and let him walk over her body.  I suppose it is in the nature of mothers to love their sons like that.  Well, sir, I never saw my gentleman after that day.  I had plenty of letters from him, all asking for money; threatening letters, pitiful letters, letters in which he swore he would destroy himself if he didn’t receive a remittance by return of post; but I never sent him a shilling.  About a year after our last meeting, I received the announcement of his marriage with Miss Geoffry.  He wrote to tell me that, if I would allow him a decent income, he would reform and lead a steady life.  That letter I did answer:  to the effect that, if he chose to come here and act as my shopman, I would give him board and lodging for himself and his wife, and such wages as he should deserve.  I told him that I had given him his chance as a gentleman, and he had thrown it away.  I would give him the opportunity now of succeeding in a humbler career by sheer industry and perseverance as I had succeeded myself.  If he thought that I had made a fortune, there was so much the more reason for him to try his luck.  This was the last letter I ever wrote to him.  It was unanswered; but about a year and a half afterwards there came a few lines to his mother, telling her of the birth of a daughter, which was to be called Marian, after her.  This last letter came from Brussels.”

“And did you hear no more of your son after this?” Gilbert asked.

“Nothing.  I think his mother used to get letters from him in secret for some time; that these failed suddenly at last; and that anxiety about her worthless son—­anxiety which she tried to hide from me—­shortened her life.  She never complained, poor soul! never mentioned Percy’s name until the last, when she begged me to be kind to him if he should ever come to throw himself upon my kindness.  I gave her my promise that, if that came to pass, he should find me a better friend to him than he deserved.  It is hard to refuse the last prayer of a faithful wife who has done her duty patiently for nearly thirty years.”

“Have you any reason to suppose your son still living?”

“I have no evidence of his death.  Often and often, after my poor wife was gone, I have sat alone here of a night thinking of him; thinking that he might come in upon me at any moment; almost listening for his footstep in the quiet of the place.  But he never came.  He would have found me very soft-hearted at such times.  My mind changed to him a good deal after his mother’s death.  I used to think of him as he was in his boyhood, when Marian and I had such great hopes of him, and would sit and talk of him for hours together by this fireside.  An old man left quite alone as I was had plenty of time for such thoughts.  Night after night I have fancied I heard his step, and have looked up at that door expecting to see him open it and come in; but he never came.  He may be dead.  I suppose he is dead; or he would have come to make another attempt at getting money out of me.”