“No, no,” he said; “I am not a man to do things unadvisedly, or to let affection get the better of my judgment, where others dear to me are concerned.  I know you, Richard Carvel.  Scarce an action of yours has escaped my eye, though I have said nothing.  You have been through the fire, and are of the kind which comes out untouched.  You will have Judge Bordley’s advice, and Mr. Carroll’s.  And they are too busy with the affairs of the province to be burdened as my executors.  But,” he added a little more strongly, “if what I fear is coming, Mr. Bordley will take the trust in your absence.  If we have war, Richard, you will not be content to remain at home, nor would I wish it.”

I did not reply.

“You will do what I ask?” he said.

“I would refuse you nothing, Mr. Swain,” I answered.  “But I have heavy misgivings.”

He sighed.  “And now, if it were not for Tom, I might die content,” he said.

If it were not for Tom!  The full burden of the trust began to dawn upon me then.  Presently I heard him speaking, but in so low a voice that I hardly caught the words.

“In our youth, Richard,” he was saying, “the wrath of the Almighty is but so many words to most of us.  When I was little more than a lad, I committed a sin of which I tremble now to think.  And I was the fool to imagine, when I amended my life, that God had forgotten.  His punishment is no heavier than I deserve.  But He alone knows what He has made me suffer.”

I felt that I had no right to be there.

“That is why I have paid Tom’s debts,” he continued; “I cannot cast off my son.  I have reasoned, implored, and appealed in vain.  He is like Reuben,—­his resolutions melt in an hour.  And I have pondered day and night what is to be done for him.”

“Is he to have his portion?” I asked.  Indeed, the thought of the responsibility of Tom Swain overwhelmed me.

“Yes, he is to have it,” cried Mr. Swain, with a violence to bring on a fit of coughing.  “Were I to leave it in trust for a time, he would have it mortgaged within a year.  He is to have his portion, but not a penny additional.”

He lay for a long time breathing deeply, I watching him.  Then, as he reached out and took my hand, I knew by some instinct what was to come.  I summoned all my self-command to meet his eye.  I knew that the malicious and unthinking gossip of the town had reached him, and that he had received it in the simple faith of his hopes.

“One thing more, my lad,” he said, “the dearest wish of all—­that you will marry Patty.  She is a good girl, Richard.  And I have thought,” he added with hesitation, “I have thought that she loves you, though her lips have never opened on that subject.”

So the blow fell.  I turned away, for to save my life the words would not come.  He missed the reason of my silence.

“I understand and honour your scruples,” he went on.  His kindness was like a knife.