Compton was silent for a long time, and with every minute the deep dejection of his face and manner increased. He folded his arms and shut his eyes in deep thought.
“My boy,” said he at last, in that same paternal tone which he had used before, and in a mild, calm voice. “I suppose this thing can not be helped, and all that is left for me to do is to bear it as best I may. I will not indulge in any selfish sorrow in the presence of your greater trouble. I will rather do all in my power to coincide with your wishes. I see now that you must have a good reason for your decision, although I do not seek to look into that reason.”
“Believe me,” said Brandon, “I would show you the letter at once, but it is so terrible that I would rather that you should not know. It is worse than death, and I do not even yet begin to know the worst.”
The old man sighed, and looked at him with deep commiseration.
“If our separation must indeed be final,” said he, at last, “I will take care that you shall suffer no loss. You shall have your full share of the capital.”
“I leave that entirely to you,” said Brandon.
“Fortunately our business is not much scattered. A settlement can easily be made, and I will arrange it so that you shall not have any loss. Our balance-sheet was made out only last month, and it showed our firm to be worth thirty thousand pounds. Half of this is yours, and—”
“Half!” interrupted the other. “My dear friend, you mean a quarter.”
The old man waved his hand.
“I said half, and I mean half.”
“I will never consent.”
“You must.”
“Never.”
“You shall. Why, think of the petty business that I was doing when you came here. I was worth about four thousand. You have built up the business to its present dimensions. Do you suppose that I don’t know?”
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