However, the colonel went on without noticing the agony of his young friend. The study was a dark room at any time, when no artificial light was used, and Colonel Greyson was notoriously short-sighted.
“Yes, my boy, we are organizing a steeplechase. Now, don’t tell me that you cannot ride, or that you have other engagements. You must have a little consideration for the county. I want you to become even more popular than you are already, and we may yet run you for a seat in the House.”
“Colonel,” broke in Sir Harold, “why will you torture me in this way?”
His voice was so harsh that the old soldier promptly pulled himself up, and began to search for his eyeglasses.
“Torture you, eh? Egad, what is wrong with the boy? Confound it, sir, what is the trouble? You, whom I account one of the most fortunate men of the century, talking of torture!
“Is it torture to be a rich man? Is it torture to be young, handsome, famous and engaged to the loveliest woman under the sun? I tell you what it is, my boy, you are one of Fortune’s spoiled darlings, and have been so much surfeited with good things that you do not know what is best for you! Now, as you have hitherto professed to have implicit confidence in my common sense, I intend prescribing for you. My dear fellow, the county cannot possibly get on without you, and I am sure that you cannot get along without the county! It is my ambition to see you at the very top of the political tree, and if you take the thing in hand I am pretty certain as to the result, for your abilities are far beyond the average, and only want bringing out. Now, about this little scheme of mine—this steeplechase——”
“Sit down, colonel,” Sir Harold interrupted, closing the door. “I have something to tell you that will drive steeplechasing out of your head, so far as I am concerned. I did not intend speaking of my misery to any living soul, but my confidence is due to you, old friend, though I do not solicit advice. I know my own case only too well!”
Colonel Greyson listened like a man in a stupor, but he had no suspicion of the nature of Sir Harold’s trouble until it was revealed to him in words that seemed to quiver with agony.
“Only a lovers’ quarrel,” he interjected.
“No, colonel, it is no ordinary affair. Mine is no ordinary love; it is life or death to me. I have not shaped my life in any stereotyped pattern. I have always been afraid of linking my fate with another, because I am so intense in all that I profess. It is my misfortune. I believed that Lady Elaine was capable of loving after my fashion of loving, but I was wrong, and I wish you to understand that I do not blame her, though my disappointment will embitter my whole life.”