"But very poorly—very poorly indeed."
He frowned almost fiercely—they could see that much from the window of the George—he gave the man—a sovereign, wasn't it? he came down from the carriage and strode into the house. A tall, pale, haggard man, with wild-looking eyes. He took no notice of anybody in the room. He kicked the snow from his boots, and was soon toasting his feet on the bars of the roaring red fire. There was a dead silence in the room. The company seemed quite paralysed by his presence; no one dared to move a limb, though each managed to glance at him stealthily.
"Give me some brandy."
Mr. Joyce himself obeyed the order, but he hesitated for a moment.
"With hot or cold water?"
"With neither!" Rather angrily spoken. He drained it off at once. How his thin, long white hand shook,—all in the room managed to notice that somehow; so it was discovered, when they began to compare notes afterwards. His hand shook as he took up the glass.
"You're Joyce?" he asked suddenly. The landlord bowed.
"Yes, I remember," he said with a faint smile. He passed out of the room again—he threw down some money in the bar.
"Now, then, make haste. Am I to wait all night?" And he stamped on the ground.
What a cloud round those poor wearied horses, panting with drooping heads and bent knees. The company had rubbed fresh peep-holes in the window-panes, again dim with the heat; they could see the traveller mount into his carriage again.
"Off with you!" he cried. And they whirled him at a furious pace along the road to the Grange, the snow falling thicker than ever.
"Please God he gets there in time," said good Mrs. Joyce fervently.
"It's him," she went on fervently, "I knew him directly. There's no mistaking those fierce black eyes of his, if you've once seen them. Yet, how he's changed—how old-looking—how thin, and white; perhaps that's the cold, though,—he's been travelling a long while, likely enough, and it's a bad night for travellers. We ought to be very thankful we're all in front of a good fire, and with a roof over our heads, such a night as this. Yes—he's changed—fifteen years older he looks; and what a long black beard—for all the world like a furriner!"
"Like a Frenchman, a'most," said Farmer Corbet. "I don't fancy an Englishman wearing mustarchies myself," and he rubbed his shaven chin meditatively. "It seems unnat'ral like to wear all that hair on one's face."
"How quick he swallowed that brandy. Wonderful I call it," remarked Mr. Joyce.
"Please God, the old gentleman lives to see him and to make it up with him. Why do people ever quarrel, I wonder! I'm sure this ought to be a warning to us."
The events of the evening had made the landlady thoughtful.
"Poor Mr. Wilford," she said, sighing; and she filled up the kettle, for all the rummers wanted replenishing. "Poor Mr. Wilford," she said, sighing; and she filled up the kettle, for all the rummers wanted replenishing.
CHAPTER II. OLD MR. HADFIELD OF THE GRANGE.
Mr. Wilford was soon stopping in front of the porch over which was carven the crest of the Hadfields—the dove standing on the serpent; motto—"Soyez sage et semple."
A young man, not unlike the traveller in face and figure, except that he was much smaller and slighter, and wore no beard, came hurrying out of the entrance-hall.
"Wilford!" he cried out.
"Steenie!" the traveller answered.
"I'm so glad you've come!" And their hands were clasped tightly.
"Does he live still?" asked Wilford in a strange hollow voice.
"Yes. It is all one can say of him. He is dreadfully feeble, very dreamy, and dazed. He is like one in a trance. Yet, he lives."
"Thank God!" said the elder brother, solemnly. "I hardly dared hope to see him alive. Lord, Steenie, how you've grown. Why, you were quite a boy when I went away!"
"You've been gone some time, remember, Wil;" and Steenie smiled rather sadly.
"Seven years. Yes, there has been time for change. And you've married, haven't you, Steenie? You've got a wife and children? God bless me, how time flies!"
"You shall see her to-morrow, and the children, too, if you like; they have all retired for the night. Indeed, it was so late, we almost despaired of your coming to-night. I thought you had perhaps stopped at Mowle."
"Indeed, I haven't stopped a minute, Steenie, on the road. The news reached me in Brussels,—I saw the advertisement in the newspaper. I knew it could only refer to me, and I started at once. I haven't slept or tasted food since. Can I see him, Steenie? Will he let me?—now?—at once?"
"I will go up and see. I will ask Mr. Fuller: he is going to stop the night through. He has been most kind. Wait in the library: they shall bring you some refreshment. Be sure you ask for anything you want. You are at home again, you know, Wil, now."
And Stephen Hadfield mounted quickly the wide oaken staircase, so black with age and so polished that it looked as though it were made of ebony.
"At home!" Wilford repeated mechanically, passing his nervous hand over his forehead. There was something of agony in the tone of his voice as he added: "It has been no home to me for seven long years. It can never be a home to me again."
He tottered to a chair, he sat down, leaning upon the table and burying his face in his hands. He started up suddenly, for a servant entered with the tray, and he felt ashamed of his emotion being too apparent. He poured some wine into a tumbler and emptied it at once. A footstep was heard at the door; another moment and Mr. Fuller stood before Wilford Hadfield.
"My dear boy," said the doctor, heartily, "how glad I am to see you here again! once more at the Grange, Wilford; that's how it should be, isn't it? Yet, how you've changed; how your hand