“A father could scarcely do more for an erring daughter. I only wish her mother felt half as kindly towards her as you, upon whom her claim is so slight.”
“No, no; it is a substantial claim. She is fatherless, and her mother is dependent upon me. I stand, as it were, in loco parentis. Well, we will say no more about her; she must go her own way. Only, if ever you find an opportunity of helping her—for me, you will do me a great favour by taking prompt advantage of it.”
“I shall gladly do so. I am interested in her for her own sake, as well as for yours.”
“You are a good fellow, Theodore, and I know you wish us well. I will go a step further than that and say I know that I can trust you.”
This was said with an earnestness which impressed Theodore. It seemed to him almost as if his kinsman foresaw that inevitable hour in which there must be perfect unreserve between them—in which the younger man would have to say to his senior and superior in rank, “I know the secret of your earlier years. I know the dark cloud that has overshadowed your life.”
They talked for a little while of indifferent subjects, and then Lord Cheriton proposed a stroll in the direction of the well.
“I should like to see whether those fellows have begun work,” he said.
The old garden looked its sleepiest in the westering sunlight, but there was business going on there nevertheless, and a great heap of damp clay had been flung out by the side of the low brick parapet. Two men were at work below, and there were two men above, while a fifth, a foreman and leading light, looked on and gave directions.
“Glad to see you’ve tackled the job, Carter,” said Lord Cheriton.
“Yes, my lord, we’ve got on to it pretty well. Could I have a word with your lordship?”