“But, uncle, dear – ”
“But, niece, dear, he does; and how I can be such an idiot as to stop here, I don’t know. If I were his dependent, it couldn’t be worse.”
“But, uncle, dear, I’m afraid you do show a little temper sometimes.”
“Temper! I show temper! Nothing of the kind,” cried the old fellow, angrily, and his grey curls seemed to stand out wildly from his head. “Only decision – just so much decision as a military man should show – nothing more. Temper, indeed!”
“But you are hasty, dear, and papa so soon gets warm.”
“Warm? Red hot. White hot. He has a temper that would irritate a saint, and heaven knows I am no saint.”
“It does seem such a pity for you and papa to quarrel.”
“Pity? It’s abominable, my child, when we might live together as peaceably as pigeons. But he shall have it his own way now. I’ve done. I’ll have no more of it I’m not a child.”
“What are you going to do, uncle?”
“Do? Pack up and go, this very day. Then he may come to my chambers and beg till all’s blue, but he’ll never persuade me to come out here again.”
“Oh, uncle! It will be so dull if you go away.”
“No, no, not it, my dear. You’ve got your captain; and there’ll be peace in the house then till he finds someone else to bully. Why, I might be one of his farm labourers; that I might. But there’s an end of it now.”
“But, uncle!” cried Glynne, looking perplexed and troubled, “come back with me into the library. I’m sure, if papa was in the wrong, he’ll be sorry.”
“If he was in the wrong! He was in the wrong. Me go to him? Not I. My mind’s made up. I’ll not have my old age embittered by his abominable temper. Don’t stop me, girl. I’m going, and nothing shall stay me now.”
“How tiresome it is!” said Glynne, softly, as her broad, white forehead grew full of wrinkles. “Dear uncle; he must not go. I must do something,” and then, with a smile dawning upon her perplexed face, she descended the stairs, and went softly to the library door, opened it gently, and found Sir John tramping up and down the Turkey carpet, like some wild beast in its cage.
“Who’s that? How dare you enter without – Oh, it’s you, Glynne.”
“Yes, papa. Uncle has gone upstairs and banged his door.”
“I’m glad of it; I’m very glad of it,” cried Sir John, “and I hope it’s for the last time.”
“What has been the matter, papa?” said Glynne, laying her hands upon his shoulders. “Sit down, dear, and tell me.”
“No, no, my dear, don’t bother me. I don’t want to sit down, Glynne.”
“Yes, yes, dear, and tell me all about it.”
Fighting against it all the while, the choleric baronet allowed himself to be pressed down into one of the easy-chairs, Glynne drawing a footstool to his side, sitting at his feet, and clasping and resting her hands upon his knees.
“Well, there, now; are you satisfied?” he said, half laughing, half angry.
“No, papa. I want to know why you and uncle quarrelled.”
“Oh, the old reason,” said Sir John, colouring. “He will be as obstinate as a mule, and the more you try to reason with him, the more he turns to you his hind legs and kicks.”
“Did you try to reason with Uncle James, papa?”
“Did I try to reason with him? Why, of course I did, but you might as well try to reason with a stone trough.”
“What was it about?” said Glynne, quietly.
“What was it about? Oh, about the – about the – bless my soul, what did it begin about? Some, some, some – dear me, how absurd, Glynne. He upset me so that it has completely gone out of my head. What do you mean? What do you mean by shaking your head like that? Confound it all, Glynne, are you going to turn against me?”
“Oh, papa, papa, how sad it is,” said Glynne, gently. “You have upset poor uncle like this all about some trifle of so little consequence that you have even forgotten what it was.”
“I beg your pardon, madam,” cried Sir John, trying to rise, but Glynne laid her hand upon his chest and kept him back. “It was no trifle, and it is no joke for your Uncle James to launch out in his confounded haughty, military way, and try to take the reins from my hands. I’m master here. I remember now; it was about Rob.”
“Indeed, papa!” said Glynne, with a sad tone in her voice.
“Yes, finding fault about his training. I don’t want him to go about like some confounded foot-racing fellow, but he’s my son-in-law elect, and he shall do as he pleases. What next, I wonder? Your uncle will be wanting to manage my farm.”
Glynne remained very thoughtful and silent for a few minutes, during which time her father continued to fume, and utter expressions of annoyance, till Glynne said suddenly as she looked up in his face, —
“You were wrong, papa, dear. You should not quarrel with Uncle James.”
“Wrong? Wrong? Why, the girl’s mad,” cried Sir John. “Do you approve of his taking your future husband to task over his amusements?”
“I don’t know,” said Glynne slowly, as she turned her great, frank-looking eyes upon her father. “I don’t know, papa, dear. I don’t think I do; but Uncle James is so good and wise, and I know he loves me very much.”
“Of course he does; so does everybody else,” cried the baronet, excitedly. “I should like to see the man who did not. But I will not have his interference here, and I’m very glad – very glad indeed – that he is going.”
“Uncle James meant it for the best, I’m sure, papa,” said Glynne, thoughtfully, “and it was wrong of you to quarrel with him.”
“I tell you I did not quarrel with him, Glynne; he quarrelled with me,” roared Sir John.
“And you ought to go and apologise to him.”
“I’d go and hang myself sooner. I’d sooner go and commit suicide in my new patent thrashing-machine.”
“Nonsense, papa, dear,” said Glynne quietly. “You ought to go and apologise. If you don’t, Uncle James will leave us.”
“Let him.”
“And then you will be very much put out and grieved.”
“And a good job too. I mean a good job if he’d leave, for then we should have peace in the place.”
“Now, papa!”
“I tell you I’d be very glad of it; a confounded peppery old Nero, talking to me as if I were a private under him. Bully me, indeed! I won’t stand it. There!”
“Papa, dear, go upstairs and apologise to Uncle James.”
“I won’t, Glynne. There’s an end of it now. Just because he can’t have everything his own way. He has never forgiven me for being the eldest son and taking the baronetcy. Was it my fault that I was born first?”
“Now, papa, dear, that’s talking at random; I don’t believe Uncle James ever envied you for having the title.”
“Then he shouldn’t act as if he did. Confound him!”
“Then you’ll go up and speak to him. Come, dear, don’t let’s have this cloud over the house!”
“Cloud? I’ll make it a regular tempest,” cried Sir John, furiously. “I’ll go upstairs and see that he does go, and at once. See if I ferret him out of his