“But what does the man think he can do to my husband? He can do nothing. He must realize it. What has he said to you, Mr. Sidney? I ask you, for I am sure you do not approve, his actions.”
I looked at Celene, and answered that I certainly did not approve, nor had I ever approved many things my uncle did.
“I will say further that I did what I could to-day to turn him from his grudge.”
“But what does he think he can do to my husband?” she insisted. “I suppose he told you.”
“No, he did not, madam. He said he did not trust me. He twitted me with having betrayed him once before to the judge—about the doctored horse,” I added, with a sickly grin.
“But, of course, you—his own nephew—you produced some effect on him?”
“Yes, I made him so mad he would have struck me if he had dared. That’s all the effect I seemed to produce.”
Tears came into her eyes. “How will it end?” she quavered.
I did not feel like bragging just then about any powers of mine in the matter; I had plenty on my mind and conscience as it was. I was distinctly aware of being glad I had had that boiled dinner, and plenty of it, and I say that much with all due respect for the blessed presence of Celene at the supper-board. For between my ever-swelling love for her, my self-consciousness at table, my shame on account of my uncle, and my general emotions, anyway, I could scarcely choke down a mouthful. And at the end I was wholly and fairly rattled—that expression seems to fit my state of mind better than anything I can think of right now.
She accompanied me to the door that evening when I departed—Mrs. Kingsley allowed her to go alone, evidently having elevated me to the plane of, at least, a buttonhole friend of the family after hearing of my quarrel with my uncle.