Then, recognising him, he rose from his stool, smiling sadly.
“You, Morton!” he said. “You have come!”
Morton did not answer for a few moments, struggling as he was with intense emotion, and the Master of the Ceremonies looked at him keenly now. His face changed directly, though, as Morton threw his arms round him and stood with his head bowed down upon the old man’s shoulder.
“I’m glad: very glad. Egad, Morton, my son,” said Denville, trying to assume his old parade manner, but with his piping voice quavering, and sounding forced and strained, “you make me feel very proud of you. It is, of course—yes, egad—of course—a very painful thing for a gentleman—an officer—to have to visit—a relative in prison—a man situated as I am—to a man in your position, it is a terrible thing—and—and you’ll pardon me—my son—I could not have felt—er—surprised if you had—stayed away; but—but—you have come; and—God bless you, my boy—my boy.”
The old man would have sunk upon his seat quivering with emotion, but Morton held him in his clasp.
“No, no, father,” he said with spirit, “you must not give way. We must meet this trouble like men. You must advise with me. I’ve been playing the boy too long. There, sit down and let’s talk. What shall I do about your trial?”
Denville took his son’s hand, and looked at him proudly, but he shook his head.
“What do you mean, father?” cried Morton, the lad flushing and looking manly as he spoke. “This is no time for indecision. I have seen Mr Barclay and Mr Linnell. They have engaged counsel, and what we want now is your help over your defence.”
Denville smiled sadly, and again shook his head,
“No, my boy, no,” he said, “you can do nothing. It is very brave and true of you.”