"I wonder where he can have gone to, or what he could have done all this time; probably he may not be in the land of the living."
"Poor Henry," said Emma.
"Alas, poor boy! We may never see him again—it was a mistaken act of his, and yet he knew not otherwise how to act or escape his father's displeasure."
"Say no more—say no more upon that subject; I dare not listen to it. God knows I know quite enough," said Mr. Bradley; "I knew not he would have taken my words so to heart as he did."
"Why," said the old woman, "he thought you meant what you said."
There was a long pause, during which all gazed at the blazing fire, seemingly wrapt in their own meditation.
Henry Bradley, the son of the apparently aged couple, had left that day two years, and wherefore had he left the home of his childhood? wherefore had he, the heir to large estates, done this?
He had dared to love without his father's leave, and had refused the offer his father made him of marrying a young lady whom he had chosen for him, but whom he could not love.
It was as much a matter of surprise to the father that the son should refuse, as it was to the son that his father should contemplate such a match.
"Henry," said the father, "you have been thought of by me, I have made proposals for marrying you to the daughter of our neighbour, Sir Arthur Onslow."