“Clarke informs me that you are not lacking in that same desirable quality,” whispered the other lady, and with a smile which gave an air of pathos to her faded yet beautiful face, she turned away and followed her son out into the hall. As they passed along she impetuously stopped and faced him. Grace Unwin had been a mother to Clarke for thirteen years, and she loved him devotedly.
“Clarke,” said she, “I dread this ordeal most unaccountably. Your father has had something on his mind of late. Do you know of any trouble weighing upon him besides this dreadful one of leaving us?”
“No,” rejoined the wondering youth. “He has never confided in me, mother, as much as he has in you. If you know nothing—”
“And I do not,” she murmured.
“You must have been deceived by your affection. He is not the man to brood over petty troubles, or to be cast down by matters he could regulate with a word.”
“I know it, yet he has not appeared natural to me for some time. Long before the physician told him that his disease was mortal, his actions betrayed a melancholy which has always been foreign to his nature, and for the very reason that he has succeeded in hiding it from you, I feel that it has its seat in something vital.”
“And have you never asked him what it was, dear mother? You who are such a tender nurse and so adored a wife must have moments when even his reserve would yield to such gentle importunities as yours.”
“It would seem so, but I have never dared to broach the subject. When your father chooses to be silent, it is difficult for any one to question him.”
“Yes, mother; and yet I must dare his displeasure to-day. I must know his mind about Polly.”
“Yes, that is right, and Heaven’s blessing go with you. I shall be outside here in the hall. If you strike the bell once I will fetch in Polly; if you strike it twice, I will come in alone; if you do not strike it at all, I will remain where I am, praying God to give you patience to meet the disappointment of your life.”