"I have never wanted it," said Brian, proudly.
"No," answered his uncle. "But in the days to come, when your need for money increases, and you find that fame and fortune are not so easily won as you imagine now, you _will_ want it; you will curse your folly then when it is too late; and you will think, perhaps, of the old man who offered you so much for so little, and to whom you refused that little."
Angry as the speaker was, something in the tone of his last words almost shook Brian's resolution. For a moment he asked himself if, after all, he might not be the victim of a self-willed delusion; if his uncle might not be right, and if it might not be his duty to yield. But this was only for a moment. He had the faculty of seeing clearly and deciding firmly once for all. He had long before this weighed every aspect of a question which so importantly concerned his life, and his final decision was based on many strong grounds. Those grounds he saw no reason to reconsider now.
"I am very sorry," he said, gravely, "for all that has happened,--most sorry for any disappointment or pain I have caused you or another. But there are many reasons why I cannot comply with your wishes; and, since further discussion of the subject is useless, I will beg your permission to leave you."
"Leave me and leave my house!" said Mr. Singleton, emphatically. "It is my duty to guard Miss Lynde from any possible annoyance, and to meet you could only be an annoyance to her now. You will, therefore, be good enough to go at once."
"I will do so," replied Brian, rising. "God bless you, sir, and believe that I am very grateful for all your kindness to me. I wish that I could have repaid you better."
Then, before his uncle could answer, he went away.
Brian Earle had not been gone more than two or three weeks when the report suddenly spread through Scarborough that Mr. Singleton was very ill. And for once report was true. One among the many chronic maladies from which he suffered took a turn for the worse, and the doctors shook their heads, saying the case was very critical.
Indeed it was more than critical. Those about the sick man knew that his recovery--even his partial recovery--was impossible. Close to him now was the dread Presence which care and skill had kept at bay so long, and no one was more thoroughly aware of the fact than himself. He met it with a grim philosophy, which is the only possible substitute for Christian resignation. Of religious belief he had very little, never having troubled himself to formulate the vague ideas which he had received from a much attenuated Protestantism. But, such as they were, they did not inspire him with terror. God would, no doubt, be merciful to a man who was conscious of never having done anything dishonorable in his life. This consciousness helped to support his philosophy, but it is not likely that he gave it much thought. A subject which has not occupied a place of importance in a man's consideration during life will hardly do so even in the face of death.