“And I haven’t patience with you, Jem; ’pon my honour, I haven’t. Why, what next? Here, out of respect to you as my brother, I sent my daughter’s future husband to you, and you tell me to my face that you will insult him. I won’t have it, sir; I say I won’t have it. You’re intolerable. You’re getting beyond bearing, and—and—confound it all, I will not have it! Pretty thing, indeed, when a man mayn’t choose a husband for his own child.”
The baronet took a few strides this way and that way, grew scarlet as he spoke, and ended by taking off his grey hat and dabbing his shining forehead.
“I’ve too much love for Glynne, and too much respect for her mother’s memory to stand by silently and see such a miserable bargain concluded; and I enter my protest against what must turn out an unhappy match,” said the major.
“It will turn out nothing of the sort, sir,” cried the baronet, hotly; “and, look here, Jem, it’s time we came to an understanding. I will not have your dictatorial mess-room manners brought into my establishment; and I tell you once for all, if you can’t conform to the simple home life of a country squire’s house, the sooner you go, sir, the better.”
The major stuck his stick into the turf with a furious stab, as if he had a feud with mother earth; then, dragging round the creel he banged the bright trowel with which he had been gesticulating into the basket, and giving the wicker a swing back, caught up his stick and strode away without a word.
“Confound his insolence!” cried Sir John furiously, “I won’t have it. My own brother: my junior by two hours! A man who has been petted and pampered too, because—because he is my brother—because he has been in the wars—because—because—because he is—my brother—because—hang it all!” he roared, stamping heavily on the turf. “What an abominably hasty temper I have got. He’ll pack up and go, and—here!—hi!—Jem!—Jem!”
The baronet was stout, but it was the active, muscular stoutness of a man constantly in the open air: he did not suffer from the abnormal size of that which Punch’s fashionable tailor called his middle-aged customer’s chest, so that it required little effort on his part to set off at a trot after his brother, who heard his shouts and his pursuing steps, but paid no heed to each summons; for, with head erect, and his stick carried as a military man bears his sabre on the route, he marched steadily on with the regular swinging pace of a well-drilled soldier.
“Jem! Hold hard! Jem, old fellow,” cried the baronet, overtaking him; but the major kept on without turning his head.
“Jem! Here, I beg your pardon. I lost my temper. I’m a passionate old fool.”
Still there was no response, and the major passed on; but his brother now took tight hold of his arm.