Claire’s heart stood still, and she held on by a chair-back, listening with her lips apart, and wondering whether this was the bolt fallen at last—the blow she was always dreading, and that she felt must one day come.
She crept to the door, passed out and listened, closing it after her that the noise might not awaken May, to whom sleep meant life.
Angry voices rose, and then there were the sounds of blows struck apparently with a cane. Then there was a scuffling noise, and the front door was driven back.
“Leave the house, scoundrel! leave my house, insolent dog!” came up sharp and clear in her father’s voice, quivering with anger, and the scuffle was renewed.
“You pay me my wages; you pay me what you owe me, or I don’t stir a step.”
The voice that uttered these last words was thick and husky, and full of menace. It was a familiar voice, though, that Claire recognised, and her cheeks burned with shame as she felt that passers-by, perhaps Richard Linnell, would hear the degrading words that were uttered.
Her sister lying there sick, and this pitiful disturbance that was increasing in loudness, and must be heard by any one who happened to be upon the Parade!
She hurried down to find that the scuffling sounds had been renewed, and as she reached the passage it was to find that her father was trying to drag Isaac to the door, and force him into the road, where quite a little crowd was collecting.
“Leave this house, sir, directly.”
“I shan’t for you,” cried Isaac, resisting stoutly. “I want my wages. I want my box.”