‘Dost defy me to my face, sirrah?’
‘I have no desire to defy you, father, but–‘
‘But me no ‘buts, ‘ and father me no ‘fathers, ” stormed the angry old man, probably quite unconscious of the Shakespearian smack of his phrase; ‘I am no father to heretic spawn–a plague and a curse be on all such! Go to, thou wicked and deceitful boy; thou wilt one day bitterly rue thy evil practices. Thinkest thou that I will harbour beneath my roof one who sets me at open defiance; one who is a traitor to his house and to his faith?’
A dark flush had risen in the face of the tall, slight youth, with the thoughtful brow and resolute mouth, as his father’s first words fell upon his ears, and throwing back his head with a haughty gesture, he said: ‘I am not deceitful. You have no call to taunt me with that vice which I despise above all others. I have never used deceit towards you. How could you have known I had this day attended the service of the Established Church had I not told you so myself?’
The veins on the old man’s forehead stood out with anger; he brought his fist heavily down on the table, with a bang that caused every vessel thereon to ring. A dark-eyed girl, who was listening in mute terror to the stormy scene, shrank yet more into herself at this, and cast an imploring look upon the tall stripling whose face her own so much resembled; but his fiery eyes were on his father’s face, and he neither saw nor heeded the look…
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