Mr. Reginald Talbot also began to smile—aloud, but he caught Mr. Frank Dennis’s eye, which had so unmistakably menacing an expression in it that the snigger perished in its birth.
‘Shall I go, father?’ inquired William Henry. For the antiquary sat like one in a dream, turning over the note of hand, once so precious to him, but which had now become waste paper.
‘Yes, go! We will wait here till you come back,’ he answered.
The words dropped from his lips like lead.
A GREAT poet has sung of a certain tea-party as sitting ‘all silent and all damned,’ which is going pretty far as a description of social cheerlessness; but they were at tea, and had presumably bread and butter, and possibly even muffins, before them; whereas the little party in Norfolk Street, who sat awaiting the return of William Henry from his problematical patron (for Mr. Albany Wallis, for one, did not believe in his existence), had not even such material comforts to mitigate their embarrassment and ennui. On the table there were only the two deeds, and one of them was in all probability a forgery. Mr. Erin sat drumming his fingers upon it and endeavouring to hide the anxiety which consumed him—a most depressing spectacle. The company, too, were on anything but good terms with one another or with themselves. Mr. Albany Wallis was a just but kind-hearted man; he knew he was right, but he was equally certain that he was uncomfortable. Margaret’s beauty had touched him, and her indignation, however undeserved, distressed him. He felt convinced that she at least was innocent of any confederation with the evildoers, whoever they were.
Now that he had once put hand to the plough, there was no possibility of drawing back; he must needs lay the whole conspiracy bare; but in his heart he cursed the officious malignity of Reginald Talbot, who had set him to work on so unpleasant a task. It was plain that that young gentleman knew how it was all to end. He lay back in his chair, tapping his boot with his cane, and with a grin on his face such as a Cheshire cat might wear who feels a mouse well under her claw. To Mr. Wallis it seemed equally clear that Mr. Frank Dennis also knew. He sat very pale and quiet, but with a face expectant of ill. Every now and then he stole a glance at Margaret, full of ineffable shame and sorrow. As for her, she looked neither to the right nor to the left, but always at the door; her ears were on the stretch for William Henry’s return from the moment that his departing footstep died away. In her face alone was to be seen unshaken confidence; a woman’s faith—so often wasted, as Mr. Wallis thought to himself, upon false and worthless objects.