"We never do know all other folk mean to us—not until they be snatched off. If anybody had told me how my son Rupert's going would have made such a difference, I'd not have believed it."
"Then think of this house. You feel that—you with your store of children and Rupert, after all, but gone a few miles away to go on with his work and marry the proper wife you deny him. But me—nought left—nought but emptiness—no 'Good morning, father'; no 'Good night, father'; no ear to listen; no voice to ask for my advice. And I'd plotted and planned for him, Vivian; I'd made half a hundred little secret plans for him. I knew well the gentle fashion of man he was—not likely ever to make a fighter—and so I'd cast his life in a mould where it could be easy. He'd have come to know in time. But he never did know. He went out of it in a hurry, and never hinted a whisper of what he was going to do. If he'd but given me the chance to argue it out with him!"
"We've acted alike, me and you," answered his brother; "and it ban't for any man to dare to say that either of us was wrong. When the young fall into error, 'tis our bounden duty to speak and save 'em if we've got the power. I don't hold with Rupert——"
"No need to drag in your affairs. That case is very different. I did not treat my son like a child; I did not forbid him to marry and turn him out of doors."
"Stay!" cried Vivian, growing red, "you mustn't speak so to me."
"What did you do if it wasn't that? No proud man can stay under the roof where he's treated like a child. But Mark—did I forbid? No. I only made it clear that I despised the woman he'd set his heart on. I only told him the bitter truth of her. If she'd clung to him through all, would I have turned him away or refused him? Never. 'Twould have made no difference. 'Twas not me kept 'em apart—as you are trying to keep apart your son and Saul Luscombe's niece—trying and failing. 'Twas the proud, empty, heartless female herself that left him."
"I'll hear nought against her," answered Vivian stoutly. "She's not proud and she's not empty. She's a very sensible woman, and this cruel piece of work has been a sad trouble to her. She left Mark because she felt that you hated her, and would torment her and make her married life a scourge to her back. Any woman with proper sense and self-respect would have done the like. 'Twas you and only you choked her off your son, and 'tis vain—'tis wicked to the girl—to say now that 'twas her fault. But I've not come to speak these things—only I won't hear lies told."
"You've heard 'em already, it seems. Who's been telling you this trash? Nathan Baskerville belike?"
"As a matter of fact 'tis my son Ned," answered Vivian. "You must surely know how things have fallen out? It happened long afore poor Mark died. Didn't he tell you?"
"He told me nought. What should he tell me? Ned he certainly wouldn't name, for he knew of all your brood I like your eldest son least—a lazy, worthless man, as all the world well knows but you."