“Huntingdon, you fool, come and help me, can’t you!” cried Hattersley, himself somewhat weakened by his excesses.
“I’m wishing you God-speed, Hattersley,” cried Arthur, “and aiding you with my prayers: I can’t do anything else if my life depended on it! I’m quite used up. Oh—oh!” and leaning back in his seat, he clapped his hands on his sides and groaned aloud.
“Annabella, give me a candle!” said Lowborough, whose antagonist had now got him round the waist and was endeavouring to root him from the door-post, to which he madly clung with all the energy of desperation.
“I shall take no part in your rude sports!” replied the lady coldly drawing back. “I wonder you can expect it.”
But I snatched up a candle and brought it to him. He took it and held the flame to Hattersley’s hands, till, roaring like a wild beast, the latter unclasped them and let him go. He vanished, I suppose to his own apartment, for nothing more was seen of him till the morning. Swearing and cursing like a maniac, Hattersley threw himself on to the ottoman beside the window. The door being now free, Milicent attempted to make her escape from the scene of her husband’s disgrace; but he called her back, and insisted upon her coming to him.
“What do you want, Ralph?” murmured she, reluctantly approaching him.
“I want to know what’s the matter with you,” said he, pulling her on to his knee like a child. “What are you crying for, Milicent?—Tell me!”
“I’m not crying.”
“You are,” persisted he, rudely pulling her hands from her face. “How dare you tell such a lie!”
“I’m not crying now,” pleaded she.