“Well, then,” said Clarence, “let us leave her out of the question and I will answer for myself. I am young and can work. I am sorry for you, for you are getting old and it may come hard on you; but my mind is made up. I do not love Bertha Renville, and whatever the result may be I won’t marry her.”
The usually genial Mr. Thomas Glynne became livid with rage. “We shall see about that, young man. You shall go out of the firm. I will close up the business. You are an ungrateful cub. I made life easy for you; now go out into the world and find out how hard it is to do anything for yourself.”
“That’s what I said I was willing to do,” said Clarence. “But you won’t drive me out of the firm, nor you won’t close up the business.”
The young man arose to his feet and father and son stood glaring at each other like two wild animals.
“Oh, I won’t, won’t I?” snarled Mr. Glynne. “How will you keep me from doing it?”
“Your own good sense will keep you from doing it, father,” said the young man, cooling down a little. “If you will keep still, I will do the same. There is no exigency, as I see, until there is some danger of her getting married; but if you take any steps to get me out of the firm, or to wind up the business, I shall tell Bertha.”
“But you promised you would not.”
“I know I did,” said Clarence, “but there is an old saying that a bad promise is better broken than kept. If you have told me the truth, you are entitled to invest her money and to look after it until her marriage. When that time comes you have either got to restore the property to its rightful owner or keep it yourself and become a criminal in the eyes of the law. In that case, I shall be sorry that my name is Glynne. I hope this very uncomfortable and unpleasant interview is at an end. May I be allowed to light another cigarette? My nerves are a trifle shaken by this unexpected disclosure.”
The young man suited the action to the word, blew a puff of smoke, and then said: “I suppose this is all, father. Good-night. I will keep your secret as long as you respect my rights.”
When his son had gone, Thomas Glynne clenched his fists and stamped his foot upon the library floor, but the rich Wilton was thick and gave forth no sound.