“Tell me what you propose for me, sir,” said George, in a low, weak voice.
“First of all, George, you ought to leave the army. Grounsell, I must tell you, is not of this opinion; he advises an exchange into a regiment in India, but I think differently. To repair, if it be possible, the shattered wreck of our fortunes, you must address yourself to business life and habits. You 'll have to visit the West Indies, and, probably, the East. We still possess property in Ceylon, of value; and our coffee plantations there, as yet only in their infancy, need nothing but good management to ensure success. Grounsell laughed at my suggesting you for such duties, but I know you better, George, far better, than he does. The English pluck that storms a breach or heads a charge is the very same quality that sustains a man on the long dark road of adverse fortune. I have often told Grounsell that the stuff was in you, George.”
The young man squeezed his father's hand, but was obliged to turn away his head to hide the tears which filled his eyes; for what a terrible deception was he practising at that very moment, and what duplicity was there even in the silence with which he heard him!
For a few seconds Sir Stafford seemed to revel in all the bright visions of a warm fancy. The prospect his imagination had conjured up appeared to have momentarily lifted him above the reach of sorrow. He thought of his son engaged in the active business of life, and displaying in this new career the energies and resources of a bold and courageous spirit. He imagined the high-principled youth becoming the British merchant, and making the name of “Onslow” great and respected in the old arena of all their victories, the city of London. Could this but come to pass, were this dream to be realized, and he would bless the hour that wrecked his fortune, and thus made his poverty the foundation of future greatness.
“I confess, George,” said he, “that I have a pride in thinking that I knew you better than others did, and that I read in the very wayward caprices of your disposition the impatience of an active mind, and not the ennui of an indolent one.” From this the old man branched off into his plans for the future; and, as if the emergency had suggested energy, talked well and clearly of all that was to be done. They were to start for England at once. Sir Stafford felt as if he was able to set out that very day. Some weeks would elapse before the crash came, and in the interval every preparation might be taken. “I hope,” said he, feelingly, “that I have few enemies; I am not sanguine enough to say, none; but, such as they are, they will not seek to humiliate me, I trust, by any unnecessary publicity.” The theme was a very painful one, and for a few seconds he could not go on. At last he resumed: “The extravagance of this household, George, will give much and just offence. It must be retrenched, and from this very day, from this very hour. You will look to this. It must not be said of us that, with ruin before us, we continued these habits of wasteful excess. Let these troops of idle servants be discharged at once. Except Lady Hester's carriage, sell off all equipage. Take no heed of what will be the town talk; such a downfall as ours can never be kept a secret. Let us only take care that we fall with dignity. Grounsell will remain here after us to settle everything, and our departure ought to be as speedy as may be. But you are not listening, George; do you hear me?”
It was quite true George heeded little of what his father spoke; for, with bent-down head, he was trying to catch the sounds of what seemed a long, low whistle from the court without. As he listened, the whistle was repeated; he knew now that it was Norwood's signal, and that “his time was up.”
“I must leave you, my dear father,” said he, assuming all that he could of calmness. “I have an appointment this morning, and one that I cannot well shake off. Norwood and I have promised to meet some friends at Pratolino.”
“It was of that same Norwood I wished to speak to you, George. The sophistry of thinking him 'no worse than his set' will serve no longer. Such men are not fitting acquaintances for one whose character must be above reproach. Norwood is a most unworthy friend for you.”
“I scarcely ever thought of him in that light. We are intimate, it is true; but such intimacy is not friendship.”
“The greater the pollution of such acquaintanceship, then,” said the old man, gravely. “To see the dark side of such a nature, and yet live under its baneful shadow, is infinitely worse, George, than all the self-deception of a rash confidence. Keep your promise to-day, but I beseech you, let it be for the last time in such company.”