“That’ll do,” said Mr Rowle quietly; then, “Mary, my dear, you can bring me my tea in the study.”
No one answered, and as we went back I remember thinking that if Mr Rowle was to be the new master at Cedar Hill he would soon send our old servants away. He walked back, smoking all the time, and seated himself in my father’s chair, staring hard at me the while.
“Shut the door, young un,” he said at last, and when I had obeyed, “sit down, and make your miserable life happy.”
My face began to work, and I had to battle hard to keep back the tears, as for a few minutes I could not speak, but sat there feeling sure Mr Rowle must think me sulky and strange; and it troubled me, for the old man seemed disposed to be kind.
“Poor boy!” he said all at once, and his voice seemed to me to come out of a cloud of smoke; “so you’ve lost both your father and your mother?”
“Yes, sir!” I said piteously.
“Hah! so have I,” said Mr Rowle, and he went on smoking.
I was thinking as I tried to stare at him through the smoke, that this must have been a very long time ago, when he quite startled me by seeming to read my thoughts, as he said suddenly:
“Yes; that’s a long time ago.”
“Yes, sir; I thought it must be,” I ventured to say; and then there was a long silence, during which I sat there wanting to go away, but not daring to stir, lest Mr Rowle should think me rude, and still he smoked on.