“It seems to be postponed to the Greek Kalends. She won't marry until he takes her to this Colony in the air—and that will be never. The whole thing will die a natural death.”
“I hope so indeed,” replied Matthew, reflectively. “She ought to marry a better man.”
He glanced involuntarily at his son, and their eyes met, and each saw that the other understood the reference.
“I know you wanted me to marry her,” said Sylvester, awkwardly. “I couldn't. I'm sorry.”
Matthew raised his hand, as if about to speak; but the habit of reserve held him back. A word might have unlocked the son's heart, but the word remained unspoken. Sylvester dismissed the subject by saying in a lighter manner,—
“It's none of my business, but I often wonder what Roderick lives on.”
“He is an artist and a literary man. I suppose he sells his wares,” said Matthew.
“Possibly he does. In fact, I suppose he must. I always was under the impression that his father made him a handsome allowance.”
“Usher allows him a few hundreds a year,” said the old man, in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Apparently we are both wrong, then. Usher hasn't allowed him a penny for years. Roderick told me so himself.”