As he advanced, the idiot rose. A low howl broke from him. Suddenly, as if with a mad desire for vengeance, he flung himself upon his father and tore and wrestled with him savagely. It was the anger of an enraged brute; the boy's nails seemed to tear into Darkham's flesh.
The struggle, however, lasted only for a minute or two. With a mighty effort, Darkham wrenched himself free, and the idiot, his hands working convulsively, dashed from the room.
CHAPTER XIV
"Isn't it frightful!" said old Miss Firs-Robinson, exclaiming as much with her hands as with her tongue. "Such a death!"
"A terrible death, indeed," returned Mrs. Poynter—a pretty, fashionable-looking young woman—with deep commiseration. "So sudden!"
It was the next day, and the news of Mrs. Darkham's death had spread and was now known far and wide. All the people in Rickton had "a day," and this one belonged to Miss Firs-Robinson. A most blessed thing, as everyone wanted to meet every one else and discuss with them the tragedy. It was the rector's wife who had been the first to use the word "tragedy," and it had caught on at once. "She is so clever, you know. Always the right word on every occasion. Really quite talented! The rector could never get on without her; she has been the making of him. That last sermon of his about regeneration, surely—well! And she does write, you know, for some of the papers. At all events, she has been known to answer a charade most successfully. You must remember. It began with "My first was an ass.""
Lord Ambert and Elfrida were playing tennis in the courts below against Captain Poynter and a rather pretty girl who was staying with the Poynters.
Mr. Blount was standing on the terrace close to the nearest point from which the tennis-court could be seen. He was supposed to be making himself agreeable to the companion Fate had accorded him for the moment, but in reality he was watching Elfrida with a sad but absorbed gaze. Agatha Nesbitt, sitting at the end of the terrace, seemed to read his thoughts, and beckoned him to come to her. She herself was sitting where whoever came to the hall-door could be readily seen.
"And I hear," said Mrs. Poynter, arching her brows and putting on a look of perfect misery, "that Dr. Darkham is absolutely inconsolable."
"Oh my dear, do you think so? Well, I don't know, I'm sure." Miss Firs-Robinson as she spoke turned purple. "He is—well, you know, I don't like him. But dissolute—one should be charitable, my dear. I confess I have thought him a little queer at times in his ways, but nothing so far gone as that. No, no."