“I never suggested that you should interfere with my property, and criticise what I had chosen to do or left undone. As for not deserving reproach, you must have made very sure of stepping into my shoes since you wish to wear them while I am still here. No doubt I appear to you a mere cumberer of the ground; but it is my ground, I would have you remember. You cannot take liberties with it yet awhile.”
“I don’t want it! I never want it! I’ll go home to-morrow! You have no right to taunt me like this!” cried Mollie, trembling with such a storm of indignation and wounded feeling as she had rarely known in her bright, easy-going existence.
A rush of ugly words came to her lips, and struggled for utterance, while Mr Farrell sank back in his chair, and lay crouched against the cushions, one thin hand pressed heavily over his heart. The look, the action, brought Mollie to herself with a stab of recollection.
Whatever he had said to wound her pride, she had no right to forget his weakness, his danger, his lonely, piteous age. Anger died a rapid death, and gave place to an even keener sympathy. When Mr Farrell looked up again, it was to find the grey eyes wet with tears, and the lips trembling with emotion.
“Oh, you poor old man—you poor old man! Why will you make it so difficult? Why won’t you let us love you and be a comfort, instead of a trouble? We would, if you would allow us. We want to, but you keep us at arm’s length, and scold and sneer. I am not thinking of myself. I am young and strong, and I have my home and my dear little mother. I shall be happy, whatever happens. It’s you I am sorry for! I hate to see you ill and lonely. You have given a great deal to me; can’t you be generous enough to take something in return? There are only two months left. The time is nearly half over. Can’t we be friends—real friends—until the end?”
She drew nearer as she spoke, and saw no rebuff in the watching face, until at last she sank on her knees before him, and timidly touched his hand.
“Uncle Bernard, speak! Say something to me!”
Still the old man hesitated; but his hand lay quietly in hers, and did not try to escape.
“What can I say?” he asked slowly at last. “I believe you are a good child; I believe you are honest; but my days are past for making friendships. I have felt deeply in my time, but the power of loving died away with everything else which made life worth living. I cannot promise what is impossible.”
“But you can at least give me a chance of loving you. I won’t ask any more favours if you will just talk to me a little sometimes, without sneering at me, and let me walk with you about the grounds and be a little bit of a companion. Will you? You might get to like me a little bit in time, and it would not be quite so lonely.”