The squire was stately and cold. His son avoided his society, and it was not forced upon him.
But when, after the lapse of a few months, a fresh burden of debt came upon the scapegrace, and the young man went half-defiantly to his father for assistance, the storm burst.
The old squire was honestly indignant, and he spoke his mind.
The terrified servants passing to and fro heard high words that evening in the little library, and the voices of father and son quivered with passion.
The young man was a favourite with all the people about the place, and many were the hopes expressed that the squire wouldn’t be too hard on Master George, as was a bit wild, perhaps, as was but natural, but he’d settle down when he’d sown his wild oats, bless him, and be a squire as ‘ud do the old hall some credit yet.
The good souls who spoke up for the young scapegrace didn’t know what a plentiful crop of oats Master George had sown, neither had they had to draw the cheques to pay for this rather unprofitable agricultural produce.
George and his father quarrelled fiercely this time. The squire swore that not one penny more should George have. He was a reprobate and a vagabond. He was wasting his substance in riotous living and bringing discredit on an honoured name.
The young man in turn reproached his father. He had made the home dull and repellent. It was like a monastery more than a gentleman’s house. Because he was no longer young himself and had had his pleasure and seen life, he had no sympathy with young men. George wasn’t going to turn goody-goody and take to psalm-singing and dryasdust books for anybody. If his father wouldn’t give him any more money, he’d do without it. He didn’t want money that was grudged him. Let the squire keep his money, if he was so fond of it.
Taunt succeeded taunt, reproach reproach, and so the wordy warfare was worked up to its climax.
It ended by the squire denouncing his son as an unprincipled rascal, and swearing that he would disinherit him.