Catching up his temper thus cleverly, he curbed that habitual runaway, and retired from his old friend’s presence to explode in the society of the solitary Martha.

Annette’s behaviour was as bitterly criticized by the sister as by the brother.

“She has gone to those Fellingham people; and she may be thinking of jilting us,” Mrs. Cavely said.

“In that case, I have no mercy,” cried her brother.  “I have borne”—­he bowed with a professional spiritual humility—­“as I should, but it may get past endurance.  I say I have borne enough; and if the worst comes to the worst, and I hand him over to the authorities—­I say I mean him no harm, but he has struck me.  He beat me as a boy and he has struck me as a man, and I say I have no thought of revenge, but I cannot have him here; and I say if I drive him out of the country back to his Gippsland!”

Martin Tinman quivered for speech, probably for that which feedeth speech, as is the way with angry men.

“And what?—­what then?” said Martha, with the tender mellifluousness of sisterly reproach.  “What good can you expect of letting temper get the better of you, dear?”

Tinman did not enjoy her recent turn for usurping the lead in their consultations, and he said, tartly, “This good, Martha.  We shall get the Hall at my price, and be Head People here.  Which,” he raised his note, “which he, a Deserter, has no right to pretend to give himself out to be.  What your feelings may be as an old inhabitant, I don’t know, but I have always looked up to the people at Elba Hall, and I say I don’t like to have a Deserter squandering convict’s money there—­with his forty-pound-a-year cook, and his champagne at seventy a dozen.  It’s the luxury of Sodom and Gomorrah.”

“That does not prevent its being very nice to dine there,” said Mrs. Cavely; “and it shall be our table for good if I have any management.”

“You mean me, ma’am,” bellowed Tinman.

“Not at all,” she breathed, in dulcet contrast.  “You are good-looking, Martin, but you have not half such pretty eyes as the person I mean.  I never ventured to dream of managing you, Martin.  I am thinking of the people at Elba.”

“But why this extraordinary treatment of me, Martha?”

“She’s a child, having her head turned by those Fellinghams.  But she’s honourable; she has sworn to me she would be honourable.”

“You do think I may as well give him a fright?” Tinman inquired hungrily.

“A sort of hint; but very gentle, Martin.  Do be gentle—­casual like—­as if you did n’t want to say it.  Get him on his Gippsland.  Then if he brings you to words, you can always laugh back, and say you will go to Kew and see the Fernery, and fancy all that, so high, on Helvellyn or the Downs.  Why”—­Mrs. Cavely, at the end of her astute advices and cautionings, as usual, gave loose to her natural character—­“Why that man came back to England at all, with his boastings of Gippsland, I can’t for the life of me find out.  It ’s a perfect mystery.”