"We understand, father," Ralph said at length. "No one can turn you out now."
David smiled again. Then the tears filled his eyes and rolled down his cheeks.
"You always wanted to end your days here," Ralph went on, "and it looks as if you were going to do it."
David raised the hand that was not paralysed and pointed upward.
"There are no leasehold systems there, at any rate," Ralph said, with a gulp. "The earth is the landlord's, but heaven is God's."
David smiled again, and then closed his eyes. Three hours later a second stroke supervened, and stilled his heart for ever.
Ralph walked slowly out of the room and into the open air. He felt thankful for many reasons that his father was at rest. And yet, in his heart the feeling grew that John Hamblyn had killed him, and there surged up within him an intense and burning passion to make John Hamblyn suffer something of what he himself was suffering. Why should he go scot free? Why should he live unrebuked, and his conscience be left undisturbed?
For a moment or two Ralph stood in the garden and looked up at the clouds that were scudding swiftly across the sky. Then he flung open the gate and struck out across the fields. The wind battered and buffeted him and almost took his breath away, but it did not weaken his resolve for a moment. He would go and tell John Hamblyn what he had done—tell him to his face that he had killed his father; ay, and tell him that as surely as there was justice in the world he would not go unpunished.
Over the brow of the hill he turned, and down into Dingley Bottom, and then up the long slant toward Treliskey Plantation. He scarcely heeded the wind that was blowing half a gale, and appeared to be increasing in violence every minute.
The gate that Dorothy's horse had broken had been mended long since, and the notice board repainted: