Neither spoke for some time.
“You ought to know,” said Brook in a low tone, at last. “They forgive when they love—or have loved. That’s the right way to put it, I think.”
“Well—put it in that way, if you like. It will just cover the ground. Whatever that young lady may say, she likes you very much. I’ve seen her watch you, and I’m sure of it.”
“How can a woman love a man and hate him at the same time?”
“Why do jealous women sometimes kill their husbands? If they didn’t love them they wouldn’t care; and if they didn’t hate them, they wouldn’t kill them. You can’t explain it, perhaps, but you can’t deny it either. She’ll never forgive Mrs. Crosby—perhaps—but she’ll forgive you, when she finds out that she can’t be happy without you. Stay here quietly, and let me see what I can do.”
“You can’t do anything, Governor. But I’m grateful to you all the same. And—you know—if there’s anything I can do on my side to help you, just now, I’ll do it!”
“Thank you, Brook,” said the old man, leaning back, and putting up his feet again.
Brook rose and left the room, slowly shutting the door behind him. Then he got his hat and went off for a solitary walk to think matters over. They were grave enough, and all that his father had said could not persuade him that there was any chance of happiness in his future. There was a sort of horror in the situation, too, and he could not remember ever to have heard of anything like it. He walked slowly, and with bent head.