"I am not a fool, Mrs. John Marchmont," he said, "and I shall do nothing of the kind."
He had risen, and stood by the lamp–lit table, trifling rather nervously with its elegant litter of delicately–bound books, jewel–handled paper–knives, newly–cut periodicals, and pretty fantastical toys collected by the women of the household.
The faces of the two were nearly upon a level as they stood opposite to each other, with only the table between them.
"Then I will prevent it!" Olivia cried, turning towards the door.
Paul Marchmont saw the resolution stamped upon her face. She would do what she threatened. He ran to the door and had his hand upon the lock before she could reach it.
"No, Mrs. John," he said, standing at the door, with his back turned to Olivia, and his fingers busy with the bolts and key. In spite of himself, this woman had made him a little nervous, and it was as much as he could do to find the handle of the key. "No, no, my dear Mrs. John; you shall not leave this house, nor this room, in your present state of mind. If you choose to be violent and unmanageable, we will give you the full benefit of your violence, and we will give you a better sphere of action. A padded room will be more suitable to your present temper, my dear madam. If you favour us with this sort of conduct, we will find people more fitted to restrain you."
He said all this in a sneering tone that had a trifling tremulousness in it, while he locked the door and assured himself that it was safely secured. Then he turned, prepared to fight out the battle somehow or other.
At the very moment of his turning there was a sudden crash, a shiver of broken glass, and the cold night–wind blew into the room. One of the long French windows was wide open, and Olivia Marchmont was gone.
He was out upon the terrace in the next moment; but even then he was too late, for he could not see her right or left of him upon the long stone platform. There were three separate flights of steps, three different paths, widely diverging across the broad grassy flat before Marchmont Towers. How could he tell which of these ways Olivia might have chosen? There was the great porch, and there were all manner of stone abutments along the grim façade of the house. She might have concealed herself behind any one of them. The night was hopelessly dark. A pair of ponderous bronze lamps, which Paul had placed before the principal doorway, only made two spots of light in the gloom. He ran along the terrace, looking into every nook and corner which might have served as a hiding–place; but he did not find Olivia.
She had left the house with the avowed intention of doing something to prevent the marriage. What would she do? What course would this desperate woman take in her jealous rage? Would she go straight to Edward Arundel and tell him––––?