“No; I have not seen the doctor in a month, though I expect him to call soon.” Oliver started. “I have had no reasons to find fault with you for the way in which you conduct yourself. The trouble in this case comes from an entirely different quarter.”
Mr. Bright paused. Oliver noted that there was a slight quiver in his father’s voice. Surely something quite out of the ordinary was wrong.
“You are the only one who is left to me, Oliver,” Mr. Bright continued. “It was always my intention to give you the best education that money can buy, for I know the value of such, and then give you a first-class start in whatever professional pursuit you might choose to enter. But now, my poor boy”—
Mr. Bright broke off short.
“What is the matter, father?” cried Oliver. “Why cannot you do as you intended? I thought sure I would go to college and then, after perhaps a year or so of traveling, I would settle down and become a lawyer—that is, if you thought I was smart enough.”
“That programme would have suited me exactly, Oliver. Your Uncle William was a lawyer, and you take after him a good deal. But now it cannot be thought of.”
“Why?”
“Ah, it is a bitter story, my boy, and I do not see how I can tell it to you. I was very blind and foolish, trusting those that were not worthy of my confidence, and now both of us must suffer for it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“And perhaps you never will, quite. I was never of a speculative nature; but this was apparently so easy, and so sure to turn out profitably, that I entered into it without due consideration.”