“Silence, woman!” cried Denville, with a wild look of agony in his eyes, and a ghastly pallor taking the place of the two feverish spots that had stood in his cheeks. “I have no such son. He is an outcast. I forbid you to mention his name again.”
He stood quivering with a curious passion, his lips moving, his eyes staring wildly, and he beat one hand with the open letter he held in the other.
“Here!” he exclaimed at last, “from Morton—to say that, under the circumstances, he feels bound—for the sake of his own dignity and position in his regiment, to hold aloof from his home. The regiment will soon change quarters, and in time all this, he hopes, will be forgotten. Till then, all is to be at an end between us. This—from my own son.”
He began to pace the room nervously, thrusting back the letter; and then he turned upon Claire again.
“Not content, you still go on. Clandestine correspondence. Let me see who wrote that.”
“I cannot, father.”
“But I insist. Here, just when I had had your hand asked in marriage by one who is wealthy and noble, you disgrace us all by that shameless meeting. Give me the letter, I say.”
In his rage he caught her by the arms, and she struggled with him and fell upon her knees at his feet.
“Am I to use force?” he cried.
“For your own sake, no. Father, the letter is not what you think. For your own peace of mind, let it stay.”