Septimus bowed his head.
“Dog!” roared the old man, “I’ll leave every penny I have to your uncle’s hussies if you dare to marry this woman.”
The son smiled sadly, but remained silent.
“Why don’t you speak?” roared Octavius, foaming with rage.
“What would you have me say, father?” said Septimus calmly.
“Say!” gasped the old man; “why, that you are a thankless, graceless, unnatural scoundrel. But where do you mean to go?”
“To London,” said Septimus.
“To London!” sneered the old man; “and what for? No; go to Hanwell, or Colney Hatch, or sink your paltry money at a private asylum, if they will take you. To London, to leave me to my infirmities, with my book unfinished! But you’ll take my curse with you; and may yon brazen, scheming woman—”
“Hush!” cried Septimus fiercely, as he laid his hand upon his father’s lips, when, beside himself with fury, Octavius struck his son heavily in the face, and then, as he fell back, the old man seized the poker, but only to throw it crashing back into the fender.
Just at that moment, the door opened, a tall, dark, handsome girl hurried into the room, and stood between father and son, gazing in an agitated way from one anger-wrought countenance to the other.