Suddenly, a whirring sound from the road on his right, and the flash of
moving lamps. He saw that a small motor was approaching, and his mare
began to fidget.
"Gently, old girl!"
The motor approached and slowed at the corner.
"Hallo Undershaw! is that you?"
The motor stopped and Undershaw jumped out, and turned off his engine.
Tatham's horse was pirouetting.
"All right," said Undershaw; "I'll walk by you a bit. Turn her up your
road."
The beautiful mare quieted down, and presently the two were in close
talk, while the motor left to itself blazed on the lonely moorland road.
Undershaw was describing a visit he had paid that morning to old Brand,
the bailiff, who was now quietly and uncomplainingly losing hold on life.
"He may go any time--perhaps to-night. The elder son's departure has
finished him. I told the lad that if he cared to stay till his father's
death, you would see that he got work meanwhile on the estate; but he was
wild to go--not a scrap of filial affection that I could make out!--and
the poor old fellow has scarcely spoken since he left the house. So there
he is, left with the feeble old wife, and the half-witted son, who grows
queerer and madder than ever. I needn't say the woman was very
grateful--"
"Don't!" said Tatham; "it's a beastly world."
They moved on in silence, till Undershaw resumed:
"Dixon came to the surgery this afternoon, and I understood from him that
he thinks Melrose is breaking up fast.
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