"No. I want to sit with you, and I can stand pretty strong tobacco."
Roger pushed in, the resistance slowly giving way before him.
"It will make your clothes smell. You'll have to borrow Osborne's
scents to sweeten yourself," said the Squire, grimly, at the same
time pushing a short smart amber-mouthed pipe to his son.
"No; I'll have a churchwarden. Why, father, do you think I'm a baby
to put up with a doll's head like this?" looking at the carving upon
it.
The Squire was pleased in his heart, though he did not choose to
show it. He only said, "Osborne brought it me when he came back from
Germany. That's three years ago." And then for some time they smoked
in silence. But the voluntary companionship of his son was very
soothing to the Squire, though not a word might be said.
The next speech he made showed the direction of his thoughts; indeed,
his words were always a transparent medium through which the current
might be seen.
"A deal of a man's life comes and goes in three years--I've found
that out;" and he puffed away at his pipe again. While Roger was
turning over in his mind what answer to make to this truism, the
squire again stopped his smoking and spoke.
"I remember when there was all that fuss about the Prince of
Wales being made regent, I read somewhere--I daresay it was in a
newspaper--that kings and their heirs-apparent were always on bad
terms. Osborne was quite a little chap then: he used to go out riding
with me on White Surrey;--you won't remember the pony we called White
Surrey?"
"I remember it; but I thought it a tall horse in those days."
"Ah! that was because you were such a small lad, you know. I'd seven
horses in the stable then--not counting the farm-horses. I don't
recollect having a care then, except--_she_ was always delicate, you
know. But what a beautiful boy Osborne was! He was always dressed in
black velvet--it was a foppery, but it wasn't my doing, and it was
all right, I'm sure. He's a handsome fellow now, but the sunshine has
gone out of his face."
"He's a good deal troubled about this money, and the anxiety he has
given you," said Roger, rather taking his brother's feelings for
granted.
"Not he," said the Squire, taking the pipe out of his mouth, and
hitting the bowl so sharply against the hob that it broke in pieces.
"There! But never mind! I say, not he, Roger! He's none troubled
about the money. It's easy getting money from Jews if you're the
eldest son, and the heir. They just ask, 'How old is your father, and
has he had a stroke, or a fit?' and it's settled out of hand, and
then they come prowling about a place, and running down the timber
and land--Don't let us speak of him; it's no good, Roger. He and I
are out of tune, and it seems to me as if only God Almighty could
put us to rights. It's thinking of how he grieved _her_ at last that
makes me so bitter with him. And yet there's a deal of good in him!
and he's so quick and clever, if only he'd give his mind to things.
Now, you were always slow, Roger--all your masters used to say so."