“News! news! worse than news!”
“From whom, may I ask?”
“From Henry—the scamp—the ungrateful—Here, read this!”
Nigel took the note and read. “It is indeed an unpleasant communication; unfeeling of Henry—insulting, I should say. But what does it all mean?”
“No matter what it means. Enough for me to know that. Enough to think that he is gone. I know the boy well. He will keep his word. He’s too like myself about that. Gone! O God—gone!”
The General groaned as he traversed the Turkey carpet. The maiden aunt said nothing, but sat by the table, quietly sipping port wine and munching walnuts. The storm raged on.
“After all,” put in Nigel, with the pretence of tranquillising it, “he means nothing with this strange talk. He’s young—foolish—”
“Means nothing!” roared the General in a fresh burst of excitement. “Does it mean nothing to write such a letter as this—in which every word is a slight to my authority—a defiance?”
“True enough,” said Nigel, “I know not what can have possessed him to speak as he has done. He’s evidently angry about something—something I don’t understand. But he’ll get over it in time, though one cannot forgive him so easily.”
“Never! I will never forgive him. He has tried my temper too often; but this will be the last time. Disobedience such as his shall be overlooked no longer—to say nothing of the levity, the positive defiance, that accompanies it. By my faith, he shall be punished for it!”