The old man was still bewildered. He moved away slowly and pushing his chair up opposite Sargent, sat down and faced him, frankly studying his face, watching the swift changes playing across it, noting the strange, new determination that was already hardening the gentle lines about his mouth. He felt his own heart suddenly contract with a sharp sense of disappointment, for he had hoped to keep this boy, by means of his influence and help, fresh and young in the battle of life; but he saw now that something had forestalled him; something had already come with a blighting sting.
He had been quick to read the sensitive, imaginative, capable nature of Sargent the first time they had clasped hands. He had seen the wonderful possibilities that would develop under the right influences—the remarkable capacity for right and wrong, whichever it would be that would tip the scales; and in that moment that the resemblance to his own son had struck him, he had felt all the denied love of a father stir within him and give itself to the boy. Afterwards, he had gone further in his advances than ever before in his long life; he had given him the freedom of his library, directing him in the use of books, even preparing him for the legal examination with his own questions, which he made more difficult than necessary. All the while he had felt the intellectual joy of watching a brilliant mind expanding and grasping new subjects; of looking far back into the shadowy past through the rich imagination of a youthful mind. And with the father love that bound him to Sargent, was blended a sense of pride that the youth should grow along by his side, becoming under his tutelage the actual expression of all the unrealized ideals of his own life.
But something had jarred the perfect sympathy; some enemy was already tugging at the cords that bound them.
In the circle of lamplight lay a weather-worn, leather bound book. It had been brought from Virginia on the long pilgrimage to the South, and had always been a friend and a book of comfort. Instinctively the old man's hand went out and touched it.
"It will be a difficult case," Sargent heard him saying, as if more to himself than to any listener. "Yes—it is almost hopeless. You can not possibly win it. I only wanted you to have the experience. It will get you well started before the public."
"Why do you say it is hopeless?"
"There is so little evidence. You can not convict a man without proofs."
"Is there absolutely nothing?"
"Oh, yes," the old man answered, patiently. "There are a few circumstances. We can go into that later. There is plenty of time. What I want to know now is," and he dropped his voice into a lower tone, and looked at Sargent tenderly, "what is troubling you? Don't you care to tell me?" he ended, with a frank note of pleading in his voice.
Sargent met his look unflinchingly. "I have never kept anything from you," he began. "Why should I now, when you have done so much for me! Only," and he hesitated, with the certainty that what he was going to say would perhaps alter their friendship for ever. A feeling of restraint made him silent, and with a leap his thoughts went back to the other man, the Captain, the one who had weathered the storms of a pioneer's life, and even in his old age was still a boy. He found himself longing for the comradeship and joviality of the one who saw only a desirable notoriety in fighting a duel; and yet, in the kaleidoscopic varying of thought, he knew that in a saner moment he would seek only the one now before him, for advice. The Captain represented to him the expression of untempered passion, and at this moment that was the one thing that his nature demanded.