"You
have no right to say such things to me, Sir," he cried, "for you know well
enough"--
"I know well enough that you are a crack-brained jackanapes, with your
damned fantastics!" bellowed Mac, angry in his turn. "What do you
mean,--you, who are a perfect little saint in your life,--what do you mean
by thrusting all these foul heresies at me, as if you were a veritable
citizen of Sodom, or a rejuvenized Faust, who have just replenished your
stock of 'experiences,' as you call them, by seducing Margaret and stabbing
her brother? Burn your books, if that filth is all they teach you,--and
mend your manners, if you expect to be tolerated in respectable
company. Good-bye!" cried he, as Clarian rushed white-heated from the room.
"Pshaw, Ned, spare your remonstrances, if you please,--I'm tired of the
little fool's nonsense."
"But the boy is sick, my dear fellow, and requires to be treated more
gently. His mind is diseased, and it would not take much to drive him quite
desperate."
"No such good luck, Ned. I wish I _could_ make him pitch into somebody or
something. Nothing would do the beggar so much good, just now, as to get
himself into a regular scrape. It would act like a shower-bath, wake him
up, and purge him of these dismal humors."
"Still, you would not like to have it said that _you_ were the cause of his
getting into any difficulty; and you know very well he is not one to
extricate himself easily, if once involved.
Pages:
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191