“Stop! Not another word!” cried the old man, now speaking fiercely. “I told her last night that I’d sooner see her dead than your wife. I tell you the same. But I will not be angry, nor yet harsh—I was put out last night. Now, once more look here: Five hundred pounds in cash—a free gift, mind—and five hundred more as an easy business loan, renewable year after year during my life, so long as the interest is punctually paid. Nothing can be easier for you. Think now, to give up a boy’s milk-and-water love I offer you what to a man in your present position is a fortune—a thousand pounds. And you will take it?”
Frank tried to speak, but he seemed to be choking.
“A thousand pounds, which means future prosperity—which means, as well, a score of rich and beautiful women to choose from.”
Frank had not heard a door open behind them; he had not seen May, pale as ashes, standing motionless listening to every word; he could only hear the words of the tempter, and the scratch, scratch of a cruel pen, sharp as a needle, dipped apparently in some subtle venom, writing the words one thousand pounds on his heart at the same time as in that little slip-book, while the poison was coursing through his veins, making them to beat and throb.
“One thousand pounds, John Richards; payable to Frank Marr, Esquire, or his order,” said the old man aloud, but as if speaking to himself; “and all for giving up a boy-and-girl love affair. Pish! I am getting into my dotage. Look here, Mr Marr,” he said, speaking up, “I only want you to write the few lines I dictate, and to get that name to the bill, and here is the cheque ready. You’ll get on, now, I feel sure,” he said, in cool, business-like tones, but watching his victim like a cat the while. “Bought wit is better than taught wit. Shall I order you a gloss of wine?”
“God help me!” groaned Frank Marr as, making an effort to speak, he tore at his throat for an instant, snatched at his hat, and then rushed out of the house.
“Expensive, but safe!” said John Richards, with a bitter smile, as he pinned the cheque to its duplicate. “What, you here?”
“Father!” cried May, coming forward and speaking in tones that should have pierced even his heart, had it not been stony to the very core; “O, father, what have you done?”
“Spent hundreds of my hard-earned pounds to free you from a bankrupt lover—a scoundrel whose every thought was on my cash, whose every calculation was as to how many years I should be before I died; upon a man who had not the heart to stand up for you, who valued you at less than five hundred pounds; and yet you reproached me with wishing to sell you to a rich husband, when he is a pure, sterling, true-hearted man, the only one I know that I could trust—a man you have known from a child, and one who has long loved you. Suppose he is grey-headed, what then? You can trust in his experience and—eh? What? Why? What the deuce! talk of the—How are you, Brough? glad to see you. Got the gout awful this morning. Don’t stop; I’m bothered and sick with pain. Take May up-stairs. My dear, give Mr Brough some lunch.”
Then, in an undertone, he spoke to the new-comer: