And what a terrible companion that conscience had become! At times, it was a white-robed angel beckoning him, at others a red imp deriding in exultation, tormenting, wounding, maddening.
On the way to Asherton Hall, Mrs. Swinton framed a hundred speeches, and went through imaginary altercations. By the time she arrived, she was keyed up to a dangerous pitch of excitement, verging on hysteria. Nobody saw her coming and she entered the house through the eastern conservatory.
Herresford was back in the old bedroom, and Trimmer was there, superintending the removal of the breakfast things. The daughter, treading lightly, walked into the room, unannounced.
The old man looked up from his pillows, and started as if terrified. 242
“She’s here again, Trimmer—she’s here again,” he whined.
Trimmer was no less surprised.
“Trimmer, you can leave us,” cried Mary, whose eyes were glistening with an unusual light. There was a red patch in her cheeks, the lips were hard set, and her hands were working nervously in her muff. “I wish to speak to my father privately.”
“If Mr. Herresford wishes—”
“I wish it. Please leave us!”
“Don’t go! Don’t go, Trimmer!” cried the miser extending one hand helplessly. “Raise me, Trimmer. Don’t let her touch me.”