“No one, no one,” she answered, quickly; “but you are a reckless talker, and I have gathered much from my own observation. You have told me more than once that you are in debt; sometimes I fear you gamble. Oh!” as a dark flush mounted to his forehead, “I should be grieved to think that this is true.”
“You would hate me all the more, I suppose,” in a defiant voice.
“Indeed I do not hate you, my poor boy; but you make me very angry sometimes. Do you know me so little as to think I could ever bring myself to love a gambler, or one who tried to rob another of his inheritance—one who was so afraid of poverty that he deserted his mother for the loaves and fishes of the man who was her worst enemy?”
“The old story,” in a despairing voice; “will you never give me even the benefit of an excuse—will you never allow me to defend myself?”
“I am not your judge,” was the cold reply; and then, as she saw the misery of his face, she relented. “Indeed, it is not too late to retrieve the past. If you have debts, if you are in trouble, own it frankly to your grandfather.”
“And be turned out of the house a beggar?”
“What of that,” she replied, cheerfully; “you have a profession; every one says how clever you are—what a splendid barrister you will make. You can take pupils; success and money will come to you in time.”
“Too late,” he muttered; “I can not free myself.” Then, with a sudden change of look and tone, “Crystal, if I do this—if I leave Belgrave House, will you give me a hope of winning you in the future?”
She shook her head; “I can not give you that hope.”
“Why not?” he demanded, fiercely.