Mr. Schöninger bowed lowly, without unfolding his arms or softening the expression of his face. "I thank you for your offers of service," he said; "but they are unnecessary. I have employed counsel, and what the law can do for me will be done. Meantime, it is not for you and me to clasp hands."
His look conveyed not only pride, but disdain. He seemed less the accused than the accuser.
"Whose hand, then, will you clasp?" the priest exclaimed, impatient at what seemed to him an unreasonable scruple. "You are a stranger here, and can be sure of no one. I am the very person whose good-will will be most valuable to you."
It was only the embarrassment resulting from an unexpected rebuff which could have made F. Chevreuse appeal to the motive of self-interest. To tell a proud and bitter, perhaps a guilty, man that he stands in his own light, is only to make him blacken yet more his immovable shadow. But as a man sometimes relaxes the severity of his manner at the same time that he increases the firmness of his resolution, Mr. Schöninger unbent so far as to offer his visitor a seat.
"Please excuse the roughness," he said, indicating a rude bench. "The furniture is not of my choosing." And seated himself on the bed, there being no other place.
F. Chevreuse remained standing. The mocking courtesy was more chilling than coldness.
"I followed an impulse of kindness in coming to you," he said, looking down to hide how much he was hurt. "I did not stop to ask myself what was conventional, or wise, or politic. My heart prompted me to fly to the rescue, and I took no other counsel."
There was no reply. Mr. Schöninger's eyes were fixed with an intent and searching gaze on the priest, and a faint color began to creep up over his cold face. As F. Chevreuse raised his eyes and met that gaze, the faint color deepened to a sudden red; for the priest's glance was dimmed by tears of wounded feeling he had striven to hide.
"You distrust me!" he said reproachfully; "and I do not deserve it. I would serve you, if I could. I would be your friend, if you would let me."
It was Mr. Schöninger's turn to drop his eyes. To look in that face unmoved was impossible. The reproach, the pain, the tenderness of it had shot like an arrow through his heart, steeled as it was. But his habit of self-control was proof against surprise. After the blush had left his face, there was no sign visible of the struggle that was going on within. He seemed to be merely considering a question. After a moment, he looked up.