"If I had my choice, mother, I should prefer Miss Tickle."
"Because you are a silly boy. But what are you to do now?"
"In this long letter which he has written to my father does he give no reason?"
"Your father will show you the letter. Of course he gives reasons. He says that you have done something which you ought not to have done--about that wretched Mountjoy Scarborough."
"What does he know about it?--the idiot!"
"Well, mother, what better can I say of him? He has taken me as a child and fashioned my life for me; has said that this property should be mine, and has put an income into my hand as though I were an eldest son; has repeatedly declared, when his voice was more potent than mine, that I should follow no profession. He has bound himself to me, telling all the world that I was his heir. And now he casts me out because he has heard some cock-and-bull story, of the truth of which he knows nothing. What better can I say of him than call him an idiot? He must be that or else a heartless knave. And he says that he does not mean to see me,--me with whose life he has thus been empowered to interfere, so as to blast it if not to bless it, and intends to turn me adrift as he might do a dog that did not suit him! And because he knows that he cannot answer me he declares that he will not see me."
"Therefore I call him an idiot in preference to calling him a knave. But I am not going to be dropped out of the running in that way, just in deference to his will. I shall see him. Unless they lock him up in his bedroom I shall compel him to see me."
"What good would that do, Harry? That would only set him more against you."
"He will not see me, because he will have to yield when he hears what I have to say for myself. He knows that, and would therefore fain keep away from me. Why should he be stirred to this animosity against me?"
"Because there is some one who wishes to injure me more strong than he is, and who has got hold of him. Some one has lied behind my back."
"Ah, that is the question. But I know who has done it, though I will not name him just now. This enemy of mine, knowing him to be weak,--knowing him to be an idiot, has got hold of him and persuaded him. He believes the story which is told to him, and then feels happy in shaking off an incubus. No doubt I have not been very soft with him,--nor, indeed, hard. I have kept out of his way, and he is willing to resent it; but he is afraid to face me and tell me that it is so. Here are the girls come back from Buntingford. Molly, you blooming young bride, I wish you joy of your brewer."