“I ask his pardon,” said Helena.
“You see,” remarked Mr. Crisparkle, again laying hold of his opportunity, though with a moderate and delicate touch, “you both instinctively acknowledge that Neville did wrong. Then why stop short, and not otherwise acknowledge it?”
“Is there no difference,” asked Helena, with a little faltering in her manner; “between submission to a generous spirit, and submission to a base or trivial one?”
Before the worthy Minor Canon was quite ready with his argument in reference to this nice distinction, Neville struck in:
“Help me to clear myself with Mr. Crisparkle, Helena. Help me to convince him that I cannot be the first to make concessions without mockery and falsehood. My nature must be changed before I can do so, and it is not changed. I am sensible of inexpressible affront, and deliberate aggravation of inexpressible affront, and I am angry. The plain truth is, I am still as angry when I recall that night as I was that night.”
“Neville,” hinted the Minor Canon, with a steady countenance, “you have repeated that former action of your hands, which I so much dislike.”
“I am sorry for it, sir, but it was involuntary. I confessed that I was still as angry.”
“And I confess,” said Mr. Crisparkle, “that I hoped for better things.”
“I am sorry to disappoint you, sir, but it would be far worse to deceive you, and I should deceive you grossly if I pretended that you had softened me in this respect. The time may come when your powerful influence will do even that with the difficult pupil whose antecedents you know; but it has not come yet. Is this so, and in spite of my struggles against myself, Helena?”
She, whose dark eyes were watching the effect of what he said on Mr. Crisparkle’s face, replied—to Mr. Crisparkle, not to him: “It is so.” After a short pause, she answered the slightest look of inquiry conceivable, in her brother’s eyes, with as slight an affirmative bend of her own head; and he went on: