She had the victory that night, for he was too much dumbfounded by her rebellion to indulge in his usual recriminations: he had never imagined before that Bessie owned a will of her own; but he felt now, with a pang of wounded self-love, that the younger Richard had proved a formidable rival.
His wife’s heart relented when she saw his moody looks; but he would not be reconciled to her, in spite of her coaxing speeches.
“Come Richard,—come, my dear! you must not be so cross with me,” she said to him later on that night. “We have been married three-and-twenty years, and have never had a serious quarrel; and I don’t like your black looks at me.”
“Then you should not anger me by taking that boy’s part,” was his only answer; and he could not be induced to say anything more conciliatory. And the poor woman went to bed weeping.
Things were in this uncomfortable state, when, one morning, Dick thrust his head into the study where his father was jotting 318 down some household accounts; for he managed all such minor details himself, much to his wife’s relief.
“Are you particularly busy, father?—I want to have a talk with you.”
Mr. Mayne looked up quickly, and his bushy eyebrows drew together.
“Well, yes, I am, Dick,—most particularly busy just now;” for there was a look on his son’s face that made him feel disinclined for conversation.
“Oh, very well, then; I can leave it until after luncheon,” was the cheerful response; then Mr. Mayne knew that Dick was determined to take the bull by the horns.
They went out after luncheon, taking the dogs with them, and turning their steps in the direction of Sandy Lane. For the first mile, Dick said very little; he had his eye on Vigo, who seemed to be inclined to bolt. But when they had reached the second mile-stone, he cleared his throat; and then Mr. Mayne knew that his trouble was beginning.