‘And you would not let her come?’

‘Pardon me,’ said Trevelyan.  ’I would wish that she should, come but it must be on certain conditions.’

‘What I want to know is why she was turned out of your house?’

‘She was not turned out.’

‘What has she done that she should be punished?’ urged Sir Marmaduke, who was unable to arrange his questions with the happiness which had distinguished Major Magruder.  ’I insist upon knowing what it is that you lay to her charge.  I am her father, and I have a right to know.  She has been barbarously, shamefully ill-used, and by G I will know.’

‘You have come here to bully me, Sir Marmaduke Rowley.’

’I have come here, sir, to do the duty of a parent to his child; to protect my poor girl against the cruelty of a husband who in an unfortunate hour was allowed to take her from her home.  I will know the reason why my daughter has been treated as though—­as though—­as though—­’

‘Listen to me for a minute,’ said Trevelyan.

‘I am listening.’

‘I will tell you nothing; I will answer you not a word.’

‘You will not answer me?’

’Not when you come to me in this fashion.  My wife is my wife, and my claim to her is nearer and closer than is yours, who are her father.  She is the mother of my child, and the only being in the world except that child whom I love.  Do you think that with such motives on my part for tenderness towards her, for loving care, for the most anxious solicitude, that I can be made more anxious, more tender, more loving by coarse epithets from you?  I am the most miserable being under the sun because our happiness has been interrupted, and is it likely that such misery should be cured by violent words and gestures?  If your heart is wrung for her, so is mine.  If she be much to you, she is more to me.  She came here the other day, almost as a stranger, and I thought that my heart would have burst beneath its weight of woe.  What can you do that can add an ounce to the burden that I bear?  You may as well leave me or at least be quiet.’

Sir Marmaduke had stood and listened to him, and he, too, was so struck by the altered appearance of the man that the violence of his indignation was lessened by the pity which he could not suppress.  When Trevelyan spoke of his wretchedness, it was impossible not to believe him.  He was as wretched a being to look at as it might have been possible to find.  His contracted cheeks, and lips always open, and eyes glowing in their sunken caverns, told a tale which even Sir Marmaduke, who was not of nature quick in deciphering such stories, could not fail to read.  And then the twitching action of the man’s hands, and the restless shuffling of his feet, produced a nervous feeling that if some remedy were not applied quickly, some alleviation given to the misery of the suffering wretch, human power would be strained too far, and the man would break to pieces or else the