejaculated the trembling girl.
"And I've felt that, when you have said all those many sharp, hard
things to me, that they were not quite real, and when your words have
been most cruel, I've dared to fancy that your eyes seemed to be sorry
that your tongue could be so bitter."
"Mr Trevithick, pray!"
"And then I've hoped and waited, and thought of what you were."
"Yes," said Mary bitterly, as she made a gesture with one hand.
"Bah!" he cried, "what of that? An accident when you were a child. I
would not have you different for worlds. I want those two dear eyes to
look into mine, true and trustful and clever. You, to whom I can come
home from my work for help and counsel, to be everything to me--my wife.
Mary dear, in my slow and clumsy way I love you very dearly, and your
cousin's wedding has brought it all out. I didn't think I could make
love like that."
He took her other hand, and gazed at her very fondly as she stood by his
side, with the tears streaming down her cheeks.
"You are not angry with me, dear?"
"No," she said gently; "I am sorry."
"Why?"
"For you. See how the world will sneer."
"What!" he cried eagerly. "Then you will?"
She looked at him searchingly, as if a lingering doubt were there, and a
shadow of suspicion were making her try to see if he was truly in
earnest.
"No, no," she said, as a sob burst from her lips; "it is impossible."
And she struggled hard to get away.
"Impossible!" he said, as he tightened his grasp. "Tell me one thing,
Mary. You knew I loved you?"
She nodded quickly.
"And--you don't think me ridiculous?"
"I think you the truest, most honest gentleman I ever saw," she sobbed;
"but--"
"Ah!" he said, with a pleasant little satisfied laugh, "that settles it,
then. The impossibility has gone like smoke. Mary dear, I never hoped
to be so happy as you have made me now."
His great arms enfolded her for a moment, during which she lay panting
on his breast, then, struggling to free herself, she caught and kissed
one of his hands.
"Hah!" he ejaculated, "now we must think of some one else."
He led her gently back to her chair, and bent down to kiss her forehead.
Then, returning to his seat as calmly as if nothing had happened--
"I can talk freely to you now, Mary," he said. "Is not this a great
mistake?"
"Yes," she said, with an arch look, full of her newly-found joy.
"No, no; you know what I mean. We must be very serious now. I don't
like this Mr Glyddyr."
"I hate him," cried Mary.
"Well, that's honest," he said, smiling. "But it was her father's wish,
and I suppose it is to be."
"Yes; it is to be. Nothing would turn her now."
John Trevithick did not say, "And is this to be soon?" but he thought
it, and set the idea aside.
"No," he said to himself; "we must wait." And soon after, calm, quiet
and business-like, he went away to draw up the marriage settlements
tightly on Claude's behalf, and wandered whether he could ever manage to
trace that missing cash.
He took out a pocket-book, and turned to a certain page covered with
figures, and ran it down.
"Only a few of these notes have reached the bank. Well, some day I may
come upon a clue in a way I least expect.
"Impossible, eh?" he said, with a smile of content. "Bless her sweet
eyes! I won't believe in the impossible now."
Volume Three, Chapter XIV.
"AND THIS IS BEING MARRIED."
"You are sure you don't mind me talking about it, sir?"
"Mind! Oh, no, Mrs Sarson, say what you like."
"Well, you see, sir, even if one is a widow and growing old, one can't
help feeling interested in weddings. I suppose it's being a woman.
Everybody's dreadfully disappointed."
"Indeed," said Chris coldly.
"And, yes, indeed, sir. No big party; no wedding breakfast and cake; no
going away in chaises and fours. If poor Mr Gartram had been alive, it
wouldn't have been like this. Why, do you know, sir, the quarry folk
were getting ready powder and going to fire guns, and make a big bonfire
on the cliffs; but Mr Trevithick, the lawyer, went to them with a
message from Miss Claude, sir, asking for them to do nothing; and
they're just going to the church and back to the big house, and not even
going away."
"Indeed!"
"Oh, yes, sir, and I did hear that Miss Claude actually wanted to be
married in black, but Miss Mary Dillon persuaded her not. I heard it on
the best of authority, sir."
Chris made no reply, and, finding no encouragement, Mrs Sarson cleared
her lodger's breakfast things away, and left the room.
The moment he was alone, Chris started from his chair to stand with his
back to the light; his teeth set hard and fists clenched as a spasm of
mental agony for the moment mastered him.
"No," he said, after a few moments, with a bitter laugh, "this won't do.
What is it to me? I can bear it now like a man. She shall see how
indifferent I am."
For it was the morning of the ill-starred wedding--a morning in which
Nature seemed to be in the mood to make everything depressing, for the
wind blew hard, bringing from the Atlantic a drenching shower, through
which, with Gellow for his best man, Glyddyr would have to drive to the
little church. Meanwhile, he was having so severe a shivering fit at
the hotel where he had been staying, that his companion had become
alarmed, and suggested calling in the doctor.
