Claire watched the carriage go, and then sank back out of sight in a chair, to clasp her hands upon her knees, and gaze before her with a strangely old look upon her beautiful face.
For there was trouble, not help, to be obtained from the wilful, girlish wife who had so lately left her side.
Volume One—Chapter Thirteen.
A Night-Bird Trapped.
It was, as Morton Denville said, cold and cheerless at his home, and the proceedings that night endorsed his words, as at half-past ten, after the servants had been dismissed, his father rose to seek his sleepless couch.
Claire rose at the same moment, starting from a silent musing fit, while Morton threw down the book he had been reading in a very ill-used way.
“Good-night, my son,” said Denville, holding out his hand, and grasping the lad’s with unusual fervour. “Good-night, father.”
“And you’ll mind and be particular now, my boy. I am sure that at last I can advance your prospects.”