“No, it has not,” said Claude, kissing his veined hand. “It is as soft and good as ever, only you try to make it hard, and you say things you do not mean.”
“Ah, now!” he shouted, “you are going to talk about that Lisle, and I will not have his cursed name mentioned in the—”
“I was not going to talk about Christopher Lisle,” said Claude, in the same gentle, murmuring voice, whose tones seemed to soothe and quiet him down; “I was going on to say that I want the people—the weak, ignorant, easily-led people—about here to love and venerate my dear father’s name.”
“And they will not, do what you will. The more you do for them, the less self-helpful they are, and the more they revile and curse. Why, if I was ruined to-morrow, after they’ve eaten my bread for years, I believe they’d light a bonfire and have a dance.”
“No, no; no, no,” murmured Claude. “You have done too much good for them.”
“I haven’t. You did it all, you hussy, and pretended it was I,” he said grimly, as he played with her glossy hair.
“I did it with your money, dear, and I am your child. I acted as I felt you would act if you thoroughly knew the circumstances, but you had no time. What is the use of having so much money if no good is done?”
“For ungrateful people.”
“We are taught to do good for evil, dear.”
“What! for a race of thieves who are always cursing and reviling us? There, I’m busy and tired, Claudie. I’ve listened to your moral lesson very patiently, and now I want to be at rest. But I forbid you to help that wretched woman. She and her husband always hated me. Confound ’em, they were always insulting me. How dare they—actually publicly insult me—in that miserable little chapel.”