“I had thought of placing him under your care. I knew you would provide for him.”
“I will. Bring him hither,” cried Egerton, eagerly. “All that I can do to prove my—regard for a wish of yours.” Harley pressed his friend’s hand warmly.
“I thank you from my heart; the Audley of my boyhood speaks now. But the young man has decided otherwise; and I do not blame him. Nay, I rejoice that he chooses a career in which, if he find hardship, he may escape dependence.”
“And that career is—”
“Letters.”
“Letters! Literature!” exclaimed the statesman. “Beggary! No, no, Harley, this is your absurd romance.”
“It will not be beggary, and it is not my romance: it is the boy’s. Leave him alone, he is my care and my charge henceforth. He is of her blood, and I said that he had HER eyes.”
“But you are going abroad; let me know where he is; I will watch over him.”
“And unsettle a right ambition for a wrong one? No, you shall know nothing of him till he can proclaim himself. I think that day will come.”
Audley mused a moment, and then said, “Well, perhaps you are right. After all, as you say, independence is a great blessing, and my ambition has not rendered myself the better or the happier.”