“I’m very sorry to hear it, Bob, my dear fellow,” said he with real concern. “But worse! how can he have done worse?”
“He has done worse, much worse. He has married, and married badly too, by Jingo!” and here Mr. Grandison could no longer contain himself.
“I hate to talk about it,” said he, after a pause, “but it’s one of those things that must be faced. And of course you and I are too old friends to mind telling each other the whole truth. But the fact is, the confounded young fool has gone and married a barmaid.”
“You don’t say so!” said Mr. Stamford, starting back as from a blow, but gradually bringing his mind to bear on the question, and wondering how the consequences and complication of such an inconceivable step in the case of an eldest son would end. “Carlo a married man! And to a barmaid too! Surely there must be some mistake. How in the world did it happen—how could it happen?” he asked.
“I suppose it could happen, because it did,” answered his friend gloomily. “Unfortunately, it’s only too true. The fact is, that while he was living in Tasmania—you know he had just gone there when you were in Sydney last, after that card-scrape he got into here—he was living an idle, aimless life. He did that here, for that matter, so that there was no need for him to complain about it so bitterly. I sent him a very fair allowance, and thought he was well out of harm’s way. He used to write his mother long letters; I thought he was on the way to be reformed.” Here Mr. Grandison lit a cigar.
“What happened then?”
“After that he wanted me to give him an allowance, and let him go to Europe. I wish to heaven I had done so now!”
“But why didn’t you?”
“Because I couldn’t trust him. I knew if I let him go on that understanding, he would overdraw his allowance—gamble on a large scale at some of those foreign places—Baden Baden or Homburg. Blow his brains out then, perhaps.”
“I should have let him go, but I can understand your very natural reluctance.”