“I heard my father and Fillmore saying it in the dining-room. That’s what’s been plaguing me ever since. I hoped you’d know about it. Because, if he’s the thief and scoundrel, my father said, why isn’t he arrested? Instead of that, father acts as if he was afraid of him. ’Tis as if father was the scoundrel and Grant the honest man. I’d ask father myself, only it wouldn’t be decent.”
“I see!” murmured Perdita, meditating. “But why did he not tell me? It may be an imposture. But he would have no motive for that. Besides, he couldn’t impose on Sir Francis. Yes, it does seem strange. Let me think.”
She leaned back in her chair, her eyes downcast, folding and unfolding the work in her lap. She had evidently forgotten all about Tom. That unfortunate youth sat staring at her with burning eyes. How little he cared about his father, or anything else, in comparison with her! And she would never be his. Tom suppressed a groan and felt the hollowness of life. He longed to do something extraordinary, frantic, heroic. Not to forget himself in dissipation—he loved her too truly for that, but to rise to the level of such a man as might worthily possess her. Since that happiness could never be his, to deserve it would be the next best thing. And, perhaps, after all, no achievement could be so arduous and heroic as to be her friend—her true and unselfish friend. Some day she should esteem him at his true value and thank him. She should be made to feel that he was not a child, and that he was something more than a brother. Hereupon Tom felt an aching in his throat, and two tears trickled down his face. He surreptitiously wiped them away.
“Will you do something for me, my dear?” asked Perdita, looking up.
Tom nodded, not wishing just then to trust his voice.
“This thing will have to be cleared up some day,” she continued, “and it might as well be now. You can help me already, you see. I can do nothing without you. You shall be my friend and my confidant. If that man is my father I must see him again and find out ... whatever he has to tell me.”
“What shall you do when you find out?”
“Then we can consult together, since we are both interested.”
“If there should be anything wrong about my father”—
“We will arrange to keep it secret. Mr. Grant—or whoever he is—cannot profit by any public revelation, and I’m sure I wish Sir Francis nothing but good. I should have preferred not to have the matter come up at all, and I told Mr. Grant as much; but I must know about it, since others do, and it must be settled definitely.”