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But try as he might he found his courage failing, and more and more he dwelt apart and clung to the few Priscilla Glenn, Mary McAdam, and old Jerry McAlpin who regarded him in the light of a priest to whom they might confess freely. Then one of Farwell's dogs died and he was genuinely anxious at the effect this had upon him.
The In-Place is safer for you. What is it that you must have?" Priscilla laughed a wild, dreary little sound it was, but it dashed hope from Farwell's mind. "I want my chance, a woman's chance, and I cannot have it here. I'm not going to hide under Mrs. McAdam's wing, or even yours, Master Farwell. I've left all the comfort with my poor mother that I can.
And if she heard now that he was alive, had only seemed dead for her safety and his own, would she come to him and share the dun-coloured life of the In-Place? She was alive; she was faithful. Boswell was making her comfortable with Farwell's money. She was accepting less and less because she was winning her way to independence in an honourable line.
Farwell's excitement showed in his eyes and voice and wiped out the weariness of his face. "You mean that, Master Farwell? You are not trying to comfort me?" "No; I am comforting myself!" Then, forgetful of the need for sleep, he went on rapidly: "Out where you are going, Priscilla, there is a a woman I love; she once loved me. This must seem queer to you who have only known me as as I now seem.
He secretly and furiously objected to the dancing and visits in Farwell's cottage. He was ashamed to voice this feeling, for Farwell was his friend and had taught him all he knew, but Farwell's age did not in the least blind Jerry-Jo to the fact that he was a man, and he did not enjoy seeing Priscilla so free and easy with any other of the male sex, be he ancient enough to topple into the grave.
It seemed such a normal, natural opening for Priscilla if the time really came for her to go away. The doubt that she would eventually go was slight in Farwell's heart. He, keener than others, saw the closing-in of conditions. He was not blind to Jerry-Jo's primitive attempts to attract the girl's attention, but he was not deceived.
And I please let me do this one little thing for you let me prove that I can love and honour you without explanation!" Farwell's face twitched. He struggled to speak, and finally said unsteadily: "I have been good, as you say, because I had to be. At any moment I might have been what I once was.
Near them a group of men were standing, among whom were Switzer, Waring-Gaunt, and Jack Romayne, listening to Farwell's dissertation. "You see, Mrs. Gwynne," he said, "no one may handle the ball head, feet, body, may be used, but not the hands." "But I understand they sometimes hurt each other, Mr. Farwell." "Oh, accidents will happen even on the farm, Mrs. Gwynne.
The three had been there but a few minutes when a wistful little face peered at them from Mr. Grey's back fence. It was Kitty Farwell's second son, timid little Bobby, one of the primary pupils at the village school. Pearl called to him to join them. Bobby came running gleefully, his red-stockinged legs kicking up the soft snow in mimic clouds.
"Me own name is C. P. Quilty," said he, "the initials indicatin' Cornelius Patrick, and I'm glad to know ye. There's mighty few drummers stops off here now, but trade's bound to pick up, wid the land boom an' all." A sidelong glance at the perfecto clenched between Farwell's teeth. "W'u'd seegyars be yer line, now?
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