The squire brought his eyes round to my face. "I don't know the reason that he left," said he. And although I said nothing, I suppose there was some sort of an appealing look in my face that made him go on: "I only know that he came to me the night before your father was taken ill, and asked me, as a friend, to see after his work for him until a substitute could be found, because he was obliged to leave immediately. I asked no questions, and he told me nothing. Of course I was glad to do what I could for—you all."
He was silent, but I felt his eyes upon me. I met them, with that tender, pitying gaze in them, when at last I lifted mine.
"Mr. Broderick," said I—and I felt that my voice faltered—"will you give me his address? I must write to him. There is something that I must say to him. I thought I should have seen him again, but—I must write it."
He took out his note-book and wrote it down, handing me the leaf that he tore out.
I don't think I even thanked him; I don't think I said good-bye; I just walked out of the door. The squire followed me for a few, steps. "I want to have a talk with you soon about your father's affairs," said he, trying to reach a cheerful and commonplace tone of voice.
"Yes—some day," said I, in a dull way. And I don't think I even turned round again to look at him.
It was very rough, very ungrateful of me, but I couldn't bear another word. The only thought in my heart was to be at home—to be alone—to write my letter. I tore down the lane under the pine-trees in the gloaming. I ran so fast that I did not even notice two figures that passed me under the shadow of the wall on the opposite side; their heads were close together, and the woman, who was much shorter than the man, clung very close to his tall, slim person. It was not till some days afterwards that it occurred to me who those figures had been.
I had not even a word for poor Taffy, who sprang upon me reproachfully as I opened the gate of the farm-yard. I had forgotten to take him, but I had no thought even for that dumb and faithful companion just then; I only wanted to write my letter.
I wrote it, but it was returned to me from the dead-letter office. Two days afterwards Deborah, taking courage at last to clean up the poor deserted parlor, found another letter in the old Nankin jar on the mantle-piece, which served well enough as an answer to mine although it was sent so long before it; it was the letter which Trayton Harrod had written to father the day before he left.