“God knows,” said he, at last, “that I would rather have failed in business than that this should have happened.”
Brandon looked away and said nothing.
“It comes upon me so suddenly,” he continued. “I do not know what to think. And how can I manage these vast affairs without your assistance? For you were the one who did our business. I know that well. I had no head for it.”
“You can reduce it to smaller proportions.” said Brandon; “that can easily be done.”
The old man sighed.
“After all,” he continued, “it is not the business. It’s losing you that I think of, dear boy. I’m not thinking of the business at all. My grief is altogether about your departure. I grieve, too, at the blow which must have fallen on you to make this necessary.”
“The blow is a heavy one,” said Brandon; “so heavy that every thing else in life must be forgotten except the one thought—how to recover from it; and perhaps, also,” he added, in a lower voice, “how to return it.”
Mr. Compton was silent for a long time, and with every minute the deep dejection of his face and manner increased. He folded his arms and shut his eyes in deep thought.
“My boy,” said he at last, in that same paternal tone which he had used before, and in a mild, calm voice. “I suppose this thing can not be helped, and all that is left for me to do is to bear it as best I may. I will not indulge in any selfish sorrow in the presence of your greater trouble. I will rather do all in my power to coincide with your wishes. I see now that you must have a good reason for your decision, although I do not seek to look into that reason.”
“Believe me,” said Brandon, “I would show you the letter at once, but it is so terrible that I would rather that you should not know. It is worse than death, and I do not even yet begin to know the worst.”