He spoke sternly—­with his heart aching for his brother all the time.  He was right.  The one way is the positive way, when a man who suffers trouble is degraded by it.

The poor wretch sank under Randal’s firm voice and steady eye.

“Don’t be hard on me,” he said.  “I think a man in my situation is to be pitied—­especially by his brother.  I’m not like you; I’m not accustomed to live alone.  I’ve been accustomed to having a kind woman to talk to me, and take care of me.  You don’t know what it is to be used to seeing a pretty creature, always nicely dressed, always about the room—­thinking so much of you, and so little of herself—­and then to be left alone as I am left, out in the dark.  I haven’t got my wife; she has thrown me over, and taken my child away from me.  And, now, Sydney’s taken away from me next.  I’m alone.  Do you hear that?  Alone!  Take the poker there out of the fireplace.  Give me back Sydney, or knock out my brains.  I haven’t courage enough to do it for myself.  Oh, why did I engage that governess!  I was so happy, Randal, with Catherine and little Kitty.”

He laid his head wearily on the back of his chair.  Randal offered him more wine; he refused it.

“I’m afraid,” he said.  “Wine maddens me if I take too much of it.  You have heard of men forgetting their sorrows in drink.  I tried it yesterday; it set my brains on fire; I’m feeling that glass I took just now.  No!  I’m not faint.  It eases my head when I rest like this.  Shake hands, Randal; we have never had any unfriendly words; we mustn’t begin now.  There’s something perverse about me.  I didn’t know how fond I was of Sydney till I lost her; I didn’t know how fond I was of my wife till I left her.”  He paused, and put his hand to his fevered head.  Was his mind wandering into some other train of thought?  He astonished his brother by a new entreaty—­the last imaginable entreaty that Randal expected to hear.  “Dear old fellow, I want you to do me a favor.  Tell me where my wife is living now?”

“Surely,” Randal answered, “you know that she is no longer your wife?”

“Never mind that!  I have something to say to her.”

“You can’t do it.”

“Can you do it?  Will you give her a message?”

“Let me hear what it is first.”

Herbert lifted his head, and laid his hand earnestly on his brother’s arm.  When he said his next words he was almost like his old self again.

“Say that I’m lonely, say that I’m dying for want of a little comfort—­ask her to let me see Kitty.”

His tone touched Randal to the quick.  “I feel for you, Herbert,” he said, warmly.  “She shall have your message; all that I can do to persuade her shall be done.”

“As soon as possible?”

“Yes—­as soon as possible.”

“And you won’t forget?  No, no; of course you won’t forget.”  He tried to rise, and fell back again into his chair.  “Let me rest a little,” he pleaded, “if I’m not in the way.  I’m not fit company for you, I know; I’ll go when you tell me.”