"Father, what do you think about forgiveness? We ought to forgive those that have injured us, I suppose? They always said so at St. Elizabeth's."
"Up to a certain point, I think, my girl. It's no good forgiving them that are not sorry for what they've done. It would go to my heart not to punish a rascal that robbed me and laughed in my face afterwards, you know. But, if I've reason to think that he's repented and tried to make amends, why, then, I think a man's a fool who doesn't say, 'All right, old fellow—try again and good luck to you!'"
"Make amends! Ah, that is the test!" said Cynthia, in a very low voice.
"Well, it is and it isn't," said her father sturdily. "Making amends is a very difficult matter sometimes. The best way sometimes is to put all that's been bad behind you, and start again fresh without meddling with the old affairs. Of course it's pretty hard to tell whether a man's repentant or whether he is not."
He knew very well that she was thinking of Hubert Lepel, and was therefore all the more cautious and all the more gentle in what he said. For he had gone over to Hubert's side in the absence of any precise knowledge as to what the quarrel had been about. "A woman's sure to be in the wrong!" he said to himself—hence his advice.
"But, if one is sure—quite sure—that a man repents," said Cynthia falteringly, "or, at least, that he is sorry, and if the wrong is not so much to oneself, but to somebody else that is dear to one, then——"
"If you care enough to worry about the man, forgive him, and have done with it!" said her father. "Now look here, Cynthy—let's have no beating about the bush! I think I know pretty well what's happening. Mr. Lepel knows something about that murder business—I am pretty sure of that. You think, rightly or wrongly, that he could have cleared me if he had tried. Well, maybe so—maybe not; I can't tell. But, my dear, I don't want you to bother your head about me. If you're fond of the fellow, you needn't let my affairs stand in your way. Why, as a matter of fact, I'm better off now than I should ever have been in England; so what seemed to be a misfortune has turned out to my advantage. I'm content enough. Mr. Lepel has held his tongue, you say"—though Cynthia had not uttered a single word; "but I reckon it was for his sister's sake. And, though she's a bad lot, I don't see how a man could tell of his sister, Cynthy—I don't indeed. So you go back to Mr. Lepel and tell him not to bother himself. I can take care of myself now, and all this rubbish about clearing my character may as well be knocked on the head. As soon as I'm out of the country, I don't care a rap! You tell that to Mr. Lepel, my beauty, and make it up with him. I wouldn't for the world that you should be unhappy because I've been unfortunate."
This was a long speech for Westwood; and Cynthia came and put her hands on his shoulders and laid her cheek to his long before he had finished.
"Dear father," she said, "you are very good and very generous!"
"Confess now, Cynthy—you love him, don't you?" said Westwood, with unusual gentleness.