“After what has passed between us—”
“Oh, come, that’ll do,” cried the young man insolently. “Do you suppose you have a right to begin preaching at me every time you see me?”
“Do you suppose, sir,” cried the curate, still mastering his anger, “that you, because your father was the great land-holder here, have a right to persevere with what I have expressly forbidden?”
“Confound your insolence, sir! Don’t speak to me like that. What the deuce do you mean?”
“What do I mean, sir? I mean this—and I beg that you will not adopt that bullying tone toward me.”
“Bullying tone! You shall find something else besides a bullying tone if you interfere with me;” and as the young man spoke he gave his hunting-whip a flourish.
The curate’s cheeks flushed, and his brow contracted with anger; but he maintained his calmness as he continued:
“You asked me what I mean. I mean this: I, as their elder brother, and a clergyman of the Church of England, occupy the post of guardian to my two orphan sisters. They are happy in their life with me at the old Rectory, and I naturally look with serious eyes at the man who tries to tamper with that happiness. I should feel troubled if a gentleman came to the house in a straightforward, honourable way, and said to me, ‘Sir, I love one of your sisters; I ask your permission to visit at your house; give sanction to the engagement:’ but when—”
“Oh, if you are going to preach, I’m off. Finish it on Sunday.”
The curate’s colour grew deeper as he stepped before the young man, and stopped his departure.