He walked off, snapping his fingers on either side of him.
When he was gone, I took my father’s arm and passed it through mine.
“Strong boy,” he said, affectionately—then whispered in my ear: “That’s a terrible man, Renalt! Be careful before you offend him.”
I looked at him in startled wonder. This was not how he was used to speak.
“I hold him as cheap as any other dog,” said I.
He patted my hand with a little sigh of comfortable admiration.
“I want you at home,” he said, “all to myself. I’m glad that you’ve come, Renalt. It’s lonely in the old mill nowadays.”
As we walked, my heart was filled with remorseful pondering over the wrecked figure at my side. Why had I never known of this change in it? What had caused it, indeed? Gloomy, sinister remembrances of my one-time suspicion of some nameless hold that the doctor had over my father stirred in me and woke a deep anger against fate. Were we all of us, for no fault of our own, to be forever stunted in our lives and oppressed by the malign influence of the place that had given us birth? It was hateful and monstrous. What fight could a human being show against foes who shot their poison from places beyond the limits of his understanding?
A trifle more aged looking—a trifle more crazy and dark and weather-stained—the old mill looked to my returning vision, and that was all. The atmosphere of the place was cold and eerie and haunted as ever.
But a great feast awaited the returned prodigal. The sitting-room table fairly sparkled with unwonted dainties of the season, and a red fire crackled on the hearth.