"I'm worth nobbut my weekly wage. I
canna' tak' risks--no more. Thank yo' kindly; but yo' mun let us be!"
XVII
On the morning following her vain interview with Melrose, Victoria,
sorely conscious of defeat, conveyed the news of it to the depressed and
disprited Netta.
They were in Victoria's sitting-room. Netta sat, a lamentable figure, on
the edge of the sofa, twisting her disfigured hands, her black eyes
glancing restlessly about her. Ever since she had read Faversham's letter
to Tatham she had been an altered being. The threats as to her father,
which it contained, seemed to have withered her afresh. All that small
and desperate flicker of hope in which she had arrived had died away, and
her determination with it. Her consent to Victoria's interview with
Melrose had been only obtained from her with difficulty. And now she was
all for retreat--precipitate retreat.
"It's no use. I was a fool to come. We must go back. I always told
Felicia it would be no use. We'd better not have come. I'll not have papa
tormented!"
While she was speaking a footman entered, bringing a telegram for
Victoria. It was from Tatham in London.
"Have just seen lawyers. They are of opinion we could not fail in
application for proper allowance and provision for both mother and
daughter. Hope you will persuade Mrs. Melrose to let us begin proceedings
at once. Very sorry for your telegram this morning, but only what I
expected."
Victoria read the message to her guest, and then did her best to urge
boldness--an immediate stroke.
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