“No,” said Sir John at last, with his voice trembling from emotion; “I am her father. It is my task, or her betrothed’s. Jem,” he whispered excitedly, “what am I to say to Rolph? Jem,” he whispered again, with the hands which clung to his brother trembling violently, “you—you don’t think—they were to be married to-day—he came to her window last night?”
“No,” said the major sternly; “give the devil his clue. It was not he.”
There was silence in the little room, about which lay the many little books and drawings favoured by her who lay moaning and insensible in the next room. Here was a sketch of the father; there one of the uncle; close by, arch and mocking of aspect, a clever representation of Lucy Alleyne; and, in a fit of fury, the major strode to the wall, tore it down, and stamped it under foot.
“What cursed stroke of fate brought them here?” he said hoarsely.
“Hush! This is no time for loud anger, Jem. We must act—like men—for her sake, old fellow! My God, Jem! what sin have I committed that the punishment should be struck at me through her? My poor, poor girl!”
He sank into a chair, sobbing like a child; but as his brother’s hand was laid upon his shoulder, he sprang up again.
“Yes,” he said huskily. “I’m ready. We need not search. We know enough. But, Jem, we must be silent. I can’t have all the horrible scandal spread abroad. We must, for her sake, hush it up.”
“Hush it up!” said the major bitterly. “Jack, the news is being spread already. You sent one messenger out a quarter-of-an-hour ago.”
Just then the door leading into the bedroom opened, and Marjorie appeared, quite calm and self-possessed.
“Brandy or sal-volatile!” she said in a quick, decisive whisper. “She is coming to, but deadly faint and weak.”