"Yes," she answered.
"A word or two," he said, and she went to his room.
"I've been thinking," said he, looking at her steadily and fiercely—had some suspicion lighted up his mind since he had spoken to her?—"that young man, Cleve Verney; I believe he's still at Ware. Do you know him?"
"I should know his appearance. I saw him two or three times during that contest for the county, two years since; but he did not see me, I'm sure."
This was an evasion, but the vices of slavery always grow up under a tyranny.
"Well, Margaret—does she correspond with any one?" demanded he.
"I can answer for it, positively. Margaret has no correspondence. She writes to no one," she answered.
"That fellow is still at Ware. So, Christmass Owen told me last night—a place of the Verneys, at the other side—and he has got a boat. I should not wonder if he were to come here, trying to see her."
So Sir Booth followed out his hypothesis, and waxed wroth, and more wroth as he proceeded, and so chafed himself into one of his paroxysms of temper. I know not what he said; but when she left him, poor Miss Sheckleton was in tears, and, trembling, told Margaret, that if it were not for her, she would not remain another day in his house. She related to Margaret what had passed, and said,—
"I almost hope Cleve Verney may not come again while we remain here. I really don't know what might be the consequence of your papa's meeting him here, in his present state of exasperation! Of course to Cleve it would be very little; but your existence, my poor child, would be made so miserable! And as for me, I tell you frankly, I should be compelled to leave you. Every one knows what Booth Fanshawe is when he is angry—how cruel he can be. I know he's your father, my dear, but we can't be blind to facts, and we both know that his misfortunes have not improved his temper."