“I—I shall be—better directly,” she panted.
“Better!” shrieked her son, who was pacing up and down the room; “better! Mother, it’s disgraceful; but I won’t give way a bit—not an inch. I’ll bring the scoundrels to reason. I’ll—”
“Dick, dear Dick, don’t. See how ill poor aunt is,” whispered Eve.
“I don’t care,” said the young man, furiously. “I won’t have it. I’ll—”
“Will you kindly get a glass of water for your mother, Mr Glaire?” said the vicar, as he half held up the trembling woman in her chair, and strove hard to keep the disgust he felt from showing in his face—“I am afraid she will faint.”
“Curse the water! No,” roared Richard. “I won’t have it—I—I say I won’t have it; and who the devil are you, that you should come poking your nose into our business! You’ll soon find that Dumford is not the place for a meddling parson to do as he likes.”
“Dick!” shrieked Eve; and she tried to lay a hand upon his lips.
“Hold your tongue, Eve! Am I master here, or not?” cried Richard Glaire. “I won’t have a parcel of women meddling in my affairs, nor any kind of old woman,” he continued, disdainfully glancing at the vicar.
There was a slight accession of colour in Murray Selwood’s face, but he paid no further heed to the young man’s words, while, with her face crimson with shame, Eve bent over her aunt, trying to restore her, for she was indeed half fainting; and the cold clammy dew stood upon her forehead.
“Here’s a mug o’ watter, sir,” said the rough, sturdy voice of Joe Banks, as he filled one from a shelf; and then he threw open a couple of windows to let the air blow in more freely.