“Septimus! Uncle!” she cried, “what is the matter?”
“He’s a villain, girl—an unnatural scoundrel. He’s going to marry that woman—Grey’s wife—widow—relict—curse her!”
“What, poor Mrs Grey?” said the girl, with the tears springing to her eyes.
“God bless you for that, Agnes!” cried Septimus passionately, as he caught her in his arms, and kissed her affectionately.
“Yes, poor Mrs Grey,” sneered the old man, looking savagely at the pair before him. “But there, let him go; and mind you, or you won’t have what I’ve got. But there, you will, and your sisters will have something to fleer and jeer at then, and your father will purr in my face, and spit and swear behind my back. Bah! a cursed tom-cat humbug!”
“Hush, uncle dear!” whispered Agnes, laying one hand upon his arm and the other upon his breast, her lip quivering as she spoke,—“hush! you are angry.—Don’t say any more, Septimus.”
“No,” replied Septimus sternly, “I have done.”
“No, no, no! you have not,” roared the old man, firing up again. “You have to beg my pardon, and tell me that this folly is at an end.”
“I’ll beg your pardon, father,” said Septimus sternly, “and I do ask it for anything I have done amiss; but I have pledged my word to the woman I have loved these ten years.” And again there was the look of proud elation on Septimus Hardon’s countenance.
“And you are going to London, eh?” said Octavius.