His voice broke: he had spoken spasmodically, and with great emotion, and the effort seemed to have exhausted him. But to Brion’s young soul the confession had brought a tragic resignation which was almost like peace after storm. Long half-suspecting the truth, he knew now what he was, and what he could never be. His brain was busy as he knelt. To make a name or inherit one--which was the nobler? He could be anything in the wide world but that one thing, and that one thing was the one thing in the wide world no child of earth could ever achieve for himself. There was no question of personal credit connected with it, and he would be a poor moralist who should hold him to blame for another man’s fault. So reasoned the sane young philosopher. He could be all that he chose, except the one thing in which he had no choice, and he was not debarred by that single exception from the best thing of all, which was certainly self-respect. For his own sweet erring mother he felt the tenderest love and pity; towards the instrument of her undoing nothing but animosity. No ethical qualms moved him there; bad was bad, by whatever name you called it. ‘He gave my mother to shame,’ he said, presently and quietly, in answer to his Uncle’s last appeal: ‘and I shall ever hate him for it.’ ‘Hush, boy!’ said Bagott, lifting his head. ‘You know not what you say, or of whom you speak.’ ‘Do I not, Uncle? His name was uttered that day by one that served him, and whom he struck for revealing it.’ ‘My God! was it so? Nathless you must not hate him. It is not for the lamb to hate the bear--nay, the royal lion himself, as may come to hap. Forget him, an thou canst do naught else. On thy life never breathe his name in choler. The air is as full of ears as he of power. Have I not reason to hate him too; yet for thy sake will I put him and his misdeeds from my mind.’ Brion did not answer; but after a moment he rose to his feet, and stood erect before the seated figure. He would keep his own proud counsel thenceforth, in all matters affecting his honour and duty. His head was lifted, his eyes shone; before their authority the other’s blinked and were lowered. ‘Uncle,’ he said: ‘what for my sake thou mayst do I might not for my own. Yet for what for my sake thou hast done, my love and gratitude shall endeavour. Hast thou not been my better father, and from the first?’ ‘From the first, boy: I made thee my charge to sorrow and to silence. Yet, though I planned to consign thee to oblivion, my thoughts pursued thee. Thou wert the last of us--her child. I could not forget that nor thee; and when curst Fortune made of my life a ruined waste--Ah, what disgrace on thee like mine! ’Twas then in bitter self-scorn I first claimed thee kinsman; for was I not done honour in the connexion?’