“Why, do you think, then, he told her at Laughton of this acquaintance,—that he spoke of Susan? I suspect not.”
“I cannot say, I am sure,” said Mr. Fielden.
“Ask her that question accidentally; and for the rest, be discreet, my dear sir. I thank you for your confidence. I will watch well over my poor young pupil. She must not, indeed, be sacrificed to a man whose affections are engaged elsewhere.”
Dalibard trod on air as he left the house; his very countenance had changed; he seemed ten years younger. It was evening; and suddenly, as he came into Oxford Street, he encountered a knot of young men—noisy and laughing loud—obstructing the pavement, breaking jests on the more sober passengers, and attracting the especial and admiring attention of sundry ladies in plumed hats and scarlet pelisses; for the streets then enjoyed a gay liberty which has vanished from London with the lanterns of the watchmen. Noisiest and most conspicuous of these descendants of the Mohawks, the sleek and orderly scholar beheld the childish figure of his son. Nor did Gabriel shrink from his father’s eye, stern and scornful as it was, but rather braved the glance with an impudent leer.
Right, however, in the midst of the group, strode the Provencal, and laying his hand very gently on the boy’s shoulder, he said: “My son, come with me.”
Gabriel looked irresolute, and glanced at his companions. Delighted at the prospect of a scene, they now gathered round, with countenances and gestures that seemed little disposed to acknowledge the parental authority.
“Gentlemen,” said Dalibard, turning a shade more pale, for though morally most resolute, physically he was not brave,—“gentlemen, I must beg you to excuse me; this child is my son!”
“But Art is his mother,” replied a tall, raw-boned young man, with long tawny hair streaming down from a hat very much battered. “At the juvenile age, the child is consigned to the mother! Have I said it?” and he turned round theatrically to his comrades.
“Bravo!” cried the rest, clapping their hands.
“Down with all tyrants and fathers! hip, hip, Hurrah!” and the hideous diapason nearly split the drum of the ears into which it resounded.