He is the head of the
family--your master and mine. Ah! this seems to disturb you. You
will find him full of insatiable greed for wealth, a greed which
has been whetted by twenty years' waiting. You may yet see the
day when you will regret the paltry twenty thousand francs a year
formerly given you by your poor mother."
Wilkie's face was whiter than his shirt. "You are deceiving me,"
he stammered.
"To-morrow I will show you my marriage certificate."
"Why not this evening?"
"Because it is locked up in a room which is now full of people."
"And what was my father's name?"
"Arthur Gordon--he is an American."
"Then my name is Wilkie Gordon?"
"Yes."
"And---is my father rich?" he inquired.
"No."
"What does he do?"
"Everything that a man can do when he has a taste for luxury and a
horror for work."
This reply was so explicit in its brevity, and implied so many
terrible accusations, that Wilkie was dismayed. "The devil!" he
exclaimed, "and where does he live!"
"He lives at Baden or Homburg in the summer; in Paris or at Monaco
in the winter."
"Oh! oh! oh!" ejaculated Wilkie, in three different tones. He
knew what he had to expect from such a father as that. Anger now
followed stupor--one of those terrible, white rages which stir the
bile and not the blood. He saw his hopes and his cherished
visions fade.
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