style="font-size:15px;"> “But the thing’s done, man – the thing’s done.”
“Then why do you send the fellow to me?”
“Well, I thought it would be a bit civil to you, Jem, and respectful, and – ”
“It is not either,” cried the major. “I look upon it, knowing as you do how I am attached to Glynne, as a regular insult.”
“Now, what nonsense, Jem.”
“It is not nonsense, Jack. The fellow is a mere machine – a good-looking, well-built machine, with not a thought above low-class footraces, and training, and rowing, and football, and cricket.”
“And not bad things either,” said the baronet, hotly.
“No, sir,” replied the major, drawing himself up, “not bad things, but good things if a young man takes to them as amusements to keep his nature in subjection, and to bring it to its finest state of development, that he may have a sound brain in a sound body.”
“Hear, hear!” cried Sir John.
“But bad, rotten, and blackguardly things when a man gives the whole of his mind to them, and has no more ambition than leads him to be the winner of a cup in a walking match.”
“Oh, rubbish!” cried the baronet, warmly. “Rolph’s a gentleman.”
“Then he’s a confoundedly bad specimen of the class, Jack.”
“You’re as prejudiced as an old woman, Jem,” cried the baronet, angrily.
“Perhaps I am,” replied his brother: “but it isn’t prejudice to see that this fellow can’t talk to a girl on any subject but athletics. I haven’t patience with him. I always hated to see him here.”
“And I haven’t patience with you, Jem; ’pon my honour, I haven’t. Why, what next? Here, out of respect to you as my brother, I sent my daughter’s future husband to you, and you tell me to my face that you will insult him. I won’t have it, sir; I say I won’t have it. You’re intolerable. You’re getting beyond bearing, and – and – confound it all, I will not have it! Pretty thing, indeed, when a man mayn’t choose a husband for his own child.”
The baronet took a few strides this way and that way, grew scarlet as he spoke, and ended by taking off his grey hat and dabbing his shining forehead.
“I’ve too much love for Glynne, and too much respect for her mother’s memory to stand by silently and see such a miserable bargain concluded; and I enter my protest against what must turn out an unhappy match,” said the major.
“It will turn out nothing of the sort, sir,” cried the baronet, hotly; “and, look here, Jem, it’s time we came to an understanding. I will not have your dictatorial mess-room manners brought into my establishment; and I tell you once for all, if you can’t conform to the simple home life of a country squire’s house, the sooner you go, sir, the better.”
The major stuck his stick into the turf with a furious stab, as if he had a feud with mother earth; then, dragging round the creel he banged the bright trowel with which he had been gesticulating into the basket, and giving the wicker a swing back, caught up his stick and strode away without a word.
“Confound his insolence!” cried Sir John furiously, “I won’t have it. My own brother: my junior by two hours! A man who has been petted and pampered too, because – because he is my brother – because he has been in the wars – because – because – because he is – my brother – because – hang it all!” he roared, stamping heavily on the turf. “What an abominably hasty temper I have got. He’ll pack up and go, and – here! – hi! – Jem! – Jem!”
The baronet was stout, but it was the active, muscular stoutness of a man constantly in the open air: he did not suffer from the abnormal size of that which Punch’s fashionable tailor called his middle-aged customer’s chest, so that it required little effort on his part to set off at a trot after his brother, who heard his shouts and his pursuing steps, but paid no heed to each summons; for, with head erect, and his stick carried as a military man bears his sabre on the route, he marched steadily on with the regular swinging pace of a well-drilled soldier.
“Jem! Hold hard! Jem, old fellow,” cried the baronet, overtaking him; but the major kept on without turning his head.
“Jem! Here, I beg your pardon. I lost my temper. I’m a passionate old fool.”
Still there was no response, and the major passed on; but his brother now took tight hold of his arm.
“Jem! Come, I say. Don’t you hear me? I beg your pardon, I say. Hang it all, old boy, do you want me to go down upon my knees.”
“No, Jack,” cried the major, stopping short and facing him, “I don’t; but you told me I’d better go.”
“Yes: in a passion; but you know I don’t mean what I say. Here, shake hands, old boy. I say, though, what a peppery old fire-eater you are!”
“Am I, Jack?” said the major, with a grim smile.
“No, no; I mean I am. Look here, old chap, I’m sure there’s a membrane, or a strap, or a nerve, or something of that sort, given way inside me. It lets my temper out, and then I say things I don’t mean.”
“It must have given way a great many years ago, Jack,” said the major, drily.
“Oh, come, Jem! Hang it all, old fellow, I’ve begged your pardon. I’ve humbled myself to you. Don’t jump on a man when he’s down. ’Tisn’t chivalrous; it isn’t indeed.”
“Then you don’t want me to go?”
“Go? Now look here, Jem, do try and be reasonable. What should I do without you?”
“Well then, I’ll stop this time; but really, Jack, if ever you insult me again like that, I can have my old chambers in St James’s, close to the club, and I shall go back to town.”
“Go along with you!” cried Sir John. “Don’t talk nonsense. We’re getting old boys now, Jem, and you’ll stop along with me to the end.”
“Yes, we’re getting old, Jack, very fast indeed,” said the major, as his brother laid a hand affectionately upon his shoulder just as he used in old school-boy days; “time gallops away now.”
“Ay, it does; and that’s why I can’t help feeling a bit anxious about seeing Glynne happily settled in life.”
“And it ought to make you the more particular about – ”
“Hush!” cried the baronet, interrupting him sharply, “the girls! Oh, hang it! how can Glynne be so absurd.”
Volume One – Chapter Four.
Serpens
Sir John and his brother had just reached an opening in Brackley Wood, a fine old pheasant preserve, when the former became aware of the fact that his child and the lady whom she had of late made her companion and friend, were seated in the shade cast by a venerable oak, Glynne painting in front of her easel, upon which were the skilful beginnings of an oil picture representing a rough looking gipsy seated upon a tree stump, in the act of carving the knob of a stick with his long Spanish
