Mr. Sandford had already forgotten his moment of wrath, or perhaps the good sense of her argument had an effect upon him.
‘He has had all his schooling from the curate, Mr. Cattley. You saw him, Emily. Now, Mr. Cattley has a brother—in Liverpool.’
Her work fell from her lap.
‘In Liverpool—in Liverpool. I must be dreaming. You don’t mean that, father?’
‘I remember now,’ said the old gentleman, ‘she thought you would object. She objected herself, poor dear. But what does it matter, one place or another? It is the curate’s brother—a kind man that would look after him. He will be better there than anywhere. Mr. Cattley’s brother——’
‘He shall not go there,’ she said; her pale face coloured over a little, very little, and yet enough to make a great difference. And she looked her father steadily in the face as she spoke.
‘Shall not! Is it you or me that is the master? She tried to persuade me, as a woman may, but you, you, with your “shall not,” your “shall not!” ...’ He rose up and began in his wrath to walk about the room, recovering something of his old force. ‘I have never allowed anyone to speak to me so.’
‘Not since I left home, father. You must hear it again, for it is necessary you should. He shall not go there. No, if there was no other place for him in the world. There he shall not go.’
What further development the quarrel might have taken it is needless to speculate, for at this moment John, who had been turning aimlessly over a number of children’s books, which had been brought out of his grandfather’s room, here uttered a strange cry. What he said was, ‘Johnny May, Johnny May,’ with a mixture of trouble and satisfaction.
‘I knew that I had something to do with that name,’ he said.