For an instant Luke Claridge stared at her, scarce comprehending that his movements were being directed by any one save himself. Truth was, Faith had come to her cross-roads in life. For the first time in her memory she had seen her father speak to an Eglington without harshness; and, as he weakened for a moment, she moved to take command of that weakness, though she meant it to seem like leading. While loving her and David profoundly, her father had ever been quietly imperious. If she could but gain ascendency even in a little, it might lead to a more open book of life for them both.
Eglington held out his hand to the old man. “I have kept you too long, sir. Good-bye—if you will.”
The offered hand was not taken, but Faith slid hers into the old man’s palm, and pressed it, and he said quietly to Eglington:
“Good evening, friend.”
“And when I bring my wife, sir?” Eglington added, with a smile.
“When thee brings the lady, there will be occasion to consider—there will be occasion then.”
Eglington raised his hat, and turned back upon the path he and Faith had travelled.
The old man stood watching him until he was out of view. Then he seemed more himself. Still holding Faith’s hand, he walked with her on the gorse-covered hill towards the graveyard.
“Was it his heart spoke or his tongue—is there any truth in him?” he asked at last.
Faith pressed his hand. “If he help Davy, father—”