“Then he did not strike me to the floor!  I never believed he did, for there was no bruise or other mark upon my head.  Thank God, my son was spared the commission of that crime!  Bad as he is, he would not strike his own father.”  And the poor old gentleman’s heart found meagre comfort, for a moment, in that thought.

“A few words more, and I am done.  The shock brought my disease to a crisis.  For over a month my recovery was doubtful.  But my naturally tough constitution, skilful medical attendance, and the unceasing care of Mrs. Frump, brought me safely out of it.  The devotion of that good, light-hearted woman was truly affecting.  She never left my bedside, night or day, except for a few hours’ rest; and even to-day, when, as you see, I am well enough to sit up and talk, and, in fact, am perfectly restored to health, it was only by almost pushing her into the street that I could get her to go out for a day’s shopping—­a luxury which the good soul had denied to herself during all my illness.”

("I must tell Maltboy about this excellent woman,” thought Marcus,)

“My son did not come near my sickbed, and I have not seen him since that unhappy day.  He has visited the house daily, and shut himself in his room for several hours.  How he occupies his time, I cannot imagine, but am sure that it is only in studying or practising evil.”

“Possibly I may throw some light on that mystery,” said Marcus.  “I have seen him, from my convenient window, enter his room, day after day, generally in the afternoon, sit down at his table, and write for over an hour steadily.”

“That is strange!” exclaimed the old gentleman.  “He has given up the study of law.  He has no taste for literary labor.  He writes a beautiful hand, and would not waste time in trying to improve his penmanship.  It is singular, indeed.”

“His work, whatever it is, does not seem to satisfy him; for I have observed that he no sooner fills a page with writing, than he burns it to ashes by the gas jet, which he always keeps faintly lighted above his head.”

“Some more villany, I am sure,” said the old gentleman, with a deep sigh.  “We shall find it out by its terrible consequences, in due time.  He has plenty of leisure to cultivate his vices, but not a moment to seek my forgiveness (which, God knows, I would freely grant, if he would only ask it).  He cannot even throw away a word upon Mrs. Frump, to find out whether his own father is dead or alive.”

The last thought gave acute pain to the wretched parent.  Tears again sprang to his eyes, and Marcus feared that he was about to witness that saddest sight in nature—­an old man weeping.

But, by an effort, Mr. Van Quintem stifled his emotion, and, turning suddenly upon his visitor, cried, in a voice of despair: 

“Tell me, sir, in Heaven’s name, what shall I do with my son?”

CHAPTER III.