But Hazel Tregaskis, unlike Morris, was directing all the energies of her will into one channel. And Rosamund, watching, saw those energies guided and strengthened day by day by the stronger force that held steadfast behind her.
Guy Marleswood was not of those who fail.
Before the close of that year, the day came when he extorted from the exasperated Frederick: “Marry her, then. I see you mean to do it, both of you, and it may as well be with my consent as without it. Anything to put an end to the subject.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Sir Guy imperturbably. “I will go and tell Mrs. Tregaskis that we have your consent to the marriage.”
“You will do nothing of the kind. I shall tell her myself. I may as well get some satisfaction out of it,” said Frederick viciously.
He sought his wife in the library, where she sat, looking unusually disheartened, amid a pile of leaflets.
“Bertha, you are about to be relieved of one of your responsibilities.”
“I’m thankful to hear it,” she returned wearily.
“I have decided to give Hazel into Marleswood’s keeping.”
“Frederick! You can’t. You’re mad. A child of nineteen—and a marriage that’s no marriage—she’ll be no more married in the eyes of God than if she were openly living as that man’s mistress.”