“I will not—unless for your sake.”
“No—no—not for my sake. But come again, dear boy, and we will talk over the family history. I dare say there are quantities of misfortunes that I have left out—oh, what a happy day it has been to me!”
He pressed her hand again. “Have faith, dear lady. We cannot be crushed in revenge for any crime by any other person. Do not think of past sorrows. Do not tremble at imaginary dangers. The future is in the hands of Justice, not of Revenge.”
They were brave words, but in his heart there lurked, say, the possibilities of apprehension.
In the hall Samuel himself intercepted him, running out of his office. “I had my tea in here,” he said, “because I wanted her to have a talk with you alone; and I’m sick of her family, to tell the truth, except for that chance of the accumulations. Did she mention them?” he whispered. “I thought she wouldn’t. I can’t get her to feel properly about the matter. Women have got no imagination—none. Well, a man like that can’t make a will. He can’t. That’s a comfort. Good-evening, Mr. Campaigne. We rely entirely upon you to maintain the interests of the family, if necessary, against madmen’s wills. Those accumulations—ah! And he’s ninety-five—or is it ninety-six? I call it selfish to live so long unless a man’s a pauper. He ought to be thinking of his great-grandchildren.”
CHAPTER VIII
IN THE LAND OF BEECHES
LEONARD met Constance a few days later at the club, and they dined at the same table. As for the decision and the rejection, they were ignored by tacit consent. The situation remained apparently unaltered. In reality, everything was changed.
“You look thoughtful,” she said presently, after twice making an observation which failed to catch his attention. “And you are absent-minded.”
“I beg your pardon, yes. That is, I do feel thoughtful. You would, perhaps, if you found your family suddenly enlarged in all directions.”
“Have you received unknown cousins from America?”