"My dearest Elsley, I have sent for Mr. Thurnall. I knew you would not
let me, if I told you; but you see I have done it, and now you must
really speak to him."
Elsley's first impulse was to motion them both away angrily; but the
thought that he was in Thurnall's power stopped him. He must not show
his disgust. What if Lucia were to ask its cause, even to guess it?
for to his fears even that seemed possible. A fresh misery! Just
because he shrank so intensely from the man, he must endure him!
"There is nothing the matter with me," said he languidly.
"I should be the best judge of that, after what Mrs. Vavasour has just
told me," said Tom, in his most professional and civil voice; and
slipped, catlike, into a seat beside the unresisting poet.
He asked question on question: but Elsley gave such unsatisfactory
answers, that Lucia had to detail everything afresh for him,
with--"You know, Mr. Thurnall, he is always overtasking his brain, and
will never confess himself ill,"--and all a woman's anxious comments.
Rogue Tom knew all the while well enough what was the cause: but he
saw, too, that Elsley was very ill. He felt that he must have the
matter out at once; and, by a side glance, sent the obedient Lucia out
of the room to get a table-spoonful of brandy.
"Now, my dear sir, that we are alone," began he blandly.
"Now, sir!" answered Vavasour, springing off the sofa, his whole
pent-up wrath exploding in hissing steam, the moment the safety-valve
was lifted.
Pages:
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318