The combined effect of sunshine and emotion had already intensified the farmer’s usually healthy colour, but this announcement caused it to deepen to a positively alarming extent. For a moment he seemed in danger of suffocation; he raised his hand mechanically to the loose collar of his smock and clutched at it; his eyes seemed ready to start from their sockets, and, though he opened his mouth and rolled his head from side to side as though about to fulminate against his nephew, no words came. ‘Don’t,’ cried Richard, much alarmed—‘don’t be so angry, uncle—you really need n’t be so much upset. I tell you I’m going away at once—to-night.’ Farmer Sharpe sank down on the bank, sliding his legs out before him rigid as a pair of compasses; his head continued to roll threateningly, and his eyes to gaze fiercely at Richard, but it was some time before he could find voice. ‘Ye can’t go to-night,’ he said at last, in husky, suffocating tones: ‘there bain’t no train to-night.’ ‘Not from Branston, I know; but I mean to ride to Wimborne, and catch the night train there.’ Somehow this catching of the night train at Wimborne seemed to be the culminating point of Richard’s depravity. Isaac positively groaned aloud; the fierceness went out of his eyes, and to Richard’s infinite distress they filled with tears. ‘What more can I do?’ he faltered, torn with remorse and grief as he bent over him. ‘I did n’t think it of ’ee, Richard—nay, if anybody had told me ye ’d go for to do such a thing I would n’t ha’ believed ’em. To go off wi’out a word to I—me as has been a father to ’ee—nay, not so much as a word!’ He paused, choked with emotion, and fell to wiping his eyes and shaking his head disconsolately; while Richard, slowly straightening himself, stood looking down at him. ‘When Job Hunt did call me, and did p’int out as you was standin’—you and Mrs. F.—hand in hand: both hands in both hands,’ he added, correcting himself, ‘I didn’t let on to take no notice. I did send Job about his business, and I did say to myself, “I’ll wait,” says I. “My nevvy ’ull tell me all about it jist now.” And I did go and sit me down here. Says I, “I’ll not interfere; I’ll wait,” I says; “Richard will out wi’ it all to I—he’ll act straight,” I says. “He’ll tell me.”’ He spoke almost appealingly. Richard’s face, which had turned from white to red, was now white again. ‘I wanted to spare you, uncle,’ he murmured at last, falteringly. Isaac groaned, and shook his head; then drawing a long breath, and peering anxiously at his nephew, he whispered pleadingly: ‘What was you a-sayin’ to Mrs. F. when you was a-holdin’ of her hands, Richard?’ ‘Oh,’ groaned the other impatiently, ‘there are some things that can’t be talked about! I should n’t have held her hands—I scarcely knew that I was holding them. What does it matter now? We have said good-bye to each other for ever; we have made up our minds never to see each other again.’