I remember they carried him up these very steps--and
the sun so bright--and he had scarcely begun to live--"
"And the bullet that slew him," added my uncle Jervas, "just as surely
killed your mother also."
"Yes!" said I. "And whose hand sped that bullet?"
"He is dead!" murmured my uncle Jervas, gazing up at the placid moon.
"Dead and out of reach--years ago."
"Aye--he died abroad," added uncle George, "Brussels, I think, or
Paris--or was it Vienna--anyhow he--is dead!"
"And--out of reach!" murmured uncle Jervas, still apparently lost in
contemplation of the moon.
"As to yourself, dear, foolish lad," said uncle George, laying his
hand upon my shoulder, "if go you will, come back soon! And should you
meet trouble--need a friend--any assistance, d'ye see, you can always
find me at the Grange."
"Or a letter to me, Peregrine, directed to my chambers in St. James's
Street, will always bring you prompt advice in any difficulty and,
what is better, perhaps--money. Moreover, should you wish to see the
town or aspire socially, you will find I can be of some small
service--"
"My dear uncles," I exclaimed, grasping their hands in turn, "for this
kind solicitude God bless you both again and--good-bye!"
So saying, I turned (somewhat hastily) and went my way; but after I
had gone some distance I glanced back to behold them watching me,
motionless and side by side; hereupon, moved by their wistful
attitude, I forgot my dignity and, whipping off my hat, I flourished
it to them above my head ere a bend in the drive hid them from my
view.
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