“My sole concern,” said the gentleman, carelessly, “is that I failed.”
“You admit your culpability?” asked Mr. Bradbury, meeting him with an equal composure.
“Culpability! Pray, your snuff-box, Bradbury—I haven’t mine by me. Thank you!” leaning forward and taking a pinch. “I admit no culpability, my dear Bradbury.”
“It is, to be sure, merely a question of phrase,” Mr. Bradbury conceded, drily. “It is enough for me that you failed. Admitting this, then, do you admit equally your responsibility for your brother’s disappearance from England?”
I saw my grandfather lean forward in his chair, his hands now gripping the ebony stick; the movement was not lost upon my uncle.
He answered swiftly, “That, Bradbury, I deny wholly. You are well aware of my affection for my brother, and my natural grief at his disappearance.”
“Well aware,” said Mr. Bradbury, with some show of anger. “And well aware, Charles, that if you were responsible, you would not dare to admit this before your father, knowing his actual affection for your brother as for no other being. Yet you admit before him your culpability—your guilt—in regard to this young gentleman—your brother’s son. Understanding that Mr. Edward Craike here takes a—shall I say tolerant?—view of many things that others,—I,—that the law of England regard as crimes, Charles Craike—as crimes punishable with the utmost rigour.”
“Really, Bradbury, you grow prosy,” Mr. Charles protested.
“You impose upon our friendship, Bradbury,” the old man muttered.
“Mr. Craike,” said Mr. Bradbury, “would you have me make-believe to you of all men? Your son attempts to put away his brother’s son. He admits his guilt coolly—with effrontery, and you say nothing! I expected you to say nothing. But by his denial of his responsibility for the disappearance of Richard Craike from England, Charles here proves this to me—his realisation of your love for his brother, and the certainty of your righteous anger and his punishment, if it could be proved against him.”