"I will not take it," cried Prideaux. "I absolutely refuse."
I know I was mad; my blood felt like streams of molten fire in my veins, but I was outwardly cool. The excitement I had previously shown was gone. Perhaps despair helped me to appear calm.
"Look you, Peter Trevisa," I said; "you give Prideaux a draft for that money."
"Roger, Roger," said the old man coaxingly, "take Prideaux's offer. He won your maid; don't let him win Trevanion too. You'll cut a sorry figure as a landless Trevanion."
I seized a pen which lay near, and wrote some words on a piece of paper.
"There," I said to Prideaux as I threw it to him, "it shall not be said that a Trevanion ever owed a Prideaux anything, not even a gaming debt. Gentlemen, I wish you good-night."
I left the room as I spoke and ordered my horse. I was able to walk straight, although I felt slightly giddy. I scarcely realized what I had done, although I had a vague impression that I was now homeless and friendless. A ten-mile journey lay before me, but I thought nothing of it. What time I arrived at Trevanion I know not. My horse was taken from me by an old servant, and without speaking a word to any one I went straight to bed.
CHAPTER II. PETER TREVISA'S OFFER.
The next morning I awoke with terrible pains in my head, while my heart lay like lead within me. For some time I could not realize what had happened; indeed, I hardly knew where I was. It was broad daylight, but I could not tell what the hour was. Presently a clock began to strike, and then I realized that I lay in my own bed at Trevanion and that the clock stood in the turret of my own stables. I counted the strokes. It stopped at eleven. No sooner had it ceased than all that had happened the previous night flashed through my mind. I jumped out of bed and looked out of the window. Never had the place seemed so fair to look upon, never had the trees looked so large and stately. And I was burdened with the dread remembrance that it was no longer mine. When I had dressed I tried to face the matter fairly. I tried to understand what I had done. The more I thought about it the more I cursed myself for being a fool. For I felt how insane I had been. I had drunk too much wine, I had allowed myself to become angry at old Peter Trevisa's words. I had blurted out truths which under other circumstances I would rather have bitten my tongue in two than have told. I had acted like a madman. Wild, foolish as I had been in the past, that night was the climax of my folly. Why had old Peter Trevisa's presence and words aroused me so?