"Will I what?" I cried in utter amazement—dumbfounded by his impudence.
"Will you settle one thousand pounds upon her, to keep her out of her grave?"
"Not one penny!" I cried: "and, what's more, you miserable, miserly old wretch, I'll give you a bit of my mind."
And thereupon I did! Such a talking to as I suppose the old fellow had never had in his life before, and one he'd not be likely to forget in a hurry. He sat all the time, white with fury, his eyes blazing, and his fingers quivering with impotent rage. When I had done he ordered me out of his house. I took him at his word, seized my hat, and strode across the hall through the front door, and out into the open air.
But I was not to leave the home of my ancestors without a parting shot. As I closed the front door behind me I heard a window go up, and on looking round there was the old fellow shaking his fist at me.
"Leave my house—leave my park!" he cried in a shrill falsetto, "or I'll send for the constable to turn you off. Bah! You came to steal. You're no nephew of mine; I disown you! You're a common cheat—a swindler—an impostor! Go!"
I took him at his word, and went. Leaving the park, I walked straight across to the rectory, and inquired if I might see the clergyman. To him I told my tale, and, among other things, asked if anything could be done for the child—my cousin. He only shook his head.
"I fear it is hopeless, Mr. Hatteras," the clergyman said. "The old gentleman is a terrible character, and as he owns half the village, and every acre of the land hereabouts, we all live in fear and trembling of him. We have no shadow of a claim upon the child, and unless we can prove that he actually ill-treats it, I'm sorry to say I think there is nothing to be done."
So ended my first meeting with my father's family.
From the rectory I returned to my inn. What should I do now? London was worse than a desert to me now that my sweetheart was gone from it, and every other place seemed as bad. Then an advertisement on the wall of the bar parlour caught my eye: