Yet if there was a prospect of his leaving home, which he did pretty often about this time, he was seized with a hectic energy: the clouds in the sky, the easterly wind, the dampness of the air, were nothing to him then;and as the squire did not know the real secret cause of this anxiety to be gone, he took it into his head that it arose from Osborne's dislike to Hamley and to the monotony of his father's society.'It was a mistake,' thought the squire.'I see it now.I was never great at making friends myself.I always thought those Oxford and Cambridge men turned up their noses at me for a country booby, and I'd get the start and have none o' them.But when the boys went to Rugby and Cambridge, Ishould ha' let them have had their own friends about 'em, even though they might ha' looked down on me; it was the worst they could ha' done to me, and now what few friends I had have fallen off from me, by death or somehow, and it is but dreary work for a young man, I grant it.But he might try not to show it so plain to me as he does.I'm getting case-hardened, but it does cut me to the quick sometimes - it does.And he so fond of his dad as he was once! If I can but get the land drained I'll make him an allowance, and let him go to London, or where he likes.Maybe he'll do better this time, or maybe he'll go to the dogs altogether; but perhaps it will make him think a bit kindly of the old father at home - I should like him to do that, I should!' It is possible that Osborne might have been induced to tell his father of his marriage during their long tête-à-tête intercourse, if the squire, in an unlucky moment, had not given him his confidence about Roger's engagement with Cynthia.It was on one wet Sunday afternoon, when the father and son were sitting together in the large empty drawing-room.Osborne had not been to church in the morning; the squire had, and he was now trying hard to read one of Blair's sermons.They had dined early; they always did on Sundays; and either that, or the sermon, or the hopeless wetness of the day, made the afternoon seem interminably long to the squire.He had certain unwritten rules for the regulation of his conduct on Sundays.Cold meat, sermon-reading, no smoking till after evening prayers, as little thought as possible as to the state of the land and the condition of the crops, and as much respectable sitting-indoors in his best clothes as was consistent with going to church twice a day, and saying the responses louder than the clerk.To-day it had rained so unceasingly that he had remitted the afternoon church; but oh, even with the luxury of a nap, how long it seemed before he saw the Hall servants trudging homewards, along the field-path, a covey of umbrellas! He had been standing at the window for the last half-hour, his hands in his pockets, and his mouth often contracting itself into the traditional sin of a whistle, but as often checked into sudden gravity - ending, nine times out of ten, in a yawn.He looked askance at Osborne, who was sitting near the fire absorbed in a book.The poor squire was something like the little boy in the child's story, who asks all sorts of birds and beasts to come and play with him; and, in every case, receives the sober answer, that they are too busy to have leisure for trivial amusements.The father wanted the son to put down his book, and talk to him: it was so wet, so dull, and a little conversation would so wile away the time! But Osborne, with his back to the window where his father was standing, saw nothing of all this, and went on reading.He had assented to his father's remark that it was a very wet afternoon, but had not carried on the subject into all the varieties of truisms of which it was susceptible.Something more rousing must be started, and this the squire felt.The recollection of the affair between Roger and Cynthia came into his head, and, without giving it a moment's consideration, he began, - 'Osborne! Do you know anything about this - this attachment of Roger's?' Quite successful.Osborne laid down his book in a moment, and turned round to his father.'Roger! an attachment! No! I never heard of it - I can hardly believe it - that is to say, I suppose it is to -- ' And then he stopped; for he thought he had no right to betray his own conjecture that the object was Cynthia Kirkpatrick.'Yes.He is though.Can you guess who to? Nobody that I particularly like - not a connection to my mind - yet she's a very pretty girl; and I suppose I was to blame in the first instance.' 'Is it -- ' 'It's no use beating about the bush.I've gone so far, I may as well tell you all.It's Miss Kirkpatrick, Gibson's stepdaughter.But it's not an engagement, mind you -- ' 'I'm very glad - I hope she likes Roger back again -- ' 'Like - it's only too good a connection for her not to like it: if Roger is of the same mind when he comes home, I'll be bound she'll be only too happy!' 'I wonder Roger never told me,' said Osborne, a little hurt, now he began to consider himself.'He never told me either,' said the squire.'It was Gibson, who came here, and made a clean breast of it like a man of honour.I'd been saying to him, I could not have either of you two lads taking up with his lasses.
I'll own it was you I was afraid of - it's bad enough with Roger, and maybe will come to nothing after all; but if it had been you, I'd ha' broken with Gibson and every mother's son of 'em, sooner than have let it go on;and so I told Gibson.' 'I beg your pardon for interrupting you, but, once for all, I claim the right of choosing my wife for myself, subject to no man's interference,'
said Osborne, hotly.'Then you'll keep your wife with no man's interference, that's all; for ne'er a penny will you get from me, my lad, unless you marry to please me a little, as well as yourself a great deal.That's all I ask of you.
