“Restful”—his thoughts dwelt upon that word. He leaned back, covering his eyes. These seven years he had given himself no time for anything save work—hard, persistent work that had kept him from despair. But it had worn him down. His face had thinned, his hair grown grey at the temples, his shoulders rounded, his step become less elastic. Rest—he needed it. And “to read or ride or ramble” held a promise of pleasure and recuperation.
He lifted his head presently and touched a bell. It was answered by the man-servant, young and soft of foot, who approached, as Heaton had, with an air at once respectful and anxiously inquiring.
“Did you ring, sir?”
“Yes, Thomas. I’m going out of town for a couple of weeks. Pack what I’ll need—right off.” A moment ago, he had wavered over deciding. Now, of a sudden, and almost unaccountably, as though roused by a sense of coming freedom, Austin was all eagerness to get away from the lonely house, the wearing office, the noisy town.
“Will you want me to go with you, sir?”
“No,—no, I think not. You may have two weeks for yourself. Send this wire.” He scribbled a few words hastily, then rose.
“Mr. Knowles,—please.” Thomas, having received the telegram, was halted irresolutely at the door. “If I may ask, sir, if—if you’d object——”
“What, Thomas?” Austin turned, smiling encouragement.
“I’d—I’d—like to get married, sir, while you’re gone. I’d be settled and ready for my duties when you came back. It’s a young lady I’ve known a good while, sir, and we could rent that little cottage just back of here—the one with the nasturtiums over the porch. Maybe you recall it, sir.”
The smile warmed into kindness. “Marry? Why, of course,” Austin said heartily. “And, I congratulate you.”