John Caldigate

nd it was done. Now he had to say farewell to his father, and that would be a harder task. As the moment was coming in which he must bid adieu

affection. But they had never known each other, and were so different that neither had understood the other. The son, however, was ready to confess to himself that the chief fault had been with himself.

imply its money comfort, but in the stability and reputation of a recognised home. Six months ago there had seemed to him to be something ridiculous in the idea of a permanent connection between the names of Caldigate and Folking. It was absurd that, with so wild and beautiful a world around him, he should be called upon to live in a washy fen because his father and grandfather had been unfortunate enough to do so. And then, at that time, all sympathy with bricks and mortar, any affection for special trees or well-known home-haunts, was absurd in his eyes. A

ould he do with Davis, and how could he live for the present? Not for a moment did he entertain such an idea,

h the library, into a little closet beyond, in which Mr. Caldigate was wont to s

nce. He had spent money that was not his own, and, of course, he must pay the debt. But that his father should sit there in his chair on his entrance, not even rising to greet him, and should refer at once to Mr. Bolton and that business arra

usiness and intelligent. But as to the terms

ood as I ha

lemen conversant with such subjects; and, after due inquiry, they told Mr. Bolton what was the money value of your rights. It is a qu

e aware of

iving here alone; and shall endeavour to free the estate from the burden by degrees. When I die, it will, in accordance with my present purpose, go to your cousin George.' As this was said, John thought he perceived something like a quiver in his father's voice, w

ut busin

you here,- and to Cambridge. I do not know what

much,

take it. But with you now, I suppose, money

the small portrait of

would not show it, he was touched. Only if this were a ruse on the part of the young man, a mock sentiment, a little got

evince a supplicating tenderness either by his voice or by his f

f, that ought to have such trifles,-

t myself that can

avoid any further declaration. 'Take that or anything else you want in the h

few books I shall take.' Then the conversation was over; and in a fe

urse he had himself to blame,- himself only; but still it was strange to him that a father should feel no tenderness at parting with an only son. While he had been in the room he had constrained himself manfully; not a drop of moisture had glittered in his eye; not a tone of feeling had thrilled in his voice; his features had never failed him. There had always been that look of audacity on his brow joined to a certain manliness of good-humour in his mouth, as though he had been thoroughly mas

ash he encountered Mr. Ralph Holt, the occupier of Twopenny farm, whose father also and grandfather had lived upon the same acres. 'And so thou be'est going away from us, Mr. John,'

to travel and see the wor

g about it. Zeeing the world! You young collegers allays does

not. My father, I hope, will

r the Squoire, and he's hale and hearty. But in course of things his time'll

er thin

ld he should stick to it for ever and aye. It's just as though the old place was a-tumbling about all our ears.' Caldigate was good-natured with the man, trying to make him understand that everything was being done for the best. And at last he bade him good-bye affectionately, shaking hands with him, and g

were so expressive as Holt, but he could perceive that he was regarded by all of them as a person who, by hi

he and his son would have broken down in the attempt. But he could talk about Babington,- abusing the old family,- and even about himself, and about New South Wales, and gold, and the coming voyage, without touching points which had been, and would be, specially painful. Not a word had ever been spoken between them as to Davis. Th

t only without anger, but, as far as possible, without chagrin,- treating his son as a pe

hink so, sir,' replied John, consci

d have done. You would have had too much ambition to manage this little estate under me, and not enough

so di

ot hold of you, and that you liked horses a

er did

eemed

e I have

s seemed to lead you, I began to fear that there could be no career for you here. On such a property as Babington an eldest son may vegetate like his father before

ere upon my

you are not industrious, you are far too active and too clever f

certainly i

you will only be doing what is done daily by enterprising men. I could

made it. I quite un

t something further was to come. 'Had you remained in England we could hardly have lived together as father and son should live. You would have been dependent on me, and would

never; n

re than natural. I shall

ainly

life if you will write occasiona

g had been kept; and in his letter the son had asked whether he could be taken in for Thursday night. But now the proposition th

week, but a last day is purgatory. The melancholy of the occasion cannot be shaken off. It is only the prolonged wail of a last farewell.' All this

y sad,' sa

s go into the other room. As they are making company of you and have lighted another fire, we will do as they would have us.' Then for the rest of the evening there was some t

morning. Good-bye said the old man, as the son grasped his hand, 'Good-bye.' He

return to see

r rather than by a word,- but in that moment he had resolved to give way a little to the demands of nature. Good-bye my son,' he sai