me. From twelve to eighteen I went to Cambridge, but my taciturn and
perhaps haughty character isolated me from my fellows. At eighteen I
began to travel. You who scour the world under the shadow of your flag;
that is to say, the shadow of your country, and are stirred by the
thrill of battle, and the pride of glory, cannot imagine what a
lamentable thing it is to roam through cities, provinces, nations, and
kingdoms simply to visit a church here, a castle there; to rise at four
in the morning at the summons of a pitiless guide, to see the sun rise
from Rigi or Etna; to pass like a phantom, already dead, through the
world of living shades called men; to know not where to rest; to know no
land in which to take root, no arm on which to lean, no heart in which
to pour your own! Well, last night, my dear Roland, suddenly, in an
instant, in a second, this void in my life was filled. I lived in you;
the joys I seek were yours. The family which I never had, I saw smiling
around you. As I looked at your mother I said to myself: 'My mother was
like that, I am sure.' Looking at your sister, I said: 'Had I a sister
I could not have wished her otherwise.' When I embraced your brother, I
thought that I, too, might have had a child of that age, and thus leave
something behind me in the world, whereas with the nature I know I
possess, I shall die as I have lived, sad, surly with others, a burden
to myself. Ah! you are happy, Roland! you have a family, you have fame,
you have youth, you have that which spoils nothing in a man--you have
beauty. You want no joys. You are not deprived of a single delight. I
repeat it, Roland, you are a happy man, most happy!"

"Good!" said Roland. "You forget my aneurism, my lord."

Sir John looked at Roland incredulously. Roland seemed to enjoy the most
perfect health.

"Your aneurism against my million, Roland," said Lord Tanlay, with a
feeling of profound sadness, "providing that with this aneurism you give
me this mother who weeps for joy on seeing you again; this sister who
faints with delight at your return; this child who clings upon your neck
like some fresh young fruit to a sturdy young tree; this chateau with
its dewy shade, its river with its verdant flowering banks, these blue
vistas dotted with pretty villages and white-capped belfries graceful
as swans. I would welcome your aneurism, Roland, and with death in
two years, in one, in six months; but six months of stirring, tender,
eventful an