“Certainly I will go, if necessary,” answered Morris. “But I thought you told me a few months ago that it was quite impossible to execute those alterations, on account of the expense.”
“Yes, yes; but I have consulted with your uncle here, and the matter has been arranged. Hasn’t it, John?”
Mr. Porson was seated at the end of the table, and Morris, looking at him, noticed with a shock how old he had suddenly become. His plump, cheerful face had fallen in; the cheeks were quite hollow now; his jaws seemed to protrude, and the skin upon his bald head to be drawn quite tight like the parchment on a drum.
“Of course, of course, Colonel,” he answered, lifting his chin from his breast, upon which it was resting, “arranged, quite satisfactorily arranged.” Then he looked about rather vacantly, for his mind, it was clear, was far away, and added, “Do you want: I mean, were you talking about the new drainage mill for the salt marshes?” Mary interrupted and explained.
“Yes, yes; how stupid of me! I am afraid I am getting a little deaf, and this air makes me so sleepy in the morning. Now, just tell me again, what is it?”
Mary explained further.
“Morris to go and see about it. Well, why shouldn’t he? It doesn’t take long to get home nowadays. Not but that we shall be sorry to lose you, my dear boy; or, at least, one of us will be sorry,” and he tried to wink in his old jovial fashion, and chuckled feebly.
Mary saw and sighed; while the Colonel shook his head portentously. Nobody could play the part of Job’s comforter to greater perfection.
The end of it was that, after a certain space of hesitation, Morris agreed to go. This “ménage” at Beaulieu oppressed him, and he hated the place. Besides, Mary, seeing that he was worried, almost insisted on his departure.
“If I want you back I will send for you,” she said. “Go to your work, dear; you will be happier.”