I inquired if Aunt Deb was still with him.
“She returned to your father soon after you disappeared, and has only lately come back to pay me another visit,” he answered.
I confess I wished she had stayed at home. However, I had to face her, though I felt very nervous about the interview.
“I don’t think she will recognise you, and I won’t tell her who you are,” he said, as I entered the house.
We went into the drawing-room, where we found Aunt Deb seated in a high-backed chair.
“Here’s a young gentleman come from the sea. He’s come to dine with us,” said Mr Butterfield.
Aunt Deb rose from her seat, gave me a stiff bow, and sank down again on her seat. “I have no affection for the sea, or generally for those whose profession it is to sail upon it,” she said, looking hard at me. “There are exceptions to every rule, and I hope that this young gentleman will show that he doesn’t possess the objectionable manners and customs of sailors.”
“I trust you will not be mistaken in the favourable opinion you form of me, Madam,” I said, as stiffly as I could. “But I venture to think that you are prejudiced against seafaring men. Let me assure you, however, that there are many estimable persons among them, though there are some as bad as any to be found on shore. You once had a nephew who went away to sea. I hope that you don’t class him among the bad ones.”
“I class him among the very worst,” she exclaimed. “He ran off without leave, without wishing me, his kind aunt, farewell, or letting us know where he had gone, or what had become of him. He made us all very miserable, and broke his poor mother’s heart.”
“My mother dead!” I exclaimed. “Oh, don’t say that, don’t say that! And I killed her.”