“There would be no degradation, Sir Mark,” said Guest firmly; “but, Mrs Barron, you cannot go. For years Malcolm has been like my brother. He had no secrets from me, and I can tell you from my heart that there is but one reason for his absence—a sudden seizure. Don’t keep me, though, pray. Stay here and wait my return. Unless,”—he added quickly, with a deprecating glance at Sir Mark.
“What! I—go with you to hunt up the man and beg him to come? Pshaw!”
“Mark, it is your duty to go,” said his sister sternly. “I don’t believe Mr Stratton would insult us like this.”
“Then for once in my life, madam, I will not do my duty!” cried the admiral furiously. “It is not the only occasion upon which a man has gained the confidence of his friends. It is not the first time I have been so cruelly deceived. I can see it plainly. Either, like a pusillanimous coward, he turned tail, or there is some disgraceful entanglement which holds him back!”
“Father, it is not true!” cried Myra angrily. “How dare you insult me like that?”
“I—insult you?”
“Yes, in the person of the man I love—my husband, but for this terrible mischance. You do not mean it; you are mad with anger, but you will go with Mr Guest at once.”
“Never!” roared the admiral.
“For my sake,” she cried as she flung her arms about his neck and clung to him. “I give up—I will not attempt to go there myself—you are quite right; but,” she murmured now, so that her words were almost inaudible to all but him for whom they were intended, “I love him, dear, and he is in pain and suffering. Go to him; I cannot bear it. Bring him to me, or I shall die.”
The admiral kissed her hastily, and she clung to him for a moment or two longer as he drew a long, deep breath.