We all fell silent, and my uncle leaned his chin upon his hand, looking thoughtfully into the fire. If I do but close my eyes now, I can see the light upon his proud, handsome face, and see also my dear father, concerned at having touched upon so terrible a memory, shooting little slanting glances at him betwixt the puffs of his pipe.
“I dare say that it has happened with you, sir,” said my uncle at last, “that you have lost some dear messmate, in battle or wreck, and that you have put him out of your mind in the routine of your daily life, until suddenly some word or some scene brings him back to your memory, and you find your sorrow as raw as upon the first day of your loss.”
My father nodded.
“So it is with me to-night. I never formed a close friendship with a man—I say nothing of women—save only the once. That was with Lord Avon. We were of an age, he a few years perhaps my senior, but our tastes, our judgments, and our characters were alike, save only that he had in him a touch of pride such as I have never known in any other man. Putting aside the little foibles of a rich young man of fashion, les indescrétions d’une jeunesse dorée, I could have sworn that he was as good a man as I have ever known.”
“How came he, then, to such a crime?” asked my father.
My uncle shook his head.
“Many a time have I asked myself that question, and it comes home to me more to-night than ever.”
All the jauntiness had gone out of his manner, and he had turned suddenly into a sad and serious man.
“Was it certain that he did it, Charles?” asked my mother.
My uncle shrugged his shoulders.