The old man was walking with a measured tread, holding his head very high, with an odd flush on his face, and a sardonic smile, and he was talking inaudibly to himself. Charles saw in all this the signs of storm. In the old man’s hand was a letter firmly clutched. If he saw his son, who expected to be accosted by him, he passed him by with as little notice as he bestowed on the tall rose-tree that grew in the stone pot by his side.
The Squire walked down the terrace, southward, towards the steps, the wild sunset sky to his right, the flaming windows of the house to his left. When he had gone on a few steps, his tall son followed him. Perhaps he thought it better that Squire Harry should be informed of his intended departure from his lips than that he should learn it from the groom who held the bridle of his horse.
The Squire did not descend the steps, however; he stopped short of them, and sat down in one of the seats that are placed at intervals under the windows. He leaned with both hands on his cane, the point of which he ground angrily into the gravel; in his fingers was still crumpled the letter. He was looking down with a very angry face, illuminated by the wild western sky, shaking his head and muttering.
The tall, brown Captain stalked towards him, and touched his hat, according to his father’s reverential rule.
“May I say a word, sir?” he asked.
The old man stared in his face and nodded fiercely, and with this ominous invitation he complied.
“You were pleased, sir,” said he, “yesterday to express an opinion that, with the income I have, I ought to support myself, and no longer to trouble Wyvern. It was stupid of me not to think of that myself—very stupid—and all I can do is to lose no time about it; and so I have sent my traps away, and am going to follow now, sir; and I couldn’t go, of course, sir, without saying farewell to you and——” He was on the point of adding—“thanking you for all your kindness;” but he recollected himself. Thank him, indeed! No, he could not bring himself to that. “And I am leaving now, sir, and good-bye.”
“Ho, turning your back on Wyvern, like all the rest! Well, sir, the world’s wide, you can choose your road. I don’t ask none o’ ye to stay and see me off—not I. I’ll not be without some one when I die to shut down my eyes, I dare say. Get ye gone.”
“I thought, sir—in fact I was quite convinced,” said Charles Fairfield, a little disconcerted, “that you had quite made up your mind, as I have mine, sir.”
“So I had, sir—so I had. Don’t suppose I care a rush, sir, who goes—not a d—d rush—not I. Better an empty house than a bad tenant.”