Mr. Roquevillard, bent over a brief, raised his head. abruptly, with an involuntary movement; but in a moment he had got possession of himself again.
“He’s been very late about coming back.”
“Won’t you see him, father?” she begged. “He’s so unhappy.”
Mr. Roquevillard reflected a moment.
“I’ll go to see him to-morrow, in the gaol,” he answered, with an effort, “to arrange about his defence. Not this evening.”
And as Margaret looked disappointed, he drew her to his breast.
“You attend to him,” he said. “If he’s tired, see that he gets some rest. To-morrow’s time enough for him to go and give himself up.”
“Father, forgive him. For mamma——”
“Some day, Margaret, I hope that he’ll deserve my forgiveness. Just now, so soon, I can’t forget the wrong he did to us in going away. I want him to understand this and realise it fully. He must, for the sake of our past and for his own future. But don’t cry, Margaret. I have not ceased to love him. I’m glad he’s come back.”
Later, quite a little while later, in the silence of the night, Mr. Roquevillard left his room, and crept with stealthy steps to Maurice’s door. His hand shading the flame of his candle, he listened for a moment to the light and regular breathing that he could scarcely hear. A thin smile lit up his forceful features that had been so ravaged by his sorrow.