He sat in smouldering rage for a while, and then again his thoughts took shape in words, though not in speech.
“How those fools of Wylders will squirm when I cut the rascal off with a shilling, and settle the property on the man the little lady refused! But Dick will never be such a fool! He cannot reconcile his puritanism with such brazen-faced conduct! I shall never make a gentleman of him! He will revert to the original type! It had disappeared in his mother! What's bred in the damned bone will never out of the damned flesh!”
Richard was at the moment walking with Mr. Wingfold in the rectory garden. They were speaking of what the Lord meant when he said a man must leave all for him. As soon us he entered his father's room, he saw that something had gone wrong with him.
“What is it, father?” he said.
“Richard, sit down,” said sir Wilton. “I must have a word with you:—What young man and woman were you walking with two nights ago, not far from Wylder Hall?”
“My brother and sister, sir—the Mansons.”
“My God, I thought as much!” cried the baronet, and started to his feet—but sat down again: the fetter of his gout pulled him back. “Hold up your right hand,” he went on—sir Wilton was a magistrate—“and swear by God that you will never more in your life speak one word to either of those—persons, or leave my house at once.”
“Father,” said Richard, his voice trembling a little, “I cannot obey you. To deny my friends and relations, even at your command, would be to forsake my Master. It would be to break the bonds that bind men, God's children, together.”
“Hold your cursed jargon! Bonds indeed! Is there no bond between you and your father!”
“Believe me, father, I am very sorry, but I cannot help it. I dare not obey you. You have been very kind to me, and I thank you from my heart,—”