“It’s all right, Guy. I know all about it, and from your uncle’s own lips. And now—if you have nothing more to tell me—you may trot back as quickly as you please; and be sure I shall not forget the great service you have done me.”
“Oh, sir, don’t say that! If you knew how much good it does us—Uncle Donald and I—to serve you, you wouldn’t think of layin’ it up as anything to be remembered.”
“Never mind about that just now. You’ll accept my gratitude; and you’ll convey the same to your uncle, and tell him, further, that Percy will be sure to keep his eyes wide open.”
Our hero stood and watched the disappearing form of his young friend, and when he could no longer hear the sound of his footfall he turned once more toward the cottage.
And he had something now to think about. He was not greatly surprised that Ralph Tryon should seek his life. Knowing the character of the man for all that was cruel and reckless and wicked, and remembering the antagonism that had existed between them from the very first of their acquaintance, he could find nothing surprising in this desire for dire and deadly vengeance.
What he wondered at was that the villain should have applied to his mother. How had he dared to broach such a subject to her?
Could there be any mistake? Had Donald Rodney been deceived or had he entirely misunderstood? In his heart he was forced to the confession that he had no respect for his mother, or no respect for her character, nor could he esteem her.
Oh, if his mother could be but a memory, as was his father, how much of misery might have been spared him! In the name of mother there was something sacred—something that quickened his pulses and elevated his feelings.
But in his own case, when he descended from the empty name to the living reality, the sacredness vanished, and a sense of repulsion took the place of calmer feeling.
He could not tell what to think—what to fear. He must wait and let time determine. The thought occurred to him of seeking rest at the village.