"Bah! nonsense! Ring for some brandy."
"And I'll take a flask to the church," said Gellow to himself, "or the
brute will breakdown. We're going to have a jolly wedding seemingly.
Only wants that confounded Frenchwoman to get scent of it, and come
down, and then we should be perfect."
"That's better," said Gellow, after the brandy had been brought. "But
what a day! What a cheerful lookout! I say, Glyddyr, am I dreaming?
Is it a wedding this morning or a funeral?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, it looks more like the latter. I say: Young Lisle won't come and
have a pop at you in the church?"
Glyddyr turned ghastly.
"You--you don't think--"
"Bah! My chaff. You are out of sorts; on your wedding-day, too. Hold
hard with that brandy, or it will pop you off, and not Lisle. Steady,
man, steady."
"Gellow, it's all over," gasped the miserable man. "I shall never be
able to go through with it."
"Oh, if I can only get this morning over," said Gellow to himself; and
then aloud--
"Nonsense, my dear boy, you're a bit nervous, that's all. I suppose a
man is when he's going to be married. You're all right. Come, have a
devilled kidney or a snack of something. You don't eat enough."
"Eat?" said Glyddyr, with a shudder. "No; I seem to have no appetite
now."
"Come on, and let's get it over. Here's the carriage waiting. Steady,
man, steady. No; not a drop more."
"The carriage is at the door, sir," said the waiter; and striving hard
to be firm, and to master a tremulous sensation about his knees, Glyddyr
walked out into the hall, where a buzzing sound that was heard suddenly
ceased till the pair were in the carriage, from whose roof the rain was
streaming. Then, after banging too the door, the waiter dashed back
under shelter, the dripping horses started off, and the carriage
disappeared in the misty rain.
"Looks as if he was going to execution," said the man, with a laugh, as
he dabbed the top of his head with his napkin. "Well, it do rain
to-day."
At the Fort everything had gone on that morning in a calm, subdued way
that seemed to betoken no change. Claude came down to breakfast as
usual, and sat looking dreamily before her, while Mary, red-eyed and
sorrowful, had not the heart to speak.
Trevithick had slept there the previous night, and was the only guest,
for Doctor Asher had declined to be present, on the score of
professional calls.
"I'm afraid there is very little chance of its holding up," said
Trevithick, when they rose from the scarcely-touched breakfast.
"No, Mr Trevithick," said Claude quietly. "I think we shall have a
very wet day. Mary, dear, we must take our waterproofs. It is fifty
yards from the lych-gate to the church door. Isn't it time we went up
to dress?"
She moved towards the door, but came back, and held out her hand to the
lawyer.
"Forgive me for being so absent and strange with you," she said, with a
faint smile. "You have been very good and kind to me, but I dare say
you think all this odd and unnatural."
"Oh, no; not at all," said Trevithick, colouring like a girl.
"It was the only thing in which I asked to have my way--to let the
wedding be perfectly quiet. Don't be long, Mary."
Trevithick looked at his little betrothed as the door closed, and she
looked up at him.
"I say, Mary, dear," he said, "is she quite--you know what I mean. I
feel almost as if I ought to interfere."
"Oh, John, John," cried the little thing, bursting into a passionate fit
of weeping; "if we could only stop it even now!"
She sobbed on his breast for a few seconds, and then hastily wiped her
eyes.
"There, I'm better now," she said. "I've talked to her till I'm tired,
but it's of no use. `It's my _duty_' is all she will say. Oh! why did
people ever invent the horrid word. Don't say anything, John, dear.
Let's get it over, and hope for the best; but if there's any chance of
our wedding being like this, let's shake hands like Christians, forgive
one another, and say good-bye."
She ran out of the room, and Trevithick sat watching the rain trickle
down the window-panes, and tried to follow the course of a big ship
struggling up Channel, its storm topsails dimly seen through the mist of
rain.
"I wouldn't be on that ship for all I've saved," he said, shaking his
head. "Looks as if there was going to be a wreck.
"So there is," he said, after a pause, "a social wreck, and I'm going to
assist. No, I'm not. I'm looking after the salvage. Poor girl!
Gartram must have been mad."
His meditations were broken in upon by the sound of wheels.
Half-an-hour later the door was thrown open.
"Now, Mr Trevithick, please," said Mary; and he hurried into the hall
to find Claude ready and looking very calm and composed.
"Good-bye," she was saying to first one and then another of the maids,
who, catching the contagion, burst into tears.
"As if it wasn't wet enough already," said Reuben Brime, who stood with
the footman by the carriage-door.
