“Quick as lightning, father. Clean linen and socks, brush and shaving tackle in a small bag, and we’re off—pursuit.”
“Pursuit, Tom, eh? Do you mean me?”
“Yes, you, of course,” said Tom.
“Hadn’t—hadn’t her ladyship better go, Tom?” said his lordship, feebly.
“Hang it, no, father. You and I go together.”
“But—but—but, Tom,” faltered the old man; and there was a lingering look of hope in his pathetic face; “it isn’t so bad as I thought, is it?”
“I don’t know, father, ’pon my soul, I can’t say, really. We’ll see. Poor Maude has been driven to this mad step by her ladyship, and it is possible—mind, I only say possible—that she may have preferred to accompany—no, damn it all, I’m as mad as she is, even Wilters don’t believe it. Father, no! no!! no!!! Wilters is right—my sister would not stoop to take such a step. She is a true lady.”
“Yes, Tom, God bless her, she is,” faltered the old man, “and I shall—shall about break my heart if I’m to lose my darling.”
“Come, father, come, father,” cried the young man huskily. “This is no time for tears, you must act. Yes, and in future too. You see what giving way to her ladyship has done.”
“Yes, yes, my son,” said the old man. “I’ll rebel—I’ll strike for freedom.”