In the morning he breakfasted alone. A son with a different sort of mother, might then have sought her in her bedroom; but John had never within his memory seen his mother in her bedroom, and after what lie had heard the night before, could hardly be inclined to go there to her now. Within half an hour, however, a message was brought him, requesting his presence in her ladyship's dressing-room.

He went with his teeth set.

“Whose horse is that in the stable, John?” she said, the moment their eyes met.

“Mr. Whichcote's, madam,” answered John: mother he could not say.

“You intend to keep up your late relations with those persons?”

“I do.”

“You mean to marry the hussy?”

“I mean to marry the lady to whom you give that epithet. There are those who think it not quite safe for you to call other people names!”

She rose and came at him as if she would strike him. John stood motionless. Except a woman had a knife in her hand, he said, he would not even avoid a blow from her. “A woman can't hurt you much; she can only break your heart!” he said. “My mother would not know a heart when she had broken it!” he added.

He stood and looked at her.

She turned away, and sat down again. I think she felt the term of her power at hand.

“The man told you then, that, if you did not return immediately, I would get him into trouble?”

“He has told me nothing. I have not seen him for some days. I have been to London.”

“You should have contrived your story better: you contradict yourself.”

“I am not aware that I do.”

“You have the man's horse!”

“His horse is in my stable; he is not himself at home.”

“Fled from justice! It shall not avail him!”

“It may avail you though, madam! It is sometimes prudent to let well alone. May I not suggest that a hostile attempt on your part, might lead to awkward revelations?”

“Ah, where could the seed of slander find fitter soil than the heart of a son with whom the prayer of his mother is powerless!”

To all appearance she had thoroughly regained her composure, and looked at him with a quite artistic reproach.

“The prayer of a mother that never prayed in her life!” returned John; “—of a woman that never had an anxiety but for herself!—I don't believe you are my mother. If I was born of you, there must have been some juggling with my soul in antenatal regions! I disown you!” cried John with indignation that grew as he gave it issue.

Her face turned ashy white; but whether it was from conscience or fear, or only with rage, who could tell!

She was silent for a moment. Then again recovering herself,—

“And what, pray, would you make of me?” she said coolly. “Your slave?”

“I would have you an honest woman! I would die for that!—Oh, mother! mother!” he cried bitterly.

“That being apparently impossible, what else does my dutiful son demand of his mother?”

“That she should leave me unmolested in my choice of a wife. It does not seem to me an unreasonable demand!”

“Nor does it seem to me an unreasonable reply, that any mother would object to her son's marrying a girl whose father she could throw into a felon's-prison with a word!”

“That the girl does not happen to be the daughter of the gentleman you mean, signifies nothing: I am very willing she should pass for such. But take care. He is ready to meet whatever you have to say. He is not gone for his own sake, but to be out of the way of our happiness—to prevent you from blasting us with a public scandal. If you proceed in your purpose, we shall marry at once, and make your scheme futile.”

“How are you to live, pray?”

“Madam, that is my business,” answered John.

“Are you aware of the penalty on your marrying without my consent?” pursued his mother.

“I am not. I do not believe there is any such penalty.”

“You dare me?”

“I do.”

“Marry, then, and take the consequences.”

“If there were any, you would not thus warn me of them.”

“John Day, you are no gentleman!”

“I shall not ask your definition of a gentleman, madam.”

“Your father was a clown!”

“If my father were present, he would show himself a gentleman by making you no answer. If you say a word more against him, I will leave the room.”

“I tell you your father was a clown and a fool—like yourself!”

John turned and went to the stable, had old Sturdy saddled, and came to me.

On his way over the heath, he spent an hour trying to find the place where he had been the night before, but without success. I presume that Sturdy, with his nose in that direction, preferred his stall, and did not choose to find the quarry. As often as John left him to himself, he went homeward. When John turned his head in another direction, he would set out in that direction, but gradually work round for the farm.

John told me all I have just set down, and then we talked.

“I have already begun to learn farming,” I said.

“You are the right sort, Orbie!” returned John. “I shall be glad to teach you anything I know.”

“If you will show me how a farmer keeps his books,” I answered, “that I may understand the bailiff's, I shall be greatly obliged to you. As to the dairy, and poultry-yard, and that kind of thing, Martha can teach me as well as any.”

“I'll do my best,” said John.

“Come along then, and have a talk with Simmons! I feel as if I could bear anything after what you saw last night. My uncle is not far off! He is somewhere about with the rest of the angels!”