“You won’t write to Henry?” asked Nigel, in a tone that said, “don’t.”
“Not a line. If he has got into a scrape for want of money, let him get out of it again, the best way he can. As to this story about brigands—”
“Oh, that’s too absurd,” insinuated Nigel; “the brigands into whose hands he has fallen are the gamblers and swindlers of Rome. They have no doubt employed this lawyer, if he be one, to carry out their scheme—certainly a cunningly-contrived one, whoever originated it.”
“Oh, my son! my wretched son!” exclaimed the General; “to think he has fallen into the hands of such associates! To think he could lend himself to a conspiracy like this, and against his own father! Oh, God!”
And the old soldier uttered a groan of agony, as he sank down upon the sofa.
“Had I not better write to him, father?” asked Nigel. “Just a line to say how much his conduct is grieving you? Perhaps a word of counsel may yet reclaim him.”
“If you like—if you like—though after such an experience as this I feel there is little hope of him. Ah, Lucy! Lucy! it is well you are not here, and that God has taken you to himself. My poor wife! my poor wife! this would have killed you!”
The apostrophe was spoken in a low, muttered tone, and after Nigel had left the room—the latter having gone out apparently with the intention of writing the letter intended to reclaim his erring brother.
It was written that night, and that night reached the hands of the strange procurator, to whom it was entrusted for delivery; and who, next day, true to his word, remained at the roadside inn till the hour of twelve, to receive any further communication. After midday he was seen driving off in the inn “fly” toward the Slough Station; thence to be transported by rail and steam to his home in the Seven-hilled City.