"Any news from Roger yet?"
"Oh, yes; here's his letter," said the Squire, producing his black
leather case, in which Roger's missive had been placed along with the
other very heterogeneous contents.
Mr. Gibson read it, hardly seeing the words after he had by one rapid
glance assured himself that there was no mention of Cynthia in it.
"Hum! I see he doesn't name one very important event that has
befallen him since he left you," said Mr. Gibson, seizing on the
first words that came. "I believe I'm committing a breach of
confidence on one side; but I'm going to keep the promise I made
the last time I was here. I find there is something--something
of the kind you apprehended--you understand--between him and my
step-daughter, Cynthia Kirkpatrick. He called at our house to wish
us good-by, while waiting for the London coach, found her alone, and
spoke to her. They don't call it an engagement, but of course it is
one."
"Give me back the letter," said the Squire, in a constrained kind of
voice. Then he read it again, as if he had not previously mastered
its contents, and as if there might be some sentence or sentences he
had overlooked.
"No!" he said at last, with a sigh. "He tells me nothing about it.
Lads may play at confidences with their fathers, but they keep a deal
back." The Squire appeared more disappointed at not having heard of
this straight from Roger than displeased at the fact itself, Mr.
Gibson thought. But he let him take his time.
"He's not the eldest son," continued the Squire, talking as it
were to himself. "But it's not the match I should have planned
for him. How came you, sir," said he, firing round on Mr. Gibson,
suddenly--"to say when you were last here, that there was nothing
between my sons and either of your girls? Why, this must have been
going on all the time!"
"I'm afraid it was. But I was as ignorant about it as the babe
unborn. I only heard of it on the evening of the day of Roger's
departure."
"And that's a week ago, sir. What's kept you quiet ever since?"
"I thought that Roger would tell you himself."
"That shows you've no sons. More than half their life is unknown to
their fathers. Why, Osborne there, we live together--that's to say,
we have our meals together, and we sleep under the same roof--and
yet--Well! well! life is as God has made it. You say it's not an
engagement yet? But I wonder what I'm doing? Hoping for my lad's
disappointment in the folly he's set his heart on--and just when he's
been helping me. Is it a folly, or is it not? I ask you, Gibson, for
you must know this girl. She hasn't much money, I suppose?"