It was late in the afternoon, in the last of August

It was late in the afternoon, in the last of August; night was coming on, and, as they had reached a great elevation, the air was cold and sharp.
In the west there was a great suffusion of cold, red light, which made the sides of the little valley look only the more rugged and dusky.
During one of their pauses, her father left her and wandered away to some high place, at a distance, to get a view.
He was out of sight; she sat there alone, in the stillness, which was just touched by the vague murmur, somewhere, of a mountain brook.
She thought of Morris Townsend, and the place was so desolate and lonely that he seemed very far away.
Her father remained absent a long time; she began to wonder what had become of him.
But at last he reappeared, coming towards her in the clear twilight, and she got up, to go on.
He made no motion to proceed, however, but came close to her, as if he had something to say.
He stopped in front of her and stood looking at her, with eyes that had kept the light of the flushing snow-summits on which they had just been fixed.
She wondered what he meant--whether he wished to frighten her.
If he did, the place was well chosen; this hard, melancholy dell, abandoned by the summer light, made her feel her loneliness.
She looked around her, and her heart grew cold; for a moment her fear was great.
But she could think of nothing to say, save to murmur gently, "I am sorry."
"You try my patience," her father went on, "and you ought to know what I am, I am not a very good man.
Though I am very smooth externally, at bottom I am very passionate; and I assure you I can be very hard."
Was it to startle her suddenly into a retractation--to take an advantage of her by dread?