“You’ve been a brick, Duggy—since
I told you. I don’t know that I had any
right to count upon it.”
“What else could I do?” said Douglas,
trying to laugh, but conscious—resenting
it—of a swelling in the throat.
“You could have given a good many more twists
to the screw—if you’d been a different
sort,” said his father slowly. “And
you’re a tough customer, Duggy, to some people.
But to me”—He paused, beginning again
in another tone—
“Duggy, don’t be offended with me—but
did you ever want to marry Lady Constance Bledlow?
You wrote to me about her at Christmas.”
Douglas gave a rather excited laugh.
“It’s rather late in the day to ask me
that question.”
His father eyed him.
“You mean she refused you?”
His son nodded.
“Before this collapse?”
“Before she knew anything about it”
“Poor old Duggy!” said his father, in
a low voice. “But perhaps—after
all—she’ll think better of it.
By all accounts she has the charm of her mother, whom
Risborough married to please himself and not his family.”
Falloden said nothing. He wished to goodness
his father would drop the subject. Sir Arthur
understood he was touching things too sore to handle,
and sighed.
“Well, shake hands, Duggy, old boy. You
carried this thing through splendidly to-day.
But it seems to have taken it out of me—which
isn’t fair. I shall go for a little walk.
Tell your mother I shall be back in an hour or so.”
The son took his father’s hand. The strong
young grasp brought a momentary sense of comfort to
the older man. They eyed each other, both pale,
both conscious of feelings to which it was easier to
give no voice. Then their hands dropped.
Sir Arthur looked for his hat and stick, which were
lying near, and went out of the open glass door into
the garden. He passed through the garden into
the park beyond walking slowly and heavily, his son’s
eyes following him.
Out of sight of the house, at the entrance of the
walk leading to the moor, Sir Arthur was conscious
again of transitory, but rather sharp pains across
the chest.
He sat down to rest, and they soon passed away.
After a few minutes he pursued his walk, climbing
towards the open stretches of heathery moor, which
lay beyond the park, and a certain ghyll or hollow
with a wild stream in it that cleft the moor high
up—one of his favourite haunts.
He climbed through ferny paths, and amid stretches
of heather just coming to its purple prime, up towards
the higher regions of the moor where the millstone
grit cropped out in sharp edges, showing gaunt and
dark against the afternoon sky. Here the beautiful
stream that made a waterfall within the park came
sliding down shelf after shelf of yellowish rock,
with pools of deep brown water at intervals, overhung
with mountain ash and birch.
