“It is nothing to me,” he said, in a high-pitched unsteady voice, “nothing to me! Let them amuse themselves that can. I am glad of it. Has Charlie been written to yet—that is all I want to know.”
“I wrote on Friday, papa.”
“Ah! Before the funeral,” said Mr. Heriot, “to let him know what had happened. But I mean more than that. I mean that he should be written to, to come home. I want him home. Why should he stay out there now, risking his health and his children’s lives? Write again, and say I want him home.”
“Yes, papa,” said Marjory, gently. “I said so then. I gave him all your messages. I said to come at once, as soon as Mrs. Charles could travel—”
“Confound Mrs. Charles! What do I care for Mrs. Charles?” cried the old man. And then he paused, and turned with a curious attempt at a smile to Fanshawe. “You’ll think I am a hotheaded old Turk, but you see how I am baffled by my family. I give a simple message, and it’s lost in a hundred paraphrases. Mrs. Charles may come when she pleases. I want Charlie. Do you hear, May? Write again this very day, and say I want him home.”
“Yes, papa, immediately, as soon as breakfast is over.”
“I knew there would be something to wait for,” said Mr. Heriot, rising up, impatiently. He was consumed by his grief as by a fire. The presence of any other individual, even those most dear to him, the sound of conversation, seemed to rouse into a kind of fury the smouldering heat in his soul. And when they dropped into silence he was still more impatient. “I fear I am a hindrance to conversation,” he said, pushing away his chair from the table after a painful pause. “I’ll levo l’incomodo, as the Italians say. If anyone wants me, I’m in the library. And mind that Charlie is written to without more delay.”
So saying, he went out hastily, with a heavy step, which yet sounded uncertain upon the floor, as if it might stumble over anything. He waved his hand to Fanshawe, with a forced smile, as he disappeared. He met his darling Milly at the door—she whom he had never passed without a caress, and brushed by, taking no notice of her. Then he came back, and looked into the room sternly.
“See that there’s no mistake about Charlie,” he repeated.
Marjory made an ineffectual effort to restrain the tears which fell suddenly, in great drops, upon her sleeve. She, too, turned anxious apologetic looks upon the stranger.