“Neither you nor any man can part them,” interposed a voice, speaking behind us. “Rid your mind of that notion, master, before it is too late.”
My father looked round quickly, and discovered Dame Dermody facing him in the full light of the window. She had stepped back, at the outset of the dispute, into the corner behind the fireplace. There she had remained, biding her time to speak, until my father’s last threat brought her out of her place of retirement.
They looked at each other for a moment. My father seemed to think it beneath his dignity to answer her. He went on with what he had to say to me.
“I shall count three slowly,” he resumed. “Before I get to the last number, make up your mind to do what I tell you, or submit to the disgrace of being taken away by force.”
“Take him where you may,” said Dame Dermody, “he will still be on his way to his marriage with my grandchild.”
“And where shall I be, if you please?” asked my father, stung into speaking to her this time.
The answer followed instantly in these startling words:
“You will be on your way to your ruin and your death.”
My father turned his back on the prophetess with a smile of contempt.
“One!” he said, beginning to count.
I set my teeth, and clasped both arms round Mary as he spoke. I had inherited some of his temper, and he was now to know it.
“Two!” proceeded my father, after waiting a little.
Mary put her trembling lips to my ear, and whispered: “Let me go, George! I can’t bear to see it. Oh, look how he frowns! I know he’ll hurt you.”
My father lifted his forefinger as a preliminary warning before he counted Three.
“Stop!” cried Dame Dermody.
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