“Say you will not, mother,” answered Henry, in a tone of disappointment.
“I would if I dared,” continued the widow. “The time may come when I—”
“But why not now,” urged the youth, hastily. “I am old enough, surely, to be trusted. During the four visits this man has paid to us, I have observed a degree of familiarity on his part which no man has a right to exhibit towards you; and which, did I not see that you permit it, no man would dare to shew. Why do you allow him to call you ‘Mary?’ No one else in the settlement does so.”
“He is a very old friend,” replied the widow, sadly. “I have known him from childhood. We were playmates long ago.”
“Humph! that’s some sort of reason, no doubt; but you don’t appear to like him, and his presence always seems to give you pain. Why do you suffer yourself to be annoyed by him? Only say the word, mother, and I’ll kick him out of the house, neck and crop—”
“Hush, boy; you are too violent.”
“Too violent! Why, it would make a coward violent, to see his mother tormented as you are by this fellow, and not be allowed to put a stop to it. I suspect—”
“Henry,” said the widow, again interrupting her exasperated son, “do you think your mother would do what is wrong?”
“Mother,” exclaimed the youth, seizing her hand, and kissing her brow almost violently, “I would as soon think that the angels above would do wrong; but I firmly believe that you are suffering wrong to be done to you; and—just listen to the fellow, I do believe he’s howling for more bacon at this moment!”
There could be no doubt whatever about the fact; for just then the deep tones of Gascoyne’s voice rang through the cottage, as he reiterated the name of the widow, who hastened away, followed by her son. Henry scarcely took the trouble to conceal the frown that darkened his brow as he re-entered the apartment where his companions were seated.