“Yes. Of course,” Clyne continued, awkwardly, “I shall not consider what you said to me as said at all. On the contrary, I am obliged to you for doing your duty, Mr. Sutton, whatever the motive.”
“The motive——”
“I do not say,” stiffly, “that the motive was an improper one. Not at all. I cannot blame you for following up my own plan.”
“I followed my feelings,” Mr. Sutton replied, with a fresh stirring of resentment.
“Exactly. And therefore it seems to me that as she owes her release to your exertions, it is right that you should be the one to communicate the fact to her, and the one to bring her away.”
The chaplain saw that his patron, persuaded that there was more between them than he had supposed, fell back on the old plan; that he was willing to give him the opportunity of pushing his suit. And the blood rushed to his face. If she could be brought—if she could be brought to look favourably on him! Ah, then indeed he was a happy man, and the dark night of despondency would be followed by a morn of joy. But with the quickness of light his thoughts passed over the various occasions—they were very few—on which he had addressed her. And—and an odd thing happened. It happened, perhaps, because with the chaplain the matter was no longer a question of ambition, but of love. “You have no news?” he said.
“None. And Nadin,” with bitterness, “seems to be at the end of his resources.”
“Then, Captain Clyne,” Sutton replied impulsively, “there is but one way! There is but one thing to be done. It is not I, but you, who must bring Miss Damer back. She may still speak, but not for me!”
“And certainly not for me!” Clyne answered, his face flushing at the recollection of his violence.
“For you rather than for any one!”