"Mr. Trevelyan will not come back to Aberdeen, Sandy—" he broke off.
The blacks trotted briskly over the road and the warm sunshine rested on the meadows and brightened everything but the big dark fir ahead. Somewhere in the copse near by a bird was singing.
The long home avenue was deserted except for McGuire, who was carefully clipping in his precise way the border of the walks, and McGuire leaned upon his shears, wondering why the young master had passed him with no sign of greeting.
There was no one else around. The house stood big and still in the sunshine, and the deserted terraces sloped away—like a vast piece of greenest velvet. Some of the windows were open, and from one of the upstairs casements a white curtain was fluttering in the breeze. It was his mother's room. A restful quietness brooded over everything.
There was no one in the hall, flanked with its weapons and armor and paintings, and no sound from the breakfast room. Breakfast, he supposed, was long over. He had had none himself, but he was not conscious of the lack.
Someone was coming down the stairs. Stewart paused, a sudden heat replacing the chill that had possessed him until now. The sound came nearer and he recognized the halting step of Trevelyan's father—Trevelyan's father, who still bore that scar from Inkerman.
XX.
Trevelyan's father stopped when he reached the foot of the stairs.
"Why, hello, boy, when did you get back? Thought you were in London for a fortnight."
"I thought so, too, sir, but you see, I—"