Crespin sat down beside her, and took her hands in his. And she did not repulse him now. He was their father. She forgot his cups, that had shamed her, forgot the infidelities that had stung and infuriated her womanhood and pride. In this unspeakable peril he was her husband again. And she turned to him with an agony of entreaty in her terrified eyes.
“Yes, yes, Lu,” he said tenderly, “we’ll think of something—”
“There’s that fellow Watkins,” Traherne suggested desperately; “we might bribe him—”
“Oh,” Lucilla gasped, “offer him every penny we have in the world!”
“I’m afraid he’s a malicious scoundrel,” Traherne reflected aloud, dismally. “He must have known what was hanging over our heads, and, looking back, I seem to see him gloating over it.”
“But, he is English,” Lucilla said fiercely.
“Yes,” Traherne said dully, “he is English.”
“And a damneder cur than the ‘master’ whose feet he washes, if you ask me,” Crespin muttered gloomily.
“Still—still—” his wife persisted, “perhaps he can be bought. Antony! Think of the children! Oh, do let us try!”
“But even if he would,” Crespin told her gently, “he couldn’t guide us through the woods.”