"You have been a good lad, Cyril," he said faintly, as he feebly
pressed the boy's hand; "far better than I deserve to have had. Don't
cry, lad; you will get on better without me, and things are just as
well as they are. I hope you will come to your estates some day; you
will make a better master than I should ever have done. I hope that
in time you will carry out your plan of entering some foreign
service; there is no chance here. I don't want you to settle down as
a city scrivener. Still, do as you like, lad, and unless your wishes
go with mine, think no further of service."
"I would rather be a soldier, father. I only undertook this work
because I could see nothing else."
"That is right, my boy, that is right. I know you won't forget that
you come of a race of gentlemen."
He spoke but little after that. A few broken words came from his lips
that showed that his thoughts had gone back to old times. "Boot and
saddle," he murmured. "That is right. Now we are ready for them. Down
with the prick-eared knaves! God and King Charles!" These were the
last words he spoke.
Cyril had done all that was necessary. He had laid by more than half
his earnings for the last eight or nine months. One of his clients,
an undertaker, had made all the necessary preparations for the
funeral, and in a few hours his father would be borne to his last
resting-place. As he stood at the open window he thought sadly over
the past, and of his father's wasted life.
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