“You foolish old gossip!” she cried, with a concentrated fury, which almost stifled her voice. “Can you think of nothing better than to frighten one with such preposterous inventions? My brother would never even look at that creature.”
“I may be an old gossip, Princess,” said Daddy, with high offence and some dignity, “but I do not consciously say what is not true. Will you do me the honor to read this?”
He fumbled beneath his fur coat, his paletôt, and his morning coat, and brought out a telegram, which he handed to her. It was dated from Bournemouth, and addressed to Daddy himself.
“You often counselled me to marry the daughter of Mr. Massarene. I am happy to inform you that I have done so this morning. The ceremony was private: Alberic Orme officiated.”
It was signed—“Hurstmanceaux.”
She read the lines in a single glance.
“You advised him? You advised him to disgrace us like this!” she cried with a furious gesture, crushing the dispatch in her hand, whilst her azure eyes poured their lightning upon him.
“I advised him to do so when the young woman was rich. You sent her down to Bedlowes yourself on purpose to bring it about. Perhaps, if you had not shown your hand so openly, he might have done it when it would have been a desirable thing to do. But I am a foolish old gossip, and I will leave you to digest—er—this extremely unpleasant fact. I have the honor to wish you good morning.”
He took himself off, very huffed, stiff, and alienated; he had repossessed himself of his telegram.
Mouse stood still, convulsed with an inward fury, for which there was no possible outward expression. She was stunned.