“And if fate, or something better than fate,” said Mr Morison, “had not brought us together to-day, it would—would it, Lettice—have remained so?”
“I don’t know,” said Lettice in a low voice; “I can’t think so now. But—”
“But what?”
“I had no idea you would be like what you are. I could not have imagined any one being so generous.”
Mr Morison turned his face away for a moment. When he spoke again, it was with a little effort.
“Lettice,” he said, “I am always considered a very practical and prosaic person. Even my wife thinks I was born with very little romance in me. But, do you know, I have had one romance, one dream in my life, and that has been to do something to make up to my brother’s children for my having been put in his place.” Here Lettice seemed as if she was going to speak, but he made a little sign for her to wait. “I know you are going to say it was not my fault, but I want you to understand the feeling, the sentiment I have always associated with it. I hardly remember my brother—that is to say, in reality I scarcely knew him. But the few times I saw him as a child made the most vivid impression on me. He was to me a perfect hero of romance. His appearance, his bright manly beauty, his charm of manners—all left a picture on my mind that I shall never forget, and the bitterest tears I ever shed as a boy were when, after glorying in the honours he had won, and dreaming of his return to us, I was told one day by my father that I was never to mention his name again. I resented it bitterly. I thought my father cruel and unjust, and later I told him so, not once, but often; first with a boy’s impetuosity, afterwards, as a man, more deliberately, though more respectfully. But it was no use. It was the only disagreement we ever had, my poor father and I. Only, as you know, on his deathbed he left his blessing for your father, and it was to me he confided it. But,” he went on in a different tone, “we must come back to the present. About Arthur—I will be quite frank with you—my great fear is that he may have fallen ill from the reaction, from the overstrained state he has evidently been in. I think the first thing to do is for me to see his tutor. It is only an hour from town. I know the place. I will go down there at once.”
“May I go with you?” said Lettice eagerly.
“I see no use in your doing so,” replied her uncle. “He is not there, that is about all we are sure of. I cannot understand Mr Downe’s not having written or telegraphed to you already.”
“He would not send to us,” said Lettice; “he would naturally send to Mr Auriol, and he, you know, is away.”
“To be sure,” said Mr Morison. “That must be it. Well, any way, the first thing to do is to see Mr Downe, and get all additional particulars from him. And, in the meantime, you must keep up your spirits and rest yourself. Your aunt will do her best to cheer you.”