“If we do not leave Honham, then Honham will leave us,” answered his daughter, with conviction. “I do not believe in chances. Chances always go the wrong way—against those who are looking for them. We shall be absolutely ruined, that is all.”
“Well, perhaps you are right, perhaps you are right, my dear,” said the old Squire wearily. “I only hope that my time may come first. I have lived here all my life, seventy years and more, and I know that I could not live anywhere else. But God’s will be done. And now, my dear, go to bed.”
She leant down and kissed him, and as she did so saw that his eyes were filled with tears. Not trusting herself to speak, for she felt for him too deeply to do so, she turned away and went, leaving the old man sitting there with his grey head bowed upon his breast.
CHAPTER VI.
LAWYER QUEST
The day following that of the conversation just described was one of those glorious autumn mornings which sometimes come as a faint compensation for the utter vileness and bitter disappointment of the season that in this country we dignify by the name of summer. Notwithstanding his vigils and melancholy of the night before, the Squire was up early, and Ida, who between one thing and another had not had the best of nights, heard his loud cheery voice shouting about the place for “George.”
Looking out of her bedroom window, she soon perceived that functionary himself, a long, lean, powerful-looking man with a melancholy face and a twinkle in his little grey eyes, hanging about the front steps. Presently her father emerged in a brilliant but ancient dressing gown, his white locks waving on the breeze.
“Here, George, where are you, George?”
“Here I be, sir.”
“Ah, yes; then why didn’t you say so? I have been shouting myself hoarse for you.”
“Yis, Squire,” replied the imperturbable George, “I hev been a-standing here for the last ten minutes, and I heard you.”