The squire turned abruptly aside and crossed the room to the window, where he stood for a few minutes gazing out. Land, houses, wealth, position, ease,—all these things had been scorned once by young Loring Carmichael; now they were once again refused by Catherine and her poor journalist lover. Yet the squire had spent his lifetime in amassing these goods,—had made great sacrifices for them, had toiled feverishly in his youth, and plodded through his best years of manhood,—had believed that wealth rules the world, and is the chief power over men and women. This second blow was a hard one, but he was too proud a man to wish to show chagrin.
As he returned from the window he replied to Brian.
'You must forgive me if I think you foolish. Having made you an offer, for which you have been good enough to express gratitude, it would be unreasonable were I to quarrel with you for refusing it. Your peculiarly delicate conscience will interfere with your chances in life, I fancy; but argument with an obstinate man is worse than useless.'
Catherine approached him, and clasped his right arm with her two hands, crying pleadingly:
'Uncle, say you forgive me for refusing. I don't want to lose your affection. I told you the other day that I sought you out for the sake of your old kindness to me, with no idea that a penniless niece might be helped by your money.'
The ring of truth in her voice touched the old man's heart, making him yet more regret her refusal of his offer. Here was honesty shining behind those frank brown eyes, and he half repented having hedged his plan round with conditions. But obstinacy, the fault of his old age, prevented him from withdrawing one of his former words.
'I forgive you, Catherine. I trust you may not suffer much through your folly,' was his sole answer.