“Yes!  Am I never to hear the last of my obligation to you?  The devil take the obligation!  I’m sick of the sound of it.”

There was a spirit in Arnold—­not easily brought to the surface, through the overlying simplicity and good-humor of his ordinary character—­which, once roused, was a spirit not readily quelled.  Geoffrey had roused it at last.

“When you come to your senses,” he said, “I’ll remember old times—­and receive your apology.  Till you do come to your senses, go your way by yourself.  I have no more to say to you.”

Geoffrey set his teeth, and came one step nearer.  Arnold’s eyes met his, with a look which steadily and firmly challenged him—­though he was the stronger man of the two—­to force the quarrel a step further, if he dared.  The one human virtue which Geoffrey respected and understood was the virtue of courage.  And there it was before him—­the undeniable courage of the weaker man.  The callous scoundrel was touched on the one tender place in his whole being.  He turned, and went on his way in silence.

Left by himself, Arnold’s head dropped on his breast.  The friend who had saved his life—­the one friend he possessed, who was associated with his earliest and happiest remembrances of old days—­had grossly insulted him:  and had left him deliberately, without the slightest expression of regret.  Arnold’s affectionate nature—­simple, loyal, clinging where it once fastened—­was wounded to the quick.  Geoffrey’s fast-retreating figure, in the open view before him, became blurred and indistinct.  He put his hand over his eyes, and hid, with a boyish shame, the hot tears that told of the heartache, and that honored the man who shed them.

He was still struggling with the emotion which had overpowered him, when something happened at the place where the roads met.

The four roads pointed as nearly as might be toward the four points of the compass.  Arnold was now on the road to the eastward, having advanced in that direction to meet Geoffrey, between two and three hundred yards from the farm-house inclosure before which he had kept his watch.  The road to the westward, curving away behind the farm, led to the nearest market-town.  The road to the south was the way to the station.  And the road to the north led back to Windygates House.

While Geoffrey was still fifty yards from the turning which would take him back to Windygates—­while the tears were still standing thickly in Arnold’s eyes—­the gate of the farm inclosure opened.  A light four-wheel chaise came out with a man driving, and a woman sitting by his side.  The woman was Anne Silvester, and the man was the owner of the farm.

Instead of taking the way which led to the station, the chaise pursued the westward road to the market-town.  Proceeding in this direction, the backs of the persons in the vehicle were necessarily turned on Geoffrey, advancing behind them from the eastward.  He just carelessly noticed the shabby little chaise, and then turned off north on his way to Windygates.