Charlotte felt as if she could endure her father’s unsuspicious happiness no longer.  It was like watching a little child smiling and prattling on the road to its mother’s funeral.  She put Mrs. Sandal’s breakfast on a small tray, and with this in her hand went up-stairs, leaving Harry and the squire still at the table.

“Charlotte is a bit hurrysome this morning,” he said; and Harry making no answer, he seemed suddenly to be struck with his attitude.  He looked curiously at him a moment, and then lapsed into silence.  “Harry wants money.”  That was his first thought, and he began to calculate how far he was able to meet the want.  Even then, his only bitter reflection was, that Harry should suppose it necessary to be glum about it.  “A cheerful asker is the next thing to a cheerful giver;” and to such musings he filled his pipe, and with a shadow of offence on his large ruddy face went into “the master’s room” to smoke.

When kindly good-nature is snubbed, it feels it keenly; and there was a mist of tears in the squire’s blue eyes when Harry followed, and he turned them on him.  And it was part of his punishment, that, even in the first flush of the pleasure of his sin, he felt all the pangs of remorse.

“Father?”

“Well, well, Harry!  I see you are wanting money again.”

“It will be the last time.  I am married, and am going to Italy to live.”

“Eh?  What?” The squire flushed hotly.  His hand shook, his long clay pipe fell to the hearthstone, and was shattered to pieces.

Then a reckless desire to have the whole wrong out urged the unhappy son to a most cruel distinctness of detail.  Without wasting a word in explanation or excuse, he stated broadly that he had fallen in love with the famous singer, Beatrice Lanza, and had married her.  He spared himself or his father nothing; he appeared to gather a hard courage as he spoke of her failing health, her hatred of England, her devotion to her own faith, and the necessity of his retirement to Italy with her.  He seemed determined to put it out of the power of any one to say worse of him than he had already said of himself.  In conclusion he added, “I have sold my commission, and paid what I owed, and have very little money left.  Life, however, is not an expensive affair in the village to which I am going.  If you will allow me two hundred pounds a year I shall be very grateful.”

“I will not give you one penny, sir.”

The words came thick and heavy, and with great difficulty; though the wretched father had risen, and was standing by the table, leaning hard with both hands upon it.

He would not look at his son, though the young man went on speaking.  He heard nothing that he said.  In his ears there was the roaring of mighty waters.  All the waves and the billows were going over him.  For a few moments he struggled desperately with the black, advancing tide.  His sight failed, it was growing dark.  Then he threw the last forces of life into one terrible cry, and fell, as a great tree falls, heavily to the ground.