It was with a miserable heart that an hour or two later he came down to supper. His father was already at table, sitting grimly in his place; he made no sign of welcome or recognition as his son came in. During the meal itself this was of no great consequence, as silence was the custom; but the boy's heart sank yet further as, still without a word to him, the squire rose from table at the end and went as usual through the parlour door. He hesitated a moment before following. Then he grasped his courage and went after.
All things were as usual there—the wine set out and the sweetmeats, and his father in his usual place, Yet still there was silence.
Robin began to meditate again, yet alert for a sign or a word. It was in this little room, he understood, that the dispute with Anthony had taken place a few hours before, and he looked round it, almost wondering that all seemed so peaceful. It was this room, too, that was associated with so much that was happy in his life—drawn-out hours after supper, when his father was in genial moods, or when company was there—company that would never come again—and laughter and gallant talk went round. There was the fire burning in the new stove—that which had so much excited him only a year or two ago, for it was then the first that he had ever seen: there was the table where he had written his little letter; there was "Christ carrying His Cross."
"So you have sent your friend to insult me; now!"
Robin started. The voice was quiet enough, but full of a suppressed force.
"I have not, sir. I met Mr. Babington at Froggatt on his way back. He told me. I am very sorry for it."
"And you talked with him at Padley, too, no doubt?"
"Yes, sir."
His father suddenly wheeled round on him.
"Do you think I have no sense, then? Do you think I do not know what you and your friends speak of?"