Midnight! The solemn strokes of some big clock in the city boomed over the quiet waters of the bay, and the two soldierly old men who were standing on the little jetty at the foot of the garden at 'Sobraon' turned rather helplessly towards one another.
'We may as well go in, Charles,' said the elder, who was Colonel Haughton's brother-in-law, General Cantor. He will not return to-night, I feel sure.' To himself he added: 'I don't believe he means to return at all, poor lad.' For General Cantor had been to a large extent in his nephew's confidence, and had long ago made up his mind that George would one day end the constant friction by a sudden snapping of home ties.
'I dare say you are right, William,' the colonel answered, too depressed to argue; 'yet he often pulls home across the bay at night. Well, well; I have been a tyrant and a fool. I see that {missing words} pray God not too late.' There was a {missing words} voice, and he turned about to cast one more look over the shimmering sea. 'God bless the boy, wherever he is, whatever he does,' he murmured, and, leaning heavily upon his upright little brother-in-law, went back to the house.
There they wished one another good-night rather tremulously; but the colonel set the French-window of his son's room ajar, and with a prayer in his sorrowful heart for the absent lad went thoughtfully to bed.
The first streak of morning found him again in George's room, looking eagerly for some sign of his presence. George was not there, but the window had been shut, and a letter lay conspicuously upon a table. The colonel caught it up and tore it open with trembling fingers. A glance gave him a grasp of the contents, and with a bitter cry he flung himself upon his knees by the empty bed and poured out his heart in prayer that no harm might come to the son whom he loved so well and had used so hardly.
The letter ran:
'MY DEAR FATHER,—I think that it is wiser for me to leave home for a time and strike out a line for myself. It grieves me to oppose you, but, as I feel myself to be utterly unfitted for a commercial life, there is nothing else to be done. We used to be such (missing words} and we have neither of us been very happy since mother died. Don't imagine that I am going away because of our little breeze to-day. I have not thought of that again. Really, I have not. I shall write as soon as I have settled to the work I have chosen, and will keep you posted as to my movements. Good-bye, my dear old dad. My love to Uncle William; and you may both of you be sure that I shall try and remember your teaching and his and keep straight. I am afraid you will say that I am making a crooked beginning; but, father, in this matter I can't obey you. I can't indeed. Good-bye again. Try to remember me as your affectionate son,
GEORGE.'
And this was almost the last that Colonel Haughton heard of his son for many a day.