Part 27 (1/2)

”And I suppose,” continued Dacres, with a sneer, ”our handsome, dark-eyed little Italian cavalier is going with us. Ha, ha, ha! He's at the house all the time, no doubt.”

”Well, yes; he was there once.”

”Ah! of course--quite devoted.”

”Oh yes; but don't be afraid. It was not to the child-angel. She appears to avoid him. That's really quite evident. It's an apparent aversion on her part.”

Dacres drew a long breath.

”Oh,” said he; ”and so I suppose it's not _her_ that _he_ goes after.

I did not suppose that it was. Oh no. There's another one--more piquant, you know--ha, ha!--a devoted lover--saved her life--quite devoted--and she sits and accepts his attentions. Yet she's seen me, and knows that I'm watching her. Don't she know _me_? Does she want any further proof of what I am ready to do? The ruins of Dacres Grange should serve her for life. She tempts fate when she carries on her gallantries and her Italian cicisbeism under the eyes of Scone Dacres.

It'll end bad. By Heaven, it will!”

Scone Dacres breathed hard, and, raising his head, turned upon Hawbury a pair of eyes whose glow seemed of fire.

”Bad!” he repeated, cras.h.i.+ng his fist on the table. ”Bad, by Heaven!”

Hawbury looked at him earnestly.

”My dear boy,” said he, ”you're getting too excited. Be cool. Really, I don't believe you know what you're saying. I don't understand what you mean. Haven't the faintest idea what you're driving at. You're making ferocious threats against some people, but, for my life, I don't know who they are. Hadn't you better try to speak so that a fellow can understand the general drift, at least, of what you say?”

”Well, then, you understand this much--I'm going to Rome.”

”I'm sorry for it, old boy.”

”And see here, Hawbury, I want you to come with me.”

”Me? What for?”

”Well, I want you. I may have need of you.”

As Dacres said this his face a.s.sumed so dark and gloomy an expression that Hawbury began to think that there was something serious in all this menace.

”'Pon my life,” said he, ”my dear boy, I really don't think you're in a fit state to be allowed to go by yourself. You look quite desperate.

I wish I could make you give up this infernal Roman notion.”

”I'm going to Rome!” repeated Dacres, resolutely.

Hawbury looked at him.

”You'll come, Hawbury, won't you?”

”Why, confound it all, of course. I'm afraid you'll do something rash, old man, and you'll have to have me to stand between you and harm.”

”Oh, don't be concerned about me,” said Dacres. ”I only want to watch her, and see what her little game is. I want to look at her in the midst of her happiness. She's most infernally beautiful, too; hasn't added a year or a day to her face; more lovely than ever; more beautiful than she was even when I first saw her. And there's a softness about her that she never had before. Where the deuce did she get that? Good idea of hers, too, to cultivate the soft style. And there's sadness in her face, too. Can it be real? By Heavens! if I thought it could be real I'd--but pooh! what insanity! It's her art.

There never was such cunning. She cultivates the soft, sad style so as to attract lovers--lovers--who adore her--who save her life--who become her obedient slaves! Oh yes; and I--what am I? Why they get together and laugh at me; they giggle; they snicker--”

”Confound it all, man, what are you going on at that rate for?”