“‘What is it?’ said I. ‘You look as if you have seen a ghost!’

“He mumbled something in response, which I did not catch, threw my bag aboard and we set off, rattling along the narrow, hilly lanes. Not once did he open his mouth, although once or twice I caught him stealing a glance at me. We passed by fields and hedgerows and wooded dells, all alive with the scents of late summer, and an uprush of joy filled my heart to be home in this beautiful countryside once more.

“‘It is good to be back in England,’ said I aloud at length, unable to contain my thoughts any longer.

“‘Is it?’ was his mumbled response.

“‘There were times in India when I feared I might never return,’ I remarked, ignoring his surly, unfriendly manner.

“‘It’d be better if you never had,’ said he under his breath.

“‘What did you say!’ I cried, although I had heard it clear enough, but he just grunted and averted his eyes.

“This greeting, from the first person I had met who knew me was both remarkable and unpleasant, but I thought that Barham had perhaps suffered some personal tragedy recently, which had affected his brain, and I determined not to let it lower my spirits. Our way took us presently through the village of Topley Cross, and as we passed through the market place I saw several people I knew. I raised my arm to wave a greeting as we passed, but they turned away hurriedly, as if in a pretence of not having seen me, although it was perfectly plain that they had. I could conceive of no explanation for this, at least as pertaining to myself, and I wondered if it were Isaac Barham they were shunning. Perhaps, I speculated, my driver’s morose and unfriendly manner was the result of some general falling-out between him and the rest of the district.

“Presently, we turned in at the gate of Oakbrook Hall, and as the drive passed between the gnarled old oaks, the tall elms and beeches, all clothed in the colours of autumn, I almost cried aloud, so joyful was I to be home. When we drew up before the Hall, I sprang down from the trap, paid off my surly companion with a sense of relief and hurried indoors.

“There was a stillness and silence about the house that seemed strange to me and was not how I remembered it. For a moment, I stood in the hallway and called, but this elicited no response. I glanced into the library, which is also my father’s old study, but there was no one there. At length, I tugged the bell rope in the hall, and Bunning, my father’s butler, appeared presently from the back of the house; but when he saw who it was that had summoned him he stopped dead in his tracks and clutched his chest. I thought at first that he was suffering some kind of heart seizure, but when he spoke it was clear to me that it was simply my presence there that troubled him.

“‘Master John!’ said he in a breathless tone.

“‘None other,’ said I. ‘This is a fine welcome, Bunning, I must say! Is my father not at home?’

“‘Colonel Reid is in the upstairs study, sir,’ replied he. ‘He is engaged upon his manuscript.’

“‘I see. Well, kindly inform him, if he can spare a moment, that his son is home from India.’ With that I returned to the library in no very good humour. But the library of Oakbrook Hall has always had a soothing effect upon me. There is a serenity there, in the smell of old leather and polish, and on that day these scents were mingled with those of late summer flowers, for the French windows stood open to the garden. I poured myself a glass of sherry from a decanter and emptied my mind of every thought save that of the pleasure I felt just to be there, at home at Oakbrook once more.

“A few minutes later I heard footsteps in the passage. It was not my father who entered the library, however, but his secretary, Northcote. He blinked at me from behind his spectacles, and informed me in his customary nervous, embarrassed manner that my father was indisposed. He had retired to his room, having left strict instructions that he was not to be disturbed, and would see me that evening at dinner.

“It seemed a strange, cold homecoming for one who had travelled so far, and for so long, in the hope of seeing once more his familiar house and home, but there was nothing I could do about it. I occupied myself as best I could for the remainder of the day and, in truth, the exhaustion that I had resisted during my long journey finally swept over me like a wave upon a beach, and I spent long periods of the day asleep on my bed.

“At dinner that night, my father greeted me with a cool formality. He had never been a very expressive man, and it was clear that my mother’s death had affected him deeply, and I explained his lack of warmth on those grounds. Also, Northcote was dining with us, which perhaps placed a further constraint upon the conversation. Physically my father seemed much as ever, although his hair had turned white while I had been away, but mentally and spiritually he seemed to have aged by more than the three years I had spent in India. When I ventured to allude to my mother, he brushed aside my remarks and indicated quite clearly that he did not wish the subject to be raised. I told him, then, something of my exploits in Afghanistan, and was rewarded by a spark of interest in his eyes. But soon this spark had faded again, and when I paused for a moment in my account, he did not ask me to continue, but excused himself from the table and left the room.

“This left me alone with Northcote, and I endeavoured to learn from him what had wrought this change in my father’s manner.

“‘Did you not receive the letter that Colonel Reid sent you at Horsham?’ said he.

“I shook my head.

“‘No matter,’ said he. ‘Your father has had many worries, Captain Reid. Your mother’s death was a blow from which he has never fully recovered.’

“I would have asked him more about all that had happened in my absence, but at that moment my father returned and summoned his secretary away, saying that he had some work he wished him to do, in connection with tenancy leases on the estate which were up for renewal. As Northcote followed my father from the room, he shot a glance my way, his features expressing confusion and apology. I shook my head slightly to convey to him that I understood the awkward position in which he was placed and would hold nothing against him on account of it. Indeed, I had the distinct impression that my father’s true purpose in calling his secretary away was simply to prevent the two of us talking any further. Whatever the reason, I was thus left utterly alone in the silent dining room, upon the day of my return from the Afghan War.

“The following morning I had a letter from Horsham, which I opened while I was waiting, alone, for breakfast. It was from the regimental post office, and merely contained the letter from my father, which had arrived there the previous day, just after I had left. Intrigued, I opened this second envelope. Inside was a brief note above my father’s signature. There was no word of greeting and just two lines of writing: ‘It is better that you do not come home. Kindly make other arrangements. I have let it be thought in the district that you are dead.’

“For a long moment, I stared in stupefied disbelief at this message. Then I read those two lines over and over and over again as I paced the floor of the dining room, unable to believe that I had understood them correctly. What on earth could it mean? Why should my father, so proud when I sailed for India with the regiment, now think so little of me as to prefer that his neighbours think me dead? He wrote as if he were deeply ashamed of me, but there was no conceivable reason why he should be. I had certainly not given either him or the regiment any cause to regard me with shame. Could it be that there was something dishonourable I had done which had entirely passed from my memory? That was surely inconceivable. Or had I done something the significance of which I had not realized? I racked my brains until my mind reeled with the effort, but could think of nothing that might explain the matter.