He must not sail with Mr. Drake."
The old man's face flared up again in anger.
"He may follow his own devices," he cried. "I care not what he does. He
has given up the post that I asked for him; and he comes striding and
ruffling home with his hat cocked and--and----"; his voice became
inarticulate.
"He is only a boy, sweetheart; with a boy's hot blood--you would sooner
have him like that than a milk-sop. Besides--he is our boy."
The old man growled. His wife went on:
"And now that James cannot have the estate, he must have it, as you know,
and carry on the old name."
"He has disgraced it," burst out the angry old man, "and he is going now
with that damned Protestant to harry Catholics. By the grace of God I
love my country, and would serve her Grace with my heart's blood--but
that my boy should go with Drake----!" and again his voice failed.
It was a couple of days before she could obtain her husband's leave to
write a conciliatory letter, giving leave to Hubert to go with Drake, if
he had made any positive engagement (because, as she represented to Sir
Nicholas, there was nothing actually wrong or disloyal to the Faith in
it)--but entreating him with much pathos not to leave his old parents so
bitterly.
* * * *
"Oh, my dear son," the end of the letter ran, "your father is old; and
God, in whose hand are our days, alone knows how long he will live; and
I, too, my son, am old. So come back to us and be our dear child again.
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