A spectator might have
observed that this worship was manifest to Mr. Jacks, and that it by
no means displeased him.
"You are very like your father, Mr. Otway," was the host's first
remark after a moment of ceremony. "Very like what he was forty
years ago." He laughed, not quite naturally, glancing at his wife.
"At that time he and I were much together. But he went to London; I
stayed in the North; and so we lost sight of each other for many a
long year. Somewhere about 1870 we met by chance, on a Channel
steamer; yes, it was just before the war; I remember your father
prophesied it, and foretold its course very accurately. Then we
didn't see each other again until a month ago--I had run down into
Yorkshire for a couple of days and stood waiting for a train at
Northallerton. Someone came towards me, and looked me in the face,
then held out his hand without speaking; and it was my old friend.
He has become a man of few words."
"Yes, he talks very little," said Piers. "I've known him silent for
two or three days together."
"And what does he do with himself there among the moors? You don't
know Hawes," he remarked to the graciously attentive Mrs. Jacks. "A
little stony town at the wild end of Wensleydale. Delightful for a
few months, but very grim all the rest of the year. Has he any
society there?"
"None outside his home, I think. He sits by the fire and reads
Dante.
Pages:
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33