“Come quick,” says he; “we have to sweep vermin from the house.” And he sped through the passages, with so swift a step that I could scarce keep up with him, straight to the door of John Paul, the which he opened without summons and walked in. John was, to all appearance, sound asleep, but my lord made no pretence of waking him.
“John Paul,” said he, speaking as quietly as ever I heard him, “you served my father long, or I would pack you from the house like a dog. If in half an hour’s time I find you gone, you shall continue to receive your wages in Edinburgh. If you linger here or in St. Bride’s—old man, old servant, and altogether—I shall find some very astonishing way to make you smart for your disloyalty. Up and begone. The door you let them in by will serve for your departure. I do not choose my son shall see your face again.”
“I am rejoiced to find you bear the thing so quietly,” said I, when we were forth again by ourselves.
“Quietly!” cries he, and put my hand suddenly against his heart, which struck upon his bosom like a sledge.
At this revelation I was filled with wonder and fear. There was no constitution could bear so violent a strain—his least of all, that was unhinged already; and I decided in my mind that we must bring this monstrous situation to an end.
“It would be well, I think, if I took word to my lady,” said I. Indeed, he should have gone himself, but I counted—not in vain—on his indifference.
“Ay,” says he, “do. I will hurry breakfast: we must all appear at the table, even Alexander; it must appear we are untroubled.”
I ran to my lady’s room, and with no preparatory cruelty disclosed my news.
“My mind was long ago made up,” said she. “We must make our packets secretly to-day, and leave secretly to-night. Thank Heaven, we have another house! The first ship that sails shall bear us to New York.”
“And what of him?” I asked.