“I promised Fanny I would say as much to you. I will not again mention her name unless you press me to do so.”
“That’s very kind,” said the earl.
“And now, about myself. I think your lordship will agree with me that it is better that I should at once leave Grey Abbey, when I tell you that, if I remain here, I shall certainly be arrested before the week is over, if I am found outside the house. I do not wish to have bailiffs knocking at your lordship’s door, and your servants instructed to deny me.”
“Upon my soul, you are too good.”
“At any rate,” said Kilcullen, “you’ll agree with me that this is no place for me to remain in.”
“You’re quite at liberty to go,” said the earl. “You were never very ceremonious with regard to me; pray don’t begin to be so now. Pray go—to-night if you like. Your mother’s heart will be broken, that’s all.”
“I trust my mother will be able to copy your lordship’s indifference.”
“Indifference! Is sixty thousand pounds in one year, and more than double within three or four, indifference? I have paid too much to be indifferent. But it is hopeless to pay more. I have no hope for you; you are ruined, and I couldn’t redeem you even if I would. I could not set you free and tell you to begin again, even were it wise to do so; and therefore I tell you to go. And now, good night; I have not another word to say to you,” and the earl got up as if to leave the room.
“Stop, my lord, you must listen to me,” said Kilcullen.
“Not a word further. I have heard enough;” and he put out the candles on the book-room table, having lighted a bed candle which he held in his hand.