“Mabyn, I am going to ask something of you.”

“Oh yes, I know what it is,” her sister said.  “I am not to speak any more about your marriage with Mr. Trelyon.  But I won’t give you any such promise, Wenna.  I don’t consider that that old man has any hold on you.”

Wenna said nothing, for at this moment they entered the house.  Mabyn went up with her sister to her room:  then she stood undecided for a moment; finally she said, “Wenna. if I’ve vexed you, I’m very sorry.  I won’t speak of Mr. Trelyon if you don’t wish it.  But indeed, indeed, you don’t know how many people are anxious that you should be happy; and you can’t expect your own sister not to be as anxious as any one else.”

“Mabyn, you’re a good girl,” Wenna said, kissing her.  “But I am rather tired to-day:  I think I shall lie down for a little while.”

Mabyn uttered a sharp cry, for her sister had fallen back on a chair, white and insensible.  She hastily bathed her forehead with cold water, she chafed her hands, she got hold of some smelling-salts.  It was only a faint, after all, and Wenna, having come to, said she would lie down on the sofa for a few minutes.  Mabyn said nothing to her mother about all this, for it would have driven Mrs. Rosewarne wild with anxiety, but she herself was rather disquieted with Wenna’s appearance, and she said to herself, with great bitterness of heart, “If my sister falls ill, I know who has done that.”

CHAPTER XXXIX.

NEW AMBITIONS.

Mr. Roscorla, having had few friends throughout his life, had developed a most methodical habit of communing with himself on all possible subjects, but more particularly, of course, upon his own affairs.  He used up his idle hours in defining his position with regard to the people and things around him, and he was never afraid to convince himself of the exact truth.  He never tried to cheat himself into the belief that he was more unselfish than might appear:  if other people thought so, good and well.  He, at least, was not a hypocrite to himself.

Now, he had not been gone above a couple of hours or so from Eglosilyan when he discovered that he was not weighted with terrible woes:  on the contrary, he experienced a feeling of austere satisfaction that he was leaving a good deal of trouble behind him.  He had been badly used, he had been righteously angry.  It was right that they who had thus used him badly should be punished.  As for him, if his grief did not trouble him much, that was a happy peculiarity of his temperament which did not lessen their offence against him.

Most certainly he was not weighted with woe.  He had a pleasant drive in the morning over to Launceston; he smoked a cigarette or two in the train; when he arrived at Plymouth he ordered a very nice luncheon at the nearest hotel, and treated himself to a bottle of the best Burgundy the waiter could recommend him.  After that he got into a smoking-carriage in the London express, he lit a large cigar, he wrapped a thick rug round his legs, and settled himself down in peace for the long journey.  Now was an excellent time to find out exactly how his affairs stood.