“Good blood,” muttered Gringo. “Do you notice, Boy, that the quality don’t shriek and tear their hair over great events. They’re quiet as the grave.”
I didn’t say anything, but I imagined the panorama passing before the eyes of the fine-looking old man turning the ring round and round in his hand. Having been in England, I could call up a picture of the old country house, the pleasant life, the gentle mother, the domineering old father, the submission of the elder son, the rebellion of the younger—and now the younger son was dead, but his son lived and would slip into the place of his father in this old man’s heart.
“Your Christian names?” asked Sir Edward in a low voice as he returned the ring.
“Edward Norman Mannering.”
Sir Edward’s eyes clouded. He dropped his head on his breast for a few seconds. His dead brother had given his own dear brother’s name to his son.
Then he spoke again, “Why Bonstone?”
“My mother’s name,” said Mr. Bonstone shortly.
Sir Edward glanced at Mrs. Waverlee who had moved away a few paces, while the two men were talking. She smiled brightly. She understood.
Then he said in a low but a beautiful, affectionate voice, “You have your father’s eyes. Give me your arm, my boy.”