"Good-bye, Woodham, dear," said Claude, holding out her hand, but
snatching it back directly as she yielded to a sudden impulse, and threw
her arms around the stern-looking woman's neck. "Thank you for all that
you have done."
"Good-bye! Why did she say good-bye?" thought Woodham, as Trevithick
handed the bride into the carriage, the drops from the edge of the
portico falling like great tears upon her hair. "Yes: good-bye to youth
and happiness and your sweet young life."
The carriage-door was banged, and banged again, for the wet had made it
hard to shut. Then, as the footman mounted to his place on the box, the
gardener hurried round in front of the horses, and ran for the short cut
over the cliffs to the church.
"Shouldn't you go, Mrs Woodham?" said one of the maids.
Sarah Woodham shook her head.
"They will soon be back," she said. "I'm going to stay to meet the new
master."
"Why does not something happen to stop this hateful match?" she muttered
to herself. "My poor girl. My poor, dear girl."
The carriage sped on through the driving rain, and the little party
descended at the church gate, where a few fishermen were gathered in
their yellow and black oilskins to follow them, dripping, into the
little church, while it seemed to Claude that it was only the other day
that her father was borne to his resting-place. And there they were,
standing face to face before God's altar, she pale, sad and composed,
having to give her whole love and life to the pale trembling man who
faced her, and who, though she knew it not, exhaled a strong odour of
the spirits he had taken to enable him to go through the task.
But Claude saw nothing, realised nothing but the words of the clergyman,
repeating every response in a low, earnest tone right on to the end,
when, as the last words of the service was uttered, there was the sound
of some one drawing a long, deep breath.
It was only Gellow's way of congratulating himself on the fact that his
money and much more were safe at last.
"Now!" he muttered, as he hugged himself. "Now you may have _DT_, or
anything you like."
The book was signed, and the few fishermen and women who had braved the
storm began to go clattering out of the church as Glyddyr, making an
effort to look happy and content, held his arm to his newly-made bride
to lead her down the little nave.
"Father, dear, it was your wish," said Claude softly, and, with a sigh,
she raised her eyes towards the faint light which came through the west
window.
Then she stopped short, gazing wildly at where Chris Lisle stood like a
black silhouette against the dim lattice panes, as he had stood with
folded arms right through the service.
He made no sign; he uttered no sound, his features hardly visible from
the position against the light; but the sight of that figure was enough
to bring like a flood the recollections of the past, and of what might
have been, but for her irrevocable step; and, snatching her hand from
her husband's arm, Claude clasped her forehead as she uttered a low,
faint cry, and fell heavily upon the floor.
"Keep back, all of you!" cried Glyddyr excitedly. "Do you hear, keep
back. The carriage, there. Do you hear me? Keep back!"
He lifted Claude from where she lay, and bore her out, holding her
tightly in his arms, as if he feared that she might be snatched away by
him who had caused this shock.
"Curse him!" he muttered, as the carriage was driven back to the Fort at
a canter; "but he's too late. The dark horse has won, Chris Lisle, and
the stakes are mine."
Claude was still insensible when the carriage stopped, and Glyddyr
resigned her to Sarah Woodham's arms.
"A bit faint, that's all," he said, with a half laugh. "She'll be
better soon."
"You--you are married, sir?" faltered the woman, looking at him wildly.
"You bet!" he snarled, as he turned away, and strode into the library,
but came back looking ghastly and slamming the door. "Here, some one
bring the spirits into the dining-room; not in there. Quick! don't you
see your mistress is taken ill?"
"Open the door," whispered Woodham; "we'll take her in there."
"No; in the dining-room--anywhere," cried Glyddyr. "Don't take her
there.
"And this is being married!" he muttered, as soon as he was alone. "The
cad! The coward! But I've bested him, and I'm a free man once again,
and master here."
They had carried Claude into the dining-room; and, hardly caring where
he went, Glyddyr had entered the drawing-room, thrown to the door, and
was walking hurriedly up and down, till, as he uttered the last words,
his eyes fell upon the large photograph of Gartram.
He stopped short, with his eyes showing a ring of white about the iris,
and the cold sweat glistening upon his forehead till the spasm of dread
passed away. Then dashing forward, he was about to tear the likeness
from its easel and frame, but the door was suddenly opened, and he
recovered himself, and turned to face Trevithick and his best man, for
he had not heard the wheels as the second carriage stopped.
Volume Three, Chapter XV.
"ONLY WAIT."
The occupants of the Fort were broken up into little parties on that
eventful day. Claude seemed to go from one fit into another, and her
cousin and Sarah Woodham did not leave her side.
Brime had been despatched for Doctor Asher, but had come back with a
message that the doctor had been taken ill, and could not leave his
home, but they were not to be alarmed. It was only hysteria, he wrote,
and all needed was quiet and rest.
