She could not catch what Mr. Charlton said; but he was evidently dissenting from Clide, and muttered something about “being convicted on his own showing,” which the other answered with an impatient exclamation the drift of which Franceline could not seize; neither could she make sense out of the short comments that followed. They referred to some facts or circumstances that were clear to the speakers, but only bewildered her more and more.
“It strikes me the old lady does not mean to let us in at all this time,” said Mr. Charlton; and he gave another violent pull to the bell.
“There can’t be any one in the house,” said Clide, after a pause that exhausted the patience of both. “We may as well come away. I will call later. I must see her before.…”
The rest of the sentence was lost, as the two speakers walked down the gravel-walk, conversing in the same low tones.
Franceline did not move even when the sound of their steps had long died away. She seemed turned to stone, and did not stir from the spot until Keziah came back. She gave her a message for Miss Merrywig, left the cottage, and went home.
She found her father just as she had left him—busy at his desk, with books and papers strewn on the table beside him. She saw this through the window, but did not go in to him. She could not go at once and speak to him as if nothing had happened in the interval. She went to her room, and remained there until dinner-time, and then came down, half-dreading to see some alteration in him corresponding with what had taken place in her own mind. But he was gentle and serene as usual. No mental disturbance was visible on his features; at least, she did not see it. Looking at him, nevertheless, with perceptions quickened by what she had heard since they parted, it struck her that his eyes were sunk and dim, as if from overwork and want of sleep combined; but there was no cloud of shame or humiliation on his brow. Never had that dear head seemed so venerable, never had such a halo of nobleness and goodness encircled it, in his daughter’s eyes, as at this moment.
She did not tease him to come out to walk with her, but asked him to read aloud to her for an hour while she worked. It was a long time—more than a week—since they had had any reading aloud. Raymond complied with the request, but soon returned to his work.
Franceline expected that Father Henwick would call, and kept nervously looking out of the window from time to time; but the day wore on, and the evening, and he did not come. She did not know whether to be glad or sorry. She was in that frame of feeling when the gentlest touch of sympathy would have stung her like the bite of a snake. It was not sympathy she wanted, but a voice to join with her in passionate contempt for the liars who had dared to slander her father, and in indignant denunciation of the lie. She wanted to fling it in the teeth of those who had uttered it. If Father Henwick would help her to do this, let him come; if not, let him leave her alone. Let no one come near her with words of pity; pity for her now meant contempt for her father. She would resent it as a lioness might resent the food that was thrown to her in place of the cubs she had been robbed of. No love—no, not the best and noblest she had ever dreamed of—would compensate her for the absence of reverence and respect for her father.
But Clide did not suspect him. She had heard him indignantly spurn the idea. “He no more stole it than you did,” he had said. Stolen what? Would no one come to tell her what it all meant? Would not Clide come? Was he still at Dullerton? Was there any fear—or hope?—of her meeting him again if she went out? She might have gone with impunity. Clide was far enough away, on a very different errand from that which had brought him yesterday across her path.