“Except one to Nathanael from Frederick,” observed the Beauty.
At the name of his eldest son the Squire's mien became a little graver—a little statelier. He said coldly, “Nathanael, I hope you have pleasant news from your brother. Where is he now?”
“In the British Channel, on his way to the Continent.”
“My son going abroad, and I never heard of it! Some mistake, surely. He is not really gone?”
“Yes, father, for a year, or perhaps more—but certainly a year.”
The old gentleman's fingers nervously clutched the handle of his riding-whip. “If so, Frederick would certainly have shown his father the respect of informing him first. Excuse me if I doubt whether my son's plans are quite decided.”
“They are indeed, sir,” said Nathanael gently. “And I was aware of, indeed advised, this journey. He bids me explain to you that when this letter arrives he will be already gone.”
The father started—and broke the whip he was playing with. He stood a minute, the dull red mounting to his temples and lying there like a cloud. Then he took the fragments of the riding-whip from his son's ready hand—thanked him—bade good morning to the womenkind all round, and left them.
“Shall I ride with you, father?” said Nathanael, following him to the hall-door, with a concerned air.
“Not to-day—I thank you! Not to-day.”