“Why, you must know,” said my father, “that Sisty has fished up a friend of whom he can give no account that would satisfy a policeman, and whose fortunes he thinks himself under the necessity of protecting. You are very lucky that he has not picked your pockets, Sisty; but I dare say he has. What’s his name?”
“Vivian,” said I,—“Francis Vivian.”
“A good name and a Cornish,” said my father. “Some derive it from the Romans,—Vivianus; others from a Celtic word which means—”
“Vivian!” interrupted Roland. “Vivian!—I wonder if it be the son of Colonel Vivian.”
“He is certainly a gentleman’s son,” said I; “but he never told me what his family and connections were.”
“Vivian,” repeated my uncle,—“poor Colonel Vivian! So the young man is going to his father. I have no doubt it is the same. Ah!—”
“What do you know of Colonel Vivian or his son?” said I. “Pray, tell me; I am so interested in this young man.”
“I know nothing of either, except by gossip,” said my uncle, moodily. “I did hear that Colonel Vivian, an excellent officer and honorable man, had been in—in—” (Roland’s voice faltered) “in great grief about his son, whom, a mere boy, he had prevented from some improper marriage, and who had run away and left him,—it was supposed for America. The story affected me at the time,” added my uncle, trying to speak calmly.
We were all silent, for we felt why Roland was so disturbed, and why Colonel Vivian’s grief should have touched him home. Similarity in affliction makes us brothers even to the unknown.
“You say he is going home to his family,—I am heartily glad of it!” said the envying old soldier, gallantly.