“Strictly confidential, Colonel Hunter,” said Dill, bowing.
“It is this: a young officer of mine, Lieutenant Conyers, has written to me a letter mentioning a plan he had conceived for the future advancement of your son, a young gentleman for whom, it would appear, he had formed a sudden but strong attachment. His project was, as I understand it, to accredit him to his father with such a letter as must secure the General's powerful influence in his behalf. Just the sort of thing a warm-hearted young fellow would think of doing for a friend he determined to serve, but exactly the kind of proceeding that might have a very unfortunate ending. I can very well imagine, from my own short experience here, that your son's claims to notice and distinction may be the very highest; I can believe readily what very little extraneous aid he would require to secure his success; but you and I are old men of the world, and are bound to look at things cautiously, and to ask, 'Is this scheme a very safe one?' 'Will General Conyers enter as heartily into it as his son?' 'Will the young surgeon be as sure to captivate the old soldier as the young one?' In a word, would it be quite wise to set a man's whole venture in life on such a cast, and is it the sort of risk that, with your experience of the world, you would sanction?”
It was evident, from the pause the Colonel left after these words, that he expected Dill to say something; but, with the sage reserve of his order, the doctor stood still, and never uttered a syllable. Let us be just to his acuteness, he never did take to the project from the first; he thought ill of it, in every way, but yet he did not relinquish the idea of making the surrender of it “conditional;” and so he slowly shook his head with an air of doubt, and smoothly rolled his hands one over the other, as though to imply a moment of hesitation and indecision.
“Yes, yes,” muttered he, talking only to himself,—“disappointment, to be sure!—very great disappointment too! And his heart so set upon it, that's the hardship.”
“Naturally enough,” broke in Hunter, hastily. “Who would n't be disappointed under such circumstances? Better even that, however, than utter failure later on.” The doctor sighed, but over what precise calamity was not so clear; and Hunter continued,—
“Now, as I have made this communication to you in strictest confidence, and not in any concert with Conyers, I only ask you to accept the view as a mere matter of opinion. I think you would be wrong to suffer your son to engage in such a venture. That's all I mean by my interference, and I have done.”
Dill was, perhaps, scarcely prepared for the sudden summing up of the Colonel, and looked strangely puzzled and embarrassed.
“Might I talk the matter over with my daughter Polly? She has a good head for one so little versed in the world.”
“By all means. It is exactly what I would have proposed. Or, better still, shall I repeat what I have just told you?”
“Do so,” said the doctor, “for I just remember Miss Barrington will call here in a few moments for that medicine I have ordered for her brother, and which is not yet made up.”