An eager look crossed Randolph’s face.
“You think——”
“I cannot easily explain what I think, but I believe there will be less difficulty with Monica than you anticipate. She does not yet know her own heart—that I admit. She may be startled at first, but that is not necessarily against us. Will you let me break this matter to her? Will you let me act as your ambassador? I understand Monica as you can hardly do. Will you let me see if I cannot plead your cause as eloquently as you can do it for yourself? Trust me it will be better so. My daughter and I understand one another well.”
Randolph was silent a moment, then he said, very gravely and seriously:
“If you think that it will be best so, I gladly place myself in your hands. I confess I should find it difficult to approach the subject myself—at any rate at present. But”—he paused a moment, and looked the other full in the face—“pardon me for saying as much—you do not propose putting any pressure upon your daughter? Believe me, I would rather never see her face again than feel that she accepted me as a husband under any kind of compulsion or restraint.”
Lord Trevlyn smiled a smile of approval.
“You need not fear,” he answered, quietly. “Monica’s nature is not one to submit tamely to any kind of coercion, nor am I the man to attempt to constrain her feelings upon a matter so important as this.”
“And if,” pursued Randolph, with quiet resolution, “Lady Monica declines the proposal made to her on my behalf, I shall request you to join with me in breaking the entail; for I can never consent to be the means of taking from her that which by every moral right is hers. I could not for a moment tolerate the idea of wresting from her the right to style herself, as she has always been styled, the Lady of Trevlyn. This is her rightful home, and I shall appeal to you, if my suit fails, to assist me in installing her there for life.”