The Master of Appleby: A Novel Tale Concerning Itself in Part with the Great Struggle in the Two Carolinas; but Chiefly with the Adventures Therein of Two Gentlemen Who Loved One and the Same LadyLynde, Francis
History
The Master of Appleby: A Novel Tale Concerning Itself in Part with the Great Struggle in the Two Carolinas; but Chiefly with the Adventures Therein of Two Gentlemen Who Loved One and the Same Lady
Lynde, Francis
Historical fiction; Love stories; North Carolina -- Fiction; South Carolina -- Fiction; Triangles (Interpersonal relations) -- Fiction
For some brief time it smote him speechless, and in the depth of his
astoundment he forgot his foolish fear of me and fell to pacing up and
down, though always with the table cannily between us. And as he
shuffled back and forth the thin lips muttered foolish nothings, with
here and there a tremulous oath. When all was done he dropped into a
chair and stared across at me with leaden eyes; and truly he had the
look of one struck with a mortal sickness.
"I think--I think you owe me something now beyond your keeping, Captain
Ireton," he quavered, at length, mumbling the words as do the palsied.
"Since you are Margery's father, I owe you anything a dying man can
pay," said I.
"Words; empty words," he fumed. "If it were a thing to do, now--"
"You need but name the thing and I will do it willingly."
Instead of naming it he shot a question at me, driving it home with
certain random thrustings of the shifty eyes.
"Who is your next of kin, Captain Ireton?"
"Septimus, of the same name, master of Iretondene, on the James River,
and a major in the Virginia line," I answered, wondering how my cousin
once removed should figure in the present coil. But Gilbert Stair's next
question dispelled the mystery.
"If you should die intestate, this Septimus would be your heir?"
"As next of kin, I should suppose he would. But I have nothing to
devise."
"True; and yet"--he paused again as if the wording of it were not easy.
"Be free to speak your mind, Mr. Stair," said I.
"'Tis this," he cried, gathering himself as with an effort. "You've
claimed my daughter as your wife before them all, and when you die
to-morrow morning you'll leave her neither wife nor maid. I think--I
think you'd best make that lie of yours the truth."
If one of his thin hands that clutched the chair arms had pressed a
secret spring and loosed a trap to send me gasping down an oubliette, I
should have been the less astounded. Indeed, for some short space I
thought him mad; yet, on second thought, I saw the method in his
madness. Could Margery be brought to view it calmly, this was a sword to
cut the knot of all entanglements.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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