The cloud that had obscured Leslie’s brain had now passed away, leaving his mental perceptions clear, while his temper was exacerbated by the injury he had received, and by the agony he suffered on account of Louise.
In place of lying back, he rose from the couch and faced George Vine, with his lips quivering and an angry look in his eyes.
“Look,” he said hoarsely, “I am weak and helpless. If I take a few steps I shall reel and fall, or I would do what I tried to do before, act on her behalf. You mock at my words. You, her father, and stand there wasting time; valuable time, which, if used now, might save that poor girl from a life of misery. Do you hear me? I tell you she has gone—fled with that man. He forced her to go with threats. Do you not hear me?”
“Leslie, my lad,” said Uncle Luke, “be calm, be calm.”
“You are as mad and blind as he!” cried Leslie. “Heaven help me, and I am as weak as a child.”
He strode towards the door, and proved the truth of his words, for he tottered, and would have fallen but for Uncle Luke.
“There, you see,” he cried fiercely, “I can do nothing, and you, uncle and father, stand blind to the misery and disgrace which threaten you.”
“Silence!” cried George Vine; “I can hear no more.”
He turned upon Leslie fiercely.
“Your words, sir, are an insult to me, an insult to my child. I tell you I can hear no more. What you say is false. My daughter could not leave my house like this. Go, sir, before I say words which I may afterwards repent, and—and—”