“No,” he said, “I have been silent too long—I have given way too much. It is time I spoke out with no uncertain sound. Cyril, you hate this man because he is your rival in the affections of a good, true girl. Your anger has taught me so far, and I rejoice thereat. Your suit has been without success. You teach me, too, that you would stop at nothing, even blackening your rival’s character, to gain your ends; but this must not be. I look upon Sage Portlock as in my charge, and I tell you, once and for all, that you must stop this disgraceful pursuit. I say that it shall not go on.”
“And how will you stop it, sir?” cried Cyril, springing to his feet, while the mother lay back with clasped hands.
“I don’t know yet, but stop it I will,” cried Mr Mallow. “You shall disgrace your mother and sisters no longer—insult Miss Portlock no more by your pursuit.”
“Insult her?”
“Yes, sir, insult her. She is too good and pure-hearted a girl for her affections to be tampered with by such a heartless fellow as you.”
“Eli, Eli,” moaned Mrs Mallow, but her cry was unnoticed by the angry men.
“Tampered with! Heartless! Bah! You do not know what you are saying.”
“I know, my son, that the time has come for me to strike. You must leave here, and at once. Sage Portlock is not for you. If you do not know your position in life and your duty to your class, you must be taught.”
“Then hear me now,” cried the young man, defiantly. “Luke Ross is no rival of mine, for he has never won Sage Portlock’s heart. That belongs to me; and as to duty, caste, and the like, let them go to the devil. Have her I will, in spite of you all, and—”
“Silence, sir!” cried the Rector, beside himself with passion—the rage kept down for years; and he caught his son by the throat. “Man grown—no, you are a boy—a child, whom I ought to soundly thrash for your disobedience and shame. Son? you are no son of mine.”