“The insolence—the presumption! Look here, sir: if you are not mad, who and what are you, that you dare to come and make such a proposition to me?”
“Ah!” said the Doctor, as Lady Pinemount entered, looking anxiously from one to the other, while the visitor advanced to meet her, took her hand, kissed it with courtly grace, and led her to a chair.
“I repeat, sir, who and what are you, that you presume to come and sow dissension in my peaceful village—heartburnings in my home? Who are you?”
“Your cousin Richard, who died abroad.”
“What!” roared his lordship. “Impostor, you lie!”
“No, sir: you are the impostor, or rather usurper. I grieve to say, madam—Mrs Rolleston—that I am Lord Pinemount, and that your husband has no right whatever here.”
“I—”
“Silence, sir!” said Lord Pinemount, with dignity. “Accept the position, and hear what I have to say.”
“Is this true, sir?” faltered the lady.
“You will know if you listen, madam. Nay, you both must know, by the inquiries that were made before your husband succeeded to the title and estates. I saw all the papers with the advertisements; but I was happy, was rich, and detested England for an old association, and I preferred to remain dead to all who had known me. When at last I did return to England, for my child’s sake—a widower—I came down here. The Sandleighs was for sale, and I bought it.”