Chapter XII: “it Was Only a Boy’s Fancy.”

“Only fond hopes blasted,
Tearing his soul apart;
A life all broken and wasted,
Only a man’s true heart.”
--MRS. DOCTOR LOOKERMAN.

“Well, Max, I shall be pleased to hear your plans?”

The elder Verne is a good looking man of sixty years, carrying the weight of time well having no greater cares in life than the charge of his younger brother’s early orphaned son. The charge has been faithfully fulfilled, for at three-and-twenty Max is rather a nephew to be proud of, and reflects credit on his indulgent uncle. Heretofore they have been all-in-all to each other, for they have no near relatives to divide their affections, and Max turns a glance of confident love on the other’s face as he answers:

“I believe I told you, sir, when I chose my profession, that I wished to spend several years studying medicine.”

“You are still of the same mind, then?”

“I am more anxious than ever, sir, to carry out my plan. Indeed, were it possible, I should leave Richmond to-night for Europe.”

A vailed impatience in the tone makes the elder man look curiously at the face of the speaker. Something in its troubled pallor startles him.

“Is not this a sudden resolution?” he asks. “I thought you intended finishing the medical course here before you studied in the French schools.”

“That was my intention. Circumstances have decided me, however, to pursue my studies at Paris instead. I suppose it does not matter to you, uncle--I may go?”

“Do you mean to go alone, Max?”

“Quite alone, sir.”

Is it only his fancy, or does a light of visible relief shine in his uncle’s eyes?

“But I thought, when we talked of this before, that you intended to take a bride with you.”

“I have changed my mind, uncle.”

“Ah? and concluded to defer the happy day until you return with full-fledged honors?”

“No, uncle, it is not that. Indeed, I do not expect ever to marry. My profession may engross my time and interest to the exclusion of all tender ties.”

“Ah, I see now. There has been a lover’s quarrel. Max, why don’t you confide in me? You are strange to-day. What am I to think of your relinquishment of your suit for the hand of the beautiful Miss Leigh?”

Max has risen and walked over to the window. There is impatient pain in the face that is turned away from view, but he answers, carelessly--very carelessly:

“It was only a boy’s fancy, uncle.”

A certain embarrassment that has dwelt on Mr. Verne’s face clears away at those brief words, and he smiles.

“That is the way with you boys--one pretty face to-day, another to-morrow. But, seriously, Max, I am glad of what you tell me. It makes more easy that which I have to tell you.”

“What is it, uncle? Do you not wish me to go abroad? Shall you miss me too much?”

“Not so much as I once expected to, for--but sit down, Max, I want to talk seriously.”

“I am listening, uncle.”

“You know, Max, that people have always expected that I should make you my heir. I quite meant to, my boy, but now--you must not feel vexed with your old uncle, dear lad--I have formed other plans that will materially alter your prospects. I shall charge myself with the completion of your education abroad, regardless of expense. But afterward it is quite possible that you may prefer to depend upon yourself, expecting only a legacy at my death.”

“That means, sir----”

“That I am about to marry, my dear boy.”

Surprise and amusement struggle for supremacy in the face of the dethroned heir, but only for a moment; then Max comes forward with boyish impulsiveness and cordially offers his hand.

“Uncle,” he says cordially, “I hope you may be very happy, and I thank you for your kind intentions toward me. Do not think I shall be disappointed, or love you less for this. You have only given me a stronger incentive to win fame and fortune for myself. How soon are you going to let me start for France?”

“Not until after the wedding, my boy. No, not a word. I won’t hear of your going sooner.”

“And when will the wedding be, uncle?”

“Not until September. I am not going to marry a silly young girl in her teens, Max--your old uncle is not as silly as that, boy. The prospective Mrs. Verne is a dear little woman of forty, who will make me a good wife, and you a good aunt.”

“But can’t you hurry up the wedding, uncle? Time goes so slow, and youth is so restless, you know.

“Then try the mountains or the sea while you are waiting, for the little woman will not be hurried, I know.”