The man had been confined to his bed for weeks in the summer, with an
attack of acute rheumatism, and to the house afterwards. It was the first
time they had met since that morning long ago, when the miller brought up
the purse. Lord Hartledon did not know him at first, he was so altered;
pale and reduced.
"Is it really you, Floyd?"
"What's left of me, my lord."
"And that's not much; but I am glad to see you so far well," said
Hartledon, in his usual kindly tone. "I have heard reports of you from
Mr. Hillary."
"Your lordship's altered too."
"Am I?"
"Well, it seems so to me. But it's some few years now since I saw you.
Nothing has ever come to light about that pocket-book, my lord."
"I conclude not, or I should have heard of it."
"And your lordship never came down to see the place!"
"No. I left Hartledon the same day, I think, or the next. After all,
Floyd, I don't see that it is of any use looking into these painful
things: it cannot bring the dead to life again."
"That's, true," said the miller.
He was walking into Calne. Lord Hartledon kept by his side, talking to
him. He promised to be as popular a man as his father had been; and that
was saying a great deal. When they came opposite the Rectory, Lord
Hartledon wished him good day and more strength, in his genial manner,
and turned in at the Rectory gates.
About once a week he was in the habit of calling upon Mrs.
Pages:
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483