done for him. Nor did he get back to the Moonbeam
till late at night, having made some engagement for dinner after the
day's sport. It was not till noon on the following day, the Friday,
that a message was received from him at the Priory, saying that he
would at once hurry down to Hampshire.

Ralph sat down to dinner all alone. Let what will happen to break
hearts and ruin fortunes, dinner comes as long as the means last for
providing it. The old butler waited upon him in absolute silence,
fearing to speak a word, lest the word at such a time should be
ill-spoken. No doubt the old man was thinking of the probable
expedience of his retiring upon his savings; feeling, however, that
it became him to show, till the last, every respect to all who bore
the honoured name of Newton. When the meat had been eaten, the
old servant did say a word. "Won't you come round to the fire, Mr.
Ralph?" and he placed comfortably before the hearth one of the heavy
arm-chairs with which the corners of the broad fire-place were
flanked. But Ralph only shook his head, and muttered some refusal.
There he sat, square to the table, with the customary bottle of wine
before him, leaning back with his hands in his pockets, thinking of
his condition in life. The loneliness of the room, the loneliness
of the house, were horrible to him. And yet he would not that his
solitude should be interrupted. He had been so sitting, motionless,
almost overcome by the gloom of the big dark room, for so long a
period that he hardly knew whether it was night or not, when a note
was brought to him from Gregory. "Dear Ralph,--Shall I not come down
to you for an hour?--G. N." He read the note, and sent back a verbal
message. "Tell Mr. Gregory that I had rather not." And so he sat
motionless till the night had really come, till the old butler
brought him his candlestick and absolutely bade him betake himself
to bed. He had watched during the whole of the previous night, and
now had slumbered in his chair from time to time. But his sleeping
had been of that painful, wakeful nature which brings with it no
refreshment. It had been full of dreams, in all of which there had
been some grotesque reference to the property, but in none of them
had there been any memory of the Squire's terrible death. And yet, as
he woke and woke and woke again, it can hardly be said that the truth
had come back upon him as a new blow. Through such dreams there seems
to exist a double memory, and