"No! no, indeed! I hated him. If Kingston says so she is lying about me, as she is lying about my father. You say that you do not believe her when she speaks against him: surely you won't believe her when she speaks against me? Can't you trust my father's daughter, as well as my father?"
The voice was almost passionate in its pleading: the lovely eyes were eloquent of reproach. Maurice felt his whole being quiver: he was shaken to the very depths. Why should she plead to him in this way if she had no love at all for him? Why should she be so anxious that he should trust her? And did he not? He could not look into her face and think for one moment that she lied.
"I do trust—your father's daughter," he said, hoarsely. "I trust her above all women living!—God knows that I do. You did not love Oliver? It was not to him that you made some promise you spoke of—some promise against engaging yourself?"
"It was to my mother," said Lesley, simply. "I am sorry that I did not make you understand."
He took a quick step nearer. "May I say more?"
She shook her head.
"But—some day?"
"Not now," she answered, softly. But a very faint and tremulous smile quivered for one moment on her lips. "It is very wrong to talk of ourselves just now. Go on with your story—tell me about my dear, dearest father."
"I will," said Maurice. "I will do exactly what you wish—just now"—with a great accent on the last two words. "We will talk about that promise at a more fitting time, Lesley—I may call you Lesley, may I not? There is no harm in that, for you are like a sister to my poor Ethel, and you may as well let me be a brother to you, dear, just now. Well, Lesley"—how he lingered over the name!—"Mrs. Trent says that she returned to your house on Monday afternoon in order to warn your father of what was going, on——"
"Oh! Did she really?"