CHAPTER XVII.
MOSTYN IS GIVEN ANOTHER CHANCE.
The following morning Pierce Trelawny appeared at breakfast with a pale face and a look of determination about his lips.
Mostyn, who was already seated at the table, glanced up, mystified at his friend's unwonted appearance.
"What's wrong, old chap?" he asked. "You look worried."
Pierce poured himself out a cup of coffee before he responded, Mostyn watching him the while with increasing anxiety. "You haven't got bad news, have you?" he asked.
"It's about Cicely," Pierce explained at last. There was a heavy frown upon his brow. "Look here, Mostyn, I can't stand this sort of thing any longer—something has got to be done. Cicely has written to me. Oh, it's the first letter she has written." He laughed hoarsely. "We have kept to our promise right enough up till now, but matters have come to a crisis."
"Tell me," said Mostyn, drawing his chair nearer to that of his friend with that display of sympathy which was with him so charming a characteristic. "But I can guess," he added with a melancholy shake of the head. "Cicely finds it impossible to get on at home, even for the month or two that remain."
"That's just it," said Pierce, tossing the letter over to his friend. "Read what she says for yourself. It makes one's blood boil, that any girl can be treated in such a fashion, and I tell you I've made up my mind to take matters into my own hands."
Mostyn read the letter through carefully, the frown deepening on his brow as he came to the end. Cicely had penned the epistle under the stress of deep emotion, and the page was blotted here and there where her tears had fallen upon it. The gist of her letter was that she could stay no longer at home—that her father's insults and cruelty had become unbearable—that he had even raised his hand against her. It was in her very misery of spirit that she had at last yielded to the temptation to write to Pierce, whom she loved so utterly, so devotedly. She had been seized by a terrible fear, too, a fear which had haunted her for weeks and months, that his love for her was on the wane; she could bear it no longer, and so in her misery she had broken her promise. Would he come to her? The request was repeated over and over again, in the course of the letter. She wanted his comfort—his support—his kiss—and if she were denied these any longer, she feared her health would break down.