“Yes, too late—too late! I disown him. He is no longer son of mine.”
“And you sit there in that dining-room every night, Sir John,” I said, “with all us servants gathered round, and read that half a chapter and then say, ‘As we forgive them that trespass against us.’ Sir John—master—he is your own son, and I love him as if he was my own.”
There wasn’t a sound in that place for a minute, and then he drew his breath in a catching way that startled me, for it was as if he was going to have a fit. But his face was very calm and stern now, as he says to me gently:
“You are right, old friend;”—and my heart gave quite a bound—“old friend.”
“Let’s go to him and save him, master, from his sin.”
“Two weak old men, Burdon, and him strong, desperate, and taken by surprise. My good fellow, what would follow then?”
“I don’t know, Sir John. I can only see one thing, and that is, that we should have done our duty by the lad. Let’s leave the rest to Him.”
He drew a long deep breath.
“Yes,” he says. “Come along.”
We went back in the darkness to the cellar door and listened; but all seemed very still, and I turned the key in the patent Bramah lock without a sound. We went in, and stood there on the sawdust, with that hot smell of burnt oil seeming to get stronger, and there was a faint light in the inner cellar now, and a curious rustling, panting sound. We crept forward, one on each side of the opening; and as we looked in, my hand went down on one of the sherry bottles in the bin by my arm, and it made a faint click, which sounded quite loud.