Mr. Gadby’s men appeared after their dinner, and got seriously to work by about three o’clock, at which hour Theodore and Lady Cheriton were strolling in the rose garden, while the master of the house sat in the library reading. Theodore had observed a marked change in his cousin since his last visit to the Chase. There was a worried look in Lord Cheriton’s face which had not been there even after the shock of the murder, a look of nervous apprehension which showed itself from time to time in a countenance where firmness of character and an absolute fearlessness had been hitherto the strongest characteristics.
He had not yet told his lordship the result of his interview with Mercy Porter. He had waited till an opportunity for quiet, confidential talk should come about naturally, and that opportunity now occurred. Lady Cheriton left him after half an hour’s review of the roses, and he went through the open window into the library where Lord Cheriton sat in his large arm-chair at his own particular table, reading the political summing-up in the last Quarterly.
“Shall I be disturbing you if I sit here?” asked Theodore, taking a volume from the table where the newest books were always to be found.
“On the contrary, I shall be very glad of a little conversation. I have been struggling through an analysis of last session, which is all weariness and vexation of spirit. The session was dull, the commentary is duller. I am anxious to know how you got on with Mrs. Porter’s daughter.”
“Very badly, I regret to say, from our point of view. She rejects your generous offer. She prefers her present hard life, with its independence. She will accept no obligation from any one.”
“Humph! She must be a curious young woman,” said Lord Cheriton, with a vexed air. “I should have liked very much to have made her life bright and easy, if she would have let me—for her father’s sake. On what ground did she refuse my offer?”
“On the ground of preferring to work for her living, and to live a hard life. She has taken that upon herself, I believe, as an expiation for her past errors, although she did not say that in so many words. She is wonderfully firm. I never saw such a resolute temper in so young—and so gentle-mannered—a woman.”
“You tried to overcome her objections, you represented to her how easy and pleasant her life might be in some picturesque village—among the hills and lakes, or by the sea—and how she might live among people who would know nothing of her past history, who would grow to be fond of her for her own sake?”
“I urged all this upon her. I am as anxious as you are that she should leave that dreary attic—that monotonous labour—but nothing I could say was of the least use. She was resolute—she would accept nothing from you.”
“From me—ah, that is it!” cried Lord Cheriton, suddenly. “Had the offer come from any one else she might have been less stubborn. But from me she will take nothing—not a loaf of bread if she were starving. That is the explanation of her hardness—it is to me she is adamant. Tell me the truth, Theodore. Don’t spare my feelings. This girl hates me, I suppose!”