Another Bomb for the Rev. Dudley.
Once more we must peep into the library at Lant Hall.
Mr Vallance sat in his accustomed chair, thinking. His gaze would wander from the window to the blazing fire and back again, and the frown of anxiety deepened on his features. Without, the wind howled shrilly through the bare boughs, and a few scattered flakes of snow whirled in the air.
“Why did we ever let him go?” he exclaimed aloud. “Why did we ever let him go?”
Even as when last we saw him, Mr Vallance was terribly anxious on behalf of his son. His former misgivings had been allayed by the subsequent receipt of a letter from Geoffry; which missive, however, had given him to understand that it was the last the writer would have an opportunity of sending for some time—in fact, until he should be on his way home again. Characteristically, too, this letter contained only vague and general information that the writer had fallen in with and joined Winthrop’s outfit; and of his meeting with Yseulte Santorex, not a word. It was of no use worrying about the matter, decided the Rev. Dudley. Any post might now bring intelligence that the boy was on his way home. It was poor comfort, and again he found himself repeating:
“Why did we ever allow him to go?”
Of the other affair which had so sorely troubled him—his cousin’s unexpected and preposterous claim—he had heard no more. His apprehensions first were lulled, then subsided altogether. The whole business was palpably a “try on.”
A sound of subdued voices outside, then a knock.
“A gentleman wishes to see you, sir.”
In his then frame of mind, Mr Vallance could not but feel startled by the interruption.