Faringfield.
While in the town one day, I had stopped as usual to see my mother.
Just as I was about to remount my horse, Mr. Faringfield appeared at
his garden gate. Beckoning me to him, he led the way into the garden,
and did not stop until we were behind a fir-tree, where we could not
be seen from the house.
"Tell me the truth," said he abruptly, his eyes fixed piercingly upon
mine, "how Tom met his death."
After a moment's confusion, I answered:
"I can add nothing to what has been told you, sir."
He looked at me awhile in silence; then said, with a sorrowful frown:
"I make no doubt you are tongue-tied by a compact. But you need not
fear me. The British authorities are not to be moved by any complaint
of mine. My object is not to procure satisfaction for my son's death.
I merely wish to know whether he took it upon himself to revenge our
calamities; and whether that was not the true cause of his death."
"Why, sir," I said awkwardly, as he still held me in a searching gaze
that seemed to make speech imperative, "how should you think that?"
"From several things. In the first place, I know Tom was a lad of
mettle. The account of the supposed attack that night, has it that
Falconer was in your party; he was one of those who returned with you.
What would Tom have been doing in Falconer's society, when not under
orders, after what had occurred? Other people, who know nothing of
that occurrence, would see nothing strange in their being together.
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