'
'I have, indeed, of late, heard _much_ ill of you, Captain Devereux,'
answered Dr. Walsingham, in a very deliberate but melancholy way,
'enough to make me hold you no meet husband for any wife who cared for a
faithful partner, or an honourable and a quiet home.'
'You mean--I know you do--that Palmerstown girl, who has belied me?'
cried Devereux.
'That unhappy young woman, Captain Devereux, her name is Glynn, whom you
have betrayed under a promise of marriage.'
That moment Devereux was on his feet. It was the apparition of Devereux;
a blue fire gleaming in his eyes, not a word from his white lips, while
three seconds might have ticked from Mrs. Irons's prosy old clock on the
stair-head; his slender hand was outstretched in appeal and defiance,
and something half-celestial, half-infernal--the fallen angelic--in his
whole face and bearing.
'May my merciful Creator strike me dead, here at your feet, Doctor
Walsingham, but 'tis a lie,' cried he. 'I never promised--she'll tell
you. I thought she told you long ago. 'Twas that devil incarnate, her
mother, who forged the lie, why or where-fore, except for her fiendish
love of mischief, I know not.
Pages:
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598