The man was,
of course, Penzance, and the laying bare was done the evening after the
story of Red Godwyn had been told in the laurel walk.
They had driven home together in a profound silence, the elder man as
deep in thought as the younger one. Penzance was thinking that there
was a calmness in having reached sixty and in knowing that the pain and
hunger of earlier years would not tear one again. And yet, he himself
was not untorn by that which shook the man for whom his affection had
grown year by year. It was evidently very bad--very bad, indeed. He
wondered if he would speak of it, and wished he would, not because he
himself had much to say in answer, but because he knew that speech would
be better than hard silence.
"Stay with me to-night," Mount Dunstan said, as they drove through the
avenue to the house. "I want you to dine with me and sit and talk late.
I am not sleeping well."
They often dined together, and the vicar not infrequently slept at the
Mount for mere companionship's sake. Sometimes they read, sometimes went
over accounts, planned economies, and balanced expenditures. A chamber
still called the Chaplain's room was always kept in readiness. It had
been used in long past days, when a household chaplain had sat below
the salt and left his patron's table before the sweets were served.
Pages:
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655