“Uncle!” pleaded Rivington. “How unkind you are!”
“The telegram, the telegram!” was the interruption.
“Oh, that is nothing. The facts are simple. Of course, everybody is aware of Lady Gaynor’s crippled condition so far as finances go, and I recently recommended to her care the—er—sister of a fellow I know, who suffers with periodical attacks of mild insanity—the result of a carriage accident. Her brother was willing to pay a decent sum to any one who would take particular care of the girl until she was quite recovered, and I recommended Lady Gaynor. That is all there is in it. It is a great nuisance at all events, just now.”
“H’m! Is that the truth?” the duke grunted.
“My dear uncle,” exclaimed Rivington, distressfully, “it pains me beyond measure that you should continue to doubt me.”
“Can you wonder at it? Well, I suppose that you must leave me. If it was anywhere but Lady Gaynor’s place I would go with you. I can’t think what possessed the Earl of Seabright when he mixed that woman up with his affairs. I must see Lady Elaine as soon as she has got over her spell of grief. I must hear from her own lips that she intends to marry you, and then you may depend upon getting something from me besides the title. I won’t believe one word of the story until her ladyship confirms it. It will ever be a mystery to me how you managed to ingratiate yourself in the Earl of Seabright’s good graces. He was no fool, and must have known what a worthless scoundrel you were in your younger days. I would see you hanged before you should marry a daughter of mine, no matter how much you promised to reform. I have no belief in reformed rakes. Confound it, I am almost disposed to put a stop to this abominable marriage, but I suppose that Lady Elaine knows her own business best. There never is any accounting for taste—particularly a woman’s! Not only are you deficient in what I consider the ordinary attributes of manhood, but you are small and insignificant. You will be the most undignified Duke of Rothwell that has ever borne the title. Why the deuce didn’t I marry myself, I wonder!”
Inwardly the viscount was fuming. He hated his uncle, and cursed Lady Gaynor for a fool. Why had she sent the insane telegram? What had she done to Lady Elaine?
When once beyond the notice of the old duke, his haste became almost frantic. He helped the groom to saddle a horse, and then galloped away as though upon an errand of life and death.
In less than two hours he was pacing Lady Gaynor’s drawing-room, hot, dust-stained and angry; and when her ladyship appeared his irritability burst out.
“Well! Until now I have looked upon you as a woman of sense. That telegram nearly exploded the whole business to the duke!”