“It must be a message from one of the boys,” said Mr. Aggland, hurrying next instant to the drawing-room door; but before he could reach it a servant announced Mr. Basil Stondon, and that gentleman entered.
“What a night for you to choose,” exclaimed Mr. Aggland.
“What have you got there?” asked Phemie, pointing to something which lay hidden under Basil’s coat.
“A trifle for you to take care of for me,” he answered, “if you will;” and he put the rough covering gently aside, and showed her Fay lying fast asleep in his arms.
“Basil”—Phemie could not find another word to say to him.
“What is the meaning of it?” Mr. Aggland asked. “Is your wife ill—are you mad—or is she dead?”
“She is dead to me,” Basil answered; “take my child, Phemie, and let me go; I only came to ask you to be kind to her.”
The water was absolutely dripping off him as he spoke—he stood in a little pool in the centre of the room—outside, the rain was pouring down in torrents, and mingling with the noise of the rain was the howling of the wind and the rushing sound upon the shore, of the not far distant sea.
“Go up to my uncle’s room and change your clothes directly,” was Phemie’s unromantic comment on this explanation; “give me the child. Basil, you are mad.”
For some time he stood it out with her that he would neither change his dripping garments nor remain in Roundwood even for the night.