“You needn’t bother to come back, after another seven years.”
“Don’t you worry, father; I won’t come back.”
“Martin!” cried Nan. This flare of quarrel between father and son troubled her greatly; it was a disturbance of harmony, and she longed for the re-establishment of peace, at the same time dreading further questionings, further possible accusations; Martin would probe and examine, Silas might lose his head,—Nan, knowing the truth, lived in the perpetual terror of a frenzied outburst of candour on Silas’s part.... He was, she knew, quite capable of such an outburst. Life, and the harmony of life, would be less endangered with Martin out of the way. But this was an unkind greeting for Martin at his home—poor Martin! after seven years’ absence and a trudge in the rain, to find his mother dead and his father ferocious!—Nan’s fund of pity overflowed, and she tried to compromise: “Martin! you can’t walk back to Spalding through this awful night; stop till to-morrow with Gregory, and me.”
“Not he!” said Silas, unexpectedly, and as though he spoke with pride.
“You’re right, father,—though I thank you, Nan; you mean it kindly.”
“They mean everything kindly, Martin,” said Silas, indicating the other two. He continued to speak with the same curious understanding towards his son. Nan and Morgan, separately, stood repudiated and estranged.
Martin Dene nodded, his eyes meditatively upon them.
“Won’t you stop, Martin?” urged Nan’s timid voice.
“I’ve said an unforgivable thing to father,” he said, turning to her, in patient explanation.
“But you didn’t think it, Martin; tell your father you didn’t think it.”