"No, Ancram. No; I have not found it necessary to scold Castalia. I am very much attached to her, and very anxious for her happiness. She is the child of my favourite sister."
The old man's voice was not so firm as usual when he said this; and he looked up at Algernon with an appealing look.
Algernon could be pleasant, genial, even affectionate in his manner—but never tender. That was more than he could compass by any movement of imitative sympathy. He had never even been able so to simulate tenderness as to succeed in singing a pathetic song. Perhaps he had learned that it was useless to make the attempt. At all events, he did not now attempt to exhibit any answering tenderness to Lord Seely's look and tone of unwonted feeling, in speaking of his dead sister's child. His reply was hard, clear, and cheerful, as the chirp of a canary bird.
"I know you have always been extremely good to Castalia, my lord. We are both of us very sensible of your kindness, and very much obliged by it."
"No, no," said my lord, waving his hand. "No, no, no. Castalia owes me nothing. She has been to me almost as my own daughter. There can be no talk of obligations between her and me."
Then he paused, for what appeared to be a long time. In the silence of the room the damp logs hissed like whispering voices.
"Ancram," Lord Seely said at length, "Castalia is very much attached to you."
"I assure you, my lord, I am very grateful to her."
"Ahem! Castalia's is not an expansive nature. She was, perhaps, too much repressed and chilled in childhood, by living with uncongenial persons. But she is responsive to kindness, and it develops her best qualities. I will frankly own, that I am very anxious about her future. You will not owe me a grudge for saying that much, Ancram?"
"I never owe grudges, my lord. But I trust you have no doubt of my behaving with kindness to Castalia?"