“Yes, yes, my dear good man,” cried Mrs Barclay; “but you are blinding yourself to the truth.”
“No, ma’am, you’ll pardon me. My eyes have long been open to the truth. I know. They say that my dear child Claire is to elope to-night with Sir Harry Payne. I had a letter from some busybody to that effect; but it is not true. I say it is not true.”
“No, Mr Denville, it is not true,” cried Mrs Barclay warmly. “Our dear Claire—your dear Claire—is too good a girl, and the wretches who put this about ought to be punished. It is not dear Claire who is believed to be going to-night, but—”
“You’ll pardon me,” cried Denville, turning greyer, and with a curious sunken look about his eyes. “Not a word, please. The scandal is against some one else? I will not hear it, ma’am. Mrs Barclay, I will not know. Life is too short to mix ourselves up with these miserable scandals. I will not wait, Barclay. It is growing late. I shall probably meet my daughter, and take her back. If I do not, and she should come here, might I ask you to see her home?”
“Yes, Denville, yes; but, look here, we have something to tell you. Wife, it is more a woman’s work. You can do it more kindly than I.”
“You’ll pardon me,” said Denville, looking from one to the other, and smiling feebly. “Some fresh story about my daughter? Is it not so, Mrs Barclay?”
“Yes, yes, Mr Denville,” she whispered; “and you ought to know, though I was going to leave my Jo-si-ah to tell you.”
“Always good and kind to me and my family, dear Mrs Barclay,” said Denville, smiling, and bending over the plump hand he took, to kiss it, with chivalrous respect. “But no—no more tales, my dear madam; the chronicles of Saltinville are too full of scandals. No, no, my dear Mrs Barclay; my unfortunate house can live it down.”
He drew himself up, took a pinch of snuff with all the refined style and air of the greatest buck of the time, and handed his box to Barclay, who took it, mechanically helped himself noisily, and handed it back.
“The old man’s half mad,” he muttered, as he looked at him.