“It is the truth, sir. Your wife’s words just now confirmed what I had noted over and over again, till my very gorge rose at being compelled to accept the hospitality of such people, while I writhed at my own impotence, my helplessness when I wished to interfere. You know—she knows—how I have kept silence. Not one word of warning have I uttered to her. She must have seen and felt what was being hatched, but neither she nor I could have realised that the cowardly young ruffian lying there would have dared to insult a weak gentle girl whose very aspect claimed a man’s respect and protection. A lie? It is the truth, James Wilton.”
“Oh, my poor, poor boy!” wailed Mrs Wilton; “and I did beg and pray of you not to be too rash.”
“Will you hold your tongue, woman?” roared Wilton.
“Yes, for heaven’s sake be silent, madam,” cried Garstang; “there was no need for you to indorse my words, and lower yourself more in your poor niece’s eyes.”
“Look here,” cried Wilton, who was going to and fro beyond the library table, writhing under the lash of his solicitor’s tongue; “it’s all a bit of nonsense; the foolish fellow snatched a kiss, I suppose.”
“Snatched a kiss!” cried Garstang, scornfully. “Look at her: quivering with horror and indignation.”
“I won’t look at her. I won’t be talked to like this in my own house.”
“Your own house!” said Garstang, contemptuously.
“Yes, sir; mine till the law forces me to give it up. I won’t have it. It’s my house, and I won’t stand here and be bullied by any man.”
“Oh, don’t, don’t, don’t make things worse, James,” wailed Mrs Wilton. “Send for the Doctor; his heart is beating still.”