"He came back about twelve," she went on, "and changed his clothes. His servant was out, but he left word for him to pack and follow him to Blaythorn. He wrote you a letter before he went."
"Where is it?" asked the Squire. "Didn't you see him before he went? Didn't you speak to him?" He went out of the room and into his own, and Mrs. Clinton followed him.
"I did see him," she said, as the Squire went to his writing-table where an envelope was lying on the silver-mounted blotting-pad. "He said that you had made it impossible for him to remain at home, and he bade me good-bye, but he did not tell me anything more."
But the Squire was not listening to her. He turned the page of the letter and then put it into her hand. "Read that," he said.
"Dear Father" [it ran],
"I had hoped at least that you would have consented to meet the woman I am going to marry. If you had you would have seen how unlike she is to your ideas of her and that I am doing myself honour by my choice. You have made the situation impossible now, and I cannot return to Kencote until you consent to receive my affianced wife with the respect due to her.
"Your affectionate son,
"RICHARD CLINTON."
The Squire's face was purple, but he controlled the violent expression of his anger. "His affianced wife!" he exclaimed scornfully. "So now we have it all, and I was right from the beginning. Well, if he waits till I receive her he may wait till I'm in my coffin. I told him this morning I would not recognise her, now or at any time, and I'll stick to my word. He has chosen to fight me, and he will find that I'm ready." He spoke bitterly, but firmly, and as if he meant everything that he said.
Mrs. Clinton laid the letter on the table. Her face was serious, and paler than its wont. "Have you seen her, Edward?" she asked. "Is she so impossible?"
"Seen her! Impossible!" echoed the Squire, with a return to the unbridled violence he usually showed when he was disturbed. "Yes, I've seen her, and she's as impossible as a wife for the heir of Kencote as any woman on the face of the earth—a painted hussy, hand in glove with the worst sort of vicious loafer, puffing cigarettes in the face of a whole crowd of respectable people, shamelessly breaking up sport—oh, I've seen her, and seen enough of her. To my dying day I'll never willingly see her again, and if that means breaking with Dick I'll break with him till he comes to his senses. I mean it. If she is going to stay here to hunt with the South Meadshire, then I'll go and hunt somewhere else until she's gone; or I won't hunt at all. Yes, she's impossible. You've spoken the right word. I shouldn't be doing my duty if I left any stone unturned to put an end to Dick's unaccountable folly. He'll thank me for it some day, and I'll put up with all and every unhappiness until that day comes."