“Then why did you not do it, boy? You knew how things were.”
“Because we had begged once, and I would not beg again.”
“Ah,” muttered Mr. Cardus, “the old spirit cropping up. Poor Rose, nearly starving, and dying too, and I with so much which I do not want! O, boy, boy, when you are a man never set up an idol, for it frightens good spirits away. Nothing else can live in its temple; it is a place where all other things are forgotten—duty, and the claims of blood, and sometimes those of honour too. Look now, I have my idol, and it has made me forget my sister and your mother. Had she not written at last when she was dying, I should have forgotten you too.”
The boy looked up puzzled.
“An idol!”
“Yes,” went on his uncle in his dreamy way—“an idol. Many people have them; they keep them in the cupboard with their family skeleton; sometimes the two are identical. And they call them by many names, too; frequently it is a woman’s name; sometimes that of a passion; sometimes that of a vice, but a virtue’s—not often.”
“And what is the name of yours, uncle?” asked the wondering boy.
“Mine? O, never mind!”
At this moment a swing-door in the side of the room was opened, and a tall bony woman with beady eyes came through.
“Mr. de Talor to see you, sir, in the office.”