CHAPTER XI.
[STORMY WEATHER.]
My lady was walking up and down the tapestry-saloon with hands clasped behind her back, when her niece joined her--a prey evidently to considerable agitation. Doreen marked the deepened wrinkles on her forehead, the tightening of the thin lips, the contraction of the nostrils, and waited with accustomed self-possession to hear her elder's pleasure. The countess was displeased about something. Her fine face was pale, her eyes tinged with red. Her majestic draperies seemed to whisper in their soft rustle that something was seriously disturbing the spirit of the chatelaine. Wheeling round presently, she faced her niece, and, scrutinising her narrowly, spoke.
'Terence has come home to live,' she remarked. 'Mr. Curran cannot bear him any more, and I am not surprised. We must put up with him; he's enough to vex a saint!'
Doreen's cheek flushed with swift anger at his mother's unwarrantable speech.
'Oh, aunt!' she said, 'dare you speak thus of your own child!'
'Ah!' ejaculated the countess, still frowning at Miss Wolfe, 'let us understand each other at once. I will never allow of any nonsense between you and that boy--do you hear?--NEVER. I presume that he would not dare to marry without my consent. You are capable of anything, I know. I sincerely believe that he, as yet, is one shade less undutiful. He has been showing much independence lately, though. There's no knowing,' she went on in a low absent manner, 'what he might not do if he knew----'
'Knew what?' asked Doreen.
My lady started and pushed her fingers through her white hair. 'Nothing, nothing! Mind this--I will never give my consent to a union between you and my second son. Understand this, once and for all.'
'You need not distress yourself, aunt,' Doreen replied.