So although the Squire was always delighted to receive the little
notes which Cynthia sent him every time she heard from Roger, and
although this attention on her part was melting the heart he tried
to harden, he controlled himself into writing her the briefest
acknowledgments. His words were strong in meaning, but formal
in expression; she herself did not think much about them, being
satisfied to do the kind actions that called them forth. But her
mother criticised them and pondered them. She thought she had hit
on the truth when she decided in her own mind that it was a very
old-fashioned style, and that he and his house and his furniture
all wanted some of the brightening up and polishing which they were
sure to receive, when--she never quite liked to finish the sentence
definitely, although she kept repeating to herself that "there was no
harm in it."
To return to the Squire. Occupied as he now was, he recovered his
former health, and something of his former cheerfulness. If Osborne
had met him half-way, it is probable that the old bond between father
and son might have been renewed; but Osborne either was really an
invalid, or had sunk into invalid habits, and made no effort to
rally. If his father urged him to go out--nay, once or twice he
gulped down his pride, and asked Osborne to accompany him--Osborne
would go to the window and find out some flaw or speck in the wind
or weather, and make that an excuse for stopping in-doors over his
books. He would saunter out on the sunny side of the house in a
manner that the Squire considered as both indolent and unmanly. Yet
if there was a prospect of his leaving home, which he did pretty
often about this time, he was seized with a hectic energy: the clouds
in the sky, the easterly wind, the dampness of the air, were nothing
to him then; and as the Squire did not know the real secret cause
of this anxiety to be gone, he took it into his head that it arose
from Osborne's dislike to Hamley and to the monotony of his father's
society.
"It was a mistake," thought the Squire. "I see it now. I was never
great at making friends myself: I always thought those Oxford and
Cambridge men turned up their noses at me for a country booby, and
I'd get the start and have none o' them. But when the boys went to
Rugby and Cambridge, I should ha' let them have had their own friends
about 'em, even though they might ha' looked down on me; it was the
worst they could ha' done to me; and now what few friends I had have
fallen off from me, by death or somehow, and it is but dreary work
for a young man, I grant it. But he might try not to show it so plain
to me as he does. I'm getting case-hardened, but it does cut me to
the quick sometimes--it does. And he so fond of his dad as he was
once! If I can but get the land drained I'll make him an allowance,
and let him go to London, or where he likes. Maybe he'll do better
this time, or maybe he'll go to the dogs altogether; but perhaps it
will make him think a bit kindly of the old father at home--I should
like him to do that, I should!"