"Most certainly. I have not the least wish to detain her. Good-bye! A pleasant journey!" And, still keeping her hand, he gazed with burning eyes on the features he had so loved—as boys do love—with a wild imaginative passion, kindled by beauty alone. "I shall claim my right—just for once—may I, sister Louise?"
With a glance of defiance at Edwin, Guy caught his brother's betrothed round the waist and kissed her—once—twice—savagely.
It was done so suddenly and under such an ingenious disguise of "right," that open vengeance was impossible. But as Edwin hurried Louise away, the look that passed between the two young men was enough to blot out henceforward all friendship, all brotherhood. That insult would never be forgotten.
She was gone—the house was free of her and Edwin too. Guy was left alone with me and his mother.
Mrs. Halifax sat sewing. She seemed to take no note of his comings and goings—his restless starts—his fits of dark musing, when his face grew like the face of some stranger, some one whom he would have shrunk from—any one but our own merry Guy.
"Mother,"—the voice startled me, such irritable, intolerable bitterness marred its once pleasant tones—"when do they come back?"
"Do you mean—"
"I mean those people."
"In a week or so. Your brother returns to-night, of course."
"My BROTHER, eh? Better not say it—it's an ugly word."