William hung his head.
“George, there is a distress upon the farm for the rent.”
George did not speak at first, he literally staggered under these words; his proud spirit writhed in his countenance, and with a groan, he turned his back abruptly upon them all and hid his face against the corner of his own house, the cold hard bricks.
Meadows, by strong self-command, contrived not to move a muscle of his face.
Up to this day and hour, Susan Merton had always seemed cool, compared with her lover; she used to treat him a little de haut en bas.
But when she saw his shame and despair, she was much distressed.
“George, George!” she cried, “don't do so. Can nothing be done? Where is my father?—they told me he was here. He is rich, he shall help you.” She darted from them in search of Merton; ere she could turn the angle of the house he met her.
“You had better go home, my girl,” said he gravely.
“Oh, no, no! I have been too unkind to George already,” and she turned toward him like a pitying angel with hands extended as if they would bring balm to a hurt soul.
Meadows left chuckling and was red and white by turns.