They were alone in the library. Sir Nash began talking of different things; of Arthur's probable succession; of his lost son. James, never strong, had worn himself out between philanthropy and close reading, he said. Arthur, he hoped, would take a lesson, embrace rational pursuits, and marry. He, Sir Nash, understood there was a charming young lady waiting to be asked by him; a young lady of family and fortune, possessing everything in her favour: he alluded to Miss Dallory.
"Did you know anything of the cause of my father's death, sir?" questioned Arthur, who had stood listening, in silence, his elbow on the mantelpiece, his hand supporting his brow.
"Do you know?" returned Sir Nash, glancing keenly at Arthur.
"I always understood that he died of sunstroke. But my mother has at length disclosed the truth to me. He--died in a different way."
"He shot himself," said Sir Nash, in hushed tones. "My brother was suddenly overwhelmed with trouble, and--he was unable to face it. Poor Tom!"
Arthur asked for some of the particulars: he was anxious to hear them. But Sir Nash could not tell him a syllable more than he already knew: in fact, the baronet seemed very hazy about it altogether.
"Of course I never learned the details as clearly as if I had been on the spot, Arthur," he said, "Your poor father fell into the meshes of a scoundrel, one Adair, who had somehow forged his way by false pretences into society--which I suppose is not difficult to manage, out there. And this Adair brought some disgrace on him from which there was no escape: and--and Tom, poor fellow, could not survive it. He was honour and integrity itself, believing all men to be as upright as he, until he found them otherwise. If he had a failing, it was on the side of pride--but I'm afraid most of us Bohuns have too much of that. A less proud man might have got over it. Tom could not. He died, rather than live with dishonoured name."
Arthur Bohun, standing there and looking more like a ghost than a living man, thought of the blow his own honour had just received--the slur that would rest on it for ever.
"And you know nothing of the details, uncle?" he resumed. "I wonder you did not stir in it at the time--bring Adair to justice."
"On the contrary, we hushed it up. We have never spoken of it, Arthur. Tom was gone; and it was as well to let it die out. It took place in some out-of-the-way district of India; and the real truth was not known to half-a-dozen people. The report there was that Major Bohun had died of sunstroke; it spread to Europe, and we let it go uncontradicted. Better, we thought, for Tom's little son--you,--Arthur--that the real facts should be allowed to rest, if rest they would."