From Brant’s first visit to the transplanted Southern mansion in the Highlands to the second was but a step, which he found easier to take after the talk with Antrim about the black sheep.
After that, finding his welcome all that could be desired, he went often. The judge liked him because he took the trouble to inform himself on the subject of penology, which was the invalid’s hobby; Mrs. Langford was disposed to be gracious to him because of his kindness to Dorothy on the train; Isabel openly rejoiced in the acquisition of a critic who knew the difference between a work of art and a photograph; and Dorothy made him welcome for many reasons, most of which she kept under lock and key in the strong room of her heart.
So there were not a few excursions across the river for Brant, and all went well until a certain Tuesday evening in late September—the Tuesday following that Sunday of picture measurings and lovers’ partings. Brant had reached the house in the Highlands rather later than usual, and found Dorothy alone with her father and mother. There were unmistakable signs of sorrow in Dorothy’s eyes; and when neither the judge nor Mrs. Langford seemed grateful for the company of their guest, Brant cut his visit short.
When he took his leave Dorothy followed him out to the veranda. There had been nothing more than a pleasant friendship between them thus far, but Brant had been watching eagerly for a chance to say or do something which might lessen the distance. Here was the coveted opportunity; and when she gave him her hand at parting, with a halting excuse for the gloom of the household, he made bold to hold it while he said:
“Don’t speak of it unless you want to; but—just send me about my business if I am intruding—is there anything I can do to help you?”
“Then you know?” She stopped in tearful embarrassment, and he was too generous to allow her to go on.
“I know nothing, and seek to know nothing—that is, not anything more than you want to tell me. But you seem to be in trouble.”
“I am; we all are. And there is no reason why you shouldn’t know; it will be in the papers in the morning, and then every one will know. Will didn’t come home last night, and—and father found him in jail this morning.”
With all his comings and goings, and with all his good will to know him better, Brant yet knew the black sheep as little as might be, and that little by hearsay. The boy was seldom at home in the evening, and on the few occasions when his homestayings had coincided with Brant’s visits he had been sullen and reticent, showing forth the fitness of Antrim’s epithets. Scanty as were his opportunities for observation, however, Brant had seen that the mother idolized her son and found no fault in him; that Isabel tempered her sisterly affection with a generous measure of contempt; and that Dorothy loved her brother not blindly, but well. And it was with Dorothy’s point of view that Brant chiefly concerned himself.
“Where is he now?” he inquired.