“Not so well as he likes Cuthbert Ramsay,” retorted Theodore, with almost involuntary bitterness.
This time Juanita’s blush was an obvious fact.
She walked away from her cousin indignantly.
“You may go or stay, as you please,” she said; and he stayed, stayed to be a footstool under her feet if she liked—stayed with a heart gnawed by jealousy, consumed by despair.
“It is useless—hopeless beyond the common measure of hopelessness,” he told himself. “She never cared for me in the past, and she will never care for me in the future. I am doomed to stand for ever upon the same dull plane of affectionate indifference. If I were dangerously ill she would nurse me; if I were in difficulties she would load me with benefits; if I were dead she would be sorry for me; but she is fonder of Ramsay, whom she has seen half a dozen times in her life, than she will ever be of me.”
Lord Cheriton returned to Dorsetshire on the following afternoon. He drove from Wareham to the Priory, and had a long tête-à-tête with Theodore in the garden before dinner.
“You have acted for my daughter throughout this miserable business,” he said, when he had told all that was to be told about Mrs. Porter’s seclusion at Cheshunt. “She has confided in you more completely even than in me—her father, and I leave my cause in your hands. You must plead to the daughter for the erring father, whose sin has exercised a fatal influence upon her life. Win her forgiveness for me—win her pity for that most unhappy woman, if you can. It is a difficult task which I entrust to you, Theodore, but I believe in your power to move that generous heart to mercy.”
“You may believe in my devotion to you both,” said Theodore, and Lord Cheriton left the Priory without seeing his wife and daughter, who had gone to dress for dinner just before his arrival, and who came to the drawing-room presently, both expecting to find him there.
Theodore explained his hasty departure as best he might.