had evidently changed completely during his
absence at the village. A settled scowl of
distrust darkened his face, as he looked at
his son. " I never shake hands with people
who have once doubted me," he said loudly
and irritably; " for I always doubt them for
ever after. You are a bad son! You have
suspected your father of some infamy that you
dare not openly charge him with, on no other
testimony than the rambling nonsense of a
half-witted, dying old man. Don't speak to
me! I won't hear you! An innocent man
and a spy are bad company. Go and denounce
me, you Judas in disguise! I don't care for
your secret or for you. What's that girl
Rose doing here still? Why hasn't she gone
home long ago? The priest's coming; we
don't want strangers in the house of death.
Take her back to the farm-house, and stop
there with her, if you like: nobody wants
you here!"

There was something in the manner and
look of the speaker, as he uttered these
words, so strange, so sinister, so indescribably
suggestive of his meaning much more than
he said, that Gabriel felt his heart sink within
him instantly; and almost at the same moment
this fearful question forced itself irresistibly
on his mind—might not his father have
followed him to The Merchant's Table? Even
if he had been desired to speak, he could not
have spoken now, while that question and the
suspicion that it brought with it were utterly
destroying all the re-assuring hopes and convictions
of the morning. The mental suffering
produced by the sudden change from pleasure
to pain in all his thoughts, reacted on him
physically. He felt as if he were stifling in the
air of the cottage, in the presence of his
father; and when Rose hurried on her
walking attire, and with a face which alternately
flushed and turned pale with every
moment, approached the door, he went out
with her as hastily as if he had been flying
from his home. Never had the fresh air and
the free daylight felt like heavenly and
guardian influences to him until now!

He could comfort Rose under his father's
harshness, he could assure her of his own
affection that no earthly influence could
change, while they walked together towards
the farm-house; but he could do no more.
He durst not confide to her the subject that
was uppermost in his mind: of all human
beings she was the last to whom he could
reveal the terrible secret that was festering at
his heart. As soon as they got within sight
of the farm-house, Gabriel stopped; and, promising
to see her again soon, took leave of
Rose with assumed ease in his manner and
with real despair in his heart. Whatever the
poor girl might think of it, he felt, at that
moment, that he had not courage to face her
father, and hear him talk happily and pleasantly,
as his custom was, of Rose's approaching
marriage.

Left to himself, Gabriel wandered hither
and thither over the open heath, neither
knowing nor caring in what direction he
turned his steps. The doubts about his
father's innocence which had been dissipated
by his visit to The Merchant's Table, that
father's own language and manner had now
revived—had even confirmed, though he dared
not yet acknowledge so much to himself. It
was terrible enough to be obliged to admit
that the result of his morning's search was,
after all, not conclusive—that the mystery was
in very truth not yet cleared up. The violence
of his father's last words of distrust; the
extraordinary and indescribable changes in his
father's manner while uttering them—what
did these things mean? Guilt or innocence?
Again, was it any longer reasonable to
doubt the death-bed confession made by his
grandfather? Was it not, on the contrary,
far more probable that the old man's denial
in the morning of his own words at night, had
been made under the influence of a panic
terror, when his moral consciousness was
bewildered, and his intellectual faculties were
sinking?—The longer Gabriel thought of these
questions, the less competent—possibly also
the less willing—he felt to answer them.
Should he seek advice from others wiser than
he? No: not while the thousandth part of
a chance remained that his father was innocent.
This thought was still in his mind,
when he found himself once more in sight of
his home. He was still hesitating near
the door, when he saw it opened cautiously.
His brother Pierre looked out, and then
came running towards him. " Come in,
Gabriel; oh, do come in! " said the boy
earnestly. " We are afraid to be alone
with father. He's been beating us for talking
of you."

Gabriel went in. His father looked up
from the hearth where he was sitting, muttered
the word " Spy! " and made a gesture of
contempt—but did not address a word directly
to his son. The hours passed on in silence;
afternoon waned into evening, and evening
into night; and still he never spoke to any
of his children. Soon after it was dark, he
went out, and took his net with him—saying
that it was better to be alone on the sea than
in the house with a spy. When he returned
the next morning, there was no change in
him. Days passed—weeks, months even
elapsed—and still, though his manner insensibly
became what it used to be towards his
other children, it never altered towards his
eldest son. At the rare periods when they
now met, except when absolutely obliged to
speak, he preserved total silence in his intercourse
with Gabriel. He would never take
Gabriel out with him in the boat; he would
never sit alone with Gabriel in the house;
he would never eat a meal with Gabriel; he
would never let the other children talk to
him about Gabriel; and he would never hear
a word in expostulation, a word in reference
to anything his dead father had said or done