“To be married,” said the son firmly.
“Married?”
“Married, father.”
“And to whom? One of those hussies, your cousins?”
“To Mrs Grey,” replied Septimus.
“What?” gasped the old man. “To a woman—a widow with a family—a proper inmate for the union—a pauper!”
“Hush, father!” cried Septimus. “I love her;” and he said those simple words with such reverence, such tenderness, that the old man paused and gazed almost wonderingly at the aspect worn by his son; but by degrees his anger gained the ascendant, and a stormy scene ensued in which the father threatened and besought in turn, while the son remained calm and immovable. Once he shrunk back and held up his hands deprecatingly, when the old man spoke harshly of the stricken woman; but directly after his face lit up with a pride and contentment which almost maddened the speaker.
“You cannot keep a wife!” he gasped.
Septimus smiled.
“You were always a helpless, vacillating fool, and you have nothing but the few hundreds from your mother.”