“You permit me,” said Mr. Bradbury quietly, “to speak frankly to you, knowing me your friend, Mr. Craike, and honest in my dealings with you. As your friend—as your son’s friend—I am here. Mr. Craike, you’ve sailed over the world in your day; you’ve suffered shipwreck; you’ve been cast away. What would you not have given—even you—to have had with you upon the desert isle you’ve told me of, one of your kind—one of your blood?”
“Allegory, Bradbury?” he said, impassively.
“Allegory, surely! Seeing you sitting here alone—knowing you all these days alone, as surely as were you on your desert isle, longing—as any human being must long—for kith and kin, for friend, at least for one of whose companionship—affection even—you might be assured.”
“You mean this lad here?” in unaltered tone.
“Who else? Look at this lad! Frame a picture in your mind, Mr. Craike—your son Richard’s—set Richard’s likeness and this boy’s side by side. And will you say that this lad seated here is not, feature for feature, colour of eyes and hair and skin, in body, manner—your son, Richard?”
My grandfather said slowly, “Richard was as all our race. The lad is Richard look for look. What is it to me, Bradbury? My son was never wed.”
I felt my cheeks burn; ere Mr. Bradbury might restrain me, I started up, and facing the old man, cried out, “And there you lie! If I be the son of Richard Craike—and that I be I care not—no man shall question or deny my parents’ honour, take their name lightly. You hear me,—you lie!”
He did not stir in his chair; his aspect was unchanged save that the light seemed to burn up in his old eyes. He said coolly, “The lad is Richard’s son, Bradbury.”
“And rightly resentful of your words, sir,” cried Mr. Bradbury, snapping his snuff-box.
“Bradbury, don’t try me too far. You are at liberty to go at once—with Richard’s son.”