"I!—what should I hear? I would fain learn, however, from your uncle himself what he might like to tell me of his sorrows—or if, indeed, there be any chance that—"
"That—what?"
"That—that his son still survives."
"I think not," said I; "and I doubt whether you will learn much from my uncle. Still, there is something in your words that belies their apparent meaning, and makes me suspect that you know more than you will say."
"Diplomatist!" said Lady Ellinor, half smiling; but then, her face settling into a seriousness almost severe, she added,—"it is terrible to think that a father should hate his son!"
"Hate!—Roland hate his son! What calumny is this?"
"He does not do so, then! Assure me of that; I shall be so glad to know that I have been misinformed."
"I can tell you this, and no more (for no more do I know), that if ever the soul of a father were wrapped up in a son,—fear, hope, gladness, sorrow, all reflected back on a father's heart from the shadows on a son's life,—Roland was that father while the son lived still."
"I cannot disbelieve you!" exclaimed Lady Ellinor, though in a tone of surprise. "Well, do let me see your uncle."
"I will do my best to induce him to visit you, and learn all that you evidently conceal from me."