“And what, may I ask you,” said father, “do you want in the way of advice from one of the trustees of your dear mother’s will?” Rupert got very red, and was going to say something rude—I knew it from his look—but he stopped, and said in the same gentle way:
“I want your advice, sir, as to the best way of doing something which I wish to do, and, as I am under age, cannot do myself. It must be done through the trustees of my mother’s will.”
“And the assistance for which you wish?” said father, putting his hand in his pocket. I know what that action means when I am talking to him.
“The assistance I want,” said Rupert, getting redder than ever, “is from my—the trustee also. To carry out what I want to do.”
“And what may that be?” asked my father. “I would like, sir, to make over to my Aunt Janet—” My father interrupted him by asking—he had evidently remembered my jest:
“Miss MacSkelpie?” Rupert got still redder, and I turned away; I didn’t quite wish that he should see me laughing. He went on quietly:
“MacKelpie, sir! Miss Janet MacKelpie, my aunt, who has always been so kind to me, and whom my mother loved—I want to have made over to her the money which my dear mother left to me.” Father doubtless wished to have the matter take a less serious turn, for Rupert’s eyes were all shiny with tears which had not fallen; so after a little pause he said, with indignation, which I knew was simulated:
“Have you forgotten your mother so soon, Rupert, that you wish to give away the very last gift which she bestowed on you?” Rupert was sitting, but he jumped up and stood opposite my father with his fist clenched. He was quite pale now, and his eyes looked so fierce that I thought he would do my father an injury. He spoke in a voice which did not seem like his own, it was so strong and deep.
“Sir!” he roared out. I suppose, if I was a writer, which, thank God, I am not—I have no need to follow a menial occupation—I would call it “thundered.” “Thundered” is a longer word than “roared,” and would, of course, help to gain the penny which a writer gets for a line. Father got pale too, and stood quite still. Rupert looked at him steadily for quite half a minute—it seemed longer at the time—and suddenly smiled and said, as he sat down again:
“Sorry. But, of course, you don’t understand such things.” Then he went on talking before father had time to say a word.