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"Do you think, mama, Bessie ought to be always saying horrid things about Mr. Boult? Making fun of him, mimicking him, complaining of everything he does; not only to you and me, but to Mr. Gibbon? to Emily to any one who will listen? Do you think a lady what you and I think a lady, not what Bessie thinks would do that?" "Bessie is sensitive and very proud. We must not forget that poor Bessie!
Mr Boult pocketed his watch, and under his breath used ferocious language. "I don't wonder!" said Farmer Best with a forced attempt at sympathy. Then he, too, broke down and cast himself back in his chair haw-hawing. There was a sudden stir in the crowd at the back, and young Obed Pearce came thrusting his way through the press.
Lydia Day listened, her dark, handsome face of a lead white, while the man seated at the table opposite to her condemned her son utterly as one who was flinging away a fine chance. He, George Boult, had been thrown, at Bernard's age, on his own resources. Never that he could recall had a helping hand been held to him. Had he played billiards? Had he shown temper before a customer? No!
George Boult, who had taken to visiting Bridge Street on the Thursday half-holiday as well as the Sunday, must be expected this afternoon. One way or other Mrs. Day would have to answer that proposition of his which had filled her with such a misery of doubt. Very little on his part had been said at the time of the offer.
Day began, but very faintly; she clasped her hands upon the edge of the tea-tray, the cups and saucers jingled with their shaking. "Poor papa is in trouble. Tell them," she whispered to the man who stood beside her. "I can't tell them." Mr. Boult fixed Bessie with the gaze of his slightly protruding eyes of stone-coloured blue.
"We may be able to wipe the rest off our minds in time, but we shall never be allowed to forget the fifty pounds of the detestable Boult." "He was poor papa's friend the only one. He was good to papa," Deleah said, but to herself alone. For in that unhappy household was a law, unwritten, unspoken, but binding none the less, that the name of the husband and father should never be spoken.
"You'll help me to finish it to-morrow night, papa? Promise you'll help me to-morrow night!" he entreated, through his weeping. But Bessie, whose task it was to see him to bed, pulled the child relentlessly from the room, and slammed the door upon them both. George Boult had come in, for a last talk with his friend.
Boult coming to speak to us?" "No," said a slightly crestfallen Bessie. "He thought there would be a fuss." "It is too late to make a fuss, Bessie." "Well, we thought so; and that there was no good in his being bothered; so he's gone straight on to the station to wait for me. We go up to town by the 1.20. I join him in half an hour. The carriage will wait." "That's all right, dear.
"We shall be far happier than we have ever been in the shop. Some eggs and milk for you and me, and now and then a little butcher's meat for Emily. What will it cost! Surely we can manage that, mama." "You are forgetting that there is Mr. Boult to settle with. That horrible proposition of his must be somehow answered, Deleah." "We will answer it to-night.
Still, since Sir Francis had taken to addressing him as "Boult" without any prefix to the name, when they met in the magisterial room, the desire to ingratiate himself with any member of the Forcus family was very warm within him. "Whenever I do see you, I am struck with the handsomeness of the animal you ride, Mr. Forcus," he was saying presently.
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