“Because,” returned Jack with lofty scorn, “thou art afeared lest the bull should break loose.”
Blanche was curious to hear what John Feversham would say to this accusation—one which to her mind was a most insulting one. Surely this would rouse him, if anything could.
“That is not all I am afeared of,” said John quietly.
“Art thou base enough to confess fear?” cried Jack, as if he could hardly believe his ears.
John Feversham looked him steadily in the face.
“Ay, Jack Enville,” he said, unmoved by the taunt. “I am afeared of God.”
“Well said, my brave lad!” muttered Sir Thomas.
Jack turned, and left the hall without answering. But after that evening, his whole conduct towards Feversham evinced the uttermost contempt. He rarely spoke to him, but was continually speaking at him, in terms which classed him with “ancient wives” and “coward loons”—insinuations so worded that it was impossible to reply, and yet no one could doubt what was meant by them. Unless Feversham were extremely careless of the opinion of his fellows, he must have found this very galling; but he showed no indication of annoyance, beyond an occasional flush and quiver of the lip. Sir Thomas had at once exhibited his displeasure when he heard this, so that Jack restricted his manifestations to times when his father was absent; but the amusement sometimes visible in Blanche’s face was not likely to be pleasant to the man whom Blanche had refused to marry.
“Well, Sir?” queried Jack one Saturday evening, as the family sat round the hall fire after rear-supper. “My leave, an’ I remember rightly, shall end this week next but one. I must look shortly to be on my way to London. What say you touching these little matters?”