“Read that,” cried the man, interrupting her once again, laying a telegram—almost flinging it—on the table before her.
“What is this?” she enquired, looking about for her pince-nez. “It is a telegram from Jack. What—what—oh, don’t tell me that something has happened—that he is hurt—something dreadful—that you were sent to break it to me.”
“Read it,” he said. “Something dreadful! Maybe not so dreadful to you; not so strange either. You are his mother; you may have heard something like it about him before.”
She had found her glasses, and picked up the telegram with shaking fingers.
“Priscilla no longer here left week yesterday?
“What does this mean?” she asked. “She was staying with Miss Branksome at Lullton Priory. Is this from General Branksome?”
“I got wind of something being wrong,” said he, “and I telegraphed last evening to the Branksomes asking if she was with them. That’s the answer I got. You know what it means. But I warned her. God knows I did my duty by her in warning her against him. She would not listen to me.”
“I don’t know what you are thinking of. Can you not tell me what it is that is in your mind? You surely do not suppose that Priscilla—that my son—-”
“What’s in my mind is that your son is a scoundrel, ma’am—that’s what’s in my mind—a rank, foul scoundrel! He has induced her to run away with him, and for the past week they have been living together as man and wife, wherever he is.”
“You lie, sir; I tell you, you lie. My son may have his faults, but he was never a seducer of women.”