"Then come to me when you return," said Mr. Clendon. "But do not let me
trespass on your time, Mr. Green; you must have other claims, those of
your people, your parents."
"Haven't any, sir," answered Derrick, gravely. "I'm all alone in the
world--for the present," he added, his eyes shining with the hope that
glowed in his breast.
"That is a strange statement," said Mr. Clendon, his brows raised, his
eyes fixed on Derrick's face.
"But it's true, unfortunately," said Derrick. "I must be going now, sir.
Let me see, Waterloo is the station for Thexford. I'll go there and wait
for the first train."
He held out his hand and the two men shook hands again; and Mr. Clendon
stood at the door and watched the young man as he went swiftly down the
steps, as if his life depended on his haste; the old man went back to
his room and, sinking into his chair, covered his eyes with his hands
and sat as if lost in thought--and memories. And, strangely enough, it
was not of the young man he was thinking, but of a very beautiful woman,
half woman, half girl, with black hair and brilliant eyes, with the
blood of the South mantling in her cheeks, with the fire of the South,
passionate, impetuous, uncontrollable, in eyes and cheek; a woman of
fire and strong will, hard to understand, impossible to control; a woman
to make or wreck a man's life. The woman whose vision rose before the
old man, who sat, a bowed and desolate figure, in his chair, had wrecked
his. Strange that the meeting with this young man had called up that
vision, strange that his face and voice had revivified the memory of the
past. With a sigh, a gesture of the flexible hand, as if he were putting
the matter from him, Mr. Clendon took his violin from its case and began
to play.