The Earl gave an expressive gesture.
“My dear fellow, I was no less susceptible than the rest; and my sweetheart—afterwards my wife, and Patricia’s mother—was a queen amongst women. But I sometimes wish that I had never crossed her path; for she managed to twine herself about my heart, became the chief delight of my life; and then—”
“Then?” questioned Montella, filling up the pause.
“Then she died; and I was left with two infants to bring up, and a dreary waste of years before me to fill up as best I could. So you see that had I never met my wife, I might have made a career of some sort; at least, I should have been saved a considerable amount of heartache and pain.”
“And love,” added the youth, secretly wondering that the prosaic and somewhat crusty exterior of the Earl should conceal the heart-feelings of an emotional being. “Is it not better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? Tennyson says so. And there is no one who will ever profit by another’s experience in these affairs. So to return to my question. You will approve?”
“Have you—ah—spoken to her yet?”
“Not a word. I could not do so until I had obtained your consent. I—”
He broke off abruptly at the sound of the frou-frou of a woman’s skirt. The small door at the top of the spiral staircase opened, and a girl in a simple white dress stood on the threshold.
“May I come in, father?” she asked; then noticed the visitor. “Mr. Montella! I did not know you were here.”
She advanced with outstretched hand, her face lighting up with pleasure. The blackbirds flew down from their perch, twittering as though in greeting. The little turret-chamber seemed transformed by her presence: an air of constraint crept over the two men, and for the moment neither of them had anything to say. The Earl returned to the tank, and turned on the tap once more. The momentary emotion caused by the mention of his dead wife was now a thing of the past.