“It’s not my practice to tamper with gentlemen’s letters, or to answer damned impertinent questions,” Major Pendennis cried out, in a great tremor of emotion and indignation. “There was a girl in your rooms when I came up at great personal inconvenience, daymy—and to meet with a return of this kind for my affection to you, is not pleasant, by Gad, sir—not at all pleasant.”
“That’s not the question, sir,” Arthur said hotly—“and I beg your pardon, uncle. You were, you always have been, most kind to me: but I say again, did you say anything harsh to this poor girl? Did you send her away from me?”
“I never spoke a word to the girl,” the uncle said, “and I never sent her away from you, and know no more about her, and wish to know no more about her, than about the man in the moon.”
“Then it’s my mother that did it,” Arthur broke out. “Did my mother send that poor child away?”
“I repeat I know nothing about it, sir,” the elder said testily. “Let’s change the subject, if you please.”
“I’ll never forgive the person who did it,” said Arthur, bouncing up and seizing his hat.
The Major cried out, “Stop, Arthur, for God’s sake, stop;” but before he had uttered his sentence Arthur had rushed out of the room, and at the next minute the Major saw him striding rapidly down the street that led towards his home.
“Get breakfast!” said the old fellow to Morgan, and he wagged his head and sighed as he looked out of the window. “Poor Helen—poor soul! There’ll be a row. I knew there would: and begad all the fat’s in the fire.”
When Pen reached home he only found Warrington in the ladies’ drawing-room, waiting their arrival in order to conduct them to the room where the little English colony at Rosenbad held their Sunday church. Helen and Laura had not appeared as yet; the former was ailing, and her daughter was with her. Pen’s wrath was so great that he could not defer expressing it. He flung Fanny’s letter across the table to his friend. “Look there, Warrington,” he said; “she tended me in my illness, she rescued me out of the jaws of death, and this is the way they have treated the dear little creature. They have kept her letters from me; they have treated me like a child, and her like a dog, poor thing! My mother has done this.”
“If she has, you must remember it is your mother,” Warrington interposed.