Two o’clock found three hungry youths and numerous dead birds on the pleasant thymy bank beneath the edge of the beach wood, but gaze as they might through the clear September air, neither mother, brother, nor sister was visible. Presently, however, the pony-carriage appeared, and in it a hamper, but driven only by the stable-boy. He said a gentleman was at the house, and Mrs. Brownlow was very sorry that she could not come, but had sent him with the luncheon.
“I shall go and see after her,” said Jock; and in spite of all remonstrance, and assurance that it was only a form of Parsonic tyranny, he took a draught of ale and a handful of sandwiches, sprang into the carriage, and drove off, hardly knowing why, but with a yearning towards his mother, and a sense that all that was unexpected boded evil. Leaving the pony at the stables, and walking up to the house, he heard sounds that caused him to look in at the open library window.
On one side of the table stood his mother, on the other Dr. Demetrius Hermann, with insinuating face, but arm upraised as if in threatening.
“Scoundrel!” burst forth Jock. Both turned, and his mother’s look of relief and joy met him as he sprang to her side, exclaiming, “What does this mean? How dare you?”
“No, no!” she cried breathlessly, clinging to his arm. “He did not mean—it was only a gesture!”
“I’ll have no such gestures to my mother.”
“Sir, the honoured lady only does me justice. I meant nothing violent. Zat is for you English military, whose veapon is zie horsewhip.”
“As you will soon feel,” said Jock, “if you attempt to bully my mother. What does it mean, mother dear?”
“He made a mistake,” she said, in a quick, tremulous tone, showing how much she was shaken. “He thinks me a quack doctor’s widow, whose secret is matter of bargain and sale.”
“Madame! I offered most honourable terms.”