"Not he. A tendency to patience, rather. They have put upon him at home--between ourselves; kept him down, you know; both mother and brother. He is several years younger than Adam; but they are attached
to each other. A more gentle-natured, sweet-tempered lad than Karl
never lived: all his instincts are those of a gentleman. He will make
a brave soldier. He is ensign in the -- regiment."
"The -- regiment," repeated Sir Joseph. "Rather a crack corps that, is it not?"
"Yes: Karl has been lucky. He will have to make his own way in the world, for I can't give him much. But now that I am assured of your intentions as to Adam, things look a trifle brighter. Joseph, I thank you with all my heart."
Once more the brothers clasped hands. This reunion was the pleasantest event of their later lives. The captain remained two days at Foxwood. Lady Andinnian was civilly courteous to him, but never cordial. She did not second her brother's pressing wish that he should prolong his stay: neither did she once ask after any of his family.
Captain Andinnian's death took place, as anticipated. His will, when opened, proved to be what was mentioned above. Some years had gone by since. Mrs. Andinnian and her son Adam had continued to live together in their quiet home in Northamptonshire; Karl, lieutenant now, and generally with his regiment, paying them an occasional visit. No particular change had occurred, save the death of Lady Andinnian. The families had continued to be estranged as heretofore: for never a word of invitation had come out of Foxwood. Report ran that Sir Joseph was ailing much; very much indeed since the loss of his wife. And, now, that so much of introduction is over, we can go on with the story.
A beautiful day in April. At a large window thrown open to the mid-day sun, just then very warm and bright, sat a lady of some five and fifty years. A tall, handsome, commanding woman, resolution written in every line of her haughty face. She wore a black silk gown with the slightest possible modicum of crape on it, and the guipure cap--or, rather, the guipure lappets, for of cap there was not much to be
seen--had in it some black ribbon. Her purple-black hair was well preserved and abundant still; her black eyes were stern, and fearlessly honest. It was Mrs. Andinnian.
She was knitting what is called a night-sock. Some poor sick pensioner of hers or her son's--for both had their charities--needed the comfort. Her thoughts were busy; her eyes went fondly out to the far end of the garden, where she could just discern her son against the shrubs: the fairest and dearest sight to Mrs. Andinnian that earth had ever contained for her, or ever would contain.
"It is strange Sir Joseph does not write for him," ran her
thoughts--and they very often did run in the same groove. "I cannot imagine why he does not. Adam ought to be on the spot and get acquainted with his inheritance: his uncle must know he ought. But that I have never stooped to ask a favour in my life, I would write to Sir Joseph, and proffer a visit for Adam, and--for--yes, for me. During that woman's lifetime Adam was not likely to be welcomed there: but the woman's gone: it is two months this very day since she died."
The woman, thus unceremoniously alluded to, was Lady Andinnian: and the slight mourning, worn, was for her. Some intricacy in the knitting caused Mrs. Andinnian to bend her head: when she looked up again, her son was not to be seen. At the same moment, a faint sound of distant conversation smote her ear. The work dropped on her lap; with a look of annoyance she lifted her head to listen.
"He is talking to that girl again! I am sure of it."