“I don’t know,” said Madeline, with some embarrassment. She would not pour forth the full measure of Gervase’s iniquity all at once. His conclusion that it was his duty, for the sake of others, to do nothing, had been bewildering enough to herself. She did not feel strong enough to lay bare before her father that strange determination, which was so exceedingly confusing even to her own intelligence.
“He may mean to paint a great picture like Millais, or get a £20,000 cheque for a book like Macaulay,” said Mr Thursley, with contempt in his voice.
“You may be sure,” cried Madeline, “that even if he were bent upon writing books or painting pictures, he would never say that. Papa,” she added after a moment’s silence, “you have so much sense and understanding——”
“Thank you, my dear. I am glad to have your good opinion.”
“Oh, don’t laugh at me. Papa, if you were to speak to Gervase.”
“I don’t believe in speaking, Madeline—especially to young men.”
“To his father then—to Mr Burton. If you were to speak to him—to suggest something. Surely there are more ways than one way. If Gervase were made to consider; if he were shown things as they are; if Mr Burton would perhaps find some means—— Papa, I don’t know what to suggest; but you know. All might be set right, I am sure, if you would but find a compromise.”
“Well, my dear, I can’t have you cry, that’s clear,” he said, kissing her. “Good night, Madeline, and go to bed. I’ll think what I can do. It can’t just rest here.”
CHAPTER IV.
It was not till the afternoon of next day that Madeline and Gervase met again. She had spent a very anxious morning. Her father had made no reference at breakfast to the question which was of so much moment to her, though he had gone out with a nod and a look of intelligence which brought the blood rushing back to her heart. Madeline was under no particular illusion about her father. She had not the confidence of some children, that everything was safe which was in his hands. She believed that he would do for her what he thought to be the best; but she was not entirely certain that it would be the best, as some happy idealists are. She would rather, indeed, have made sure of having her own way than his. But, at the same time, she had little doubt that it was an advantage to have her father actively interfering. He would not do anything unkind. He would not let her be disappointed, if he could help it. Though it would have been better to have all things go well without his interference, yet, things having gone wrong, his interference was more likely than any other to be of use. This was not a very assured and stable comfort, and yet it was a comfort in its way.