“In November,” said Hubert steadily, looking his father in the eyes, “I sail with Mr. Drake.”
Sir Nicholas’ face grew terrific. He rose, and struck the table twice with his clenched fist.
“Then, by God, sir, Mr. Drake may have you now.”
Hubert’s face grew white with anger; but he had his temper under control.
“Then I wish you good-day, sir,” and he left the room.
When the boy had left the house again for London, as he did the same afternoon, Lady Maxwell tried to soothe the old man. It was impossible, even for her, to approach him before.
“Sweetheart,” she said tranquilly, as he sat and glowered at his plate when supper was over and the men had left the room, “sweetheart, we must have Hubert down here again. He must not sail with Mr. Drake.”
The old man’s face flared up again in anger.
“He may follow his own devices,” he cried. “I care not what he does. He has given up the post that I asked for him; and he comes striding and ruffling home with his hat cocked and—and——”; his voice became inarticulate.
“He is only a boy, sweetheart; with a boy’s hot blood—you would sooner have him like that than a milk-sop. Besides—he is our boy.”