Trevithick had betaken himself to the library, where he sat alone,
waiting for tidings, and had at last taken his note-book from his
pocket, as if inspired by the place, and began to run over the numbers
of the missing notes.
"I can't go away till afternoon," he had said to himself; "and till I
have had a quiet few minutes with Mary."
In the dining-room Glyddyr was now alone with Gellow, and there had been
a scene.
"Look here," said the latter, after partaking heartily of the breakfast,
"I'm not a man who boasts, and I suppose my principles, as people call
'em, are not of the best, but, 'pon my soul, Glyddyr, if I couldn't show
up better after marrying a girl like that, I'd go and hang myself."
"Bah!"
"No, you don't; not a drop more," continued Gellow, laying his hand upon
a bottle of champagne that Glyddyr was about to take. "You've had too
much now. When I'm gone, you can do as you like. You're master here,
but I won't sit and see you go on like this."
"It don't hurt me. I'm as sober as you are."
"P'r'aps so, now; but what will you be by-and-by? Hang it all, Glyd,
you've got the girl, and the money, and you can pay me off. She's a
little darling, that's what she is, and I'd turn over a fresh leaf--
clean the slate and begin square now, I would, 'pon my soul. Do you
hear?"
"Yes, I hear."
"And now I think I'll go back to the hotel; you don't want me."
"Eh! What? No, no; don't go," said Glyddyr excitedly.
"Not go?"
"No, man, no; don't go and leave me here alone."
"Well, upon my soul, Glyddyr, you are a one."
"That fellow, Lisle. You saw him in the corner. He means mischief.
I'm sure he does."
"Let him. You're King of the Castle now. Keep him out. Don't be such
a cur."
"He's half mad. I know he is. I don't want a scene. I should kill him
if he came."
"Yes, you look as if you would."
"And I haven't done much for you yet. We shall want to talk business."
"What, on your wedding-day! Nonsense. I'll go back to the hotel."
"No, no. There is plenty of room in the place--for a friend. You must
stop here for a few days."
"Oh, very well. Play policeman, eh, and keep t'other fellow off. I see
your little game. Cheerful for me, though, all the same."
"Help me to get rid of that lawyer; I don't want him hanging about.--
Gellow."
"Well?"
"Why didn't I insist upon going over to Paris or Baden as soon as we
were married?"
"How should I know? I suppose I may light a cigar now. Your wife won't
object?"
"It was her doing," said Glyddyr thoughtfully. "She insisted on
staying."
"No, you don't. If I'm to play policeman, no more drink, or very
little, do you have to-day."
Gellow drew the bottle farther away again, and Glyddyr threw himself
back in his chair and began gnawing his nails.
"Ugh!"
"What's the matter now?" said Gellow, as Glyddyr shuddered.
"I don't know. Somehow I don't like this place."
"Buy it off you, if you like. But, I say, hadn't you better ring and
ask after your wife?"
About this time, as John Trevithick sat cogitating over his memoranda,
seeking for the light where all was dark, the door opened, and Mary came
in.
"Ah! How is she now?"
"Very ill. I have left her for a few minutes in the drawing-room with
Sarah Woodham," said Mary, with a catching of the breath. "Oh, John,
how cruel of Chris Lisle to come and do that."
"I don't know," said Trevithick thoughtfully. "I'm afraid I should have
acted the same. But there: the mischief is done. I'm glad you've come.
I wanted to see you before I went."
"Before you went? Oh!" exclaimed Mary, catching at his hand, "you must
not go."
"Not go? Oh, I'm not wanted here."
"You don't know," cried Mary excitedly. "Don't leave us, John. I'm
frightened. It all seems so horrible. Suppose Chris Lisle were to
come?"
"Chris Lisle would not be so mad."
"I don't know. I saw his face, poor fellow, and it looked dreadful, and
I have just seen Mr Glyddyr. I went to the dining-room to see if you
were there. He looks ghastly, and he has been drinking. For Claude's
sake, pray stay."
"You do not know what you are saying, my dear," said the big lawyer
gently. "Mr Glyddyr is master here now. But I'm afraid you are right.
He had been drinking before he came. I cannot interfere."
"Not to protect her?"
"No, I have no right."
"Then stop to protect me, John, dear," she whispered.
"The law gives me no right," he said slowly, "but if you put it in that
way, why, hang the law!"
"And you will stay?"
"Yes, my dear, if I have to wring Parry Glyddyr's neck."
"Ah, now you are speaking like yourself," cried Mary, drawing a breath
full of relief. "I'm not a bit afraid now."
Just then a bell rang, and Mary ran out of the room, to find Sarah
Woodham anxiously awaiting her, for Claude was pacing the floor wildly,
her face flushed, and the excitement from which she suffered finding
vent in rapid, almost incoherent words.