"I don't see that—" began Cleve.
"But I do. If he quarrels with you, he'll never rest till he ruins you. That's his character. It might be very different if you had a gentleman to deal with; but you must look the thing in the face. You may never succeed to the title. We old fellows have our palsies and apoplexies; and you, young fellows, your fevers and inflammations. Here you are quite well, and a fever comes, and turns you off like a gaslight the day after; and, besides, if you quarrel he'll marry, and, where are you then? And I tell you frankly, if Mr. Kiffyn Verney has objections to me, I've stronger to him. There's no brother of mine disgraced. Why, his elder brother—it's contamination to a gentleman to name him."
"He's dead, sir; Arthur Verney is dead," said Cleve, who was more patient under Sir Booth's bitter language than under any other circumstances he would have been.
"Oh! Well, that does not very much matter," said Sir Booth. "But this is the upshot: I'll have nothing underhand—all above board, sir—and if Mr. Kiffyn Verney writes a proper apology—by——, he owes me one—and puts a stop to the fiendish persecutions he has been directing against me, and himself submits the proposal you have—yes—done me the honour to make, and undertakes to make suitable settlements, I shan't stand in the way; I shan't object to your speaking to my daughter, though I can't the least tell how she'll take it! and I tell you from myself I don't like it—I don't, by——, I don't like it. He's a bad fellow—a nasty dog, sir, as any in England—but that's what I say, sir, and I shan't alter; and you'll please never to mention the subject to me again except on these conditions. Except from him I decline to hear of it—not a word—and—and, sir, you'll please to regard my name as a secret; it has been hitherto; my liberty depends on it. Your uncle can't possibly know I'm here?" he added, sharply.
"When last I saw him—a very short time since—he thought you were in France. You, of course, rely upon my honour, Sir Booth, that no one living shall hear from me one syllable affecting your safety."
"Very good, sir. I never supposed you would; but I mean every one—these boatmen, and the people here. No one is to know who I am; and what I've said is my ultimatum, sir. And I'll have no correspondence, sir—no attempt to visit any where. You understand. By——, if you do, I'll let your uncle, Mr. Kiffyn Verney, know the moment I learn it. Be so good as to leave me."
"Good night, sir," said Cleve.
Sir Booth nodded slightly.
The tall old man went stalking and stumbling over the shingle, toward the water's edge, still watching the boat, his cigar making a red star in the dusk, by which Christmass Owen might have steered; and the boatmen that night heard their mysterious steersman from Malory, as he sat with his hand on the tiller, talking more than usual to himself, now and then d—— ing unknown persons, and backing his desultory babble to the waves, with oaths that startled those sober-tongued Dissenters.
Cleve walked slowly up that wide belt of rounded gray stones, that have rattled and rolled for centuries there, in every returning and retreating treating tide, and turned at last and looked toward the tall, stately figure of the old man now taking his place in the boat. Standing in the shadow, he watched it receding as the moonlight came out over the landscape. His thoughts began to clear, and he was able to estimate, according to his own gauges and rashness, the value and effect of his interview with the angry and embittered man.