"I have inquired sufficiently."
"'Then I'll go and find out the nurse. I'll question her. I'll—"
"Hold. Be persuaded! Hug your belief! Inquire no farther!"
"Why—why?"
Darrell was mute.
Waife passed and repassed his hand over his brow, and then cried suddenly: "But if I could prove her not to be my grandchild, then she might be happy!—then—then-ah, sir, young Haughton tells me that if she were but the daughter of honest parents—no child of Jasper's, no grandchild of mine—then you might not be too proud to bless her at least as his bride! And, sir, the poor child loves the young man. How could she help it? And, at her age, life without hope is either very short, or very, very long! Let me inquire! I should be happy even to know that she was not my grandchild. I should not love her less; and then she would have others to love her when I am gone to Lizzy!"
Darrell was deeply moved. To him there was something in this old man- ever forgetting himself, ever so hurried on by his heart—something, I say, in this old man, before which Darrell felt his intellect subdued and his pride silenced and abashed.
"Yes, sir," said Waife, musingly, "so let it be. I am well now. I will go to France to-morrow."
Darrell nerved his courage. He had wished to spare Waife the pain which his own persuasions caused to himself. Better now to be frank. He laid his hand on Waife's shoulder, and looking him in the face, said solemnly: "I entreat you not! Do you suppose that I would not resume inquiry in person, nor pause till the truth were made amply clear, if I had not strong reason to prefer doubt to certainty?"
"What do you mean, sir?"