“What did you say, Richard?”

Clearly his intelligence had taken it, but this—­the worst he could hear—­this that he had dreaded once and doubted, and smoothed over, and cast aside—­could it be?

Richard said:  “I told you all but the very words when we last parted.  What else do you think would have kept me from her?”

Angered at his callous aspect, his father cried:  “What brings you to her now?”

“That will be between us two,” was the reply.

Sir Austin fell into his chair.  Meditation was impossible.  He spoke from a wrathful heart:  “You will not dare to take her without”—­

“No, sir,” Richard interrupted him, “I shall not.  Have no fear.”

“Then you did not love your wife?”

“Did I not?” A smile passed faintly over Richard’s face.

“Did you care so much for this—­this other person?”

“So much?  If you ask me whether I had affection for her, I can say I had none.”

O base human nature!  Then how? then why?  A thousand questions rose in the baronet’s mind.  Bessy Berry could have answered them every one.

“Poor child! poor child!” he apostrophized Lucy, pacing the room.  Thinking of her, knowing her deep love for his son—­her true forgiving heart—­it seemed she should be spared this misery.

He proposed to Richard to spare her.  Vast is the distinction between women and men in this one sin, he said, and supported it with physical and moral citations.  His argument carried him so far, that to hear him one would have imagined he thought the sin in men small indeed.  His words were idle.

“She must know it,” said Richard, sternly.  “I will go to her now, sir, if you please.”

Sir Austin detained him, expostulated, contradicted himself, confounded his principles, made nonsense of all his theories.  He could not induce his son to waver in his resolve.  Ultimately, their good-night being interchanged, he understood that the happiness of Raynham depended on Lucy’s mercy.  He had no fears of her sweet heart, but it was a strange thing to have come to.  On which should the accusation fall—­on science, or on human nature?

He remained in the library pondering over the question, at times breathing contempt for his son, and again seized with unwonted suspicion of his own wisdom:  troubled, much to be pitied, even if he deserved that blow from his son which had plunged him into wretchedness.  Richard went straight to Tom Bakewell, roused the heavy sleeper, and told him to have his mare saddled and waiting at the park gates East within an hour.  Tom’s nearest approach to a hero was to be a faithful slave to his master, and in doing this he acted to his conception of that high and glorious character.  He got up and heroically dashed his head into cold water.  “She shall be ready, sir,” he nodded.

“Tom! if you don’t see me back here at Raynham, your money will go on being paid to you.”