Still the man hesitated.
‘I have not the inclination to parley,’ said Mr. Brownlow, ‘and, as I advocate the dearest interests of others, I have not the right.’
‘Is there—’ demanded Monks with a faltering tongue,—‘is there—no middle course?’
‘None.’
Monks looked at the old gentleman, with an anxious eye; but, reading in his countenance nothing but severity and determination, walked into the room, and, shrugging his shoulders, sat down.
‘Lock the door on the outside,’ said Mr. Brownlow to the attendants, ‘and come when I ring.’
The men obeyed, and the two were left alone together.
‘This is pretty treatment, sir,’ said Monks, throwing down his hat and cloak, ‘from my father’s oldest friend.’
‘It is because I was your father’s oldest friend, young man,’ returned Mr. Brownlow; ‘it is because the hopes and wishes of young and happy years were bound up with him, and that fair creature of his blood and kindred who rejoined her God in youth, and left me here a solitary, lonely man: it is because he knelt with me beside his only sisters’ death-bed when he was yet a boy, on the morning that would—but Heaven willed otherwise—have made her my young wife; it is because my seared heart clung to him, from that time forth, through all his trials and errors, till he died; it is because old recollections and associations filled my heart, and even the sight of you brings with it old thoughts of him; it is because of all these things that I am moved to treat you gently now—yes, Edward Leeford, even now—and blush for your unworthiness who bear the name.’
‘What has the name to do with it?’ asked the other, after contemplating, half in silence, and half in dogged wonder, the agitation of his companion. ‘What is the name to me?’