Charles Vining gazed half laughingly in his father’s earnest face; then throwing himself back, he burst into an uncontrolled fit of merriment.
“Ha, ha, ha! Me married! Why, my dear father, what next?” Then, seeing the look of pain in Sir Philip’s countenance, he rose and stood by his side, resting one hand upon his shoulder. “Why, my dear father,” he said, “what ever put that in your head? I never even thought of such a thing!”
“My dear boy, I know it—I know it; and that’s why I speak. You see, you are now just twenty-seven, and a fine handsome young fellow—”
Charley made a grimace.
“While I am getting an old man, Charley, and the time cannot be so very far off before I must go to my sleep. You are my only child, and I want the Squire of Blandfield to keep up the dignity of the old family. Don’t interrupt me, my boy, I have not done yet. I must soon go the way of all flesh—”
“Heaven forbid!” said Charley fervently.
“And it is the dearest wish of my heart to see you married to some lady of good birth—one who shall well do the honours of your table. Blandfield must not pass to a collateral branch, Charley; we must have an heir to these broad acres; for I hope the time will come, my boy, when in this very library you will be seated, grey and aged as I am, talking to some fine stalwart son, who, like you, shall possess his dear mother’s eyes, ever to bring to remembrance happy days gone by, my boy—gone by never to return.”
The old man’s voice trembled as he spoke, and the next moment his son’s hands were clasped in his, while as eye met eye there was a weak tear glistening in that of the elder, and the lines seemed more deeply cut in his son’s fine open countenance.
“My dear father!” said the young man softly.
“My dear Charley!” said Sir Philip.