“Oh, if you be prepared to sit alone in your last years,—face death alone,” Mr. Bradbury said earnestly, “I appeal still to what was human in you—love for your son Richard. Let your heart turn to Richard’s son.”
“What purpose would you serve?”
Mr. Bradbury did not answer, but was taking snuff, and coldly regarding my Uncle Charles, who had drawn aside the curtain, and was standing in the doorway.
Chapter XVII. Creed of Mr. Charles
He stepped forward—a handsome, smiling gentleman of middle age, his face ivory-white, his white hair held by a black ribbon, his dress as precise as Mr. Bradbury’s, but set off by his shapely body. He wore no jewel; he had no touch of colour on him, save the red line of his lips and the cold blue of his eyes. He bowed with a courtly grace to Mr. Bradbury; he vouchsafed me the merest lift of his brows.
Mr. Bradbury met him with an equal composure. “It’s as well that you came here, Mr. Charles,” he said. “You formed the subject of our conversation.”
“Indeed,” he answered, indifferently, and, pulling forward a chair, he seated himself beside his father. “I am happy to believe, sir, that you’re prepared to speak of me as freely in my presence as in my absence.”
“I am to take this as your permission, Charles?” asked Mr. Bradbury, smoothly.
“Why not?” my uncle asked, smiling.
“Well, then, I have introduced this young gentleman to your father as your brother’s son, John Craike. I have already informed your father of the steps you took to prevent his arrival at Craike House.”