“You will wish to get back—to get away from this dreary place; do not remain on my account. Tell Vyner I will try and go over to him. He’s in Wales, isn’t he?”
“No; he is in Italy.”
“In Italy! I cannot go so far,” said he, with a deep sigh.
“I was not willing to obtrude other sorrows in the midst of your own heavier one; but you will hear the news in a day or two, perhaps, that our poor friend Vyner has lost everything he had in the world.”
“Is his daughter dead?” gasped out Luttrell, eagerly.
“No; I spoke of his fortune; his whole estate is gone.”
“That is sad, very sad,” sighed Luttrell; “but not the saddest! One may be poor and hope; one may be sick, almost to the last, and hope; one may be bereft of friends, and yet think that better days will come; but to be childless—to be robbed of that which was to have treasured your memory when you passed away, and think lovingly on you years after you were dust—this is the great, the great affliction!” As he spoke, the large tears rolled down his face, and his lank cheeks trembled. “None will know this better than Vyner,” said he, after a pause.
“You do him no more than justice; he thought little of his own misfortune in presence of yours.”
“It was like him.”
“May I read you his own words?”