The adventurer clasped it in a strong, hard grip. Then without another word he turned and strode away down the avenue at a most astonishing pace for one of his apparent years.
Chapter Twenty Three.
After the Blow.
Facing round to return to the house the sight of the latter met Wagram as with a blow. The last time he had looked upon it from outside, barely half-an-hour ago, it had been with the love of it and everything about it—that pride of possession which had become unconsciously a part of his very life. Now all was swept away. He passed his hand over his eyes as though dazzled; even his walk seemed swaying and unsteady, as that of a man recovering from a stunning shock. But not of himself must he think just then. He must do what he could to mitigate the stroke as regarded his father, he told himself; afterwards he might indulge in the “luxury” of self-pity.
The old Squire was sitting in the library just where he had left him, and as many years seemed to have gone over his head as minutes during the time intervening.
“Well, father, this is rather a facer,” he began. “The next thing is to consider what’s to be done.”
“There’s nothing to be done,” answered the old man wearily. “Do you think that scoundrel means to keep his word?”
“To do him justice, I think he means to at present; but whether his good intentions will evaporate with the lapse of time, and the temptation to try and extract more plunder, is another matter.”