“I wish the young rascal was out of the way,” he muttered to himself.
He wished it the more because Harry stood in the way of another plan which he had in view, namely, marrying Mrs. Raymond, in case the Western property proved as valuable as he anticipated. He had an instinctive feeling that our hero would not fancy him for a step-father, and would exert all his influence over his mother to prevent her accepting him, even if she might otherwise be willing.
“Plague take the young whelp!” muttered the squire. “I wish he was in Nova Zembla, or somewhere else, where he would never come back.”
His uncomfortable reflections were here broken in upon by the entrance of the servant.
“There’s a man at the door wants to see you, Squire Turner.”
“Who is it?”
“It’s a stranger.”
“Well, tell him to come in.”
The invitation was duly given, and directly there entered a tall man, very seedy in his appearance, with a repulsive aspect, who looked as if the world and he had not been on good terms for some time. He was probably about the same age as Squire Turner,—that is, fifty,—but looked still older, probably in consequence of the life he had led.