Their voices mingled, and became less audible.
"You can't blame her," said Sue. "Really, from out there, it sounded suspiciously like murder." She stared at her brother. He was not kneeling now, but half-sitting, half-lying, in an awkward sprawl, at Farvel's feet, much as if he had thrown himself down in a fit of temper.
Farvel turned to her. His face was set. His eyes were dull, as if a glaze was spread upon them. His hands twitched. But he spoke quietly. "Get this man out of here," he directed, "or I shall kill him."
"Oh, go! Go!" pleaded Mrs. Milo.
"Go!" added Clare. She threw herself into the chair at the table, put her arms on the cloth, and her face in her arms.
Sue ran to Wallace, took his arm and tugged at it, lifting him. He stumbled up, still weeping a little, but weakly. As she turned him toward the hall, he put an arm across her shoulders for support.
Mrs. Milo followed them. She was not in the dark as to the nature of her son's tearful admission. But she had no mind to blame him. Resorting to her accustomed tactics, she put Farvel in the wrong. "I never should have trusted my dear boy to you," she cried. "I thought he would be under good influences in a clergyman's house. Only eighteen, and you make him responsible!"
The door opened, and Balcome was there. He looked at Wallace not unkindly. "Pretty tough luck, young man," he observed.
At sight of Balcome, Mrs. Milo remembered the wedding. "Oh!" she gasped. And turning about to Farvel in a wild appeal, "Oh, Hattie! Think of poor Hattie! Won't you forget yourself in this? Won't you help us to keep it all quiet? Oh, we mustn't ruin her life!" She returned to the rocker, her fingers to her eyes, as if she were pressing back the tears.
Balcome had come in, closing the door. He crossed to Farvel, his big, blowzy face comical in its gravity. "Mr. Farvel," he said, "whatever concerns that young man concerns my—little girl." He blinked with emotion. "So—so that's why I ask, who is this young woman?"