I was burning to learn what the rector had said to Patty, but it was plain Mr. Carvel knew nothing of this part of the story. He had not mentioned Grafton among the callers. I wondered what course my uncle would now pursue, that his plans to alienate me from my grandfather had failed. And I began debating whether or not to lay the whole plot before Mr. Carvel. Prudence bade me wait, since Grafton had not consorted with the rector openly, at least—for more than a year. And yet I spoke.
“Mr. Carvel!”
He stirred in his chair.
“Yes, my son.”
He had to repeat, and still I held my tongue. Even as I hesitated there came a knock at the door, and Scipio entered, bearing candles.
“Massa Grafton, suh,” he said.
My uncle was close at his heels. He was soberly dressed in dark brown silk, and his face wore that expression of sorrow and concern he knew how to assume at will. After greeting his father with his usual ceremony, he came to my bedside and asked gravely how I did.
“How now, Grafton!” cried Mr. Carvel; “this is no funeral. The lad has only a scratch, thank God!”
My uncle looked at me and forced a smile.
“Indeed I am rejoiced to find you are not worried over this matter, father,” said he. “I am but just back from Kent to learn of it, and looked to find you in bed.”