It spoke well for Dick’s prudence and self-command that he let the storm of his father’s anger break over his head, and said no word. Mr. Mayne ranted and raved; I am afraid he even swore once or twice,—at least his language was undesirably strong,—and Dick walked beside him and held his peace. “Poor old boy, he is terribly cut up about this!” he thought once.
Mr. Drummond saw them coming along, and wondered at the energy of the older man. Was it the visit to the Friary that had put him out? and then he fell anew into cogitation. Who were these people who were so curious about the Challoners? At least that sulky young fellow had taken no apparent interest, for he had made an excuse to leave them; but the other one had persisted in very close investigation. Perhaps he was some relation,—an uncle, or a distant cousin; evidently he had some right or claim to be displeased. Archie determined to solve the mystery as soon as possible.
“Well, sir, have you nothing to say for yourself?” demanded Mr. Mayne, when he had fairly exhausted himself. He had disinherited Dick half a dozen times; he had deprived him of his liberal allowance; he had spoken of a projected voyage to New Zealand: and Dick had only walked on steadily, and thought of the cold trembling little hand he had kissed. “Have you nothing to say for yourself?” he vociferated.
Dick woke up at this.
“Oh, yes, I have plenty to say,” he returned cheerfully; “but two cannot talk at once, you know. It was right for 230 you to have the first innings, and all that; and I say, father,”—his filial feelings coming to the surface,—“I am awfully sorry, and so is Nan, to see you so vexed.”
“Speak for yourself,” was the wrathful answer. “Don’t mention that girl’s name in my hearing for the present.”
“Whose name?—Nan’s?” returned Dick, innocently. “I don’t see how we are to keep it out of the conversation, when the row is all about her. Look here, father: I say again I am awfully sorry you are vexed; but as N—she says, it is too late to mend matters now. I have made my choice, for better for worse, and I am sorry it does not please you.”
“Please me!” retorted Mr. Mayne; and then he added, venomously: “The girl said you would not marry without my permission; but I will never give it. Come, Dick, it is no use thwarting me in this: you are our only child and we have other plans for you. Pshaw! you are only a boy! You have not seen the world yet. There are dozens of girls far prettier than this Nan. Give this nonsense up, and there is nothing I will not do for you; you shall travel, have your liberty, do as you like for the next two or three years, and I will not worry you about marrying. Why, you are only one-and-twenty; and you have two more years of University life! What an idea,—a fine young fellow like you talking of tying yourself down to matrimony!”
“There is no use in my going back to Oxford, father,” returned Dick, steadily; “thank you kindly all the same, but, it would be sheer waste of money. I have made up my mind to go into the City; it is the fashionable thing nowadays. And one does not need Greek and Latin for that, though, of course, it is an advantage to a fellow, and gives him a standing; but, as I have to get my own living, I cannot afford the two years. Your old chums Stanfield & Stanfield would give me a berth at once.”
“Is the boy mad? What on earth do you mean by all this tomfoolery?” demanded Mr. Mayne, unable to believe his ears. His small gray eyes opened widely and irately on his son; but Dick took no notice. He walked on, with his shoulders looking rather square and determined; the corners of his mouth were working rebelliously: evidently he did not dare to look at his father for fear of breaking into incontrollable laughter. Really the dear old boy was getting too absurd; he—Dick—could not stand it much longer. “What in the name of all that is foolish do you mean, sir?” thundered Mr. Mayne.