"Hast done right to come, young Vavasour. Look at his grave."
He pointed to the window, from which I saw a newly made mound in the middle of a field of grass. Then, as if he answered a question, he said—
"No, the parson didn't gabble lies over him. We put his body into the ground without parson's lies." Then the old man repeated scornfully, "'We give Thee hearty thanks, for that it hath pleased Thee to deliver this our brother out of the miseries of this sinful world.' It might be said for me, but not for him, my strong, handsome boy, who ought to have lived sixty years. But I prayed, young Vavasour—I prayed for death and damnation on his murderer."
The strength and fire with which the feeble old man hurled out the last words were terrible. Then his tone changed.
"The best son that ever lived he was. Up with the lark, all over the farm before breakfast, seldom taking his pleasure with his mates. Gentle as a woman! No woman would ha' been half so gentle with a peevish old man, often mad with pain. Why should the Lord take the prop of my age, the one joy of a broken-backed cripple? The Lord didn't take him, you'll say. No; but He let the devil do it. If I could but have his murderer here! Oh, that I might grip him by the throat!"
The father stretched out his arms, the trembling hands clenched, as if they grasped the neck of the man he hated. Still I said nothing. What could I say?
"He loved thee, Frank. He made me jealous at times with his talk of thee. Said how brave thou wert, how warm-hearted, what a good sportsman, what a gallant gentleman, what a true, staunch friend! And thou led'st him to his death. It was thy quarrel he died in. He was no brawler."
"That is true," I said; "he lost his life through coming to my rescue."
"He did not lose his life," the old man screamed; "his life was taken—foully, treacherously taken, and his blood cries for vengeance. Wilt be a man and avenge him?" His eyes glittered as he asked the question.
"You cannot think of asking me to pledge myself to do murder," I answered.