“Hush—sit down!—hush!” said Charles Thompson, hurriedly endeavoring to extricate himself from the embrace of his unexpected guest.
“Look at 'm!” continued the stranger, unheeding the admonition, but suddenly holding the unfortunate Charles at arm's length, in loving and undisguised admiration of his festive appearance. “Look at 'm! Ain't he nasty? Sha'ls, I'm prow of yer!”
“Leave the house!” said Mr. Thompson, rising, with a dangerous look in his cold, gray eye. “Char-les, how dare you?”
“Simmer down, ole man! Sha'ls, who's th' ol' bloat? Eh?”
“Hush, man; here, take this!” With nervous hands, Charles Thompson filled a glass with liquor. “Drink it and go—until to-morrow—any time, but—leave us!—go now!” But even then, ere the miserable wretch could drink, the old man, pale with passion, was upon him. Half carrying him in his powerful arms, half dragging him through the circling crowd of frightened guests, he had reached the door, swung open by the waiting servants, when Charles Thompson started from a seeming stupor, crying,—
“Stop!”
The old man stopped. Through the open door the fog and wind drove chilly. “What does this mean?” he asked, turning a baleful face on Charles.
“Nothing—but stop—for God's sake. Wait till to-morrow, but not to-night. Do not—I implore you—do this thing.”
There was something in the tone of the young man's voice, something, perhaps, in the contact of the struggling wretch he held in his powerful arms; but a dim, indefinite fear took possession of the old man's heart. “Who,” he whispered, hoarsely, “is this man?”
Charles did not answer.