That last sentence had a pencil mark through it. He ought not to have read it; he wished he had not; it was worse than all the rest; he wished he could cram the preacher's "blessing" down the preacher's throat; it made him feel sick.
"Have you read it?" said his companion. "I don't think that he 'sees wealth from a different point of view' now that he has a chance of possessing it after all, do you?"
"Apparently not. You have the best of that argument, Mrs. Thorpe," said George. "And the preacher's reply is a model of disinterestedness, as one might expect. Allow me to return it to you with many congratulations."
"You are angry," said Meg; for the bitterness in his tone was hardly concealed this time. "I wish you wouldn't be, for I was going to ask you to do something for me. I remember" (with the pretty smile that was rare now), "I remember that formerly you were often my friend when I was always in trouble with my aunt."
"Was I? I don't think so," said George; and his sallow face flushed. "I don't much believe in platonic friendships, you know—at least, not on the man's side. I was never hypocrite enough for that; but (well, never mind that) what do you want me to do?"
"It isn't a great thing," said Meg, "but I have no one else to ask." She hesitated a moment. Mr. Sauls might have been more gracious, she thought; but then she never quite understood him.
"It is a very small thing," she repeated deprecatingly. "It is only that I want you to persuade my father that my husband is a good man and an honest one. That was why I showed you the preacher's letter; that was why I tried to prove to you that he is, as you say, disinterested. It does not in the least matter what the world in general thinks. I don't care! it's not worth minding," said Meg proudly; "but I do care—I can't help it—I do care about my father. I shall never see him again, I suppose, and I cannot even send him my love, because perhaps he may not want it," she cried, trying to swallow the inconvenient lump in her throat. "I shall never be able to explain everything to him; but tell him, you who have seen me, that Barnabas is good to me; don't let him be unhappy for me; don't let him fancy anything else. You think this isn't necessary, perhaps, but I know father. He is so tender-hearted even when people don't deserve it. He will try not to think about me oftener than can be helped, and he has plenty of other interests. That was always the difference between us: he had plenty of interests, but I had only him. But, sometimes, he will suddenly remember, and then he will be sad; though my aunt will tell him I am not worth it. When father is sad, he is very sad," said the daughter who was most like him.
"Tell him, then, what I have told you. Do you understand?"
"Oh yes," said George slowly.
"And you will do it?" she entreated. She smiled again, but with eyes that were full of tears; and the April expression reminded him of the little girl who was always so easily moved to pleasure or pain.