‘All right!’ retorted Blake, with a disfavouring eye on Richard. ‘Don’t bring the cub with you. I can stand the old sinner, but not the young one.’
He reeled from the room, and Conseltine’s glance, as it followed him, was full of a dark and concentrated loathing.
‘The insolent scoundrel!’ said Richard, when he was out of hearing. ‘Why do you stand him? What is his hold over you?’
‘I hope you’ll never need to know,’ returned his father, draining his glass. ‘Damn him! I wish he was in the grave.’
‘He’s going there as fast as drink can take him,’ said Richard.
‘I feel inclined sometimes,’ said his amiable parent, ‘to give him a lift on the journey.’
CHAPTER VIII.—MOYA MACARTNEY.
Peebles, returning home to the Castle after his midnight interview with Moya Macartney in the churchyard, passed a sleepless and troubled night, revolving in his mind all the events of the sad history in which the unfortunate woman had played so strange a part, and canvassing all that her mysterious and unexpected return to life might mean to herself and others. More than once he determined to disregard Moya’s strenuous injunction to silence, and at once break to Lord Kilpatrick the news of her existence, and of her presence in the district; but again and again the memory of the solemn promise of secrecy he had given, and the thought that so sudden and heavy a shock might be fatal to one of his lordship’s age and feeble health, dissipated that intention.