'I beg your pardon, Uncle Taverner,' he said in a voice somewhat tremulous, whilst colour came into and spotted his brow. 'I came here, though I thought you would not care to see me.'
'I don't mind when I see your back,' interrupted Langford surlily, 'your father insulted me grossly.'
'I have come, Uncle Taverner——'
'Ah! I suppose your father has sent you. He wants to patch up the quarrel; you may go back and tell him it is too late. I won't make it up. It is of no use. I have nothing to lose by estrangement. You and he are the losers, and that to a heavy amount, as you shall learn some day.'
'I have not come with any message from my father.'
'You've come for yourself, have you? You think that Langford would be a fine farm for the growth of wild oats? You shan't try it.'
'I came here of my own accord,' said the young man. 'My father knows nothing of my purpose. I have come to tell you that I am very sorry for what I did,—what I did, I dare say you have not heard, as you have been away. You shall hear from me.'
'What have you done? Some foolery, I warrant.'
'Yes, uncle, something worse than foolery. The night you were away, and when we did not know but you were at Langford, there was a hare hunt before your doors.'
'What!' almost screamed the old man.