“Cannot you think it out for yourself?” said Mrs. Dengelton[Dengelton] tartly. “You are now thirty-five; you were born—let me see—about fifteen years after the marriage, so altogether Rudolph disappeared fifty years ago.”
“And has not been heard of since?”
“No; all inquiries were made, but nothing came of them,” replied the lady, shaking her head. “I suppose Rudolph thought he had killed Austin, and left England to avoid arrest. At all events, not a soul has heard of him since. Where he went, no one knows; but by this time, I have no doubt he is dead.”
“Poor Uncle Rudolph, what an unhappy fate!” said Maurice thoughtfully.
“Ah, I always did blame Rose for that quarrel!” cried Mrs. Dengelton sourly.
“My mother”—began Maurice indignantly, when the Rector stopped him.
“Your mother was not to blame, my dear Maurice,” he said, rising to his feet. “I know more about this story than Mrs. Dengelton thinks.”
A sniff was the Hon. Mrs. Dengelton’s only reply, which was vulgar, but eloquent of disbelief.
Carriston’s face, generally ruddy, looked somewhat pale, and Maurice wondered what could be the reason for such a loss of color. The old man saw his inquiring look, and arose to take his leave.
“I must say good-night, my dear Maurice,” he said, giving his hand to Mrs. Dengelton. “I am not so young as I once was, and keep early hours.”