There was silence for a while as father and son thought of the days of sorrow ten years back, when Blandfield Court was darkened, and steps passed lightly about the fine old mansion, because its lady—loved of all for miles round—had been suddenly called away from the field of labour that she had blessed. And then they looked up to the portrait gazing down at them from the chimneypiece, seeming almost to smile sadly upon them as they watched the skilful limning of the beloved features.
A few moments after, a smile dawned upon the old man’s quivering lip, as, still retaining his son’s hand, he motioned him to take a seat by his side.
“My dear Charley,” he said at last, “I think you understand my wishes.”
“My dear father, yes.”
“And you will try?”
“To gratify you?—Yes, yes, of course; but really, father—”
“My dear boy, I know—I know what you would say. But look here, Charley—there has always been complete confidence between us; is there—is there anything?”
“Any lady in the case? What, any tender penchant?” laughed Charley. “My dear father, no. I think I’ve hardly given a thought to anything but my horses and dogs.”
“I’m glad of it, Charley, I’m glad of it! And now let’s quietly chat it over. Do you know, my dear boy, that you are shutting yourself out from an Eden? Do you not believe in love?”
“Well, ye-e-es. I believe that you and my dear mother were most truly happy.”