The Squire dined alone that night, and after dinner sat long alone before his library fire—how long he scarcely knew; but Narracott, the butler, had put up the bolts and retired, leaving only the staircase-lantern burning, when Father Halloran knocked at the library door and was bidden to enter.
"I wished to speak with you about Walter—to learn your decision," he explained. "You have not seen him?"
"Not since he came to explain himself."
"He is in his room, I believe. He is to be ready at eight to-morrow to start with me for Plymouth."
"I looked for that decision," said the priest, after a moment's silence.
"Would you have suggested another?" The question came sharp and stern; but a moment later the Squire mollified it, turning to the priest and looking him straight in the eyes. "Excuse me; I am sure you would not."
"I thank you," was the answer. "No: since I have leave to say so, I think you have taken the only right course."
The two men still faced one another. Fate had made them antagonists in this house, and the antagonism had lasted over many years. But no petulant word had ever broken down the barrier of courtesy between them: each knew the other to be a gentleman.
"Father Halloran," said the Squire gravely, "I will confess to you that I have been tempted. If I could honestly have spared the lad—"
"I know," said the priest, and nodded while Mr. à Cleeve seemed to search for a word. "If any sacrifice of your own could stand for payment, you could have offered it, sir."