Richard clasped nervous hands together and raised his colourless eyes to heaven.
“May the Lord have mercy on his soul!” said he.
“May He, indeed!” said Trenchard, when he had recovered from his surprise. “But,” he added pessimistically, “I doubt the rogue’s in hell.”
Richard’s eyes kindled suddenly, and he quoted from the thirtieth Psalm, “`I will extol thee, 0 Lord; for Thou hast lifted me up, and hast not made my foes to rejoice over me.'”
Dumbfounded, wondering, indeed, was Westmacott’s mind unhinged, Trenchard scanned him narrowly. Richard caught the glance and misinterpreted it for one of reproof. He bethought him that his joy was unrighteous. He stifled it, and forced his lips to sigh “Poor Blake!”
“Poor, indeed!” quoth Trenchard, and adapted a remembered line of his play-acting days to suit the case. “The tears live in an onion that shall water his grave. Though, perhaps, I am forgetting Swiney.” Then, in a brisker tone, “Come, Richard. What like is the muscadine you keep at Lupton House?”
“I have abjured all wine,” said Richard.
“A plague you have!” quoth Trenchard, understanding less and less. “Have you turned Mussuman, perchance?”
“No,” answered Richard sternly; “Christian.”
Trenchard hesitated, rubbing his nose thoughtfully. “Hum,” said he at length. “Peace be with you, then. I’ll leave you here to bay the moon to your heart’s content. Perhaps Jasper will know where to find me a brain-wash.” And with a final suspicious, wondering look at the whilom bibber, he passed into the house, much exercised on the score of the sanity of this family into which his friend Anthony had married.
Outside, the twilight shadows were deepening.
“Shall we home, sweet?” whispered Mr. Wilding. The shadows befriended her, a veil for her sudden confusion. She breathed something that seemed no more than a sigh, though more it seemed to Anthony Wilding.