Sir John stopped short, for his voice broke, and the nerves in his fine florid face quivered.
The major laid one hand upon his brother’s shoulder in good old schoolboy fashion, caught his right hand in his own, and remained gripping it warmly—a strong, firm, sympathetic grip, full of brotherly feeling; but he spoke no word.
Sir John was the first to break the silence. “Thank you, Jem,” he said, “thank you, Jem. It’s very weak and childish of me at my time of life, but it touches me home; it touches me the harder, too, that she is my only child; and—and—and, Jem, my lad, don’t jump upon me—I must own it to you now, and I will—I feel that I am making a great mistake.”
“Thank God!” cried the major fervently.
“Jem!”
“I say, thank God,” cried the major, “that you see the truth at last, Jack, before it is too late.”
“No, no, Jem,” said Sir John sadly; “I have not seen it before it is too late. It is too late. We cannot alter it now. I am in honour bound. I cannot interfere.”
“Hang honour!” cried the major excitedly. “I’d give up all the honour in the world sooner than that girl’s life should be blighted. Jack, Jack, my dear brother, we are old men now. We’ve had our fling of life. Let’s think of our darling’s happiness, and not of what the world thinks of us.”
“Too late, Jem! too late!” said Sir John.
“I tell you it is not too late, Jack. Hang it man, I’ll do anything. I’ll challenge and shoot this confounded Rolph sooner than he shall have her.”