“Why, it’s Nancy Holden,” he said almost at the same moment. They greeted one another gladly. “You’re married? living here?” he asked, with a glance at Morgan.
“Married to your uncle Gregory....”
“No! He could be your father!” exclaimed young Dene naïvely, and again he glanced at Morgan.
“Oh, no,” said Nan, flushing, and she hurried on with an explanation, “Your father lives here still, but he went out a little time back; he said he was going to the abbey. He’ll be in presently. Sit down; I’ll get you a cup of tea.”
“But where’s mother?” asked Martin Dene, and in his impulsive, attractive manner he strode across the room, flung open the door that led to the staircase, and shouted “Mother!”
II
“What’s that?” cried Silas, startling them all.
They had not heard him come in. He stood on the threshold, his hand outstretched, the likeness between himself and his son strongly apparent. “What’s that?” he repeated; “who’s that, calling ‘Mother’ here?”
“Silas, it’s Martin come home,” said Nan, who was trembling and who had gone, quite unwittingly, closer to Morgan.
“Martin? it’s suited him to come back, after seven years?” Silas uttered a derisive “Ho!” He added, “It’s too late, my boy, to come here calling ‘Mother.’ That’s rich, that is—eh, Nan?”