"Why, thus—I am Anthony. I was thus christened. And if I take Bess, I will throw aside my surname of Crymes, which brings me little—and take that of my father-in-law. So he will have an Anthony Cleverdon to carry on the name, and I—" his face assumed a malevolent expression—"I shall have spoiled for ever his own son's chances. It shall be down in black-and-white, and bound as fast as I can bind him. See if I cannot manage for myself."
He stood up, took his hat, and set it jauntily on his head, then at the door turned, and with a mocking laugh, said:
"There, sister Jule! Is not that a slap in the face for Anthony that will make his cheek tingle?"
He left the room.
Mr. Crymes laid his brow in his hand, and his elbow on the table.
"'Fore heaven!" he sighed, "I curse the day that gave me such a son."
CHAPTER XXXII. MORE JARS.
A drizzling rainy day. A day on which nothing could be seen but a wavering veil of minute dust of water. A drizzle that was wetting, and which penetrated everywhere. The air was warm, laden with moisture, oppressive, and depressing. From a window could be seen nothing beyond a hedge. Trees seemed to be bunches of cotton wool; the drizzle crawled or was drawn along by a damp wind over the grass along the hedge, beading every blade and twig with the minutest drops of moisture. The shrubs, the plants stooped, unable to support the burden deposited on them, and shot the impalpable water-dust down on the soil in articulate drops.