"I shall have to consult your mother about it," he said. "I almost think that I may venture it," he added, in a lower tone and thoughtfully, as though to himself. "Venture it! What could there be adventurous in it," I wondered, "to a well-read, scholarly man such as I knew him to be!" But I did not dare to ask. Presently he turned to me with a much graver look in his face. "Hugh!" he said, "these people interrupted our conversation. There is something which I must say to you at once. I do not wish you to become a soldier. When you feel that you can stay here no longer, and that this country life is too quiet for you, you must choose some other profession. But a soldier you can never be." I was bitterly disappointed, and not a little curious, and an idea which had often occurred to me swept suddenly into my mind with renewed strength. "Father, may I ask you a question?" He hesitated, but did not forbid me. "I have heard it said down in the village--every one says that you must once have been a soldier. You walk and hold your head like one, and--father, what is the matter?" I broke off all at once, for his face had become like a dead man's, and he had sunk heavily on to the seat. I would have sprung to his side, but my mother was there before him. She had passed one arm around his neck, and with the other she motioned me to go into the house. "It isn't your fault, Hugh," she said, "but you mustn't ask your father questions; they distress him. Leave us now." I turned heavily away, and went up-stairs to my room. About an hour afterwards, when I pushed open my window before getting into bed, there stole into my room together with the sweet scent of jessamine and climbing roses the sound of subdued voices. "He must be told," I heard my father say solemnly. "God give me strength." Then the voices ceased for a while, but I still lingered, and presently they began again, but in a more cheerful key. I moved away and got into bed, but I left the window open as I always did, and some fragments of their conversation still reached me. "I am sure that you need have no fear, Herbert. No one in these parts can have the slightest idea of ... I hope you will ... It will be a change ... Now promise." I could hear nothing of my father's reply, but from its tone he seemed reluctant, though wishful. Then the voices dropped again, and I think that I must have dozed for some time. But suddenly I awoke and sat up in bed startled, for my father's voice was ringing in through the window. "You are right, Marian; you are right. I will do my duty. The boy must be told. The time has come when I must dig up my trouble again. The boy must be told." Then I heard them enter the house (leaving the door wide open, as was our common practice), and come up to their rooms. Afterwards there was silence, but there was no more sleep for me that night. CHAPTER IV "A MYSTERIOUS MEETING"