Mr Hindes’ urbanity seemed to have forsaken him at this juncture, for he trembled so violently that his very teeth chattered.
‘And do you suppose that I would take her back?’ cried Mr Crampton, vehemently. ‘What! take the casket without the jewel! Receive my daughter—no longer only my daughter, but that man’s plaything—in her dishonoured home? Never! I will see her dead first! I will stand by thankfully, and watch her coffin lowered into the ground, sooner than acknowledge her again as my child. I have no child now. My Jenny, in whom I took such pride, for whom I have made money and treasured and garnered it up, is gone from me. She is no longer mine. She is Walcheren’s wife. I have lost her more effectually than if she had been taken from me by death, as her brothers and sisters were, and never, so help me God! will I see her of my own free will, in this world again.’
He was fuming and raging in his despair, and Hannah Hindes motioned to her husband, to do or say something to calm the old man. But Henry Hindes remained as silent and motionless, as if he had been carved in stone. Then she attempted the task herself.
‘Dear Mr Crampton,’ she whispered, laying her gentle hand on his knotted one, ‘surely you are going too far. This terrible disappointment has come upon you too suddenly, but try to look at it in a more reasonable light. Jenny has done very, very wrong; no one could think otherwise, but you must not speak of her as if she were abandoned to sin. She is honourably married, remember; and she is so young, that perhaps she did not view the fault of rebelling against your authority from so serious a point of view as we do. Mr Walcheren doubtless persuaded her that it was only a venial error, which you would soon forgive, for I cannot believe that she could ever forget your great love for her, nor hers for you.’
She smoothed the old man’s palm with a motherly touch as she spoke, and her soft voice and manner served in a measure to soothe his extreme agitation.
‘You are a good woman, Mrs Hindes, my dear,’ he replied, more calmly, ‘but my daughter must abide by the step she has taken, however this fellow cajoled her into it. She knew well enough that I would never give my consent to her marriage with a d—d Papist. She gave me her solemn promise, too, to give up all communication with him. She lied to me, Mrs Hindes, as the man lied to your husband, and I renounce them both—I renounce them both! Henceforth, I have no child. Heaven took five from me, and the devil’s got the last.’
And with that Mr Crampton drew forth a red silk handkerchief and buried his face in it.
‘But what is to be done?’ inquired Henry Hindes, ‘what is to be done?’
Hannah glanced round at him in astonishment. His full, deep voice seemed all of a sudden to have become thin and squeaky.
‘Mr Crampton seems to think that we can do nothing, dearest,’ she answered.