Conversation was a very difficult matter that evening. Ralph had behaved with considerable grace and tact, but Nicholas had not responded. Ever since his arrival on the day before the funeral he had eyed Ralph like a strange dog intruded into a house; Mary had hovered round her husband, watchful and anxious, stepping hastily into gaps in the conversation, sliding in a sentence or two as Nicholas licked his lips in preparation for a snarl; once even putting her hand swiftly on his and drowning a growl with a word of her own. Ralph had been wonderfully self-controlled; only once had Beatrice seen him show his teeth for a moment as his brother-in-law had scowled more plainly than usual.
The atmosphere was charged to-night, now that the master of the house was away; and as Ralph took his seat in his father’s chair, Beatrice had caught her breath for a moment as she saw the look on Nicholas’s face. It seemed as if the funeral had lifted a stone that had hitherto held the two angry spirits down; Nicholas, after all, was but a son-in-law, and Ralph, to his view at least, a bad son. She feared that both might think that a quarrel did not outrage decency; but she feared for Nicholas more than for Ralph.
Ralph appeared not to notice the other’s scowl, and leaned easily back, his head against the carved heraldry, and rapped his fingers softly and rhythmically on the bosses of the arms.
Then she heard Nicholas draw a slow venomous breath; and the talk died on Mary’s lips. Beatrice stood up abruptly, in desperation; she did not know what to say; but the movement checked Nicholas, and he glanced at her a moment. Then Mary recovered herself, put her hand sharply on her husband’s, and slid out an indifferent sentence. Beatrice saw Ralph’s eyes move swiftly and sideways and down again, and a tiny wrinkle of a smile show itself at the corners of his mouth. But that danger was passed; and a minute later they heard the door of Sir James’s room opposite open, and the footsteps of the two men come out.
Ralph stood up at once as his father came in, followed by the priest, and stepped back to the window-seat; there was the faintest hint in the slight motion of his hands to the effect that he had held his post as the eldest son until the rightful owner came. But the consciousness of it in Beatrice’s mind was swept away as she looked at the old man, standing with a white stern face and his hands clenched at his sides. She could see that something impended, and stood up quickly.
“Mr. Carleton has brought shocking news,” he said abruptly; and his eyes wandered to his eldest son standing in the shadow of the curtain. “A company of mummers has arrived in the village—they—they are to give their piece to-morrow.”
There was a dead silence for a moment, for all knew what this meant.
Nicholas sprang to his feet.
“By God, they shall not!” he said.
Sir James lifted his hand sharply.