“Wrong!” cried Lady Curtis, rising in her indignation and pain. “Do you call it right to bring misery and disgrace into a family, to break off all his old ties for a new one, to throw off father and mother, and duty and honour, for the sake of a fancy, for the sake of a pretty face? What does he know more of her than a pretty face? Love! is that what can be called love?--for the sake of his own will and self-indulgence, the unkind, selfish boy!” And then she sat down again and cried bitterly, which was a relief to her. Sir John could not cry, but he got angry, which was a relief to him. “Let me never hear you excuse him again,” he cried, “or you will make me fear that you are not to be trusted either. What, Lucy! you think children are not to be expected to obey their parents--you, a girl! Then, God help us, what have we to expect, your mother and I?--our only boy lost to us in a disgraceful connection, and our only girl ready to follow his example.” “Papa!” cried Lucy, indignant, yet trembling. “Is that the prospect before us? It is kind of you to give us warning: and to take such a moment for doing it, when we are crushed sufficiently, I should think.” Then he changed from this pathetic, sarcastic tone, and turned upon her with fierce and threatening looks. “But mind you, Lucy, I’ll shut you up, as fathers had a right to do once. I’ll keep you on bread and water--by Heaven, I will--before you disgrace yourself like Arthur, right or wrong!” “Hush, hush!” cried Lady Curtis, roused. “Oh, John, you forget yourself. Lucy, Lucy, your papa does not mean it. We don’t distrust you. Fancy distrusting Lucy, our Lucy, John! Oh, we are not come to that!” and she went to her daughter, and kissed her, and held her close in her arms. Lucy had not said a word, but she had raised her head as her father vituperated, and fixed her eyes upon him steadily. She was not a girl to be frightened; but her mother grew frightened looking at her, and seeing the pale indignation and firmness in her face. “Of course, I never meant that,” said Sir John, fretfully, sitting down in his chair with an angry _thud_ which seemed but an echo of his sigh. “Why do you put your fantastic meanings into a man’s plain words? Hadn’t you better go and get your things off, and make yourselves comfortable? And you can send me a cup of tea. It is all this wretched, depressing day.” CHAPTER XIV.