“Then I'll just step in!” said Richard; and the footman gave way as to a member of the household.
Sir Wilton, now an elderly and broken man, sat in the same chair, and in the same attitude, as when Richard, a new-born and ugly child, had, in the arms of his aunt, his first interview with him, nearly one and twenty years before. The relation between them had not developed a hair's-breadth since that moment, and Richard, partly from the state of his health, could not, with all the courage he could gather, help quailing a little before the expected encounter; but he remained outwardly quiet and seemingly cool. The sun was not shining into the room, and it was rather dark. Sir Wilton sat with his back to the one large bay-window, and Richard received its light on his face as he entered. He stood an instant, hesitating. His father did not speak, but sat looking straight at him, staring indeed as at something portentous—much as when first he saw the ugly apparition of his infant heir. Richard's illness had brought out, in the pallor and emaciation of his countenance, what likeness there was in him to his mother; and, strange to say, at the moment when the door opened to admit him, sir Wilton was thinking of the monstrous baby his wife had left him, and wondering if the creature were still alive, and as hideous as twenty years before.
It was not very strange, however. Sir Wilton had been annoyed with his wife that morning, and it was yet a bitterer thing not to be able to hurt her in return, which, because of her cold imperturbability, was impossible, say what he might. As often, therefore, as he sat in silent irritation with her, the thought of his lost child never failed to present itself. What a power over her ladyship would he not possess, what a plough and harrow for her frozen equanimity, if only he knew where the heir to Mortgrange was! He was damned ugly, but the uglier the better! If he but had him, he swore he would have a merry time, with his lady's pride on its marrow-bones! After so many years the poor lad might, ugly as he was, turn out presentable, and if so, then, by heaven, that smooth-faced gentleman, Arthur, should shift for himself!
Suddenly appeared Richard, with his mother in his face; and before his father had time to settle what the deuce it could mean, the apparition spoke.
“I am very sorry to intrude upon you, sir Wilton,” he said, “but—”
Here he paused.
“—But you've got something to tell me—eh?” suggested sir Wilton. He was on the point of adding, “If it be where you got those eyes, I may have to ask you to sit down!” but he checked himself, and said only, “You'd better make haste, then; for the devil is at the door in the shape of my damned gout!”
“I came to tell you, sir Wilton,” replied Richard, plunging at once into the middle of things, which was indeed the best way with sir Wilton, “about a son of yours—”
“What!” cried sir Wilton, putting his hands on the arms of his chair and leaning forward as if on the point of rising to his feet. “Where the devil is he? What do you know about him?”
“He is lying at the point of death—dying of hunger, I may say.”