It must have been while they were ill that Squire Carson came one day
to the vicarage. The weather was still cold, for there was a fire in
the study, and I sat before the fire writing letters on a piece of paper
with a pencil, while my father walked up and down the room talking to
himself. Afterwards I knew that he was praying for the lives of his wife
and children. Presently a servant came to the door and said that some
one wanted to see him.
"It is the squire, sir," said the maid, "and he says he particularly
wishes to see you."
"Very well," answered my father, wearily, and presently Squire Carson
came in. His face was white and haggard, and his eyes shone so fiercely
that I was afraid of him.
"Forgive me for intruding on you at such a time, Quatermain," he said,
in a hoarse voice, "but to-morrow I leave this place for ever, and I
wish to speak to you before I go--indeed, I must speak to you."
"Shall I send Allan away?" said my father, pointing to me.
"No; let him bide. He will not understand." Nor, indeed, did I at the
time, but I remembered every word, and in after years their meaning grew
on me.
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