“I mean, mamma,” cried Maude, with spirit, “that I will not—I cannot marry Sir Grantley Wilters.”
“Maude, you’ll break my heart,” cried her ladyship.
“Tom, this is your fault for bringing that wicked young man to the house.”
“What—Wilters?”
“No, no, no, my boy,” said his lordship, rubbing his leg. “Your mamma means Charley Melton, and I—I—I—damme, I can’t understand it all about him. I’m sure I—I—I—don’t think he’s so bad as he’s being painted.”
Maude darted a look of gratitude towards him, and then one of reproach at her brother, who stood biting his nails.
“Barmouth, will you leave that leg alone,” cried her ladyship. “You give me the creeps; and if you cannot talk sensibly, hold your tongue. Everybody knows, even Tom, if he would only speak, that this man—pah! I cannot utter his name—is degraded to the utmost degree; but he has managed to play upon a foolish girl’os heart, and she is blind to his wickedness.”
“Mamma,” cried Maude, “I am not blind; and I will not believe these calumnies. Mr Melton never professed to be rich, and I do not believe he either gambles or drinks.”
“Believe them or not, Maude, my word and your papa’s are passed to Sir Grantley Wilters, and you will be his wife. So no more folly, please.”
Maude turned pale, and glanced at Tom, who stood biting his nails, and then at her father, who grew more wrinkled, and rubbed his leg. She then turned to Tryphie, whose look was sympathising, but meant no help. For poor dependent Tryphie hardly dare say that her soul was her own. Maude felt that she was alone, and, even in these nineteenth century times, being as helplessly driven into marriage with a man she detested as if in the days of old chivalry, when knights and barons patronised ironmongery for costume, and carried off captive maidens to their castles to espouse them before shaven friar, or else dispense with his services.