“All right, mother! Now, don’t scream; it’s Mr. Richard—there!”
If a servant had suddenly appeared with the news that an invading army had landed at the pier-head, and was now surrounding the house, or that Lord Llanfyllin had poisoned Lady Llanfyllin and married his cook, poor Mrs. Abercarne would have been less utterly shocked and struck dumb than she was by this intelligence. For a few moments she could only stare at her daughter, who now, that the crisis was over, began to laugh half hysterically.
“Mr.—Richard,” the poor lady at last gasped out. “Mr. Richard—the lu—lu—lunatic? Oh! it isn’t possible! It’s too awful—too appalling! I—I—I shall die if it’s true!”
But Chris was getting better already. She slid down on her knees, and put her arm round her mother’s neck, unable now to restrain a wild inclination to laugh at her mother’s hopeless terror.
“No, you won’t, mother. Of course I couldn’t help knowing you’d be awfully angry, and so I put off telling you. But it’s not half as bad as you think. Dick’s no more mad than you or I.”
“Dick!” cried poor Mrs. Abercarne, with a shriek, which subsided into a moan. “To think of my daughter—my Christina, calling a m—m—madman Dick!”
“But when I tell you that he’s not mad, not mad at all,” insisted Chris, raising her voice a little to emphasise her words.
The words were hardly out of her mouth when she sprang up with a little cry.
Mr. Bradfield was in the room.