“You can’t see him now,” said Muriel, moving toward the sleigh. “He’s engaged with Gertrude and his father, and I think they have something important to talk about. Cyril looked very serious, and one would imagine that’s not often the case with him.”
Prescott laughed as he helped her in.
“I dare say he has his thoughtful moments; it would be surprising if he hadn’t, considering his capacity for getting into scrapes.”
They drove away, but Muriel’s supposition was well founded, for Cyril was feeling unusually grave as he sat opposite to his father and sister in a room of the homestead. A brief silence had fallen upon the group, emphasized by the crackle of poplar billets in the stove. Jernyngham, in whose appearance there had been a marked improvement since his son’s return, wore an eager expression; Gertrude was watching her brother with troubled eyes.
“You have heard my suggestions about your return to England,” Jernyngham said at length. “I think they are fair.”
“They are generous,” Cyril answered, and added slowly: “But I cannot go.”
Jernyngham leaned back in his chair as if he were weary, with keen disappointment in his face.
“I have no other son, Cyril. We will wipe out the past—there is something to regret on both sides—and try to make everything pleasant for you. I feel that you ought to come.”
“No,” Cyril persisted with signs of strain. “I’m strongly tempted, but it would not be wise.”
Jernyngham looked hard at him and then made a sign of resignation.