“Of course my orig’nal advice was what you ought to have acted on, Mr. Bates.  That is to say, bought an annuity with your entire capital.”

“Ah, William, I really couldn’t do that;” and Mr. Bates turned away his eyes, as if unable to support Dale’s friendly regard.  “Apart from these annuities for old folk being rather a dog-in-the-manger trick, I—­well, one has one’s private difficulties, William.  One is not always a free agent.”

The demand for repayment, and with something of evasiveness or reticence in the old fellow’s manner, greatly troubled Dale.  Not at all from selfish motives; but because it confirmed a suspicion that he had long entertained.  Although invisible locally, disgraced and hiding somewhere at a distance, that blackguardly son was probably still draining the good old man’s resources.

So many things pointed to the correctness of this supposition.  On the interest of the money that Mavis and Dale had together paid him for the business, he should have been able to live very comfortably; whereas, in fact, his way of life was mean and sorry.  His cottage was quite a decent dwelling, separated from the road by a nice long strip of garden, and with a miniature apple orchard behind it; but it showed all those signs of neglect that had been evident at Vine-Pits when the Dales first came there.  He had no proper servant, but just pigged it anyhow with the occasional assistance of a woman and her husband.  His clothes, though neatly brushed, were too shabby and overworn for a person of his position.  And he was not a miser; he was a proud self-respecting man, who naturally would desire to maintain conventionally adequate state, were he able to do so.

These thoughts worried Dale.  He really loved Mr. Bates, thoroughly appreciated the great dignity and sweetness of his nature, and felt it to be a monstrous and intolerable thing that the dear old chap at the age of seventy-three, instead of being allowed to end his days in a happy, seemly style, should be as if were bled to death by a conscienceless reprobate.  But what could one do?  It was like the cruelties of the woods that one regrets, but can not prevent—­the rabbits chased by the weasels, the pheasants killed by the foxes, the thrushes destroyed by the hawks.

Any doubt that remained in the mind of Dale was soon dissipated.  He told Mavis how he had seen Bates junior—­a seedy, wicked-looking wretch now—­lurking at dusk in the cottage porch, and how next morning he had ridden over to talk to Mr. Bates about this ill-omened visitor.  Mr. Bates said it was true that his son had been there for two or three days, but he was now gone; and he declined to discuss the matter any further.  “I can’t speak of it, William.  I thank you for meaning kindness, but it’s a thing I can’t speak of.”

Dale also told Mrs. Goudie that Richard Bates had shown himself in the neighborhood, and asked her if the fact was generally known.  He was aware that Mrs. Goudie had almost as much regard for the old man as he had himself.