Night fell, and he had not moved; and then, in a strange, fitful, dreamy fashion, the night passed away.
He must have dozed at times, he knew; for his thoughts had wandered off into dreams, and the dreams had trailed off in turn into thoughts; and now it was morning, for the grey light was streaming through the antique casement, and a feint glow overhead told of the rising sun.
He threw open the windows, and the cool morning breeze, fresh from the Atlantic, seemed to calm and refresh him. His thoughts grew more collected; and at last he left the window, and went out into the hall, to seek his bedroom.
A bitter smile crossed his lip as he noticed the luxurious air of wealth about him, and then a sigh drew his attention to the fact that the cause of all his agony had been watching at his door the night through, and was now on her knees stretching out her hands as if in supplication for pardon.
“Oh, my boy—my boy, what are you going to do,” she groaned.
“Do?” he said, bitterly, as she crept to his feet. “Act like the gentleman you wanted me to be.”
“What do you mean, Richard—my son? There, I give up about Polly. I’ll never say another word. You shall do as you like.”
“I need not ask you if what you told me yesterday was true,” he said, calmly. “Well, we must make amends.”
“How? What do you mean?” she said, starting up.
“Mean? Why, by giving up everything to the rightful owner, and leaving him possession at once.”