Fred Denville drew back into the room as his father staggered in, and then, as the door swung to and fastened itself, there was a terrible silence, and Claire looked on speechless for the moment, as she saw her brother draw himself up, military fashion, while her father’s face changed in a way that was horrible to behold.
He looked ten years older. His eyes started; his jaw fell, and his hands trembled as he raised them, with the thick cane hanging from one wrist.
He tried to speak, but the words would not come for a few moments.
At last his speech seemed to return, and, in a voice full of rage, hate, and horror combined, he cried furiously:
“You here!—fiend!—wretch!—villain!”
“Oh, father!” cried Claire, darting to his side.
“Hush, Claire! Let him speak,” said Fred.
“Was it not enough that I forbade you the house before; but, now—to come—to dare—villain!—wretch!—coldblooded, miserable wretch! You are no son of mine. Out of my sight! Curse you! I curse you with all the bitterness that—”
“Father! father!” cried Claire, in horrified tones, as she threw herself between them; but, in his rage, the old man struck her across the face with his arm, sending her tottering back.
“Oh, this is too much,” cried Fred, dropping his stolid manner. “You cowardly—”