Hugh passed out through the confusion to the front of the house, where the carts were loading, and with a rather dubious foreboding crossed the terrace to the east wing. Within, the hall was cool and dark with long afternoon shadows; the din of the western quarter drifted hither only faintly, so his mind went back with a vaguely homesick feeling to the peaceful, humdrum days at Everscombe a year ago. It seemed like a bit of the old life to go to the door of the east parlor and knock and hear his grandfather’s voice bidding him enter.
But once inside, Hugh knew a year had passed since last he faced Master Oldesworth there. Not only did a glance at his own buff coat and high boots, his sword and bandaged arm recall the change, but he could see his grandfather bent a little in his chair, and his head looked whiter even than it had looked two days before. The old man was sitting by the window, but at Hugh’s step he turned toward him with a cold, angry face that made the boy hesitate at first; then taking courage he repeated his father’s message respectfully. Master Oldesworth’s face relaxed a little at the word of Captain Oldesworth, and at that Hugh ventured to add in his own behalf: “And, aside from my father’s message, sir, I wished to come hither and thank you that you used me so kindly the other day.”
“I would use you still better if your stiff-necked childishness did not prevent,” the old man answered sternly. “So you will yet refuse what I would offer and follow this man because he is your father?”
“Nay, ’tis not for that now, sir,” Hugh replied happily, “’tis because he saved my life yesterday, and he has made me his officer. ’Tis because I know him to be a valiant and a kindly gentleman, though his temper is hot. And I must go, too, because my friends all fight for the same cause as he.”
“So you will play your mother’s part over again,” Master Oldesworth said sharply, and gazed out at the window so long that Hugh made a motion to go, when the old man rose and bade him come to him. “You are set to go your own way, and ’tis a foolish way,” he began, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “’Twas her way, too. Yet spite of all I loved her best of all my daughters or yet of my sons. Well, well, Hugh, I would not say it the first time you went, but now if God can look on a man who fights in so unjust a cause I pray He may keep you uncorrupted and turn your heart aright while there is time. Now go your way.”
He turned to the window, and Hugh murmured that he thanked him from his heart and would strive never to shame him by his conduct.
Then he passed out into the hall again, and, with his mind on what had just been said, was stepping slowly to the door, when from the stairway he heard his name called. Before he faced about he knew it was his sharp-tongued Aunt Delia, but the sensitive boyish dread of her was all gone now. He turned back briskly to learn her bidding, and as he turned he perceived Lois Campion standing by her at the foot of the stairs. “’Tis well you have come back, Hugh Gwyeth,” Mistress Oldesworth began in a cutting voice that might have made Hugh wince, only he told himself that she was Peregrine’s mother, and Peregrine was a coward and a runaway; she had need of words to vent her bitter sorrow. “There is one here maybe has claim on you, if you still hold in remembrance this gentlewoman,” she went on, leading Lois forward. “She has remembered you so well that she has forgotten her duty to her kindred and to—”
“Let me go, aunt!” Lois cried in a smothered tone. She had brushed by Hugh and run out at the open door before he fully comprehended, and without a glance at Mistress Oldesworth he ran after.
Out under the elms of the east terrace he overtook Lois, and catching her hand made her stay. “What is it? What does it mean?” he urged.
“Nothing,” she answered, with her head erect and her cheeks blazing. “Only, I can never go under that woman’s roof again. Some things even a poor weak-spirited creature like a girl will not endure.”