Theobald acted with a readier and acuter moral sense than I had
given him credit for.
"I will have nothing more to do with him," he exclaimed promptly. "I
will never see his face again; do not let him write either to me or to
his mother; we know of no such person. Tell him you have seen me,
and that from this day forward I shall put him out of my mind as
though he had never been born. I have been a good father to him, and
his mother idolised him; selfishness and ingratitude have been the
only return we have ever had from him; my hope henceforth must be in
my remaining children."
I told him how Ernest's fellow curate had got hold of his money, and
hinted that he might very likely be penniless, or nearly so, on
leaving prison. Theobald did not seem displeased at this, but added
soon afterwards: "If this proves to be the case, tell him from me that
I will give him a hundred pounds if he will tell me through you when
he will have it paid, but tell him not to write and thank me, and
say that if he attempts to open up direct communication either with
his mother or myself, he shall not have a penny of the money."
Knowing what I knew, and having determined on violating Miss
Pontifex's instructions should the occasion arise, I did not think
Ernest would be any the worse for a complete estrangement from his
family, so I acquiesced more readily in what Theobald had proposed
than that gentleman may have expected.
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