He accepted the omen.
Rising up with the first gleam of dawn, he went out into the park.
He determined to appraise and make an inventory of all that remained on the place that he could call his own still and sell. There was some timber left. Then all the stock on the home farm would be disposed of. As he endeavoured to 'tot' this up he noticed a figure swinging along across the park at a great pace. Was a stranger already fearless about trespass?
Turning away from the approaching intruder, he commenced his calculation afresh. Suddenly a voice hailed him joyfully.
'Back again! Back again, Pater, at long last! Yes, the rolling stone has gathered some moss after all—honourably, if luckily, come by. So here I am, Pater, like the Prodigal—to crave forgiveness, and—to repay you my debts.'
Heronsbeck turned and stared upon the speaker. 'Joe!' he cried faintly, but with Joe, his only son, he had quarrelled. Joe had vanished on the Klondyke in a blizzard. This must be his ghost.
'Come, Dad!' called the beloved figure in front of him beseechingly.
'My boy, my boy!' cried his father, pressing his son to his bosom. 'Thank God for ye, my boy, my boy! But how can it be that you're alive?' he asked apprehensively, as though fearing his son might vanish again from his eyes.
'A good Samaritan—this time disguised as a Jesuit Father, rescued me. Then I saved a pal myself eventually, who died of fever and left me all his pile.'
'Yet I heard the peacock cry this morning,' muttered Heronsbeck to himself, still apprehensive of misfortune.