"I have the right to know," Charles burst out. "In all that I can remember of my childhood, you stood like a shadow in the corner of the room, you were the nightmare that haunted my pillow. You used to write sometimes—oh! I can remember your letters in their fat pursy envelopes. I can smell the sealing wax, black sealing wax, now. My father would go out with an oath and my mother would sit by a window with your letter in her lap, weeping, weeping."
"Did she weep, boy?"
"Ah! that pleases you, eh?"
"No, no, I was thinking what a laugh she had once—what a laugh. I expect I was hard—I was—Charles, nephew, give me your hand—I——"
The old man faltered in his speech and, as if the room were dark, groped for our hero's hand; the latter drew back.
"No! thank 'ee, Uncle, once is enough."
The old man did not heed the insult.
"Perhaps I understand your feelings, boy, I've read your poems."
Charles was touched for a moment, but hardened himself as he thought of that wide staircase down which, clutching the balustrade with both hands, he had stumbled alone. A child does not easily forgive a slight, and Charles still regarded his uncle with the eyes of a child.
"Did she speak of me before she died?" murmured the old man with a wistful eagerness.