But Mr. Smith wouldn’t hear of this. The children helped him to crawl as near the inner side as possible, and when they left him he nearly fainted with the pain of moving. It began to rain, the cold, soft, wetting rain of a Devonshire summer, and Mr. Smith groaned and shivered.
“I am so sorry for you,” said a soft voice close beside him. “Is there nothing I could do? Wouldn’t you be more comfortable if you were to rest your head in my lap? It would be a sort of pillow. Daddie used to go to sleep like that sometimes out on the moors last summer, when they were home.”
“Oh, Viola, Viola!” exclaimed the jokey man, with far more distress than he had yet shown, “why did you stay? You will get cold. It’s raining already, and they will be ages.”
“There’s no use worrying about that,” said Viola, edging herself nearer. “We couldn’t leave you here all alone and hurt, and Basil wouldn’t let me go on to the village ’cause of the fog, so of course I stayed. I hope you won’t mind very much; I won’t talk if you’d rather not, but I think I’d like to hold your hand if you don’t mind. It would be comforting.”
The kind little hand was curiously comforting to the jokey man: he insisted on taking off his coat and wrapping Viola in it, in spite of all her protests. Presently the white pall of mist lifted a little and they could see one another, and it certainly was a great pleasure to the man lying against the cliff to watch the little high-bred face with the kind blue eyes turned in such friendly wise toward him. Viola was so like Basil, and yet so entirely individual. Basil’s face was round, hers was oval; Basil’s nose was broad and indefinite as yet, Viola’s nose was small and straight and decided, with the dearest little band of freckles across the bridge. Basil’s manner was extremely friendly, Viola’s was tender and protecting, and it was such a long time since anyone had taken care of the jokey man, that he almost crooned to himself in the delight of being so tended. She was very tender in her inquiries after his aches and pains, expressed a pious hope that he always wore “something woolly next him,” and being reassured on that head, proceeded to suggest that he should smoke if he found it comforting. Then she told him a great deal in very admirative terms about daddy, and grandfather, and Basil, for Viola was of that old-fashioned portion of femininity that looks upon her own mankind as beings of stupendous strength and wisdom. The man lay watching her very intently, but it is not certain that he heard half of what she was saying. He had the look of one who was trying to make a difficult decision. The voices of habit and tradition called very loudly to him just then—dared he listen?
Presently Viola’s voice ceased. She was evidently waiting for an answer, and none came.
“Have you any sisters, Mr. Smith?” she repeated.
Mr. Smith shook his head, then he raised himself on his elbow, saying earnestly:
“Look here, Viola! I want you to tell me exactly what you think about something. Suppose Basil—of course it’s utterly impossible, but still—suppose that when he was grown up he did something that annoyed you all very much, something disappointing and entirely against his father’s wishes”—he paused, for Viola looked very grave and pained—“and then,” he continued, “if he went right out of sight, and you, none of you, heard anything more about him for nearly a year—supposing then he was sorry, said he was sorry——”
“We should never lose sight of Basil,” said Viola decidedly, her eyes dark and tragic at the mere thought. “At least, I’m sure I shouldn’t; whatever he did I should love him just the same. You don’t love people for their goodness—you love them because they’re they.”