Harry started, and gazed half in fear, half in wonder, at the stern, commanding figure before him.
“It—it was to save you all from disgrace.”
Vine burst into a discordant laugh.
“From disgrace—to save us from disgrace? And is this part of your childish aunt’s teaching?”
“Father! Pray!” whispered Louise, rousing herself and clinging to his arm.
“Silence, my child!” he cried. “I am not angry with you. I blame myself. Weak and indulgent. Tolerating that foolish woman’s whims, that her old age might pass peacefully away, I have allowed all her follies to go; but I did not believe these seeds could strike so deep a root. To save us from disgrace! So this is being the aristocratic gentleman of French descent! The man who would prefer death to dishonour—the man who scorns to sully his hands by embarking in some honest trade! And I, wrapped in my pursuits, riding my weak hobby, have let things go till they have ended thus!”
“But, father, think! Be merciful.”
“Think? I dare not, girl. Merciful? No. He is no longer my son. We must bear the disgrace as best we can; hide our shame elsewhere. You and I, father and sister of a miserable convict, who in the pursuit of money and title could stoop to rob.”
“No, no, father; not rob.”
“Scoundrel! don’t speak, or I may forget myself, and strike you down as you struck down your benefactor, the man who stretched out his hand to save you from the ruin that dogged your heels.”