“What do you mean by that, John? Are you driving at me again? I thought you had given it over.”
“I never give over anything,” John answered, in a manner for him quite melodramatic, and beyond his usual key.
“No. We always knew how stubborn you were. And now you are worse than ever.”
“No fool like an old fool,” John Rosedew answered, smiling sweetly, yet with some regret. “Cradock, I am such a fool I shall let out everything.”
“What do you mean?” asked Sir Cradock Nowell, leaning heavily on his staff, and setting his white face rigidly, yet with every line of it ready to melt; “John, I have heard strange rumours, or I have dreamed strange dreams. In the name of God, what is it, John? My son!—my only son——”
He could say no more, but turned away, and bowed his head, and trembled.
“Your only son, your innocent son, has been at my house these three days; and when you like, you can see him.”
“When I like—ah, to be sure! I donʼt like many people. I am getting very old, John. And no one to come after me. It seems a pity, donʼt you think, and every one against me so?”
“You can take your own part still, my friend. And you have to take your sonʼs part.”
“Yes, to be sure, my sonʼs part. Perhaps he will come back some day. And I know he did not do it, now; and I was very hard to him—donʼt you think I was, John?—very hard to my poor Craddy, and he was so like his mother!”