“Well!” exclaimed Charley, staying the flood of reproaches Sir Philip was about to heap upon his head; and, as he gazed upon the pale face, the father’s aspect changed, his stride became a gentle step, and he gazed from one to the other. “Well,” cried Charley, “have you come to look upon their work? Have you come to commune once more with the sweet gentle spirit before it passes away? I tell you they have murdered her—murdered my own darling who would have died for me; whilst I, poor, weak, pitiful idiot that I was, believed all I saw—walked blindly into their traps like a foolish child. Curse them—curse them!” he raged, as he ground his teeth together, and spoke in a low hoarse voice, that was awful in its deep suppressed hatred. “You want to know why I dashed off this morning. I tell you, it was to save myself from being a murderer. I tell you, father, that after what I learned on leaving you, if I had faced that cursed Jezebel, it would have been to strangle her. There—there, read those letters!” he cried, tearing the papers from his breast, and dashing them at Sir Philip. “Read how brother and sister could plot to delude this poor child—plot with a diabolical cunning that was nearly crowned with success; for they had a simple unworldly man to deal with; read how we were to be torn asunder by their cursed malice—how I was to be poisoned at heart by seeing her appear to flee with that scoundrel Max Bray; while I, like a simple sheep, was led by that false wretch to see it all. She played her cards well—to become Lady Vining, forsooth! And then read on how this poor angel was beguiled by lying forgeries to hurry away with Max to Cornwall, to see me—me—dying from injuries; while, to give force to his lies, the villain added to, and then sent, the note, that must have been lying in his desk above a year—the note I sent to him, telling him to come to me, for I was half-killed, when I had my hunting fall. God!” he hissed forth in a fierce way, that made his hearers tremble, “God! that my right hand had withered away before it penned a line! But no, no!” he exclaimed, and his teeth grated, “I shall want this right hand yet; for the day of reckoning shall surely come!”
There was something fearful in the young man’s aspect, as down there upon one knee by the bedside, his left arm beneath that fair golden-clustered head, he clenched his right hand, and, gazing before him at vacancy, he shook that clenched hand fiercely, and his mad rage was such that could he have grasped Max Bray then, he would have dashed him down, and crushed his heel upon his false cruel face, for he knew not of the retribution that had already fallen to the deceiver’s lot.
But the next moment Charley Vining turned to look down upon the pale horror-stricken face at his side, when the rugged brow was smoothed, the clenched hand dropped, and a deep groan burst from the young man’s breast.
“O, heaven forgive me! What am I saying? Father, father,” he cried, in pitiful tones, “they’ve broken my heart!”
And then, the strong man humbled, he bowed down over the bedside till his agony-distorted face rested upon that fluttering breast; and weak now as the weakest, he wept like a child, his broad shoulders heaving from the convulsive sobs that burst forth with the wild hysterical violence of a woman’s grief.
“Charley, my son,” gasped Sir Philip at last, as he knelt by the young man’s side, and laid his hand upon his head, “you do not think—you cannot think—that I knew of all this?”
“No—no—no!” groaned Charley. “I never thought it.”