"Yes, father, I must go, my word is pledged."
The McAllister's ruddy face grew white with anger, he clenched his hands as if he would strike his son and by main force reduce him to obedience, then with a great effort he controlled his anger and said in an ominously calm voice: "Then, Ivan McAllister, I tell ye, never mair shall ye set foot in this house, at least, when I am above ground; never mair call yourself son of mine, and may——" raising his right hand solemnly as if invoking supernatural aid.
But here he was interrupted by a gentle voice which said:
"Nay, nay, Nowell, ye shall not curse your son," and a soft hand was laid on his upraised arm.
The McAllister paused and turned towards the speaker, a gentler expression coming over his stern face, for Lady Jean had the greatest influence over her husband, an influence which was always for good.
She was a tall, slightly built woman of some fifty-eight years of age. Her hair was snow-white, contrasting admirably with her clear complexion and dark eyes, and was combed back high above her forehead, and surmounted by a mutch (cap) of finest lace. She was dressed in a gown of pale green silk, which trailed in soft folds behind her and made a rustling noise as she walked.
A most distinguished lady was Jean McAllister, for the blood of the Stuarts ran in her veins.
Her face was beautiful, though not altogether with the beauty of correct features, and certainly not with the beauty of youth, but it had in it that indescribable loveliness, which one sees only in the faces of very good women. It was what might be called a helpful face, and had upon it that reflection of a divine light—all sympathetic natures possess, to some degree.
"No angel, but a dearer being all dipt in angel instincts, breathing Paradise."
Her voice was of soft and gentle timbre, soothing and tranquillizing even at this heated moment, as she turned to her son and said:—