"To your room, Miss Thornycroft! To your room, I say!" cried the passionate justice, pushing her from him. "Would you beard my authority? Things are coming to a pretty pass."
It was a stormy ending to a stormy interview. Confused and terrified, Mary Anne Thornycroft hastened up and burst into tears in her chamber. Richard strode away with his gun; Cyril followed him; and the justice bent over his writing again quietly, as though nothing had happened.
As for Robert Hunter he felt entirely amazed. Of course, putting it as the justice had put it, he felt bound in honour not to interfere further, and would casually tell Mr. Kyne so on the first opportunity, giving no reason why. Pondering over the matter as he strolled out of doors uncomfortably, he came to the conclusion that Mr. Thornycroft must be self-arrogant, both as a magistrate and a man: one of the old-world sort, who jog on from year's end to year's end, seeing no abuses, and utterly refusing to reform them when seen.
[CHAPTER VII.]
My Lady at the Red Court.
At the end window of the corridor, looking towards the church and village, stood Mary Anne Thornycroft. Not yet had she recovered the recent stormy interview, and a resentful feeling in regard to it was rife within her. The conduct of her father and eldest brother appeared to have been so devoid of all reason in itself, and so gratuitously insulting to Robert Hunter, that Mary Anne, in the prejudice of her love for him, was wishing she could pay them off. It is the province of violent and unjust opposition to turn aside its own aim, just as it is the province of exaggeration to defeat itself; and Miss Thornycroft, conning over and over again in her mind the events of the day, wilfully persuaded herself that Mr. Kyne was right, her father wrong, and that smuggling of lace, or anything else that was valuable, was carried on under (as may be said) the very face and front of their supine house.
Cyril came up the stairs--his book in his hand--saw her standing there, and came to her side. The short winter's day was already verging towards twilight, and the house seemed intensely still.
"Is it not a shame?" exclaimed Mary Anne, as Cyril put his arm about her.
"Is what not a shame? That the brightness of the day is gone?"
"You know!" she passionately exclaimed. "Where's the use of attempting subterfuge with me, Cyril? Cyril, on my word I thought for the moment that papa and Richard must have gone suddenly mad."