“By all the devils of cross-purposes,” he said, stopping opposite the man, “I believe we are the only two in the house, Whimple, that understand one another. Tell me, then—what am I to do with the girl?”
“She must go, sir. Her malady increases, and—sir, let me speak plainly. It is aggravated by some wild passion that—that your neighbourhood provokes—some—oh! how can I face you and cry the mad presumption?”
“Yes—she must go.” (He spoke gloomily and thoughtfully.) “If only this eternal business of the stone were done with, and I could enter into peaceful possession of my own again. And sometimes I think that that will never be; that I hold a position only—a test of manliness and endurance, and that ‘Delsrop’ is no more than a redoubt in the battle of life, to fight from the shelter of, and abandon when my next advance is called.”
“In truth, sir, I believe there is a melancholy curse upon the place.”
“We will hold it, nevertheless, Dennis; but, our duty done by it, my heart, I think, wouldn’t die to see it fall. ’Twould be a sombre rookery for a young mother to rear her brood in.”
He set to pacing the room once more, while the other hung his head in some sorrowful emotion.
“Whimple,” he said, as he walked—“you have associations here—sinister enough; but they are a bond of a kind. I have none, and yet your father’s shadow creeps in mine and influences it, I am afraid, to evil.”
“Oh, sir! don’t talk like that. I have so formed my faith on all of that in you which I lack—courage and——”
“Tut, fellow! D’you think I’m to be overcrowed by a ghost? The sick dog must have his moan, Dennis, and I’m scarce recovered yet of those rascals. Look at my hands, you rabbit. Are these fingers or forked radishes to pull a trigger withal?”
“God restore you, master!”