“Yes; I saved the life of one who had sent me into this miserable exile!”
“Of course, I see now. You had a serious illness after, Smithson, and it affected your head. The doctor told me all about it.”
“It was needless,” said Richard, gazing full in the eyes which were half-closed, and which kept on glancing from their corners up and down the long dim alley where they stood.
“No; I am glad he told me, my lad. That explains a good deal. Now, take my advice, and get back to barracks. You were not fit to come so far.”
This assumption of ignorance staggered Richard for the moment. Then, with his voice sounding very deep and stern—
“Look here, Mark,” he said; “your poor father is dead, but I presume that my aunt is living, and for her sake I am unwilling to take steps that may give her pain. You proved yourself an unprincipled scoundrel over that bill transaction, and now, even as an officer, you cannot act like a gentleman.”
Mark was very pale now as he stood facing his cousin; but he showed no sign of resentment, and Richard went on—
“Your conduct towards Miss Deane has been that of a dishonourable blackguard; towards Mr Lacey, that of a sharper and a cheat. You see, I know; but I am willing to spare you, for your mother’s sake. You will at once communicate with your lawyers, and tell them your assumption of the property and title has been a mistake, and that you are willing to surrender all claims at once.”
“Poor fellow!” said Mark, softly, as he stood with his hands in his jacket pockets and with a peculiar thin smile upon his tightened lips; “the result of the fever. What a fancy to get into his head!”
“Do you mean to take that line?” said Richard. “Think better of it, and give it up. It will save you trouble, your mother pain, and I promise you that I will not be ungenerous toward you.”