"Arthur, Arthur!" exclaimed the other wildly; "You say I am your dearest friend—let me be more. Oh, can't you see that the angelic being I love—the purest, the best of women—is no other than your dear, dear angel of a mother."
"My mother!" cried out Arthur, jumping up, and sober in a minute. "Pooh! damn it, Smirke, you must be mad—she's seven or eight years older than you are."
"Did you find that any objection," cried Smirke piteously, and alluding, of course, to the elderly subject of Pen's own passion.
The lad felt the hint, and blushed quite red. "The cases are not similar, Smirke," he said, "and the allusion might have been spared. A man may forget his own rank and elevate any woman to it; but allow me to say our positions are very different."
"How do you mean, dear Arthur?" the curate interposed sadly, cowering as he felt that his sentence was about to be read.
"Mean?" said Arthur. "I mean what I say. My tutor, I say, my tutor, has no right to ask a lady of my mother's rank of life to marry him. It's a breach of confidence. I say it's a liberty you take, Smirke—it's a liberty. Mean, indeed!"
"Oh Arthur!" the curate began to cry, with clasped hands, and a scared face, but Arthur gave another stamp with his foot, and began to pull at the bell. "Don't let's have any more of this. We'll have some coffee, if you please," he said, with a majestic air: and the old butler entering at the summons, Arthur bade him to serve that refreshment.
John said he had just carried coffee into the drawing-room, where his uncle was asking for Master Arthur, and the old man gave a glance of wonder at the three empty claret-bottles. Smirke said he thought he'd—he'd rather not go into the drawing-room, on which Arthur haughtily said, "As you please," and called for Mr. Smirke's horse to be brought round. The poor fellow said he knew the way to the stable and would get his pony himself, and he went into the hall and sadly put on his coat and hat.
Pen followed him out uncovered. Helen was still walking up and down the soft lawn as the sun was setting, and the curate took off his hat and bowed by way of farewell, and passed on to the door leading to the stable-court by which the pair disappeared. Smirke knew the way to the stables, as he said, well enough. He fumbled at the girths of the saddle which Pen fastened for him, and put on the bridle and led the pony into the yard. The boy was touched by the grief which appeared in the other's face as he mounted. Pen held out his hand, and Smirke wrung it silently.