The conversation which took place that evening between Harry and his father was more serious in its language, though not more important in its purpose. "This is bad news, Harry," said the rector.

"Yes, indeed, sir."\'

"Your uncle, no doubt, can do as he pleases."

"You mean as to the income he has allowed me?"

"As to the income! As to the property itself. It is bad waiting for dead men\'s shoes."

"And yet it is what everybody does in this world. No one can say that I have been at all in a hurry to step into my uncle\'s shoes. It was he that first told you that he should never marry, and as the property had been entailed on me, he undertook to bring me up as his son."

"So he did."

"Not a doubt about it, sir. But I had nothing to say to it. As far as I understand, he has been allowing me two hundred and fifty pounds a year for the last dozen years."

"Ever since you went to the Charter-house."

"At that time I could not be expected to have a word to say to it. And it has gone on ever since."

"Yes, it has gone on ever since."

"And when I was leaving Cambridge he required that I should not go into a profession."

"Not exactly that, Harry."

"It was so that I understood it. He did not wish his heir to be burdened with a profession. He said so to me himself."

"Yes, just when he was in his pride because you had got your fellowship. But there was a contract understood, if not made."

"What contract?" asked Harry, with an air of surprise.

"That you should be to him as a son."

"I never undertook it. I wouldn\'t have done it at the price,—or for any price. I never felt for him the respect or the love that were due to a father. I did feel both of them, to the full, for my own father. They are a sort of a thing which we cannot transfer."

"They may be shared, Harry," said the rector, who was flattered.

"No, sir; in this instance that was not possible."

"You might have sat by while he read a sermon to his sister and nieces. You understood his vanity, and you wounded it, knowing what you were doing. I don\'t mean to blame you, but it was a misfortune. Now we must look it in the face and see what must be done. Your mother has told you that he has written to me. There is his letter. You will see that he writes with a fixed purpose." Then he handed to Harry a letter written on a large sheet of paper, the reading of which would be so long that Harry seated himself for the operation.

The letter need not here be repeated at length. It was written with involved sentences, but in very decided language. It said nothing of Harry\'s want of duty, or not attending to the sermons, or of other deficiencies of a like nature, but based his resolution in regard to stopping the income on his nephew\'s misconduct,—as it appeared to him,—in a certain particular case. And unfortunately,—though Harry was prepared to deny that his conduct on that occasion had been subject to censure,—he could not contradict any of the facts on which Mr. Prosper had founded his opinion. The story was told in reference to Mountjoy Scarborough, but not the whole story. "I understand that there was a row in the streets late at night, at the end of which young Mr. Scarborough was left as dead under the railings." "Left for dead!" exclaimed Harry. "Who says that he was left for dead? I did not think him to be dead."

"You had better read it to the end," said his father, and Harry read it. The letter went on to describe how Mountjoy Scarborough was missed from his usual haunts, how search was made by the police, how the newspapers were filled with the strange incident, and how Harry had told nothing of what had occurred. "But beyond this," the letter went on to say, "he positively denied, in conversation with the gentleman\'s brother, that he had anything to do with the gentleman on the night in question. If this be so, he absolutely lied. A man who would lie on such an occasion, knowing himself to have been guilty of having beaten the man in such a way as to have probably caused his death,—for he had left him for dead under the railings in a London street and in the midnight hour,—and would positively assert to the gentleman\'s brother that he had not seen the gentleman on the night in question, when he had every reason to believe that he had killed him,—a deed which might or might not be murder,—is not fit to be recognized as my heir."

There were other sentences equally long and equally complicated, in all of which Mr. Prosper strove to tell the story with tragic effect, but all of which had reference to the same transaction. He said nothing as to the ultimate destination of the property, nor of his own proposed marriage. Should he have a son, that son would, of course, have the property. Should there be no son, Harry must have it, even though his conduct might have been ever so abominable. To prevent this outrage on society, his marriage,—with its ordinary results,—would be the only step. Of that he need say nothing. But the two hundred and fifty pounds would not be paid after the Christmas quarter, and he must decline for the future the honor of receiving Mr. Henry Annesley at the Hall.

Harry, when he had read it all, began to storm with anger. The man, as he truly observed, had grossly insulted him. Mr. Prosper had called him a liar and had hinted that he was a murderer. "You can do nothing to him," his father said. "He is your uncle, and you have eaten his bread."

"I can\'t call him out and fight him."

"You must let it alone."

"I can make my way into the house and see him."

"I don\'t think you can do that. You will find it difficult to get beyond the front-door, and I would advise you to abandon all such ideas. What can you say to him?"

"It is false!"

"What is false? Though in essence it is false, in words it is true. You did deny that you had seen him."

"I forget what passed. Augustus Scarborough endeavored to pump me about his brother, and I did not choose to be pumped. As far as I can ascertain now, it is he that is the liar. He saw his brother after the affair with me."

"Has he denied it?"

"Practically he denies it by asking me the question. He asked me with the ostensible object of finding out what had become of his brother when he himself knew what had become of him."

"But you can\'t prove it. He positively says that you did deny having seen him on the night in question, I am not speaking of Augustus Scarborough, but of your uncle. What he says is true, and you had better leave him alone. Take other steps for driving the real truth into his brain."

"What steps can be taken with such a fool?"

"Write your own account of the transaction, so that he shall read it. Let your mother have it. I suppose he will see your mother."

"And so beg his favor."

"You need beg for nothing. Or if the marriage comes off—"

"You have heard of the marriage, sir?"

"Yes; I have heard of the marriage. I believe that he contemplates it. Put your statement of what did occur, and of your motives, into the hands of the lady\'s friends. He will be sure to read it."

"What good will that do?"

"No good, but that of making him ashamed of himself. You have got to read the world a little more deeply than you have hitherto done. He thinks that he is quarrelling with you about the affair in London, but it is in truth because you have declined to hear him read the sermons after having taken his money."

"Then it is he that is the liar rather than I."

"I, who am a moderate man, would say that neither is a liar. You did not choose to be pumped, as you call it, and therefore spoke as you did. According to the world\'s ways that was fair enough. He, who is sore at the little respect you have paid him, takes any ground of offence rather than that. Being sore at heart, he believes anything. This young Scarborough in some way gets hold of him, and makes him accept this cock-and-bull story. If you had sat there punctual all those Sunday evenings, do you think he would have believed it then?"

"And I have got to pay such a penalty as this?" The rector could only shrug his shoulders. He was not disposed to scold his son. It was not the custom of the............