"It will not be his some day. Devereux Court, at my death, will pass into the hands of another son of mine, or his heir. Would to God it could crumble into dust first!" the old man added, with a sudden burst of bitterness.
I could not tell what answer to make, so I remained silent. But I suppose my face must have told him that I was eager to hear more. He rose, and walked up and down the room several times, my eyes anxiously following every movement. How like he was to my father! Age had wonderfully little bent his figure. There was the same grace of limb and carriage that I had often admired in my father when we had been striding side by side across the heather-covered moors, the same long, finely-carved features, and the same look of trouble stamped on the brow. But in my father's case it was developed somewhat differently. It had filled his eyes with a weary, long-suffering look, which seemed to speak of absolute despair, and unvarying, hopeless grief. There was more of bitterness and concentrated irritation in Sir Francis's face. It seemed as though the sorrow would not settle into his being, but was continually lashing him into acute and active wretchedness. Which was the harder to bear, I wonder?
Suddenly Sir Francis stopped short in the middle of the room, and turned round to me.
"Arbuthnot, my boy," he said, kindly, "I'll tell you about my two sons if you care to hear the story, in a few words."
"There is nothing I should like so well to hear, Sir Francis," I answered, in a low tone. He drew near to me and sat down.
"I've taken a strange fancy to you, Arbuthnot," he said, slowly; "I feel that I should like you to know an old man's sorrow."
His voice was very low indeed, and it seemed to me that his eyes were dim. Then he began speaking in short sentences, as was his wont, but with less than his usual curtness.
"I have been married twice, and by each wife I had a son. Herbert was the name of the elder, Rupert of the younger. Herbert's mother was the daughter of an English nobleman, and he grew up as fine a young Englishman as ever walked on God's earth, and a Devereux to the backbone. Rupert's mother was a Spanish lady, and he resembled her rather than me. Perhaps you will not be surprised when I tell you that, although I concealed it as much as possible, Herbert was the son I loved.
"I made them both enter the army directly they were old enough. Ours is a fighting family, and from the days of the Conqueror there has always been a Devereux ready to fight for his country. There, in the picture gallery, you may see them all, a magnificent race—ay, though I call them so—of knights and cavaliers and generals. Never has there been a battle fought in English history but a Devereux has borne arms in it. I myself was at Inkermann, and led my regiment on into Sebastopol. A glorious time it was."
He stopped for a moment with sparkling eyes, and a pleased smile on his lips, as though enjoying keenly the recollection. Then his face clouded over again, and his head drooped. The change was so complete and such a sad one that my heart ached for him, and I turned my head away. He continued in an altered tone.