reader is wholly different from that of the actor in events. That I had
chanced on one of those curious coincidences in the romance of real life
which a reader looks out for and expects in following the course of
narrative, was a supposition forbidden to me by a variety of causes.
There was not the least family resemblance between Vivian and any of his
relations; and, somehow or other, in Roland's son I had pictured to
myself a form and a character wholly different from Vivian's. To me it
would have seemed impossible that my cousin could have been so little
curious to hear any of our joint family affairs; been so unheedful, or
even weary, if I spoke of Roland,--never, by a word or tone, have
betrayed a sympathy with his kindred. And my other conjecture was so
probable,--son of the Colonel Vivian whose name he bore. And that
letter, with the post-mark of "Godalming," and my belief, too, in my
cousin's death,--even now I am not surprised that the idea never
occurred to me.

I paused from enumerating these excuses for my dulness, angry with
myself, for I noticed that Lord Castleton's fair brow darkened; and he
exclaimed, "What deceit he must have gone through before he could become
such a master in the art!"

That is true, and I cannot deny it," said I. "But his punishment now is
awful; let us hope that repentance may follow the chastisement. And
though certainly it must have been his own fault that drove him from his
father's home and guidance, yet, so driven, let us make some allowance
for the influence of evil companionship on one so young,--for the
suspicions that the knowledge of evil produces, and turns into a kind of
false knowledge of the world. And in this last and worst of all his
actions--"