“I say, father, why do we want to be at enmity with the Edens?”
Sir Morton looked up at his son, and then down at his book, as if expecting to find an answer to the question there. Then he coughed to clear his voice, cleared it, and coughed again, which was perfectly unnecessary. But still the answer did not come. Finally, he replied:
“Well, you see, my boy, we always have been at enmity with them.”
“Yes, I know, ever since my great, great, ever so great, grandfather’s time.”
“Exactly Ralph. That’s it, my boy.”
“But what was the beginning of it?”
“The beginning of it—er—the—er—commencement of it—er—the family feud. Well—er—it was something in the way of oppression, as I have told you before. A great injury inflicted by the Edens upon the Darleys. But it will not do your arm any good to be fidgeting about that. I want it to heal. That can be healed; but our family feud never can.”
“Why not, father?”
“Why not? Oh, because it is contrary to nature, boy. What a question, when you are suffering now from the way in which the deadly hatred of the Edens comes out! Are you not wounded by a scion of the vile house?”
“Yes, father; but then young Eden is suffering too in the same way, and I think he got the worst of it.”