"I have no correspondent but my—my sister Sybil," said Denzil, with a flash in his eyes and a quiver of the lip.
"But you must wait, my good fellow," said Waller, patting him kindly on the shoulder; "you remember that we promised to ride on the Staff of the Envoy, to make up a gallant show, and to impress, if possible, the Sirdir."
"My horse is not here."
"But mine is, and is quite at your service," said Audley, bowing to Denzil, who was in an agony of impatience to peruse his long-wished-for letter.
"All right," added Waller, looking at his watch; "and now we must be off—must tear ourselves away."
He glanced smilingly to Mabel as he spoke.
A strange footing the two kinsmen were on. Something in their hearts kept each from talking of their being such to each other. It was indignant disdain on the part of Denzil, with somewhat of jealousy, too. In Audley it was a well-bred nervous doubt of how much or how little Denzil knew of the love affair—the broken engagement, in fact, with his sister; or the misconstruction of the last visit at night—the visit which ended, as neither yet knew, by an effect so fatal. Denzil thanked him briefly and emphatically for saving his sister's life (the Trecarrels had fully detailed all that), and then all reference to Porthellick, and even to Cornwall, was dropped; but they had soon other things to think of.
The father of Audley had left nothing unsaid or undone to impress upon him that the mysterious story of Constance's marriage was a fabrication—one calculated to injure the prospects, and imperil the honour, and so forth of the Trevelyan family; but when Audley remembered Sybil, and sought to trace a likeness to her in Denzil's face, he could not help feeling kindly and well-disposed to his younger brother officer.
Denzil having no such tender reminiscences to soften him, was disposed to be politely cool or grim as Ajax.
"We must get our bonnets and shawls if we are to see this Conference," said Rose; "and we must look sharp—temps-militaire, you know."