“I’ve always hated you,” the young gamekeeper had said. “I only entered your service that I might bide my time, and see you made a fool of, and disgraced in the eyes of the world; and if your daughter here can’t do it, nobody can. You’ll rue the day you meddled with the Romanys and shot down Hiram Carewe in cold blood before you’ve done.”
Lord Carthew’s resentment against his father-in-law knew no bounds. Not for an instant did he believe the Baronet’s labored explanation. He remained convinced that he had been the victim of a trick, and that Sir Philip, having two daughters, had palmed off upon him the other instead of Stella, and now refused to own to his villany.
“Your conduct has been infamous, sir. It places you outside the pale of decency. I shall at once call in the law to get your daughter, whom you have married to me under a false name and by a knavish trick, returned upon your hands.”
Such was the nature of his parting words to Sir Philip as he left him at the hotel door.
That hateful old woman’s prophecy returned upon Sir Philip’s brain with maddening iteration.
“You shall be wretched at home, and hated abroad! No one shall ever love you! Your children shall bring disgrace and shame upon you! You shall die in a miserable garret, and I, Sarah Carewe, shall live to laugh at you as you lie dying!”
The first part of the prophecy was being verified indeed; as to the last, that was, of course, sheer mouthing. No doubt the old hag who uttered it, and who would by this time have been over eighty, had long been mouldering in her grave, while he, Sir Philip Cranstoun——
“I beg your pardon, sir, but is your name Sir Philip Cranstoun?”
The speaker was a respectably dressed man of swarthy complexion and handsome features, apparently about five and thirty years of age.
“Why do you want to know?” the Baronet inquired curtly, eying the stranger, who had the appearance of a well-to-do mechanic, with suspicion.