'Because you don't know the circumstances, nor do you know my father.
No, it must be I. I must tell you.'
There was a note of conviction in Agnes' voice which silenced further protestation, and Father White listened.
'You see, this house and everything here belongs to mother. It is she who pays for everything. Father lost all his money some years ago; he was cheated out of it in the city. The loss of his money preyed upon his mind; he could not stand the humiliation of asking his wife, as he puts it, for twopence to take the omnibus. Mother did not care for father, she cared for some one else, and that of course made father's dependence still more humiliating. It preyed on his mind, and he lives in the house like a servant, in a little room under the roof that the kitchen-maid would not sleep in. He has a type-writing machine up there, and he makes a few shillings a week by copying; he bought the butler's old overcoat… It is very sad to see him up there at work, and to hear him talk…. I must tell you that the people who come here are not good people, I don't think that they can be very nice; the conversation in this drawing-room I'm sure is not. … There is a man who comes here whom I don't like at all, a Mr. Moulton. He says things that are not nice, and he tried to kiss me the other day. I was afraid of him, and mother used to leave me alone with him. I had difficulty in getting away from him, so I asked father to speak. I thought that father, when he met him alone, would tell him not to talk as he did, but father got so angry, that notwithstanding all I could do to prevent him he went down in his old clothes to the drawing-room, and, I suppose, insulted every one. Anyhow they all went away. I felt that something was happening, so I listened on the stairs. Father and mother were talking violently, and when he grasped mother's throat—I rushed between them. That is the whole story.'
'A very terrible story.'
'So you see that it is impossible for me to remain here. I cannot meet mother after what has happened. You must take me to the convent to- night. Say that you will, Father White.'
'Have you not thought, my child, that it may be your duty to remain here as mediator, as peace-maker?'
'Father has promised me that he will never raise his hand to mother again. I made him understand that it was by gentleness and patience she must be won back.'
'All the more reason that you should remain here to watch and encourage the good work you have begun.'
'But, Father White, I feel that I have done all that I can do…. My prayers must do the rest.'
'But your presence in this house would be an influence for good, and would check again, as it did to-day, these unhappy outbursts of violence.'