Lilia had evidently not heard, or hearing, had not understood.
“What is it he wants?” she asked, coming to the bedside.
“Will you marry her now?” asked Sir Roderick, struggling away from Hugh, so that he could look up into his face.
“If she consents,” said Hugh, looking fixedly at Lilia. But her eyes were cast down: she was red as a rose—the picture of shame.
Mr. Pym jumped up, as if suddenly awakened from a stupor of astonishment.
“I—I protest against this—this mad notion—this insult to my niece!” he began, evidently angered beyond power of self-control.
Once more Sir Roderick chuckled.
“You protest against her money being her own, eh?” he said. “You would like your handsome son to spend it on his women, eh? Stand back!” he said, solemnly, raising his hand warningly as Roderick stepped forward, white with passion. “Mervyn, marry them! Do you hear?”
“I cannot, my dear old friend; it is impossible. Think, I have no license. To read any service would be mere waste of words——”
His speech was interrupted by a hoarse cry, as the dying man turned up his glazing eyes and fell back into Hugh’s arms.