“After all,” he burst out, “there are plenty of good men who have left the faith. It brings nothing but misery.”
Sir Nicholas’ hands began to shake, and his fingers to clench themselves; but he remembered the lad was in love.
“My son,” he said, “you do not know what you say.”
“I know well enough,” said Hubert, with his foot tapping sharply. “I say that the Catholic religion is a religion of misery and death everywhere. Look at the Low Countries, sir.”
“I cannot speak of that,” said his father; and his son sneered visibly; “you and I are but laymen; but this I know, and have a right to say, that to threaten me like that is the act of a—is not worthy of my son. My dear boy,” he said, coming nearer, “you are angry; and, God forgive me! so am I; but I promised your mother,” and again he broke off, “and we cannot go on with this now. Come again this evening.”
Hubert stood turned away, with his head against the high oak mantelpiece; and there was silence.
“Father,” he said at last, turning round, “I ask your pardon.”
Sir Nicholas stepped nearer, his eyes suddenly bright with tears, and his mouth twitching, and held out his hand, which Hubert took.
“And I was a coward to speak like that—but, but—I will try,” went on the boy. “And I promise to say nothing to her yet, at any rate. Will that do? And I will go away for a while.”
The father threw his arms round him.