He saw my hesitation, and said quietly:
“I shall be upstairs if you want me, Antony. I think I will go now.”
He left the room.
“Well, Mary, who’s the mysterious stranger?” I said.
“Oh, Master Antony,” she cried excitedly, “whoever do you think it is? I hope it don’t mean trouble. Some one from the country.”
“Not Blakeford?” I exclaimed, with all my budding manhood seeming to be frozen down on the instant, and my boyish dread ready to return.
“No, my dear, not old Blakeford,” she said; “but that other old Mr Rowle.”
“Old Mr Rowle!” I cried excitedly, as, like a flash, all my former intercourse with him darted back—the day when he came and took possession of our dear home; our meals together; the bit of dinner in the summer-house; and his kindly help with money and advice when I was about to run away. Why, I felt that it was to him that I owed all my success in life, and my heart smote me as I thought of my ingratitude, and how I seemed to have forgotten him since I had become so prosperous and well-to-do.
“Yes,” said Mary, “old Mr Rowle. He’s standing at the door, my dear; he said he was so shabby he wouldn’t come in.”
Thank God, I was only a boy still, and full of youthful freshness and enthusiasm! I forgot all my dandyism and dress, everything, in the excitement of seeing the old man again; and almost before Mary had done speaking, I was bounding down the stairs to rush through the big hall and catch hold of the little old man standing on the steps.