Gifford's hands clenched on the back of the chair in front of him. "Sir," he said, "this place protects you, and you know it."
But Dick Forsythe was beside himself with anger. He laughed insultingly. "I'll not detain you any longer. Doubtless you will wish to go to the rectory to-night. But I'm afraid, even though I'm obliging enough to leave Ashurst, you will have no"—He did not finish his sentence. Gifford Woodhouse's hand closed like a vise upon his collar. There were no words. Dick's struggles were as useless as beating against a rock; his maddest efforts could not shake off that relentless hand. Gifford half pushed, half carried, him to the door, and in another moment Dick Forsythe found himself flung like a snapping cur in the mud and rain of Mr. Denner's garden.
He gathered himself up, and saw Gifford standing in the doorway, as though to offer him a chance of revenge.
"Damn you!" he screamed, furious with passion. "I'll pay you for this! I—I"—He choked with rage, and shook his fist at the motionless figure on the steps. Then, trembling with impotent fury, oaths stumbling upon his lips, he turned and rushed into the gathering darkness.
Gifford watched him, and then the door swung shut, and he went back to Mr. Denner's library. His breath was short, and he was tingling with passion, but he had no glow of triumph. "I've been a fool," he said,—"I've been a fool! I've made it worse for her. The hound!"
But in spite of his genuine contrition, there was a subtile joy. "He does not love her," he thought, "and she will forget him."
Yet, as he sat there in Mr. Denner's dark library, filled with remorse and unabated rage as well, he began to realize that he had been meddlesome; and he was stung with a sudden sense that it was not honorable to have pushed his questions upon Forsythe. Gifford's relentless justice overtook him. Had he not given Forsythe the right to insult him? Would not he have protected himself against any man's prying? Gifford blushed hotly in the darkness. "But not to use Lois's name,—not that! Nothing could justify the insult to her!"
Mary came in to lock up, and started with fright at the sight of the dark, still figure. "Lord! it's a ghost!" she cried shrilly.
"I am here, Mary," he said wearily. "I'm going home now."
And so he did, walking doggedly through the storm, with his head bent and his hands in his pockets, forgetful of Miss Deborah's thoughtfulness in the way of rubbers, and only anxious to avoid any kindly interruption from his aunts, which their anxiety concerning damp clothes might occasion. But he could not escape them. Miss Deborah met him at the door with a worried face. "My dear boy!" she said, "no umbrella? Pray go to bed directly, and let me bring you a hot drink. You will surely have a cough to-morrow." But the little lady came back to the parlor with an aggrieved face, for he had answered her with quiet determination not to be fussed over. The sisters heard him walk quickly up-stairs and lock his door. They looked at each other in astonishment.