This was worse for Geoff than if he had forbidden him altogether. What could he do to rouse interest in the old man’s breast?
“I want to speak, sir,” he said, faltering, “of your son.”
“My son?—ah! yes, Randolph is here. He is too old for me—too old—not like a son. What does it matter who is your father when it comes to that age?”
“It was not Randolph, sir. I did not know him; but it is your other son—your eldest son, I mean—John.”
“Eh?” The old man roused up a little. “John—that was my little brother; we called him Johnny—a delightful boy. There is just such another in the house now, I believe. I think he is in the house.”
“Oh, sir!” said Geoff, “I want to speak to you—to plead with you for some one who is not in the house—for your son John—John who has been so long away. You know—don’t you know whom I mean?—your eldest son, Mr. Musgrave—John, who left us and left everything so many years ago.”
A wavering light came over the old man’s face. He opened his eyes wide and gazed at Geoff, who, for his part, was too much troubled and alarmed to know what to do.
“Eh!” he said again, with a curious blank stare, “my—what? Son? but not Randolph. No more about sons, they are a trouble and a sorrow. To tell the truth I am drowsy rather. I suppose—I have not been very well. Have you seen the little boy?”
“The little boy?—your grandson, sir?”
“Eh! you call him that! He is just such another as little Johnny, my little brother, who was eighteen months younger than I. You were saying something else, my—my—friend! But to tell the truth, this is all I am good for now. The elders would like to push us from the scene; but the little ones,” said the Squire, with a curious sudden break of laughter, which sounded full of tears, “the little ones—are fond of old people; that is all I am good for nowadays—to play with the little boy—— ”