“I must not bore you with my hidden griefs, Sholto,” he said, dryly; “they are musty and gray now with age.”
“You mistake if you think they bore me. I have never judged you hardly, Douglas. Your nature was not a common one. To me your life has fitted your nature.”
“My life,” echoed the guest a little sadly. “What a weary turmoil it seems looking back at it now, what ceaseless restlessness! Ah, cousin, you have had the best of it, after all!”
The squire made no reply.
“Let us bury by-gones—they leave a bitter taste behind. I will come to the present, Sholto. I wrote to you with one idea and thought prominent in my mind. In another month or so I shall leave England again, perhaps this time never to return; but, before I go, I want to leave my old inheritance an heir, and I must find him here.”
“Here!” repeated the squire. “You forget, Douglas, I am seven years your senior, and in all probability——”
“I do not mean you. You have a son.”
“Stuart?” exclaimed the squire. “Yes. You have never seen him, Douglas. He is the best in the world.”
“I do not need your word to tell me that. I have heard of this son. The world is very small, and my ears are always sharp. He was in Calcutta last year. Yes, and I was there, too.”
“Then you know him?”