"I must call things by their right names, Alice. I call a cat, a cat;
and I call our Harry a thief; for I don't know that forcing money from a
father is any better than forcing it from a stranger. It is only using a
father's love as a pick-lock instead of an iron tool. That's all the
difference, Alice; and I don't think the difference is one that helps
Harry's case much. Eh? What?"
"Dear me! it is always money," sighed Charlotte.
"Your father knows very well that Harry must have the money, Charlotte.
I think it is cruel of him to make every one ill before he gives what is
sure to be given in the end. Sophia has a headache, I dare say, and I am
sure I have."
"But I cannot give him this money, Alice. I have not realized on my wool
and wheat yet. I cannot coin money. I will not beg or borrow it. I will
not mortgage an acre for it."
"And you will let your only son the heir of Sandal-Side, go to jail and
disgrace for five hundred pounds. I never heard tell of such cruelty.
Never, never, never!"
"You do not know what you are saying, Alice. Tell me how I am to find
five hundred pounds. Eh? What?"
"There must be ways. How can a woman tell?"
"Father, have I not got some money of my own?"
"You have the accrued interest on the thousand pounds your grandmother
left you. Sophia has the same."
"Is the interest sufficient?"
"You have drawn from it at intervals.
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