"William," he said obdurately, "I recognize your kind intention--but
you've made a mistake. You shouldn't have done it, without a word to
me. I can only repeat, it was a liberty."
Dale of course apologized, but went on pleading. It was all no use.
Obviously Mr. Bates' pride had been wounded to the quick. He was
white, shaky, so old, so feeble, and yet firm as a rock. Never till
now had he spoken to Dale in such tones of stiff reproof.
"William, we'll say no more. I have paid my way all my days, and at my
present age it's a bit too late to start differently."
His last words were: "I shall write next post to confirm the notice."
And he did so.
Then the tale ran round that Mr. Bates was going to the workhouse.
People declared that he had ceded all his furniture to the landlord,
who could now sell it quietly and advantageously, in a manner which
would yield more than enough to wipe out the debt. Perhaps there might
even be a trifling balance in the debtor's favor eventually; but
meanwhile the homeless and stickless old gentleman would fall as
another burden on the rates to which he had so long subscribed.
It was curious, perhaps, but the humble folk spoke of him as the old
gentleman, and not as the old man, all at once giving him the title
which they only now began to think he had fairly earned as a master
and employer, an important personage who used to drive about in gigs,
wear a black coat at church, and always have a kind word for you when
you touched your cap to him.
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