“Uncle dear, whatever is the matter?” she cried impetuously. For some little time past she had had an uneasy feeling, one of those presentiments which occur so often to sensitive people, that there was trouble of some sort brewing in this household.
“Nothing the matter, my child,” he answered evasively, passing his hand wearily across his forehead. Much as he loved his pretty niece, much as he trusted her, he could not as yet reveal to her the cause of his trouble, betray the woman in whom he had believed—who bore his honoured name.
But the girl persisted. “But, dearest uncle, you are hiding something from me. You look so strange, I am sure you are very much moved. Have you had disturbing news?”
For a little time the unhappy man refrained from answering that question, inspired by no spirit of girlish curiosity, but by the sincerest and most loyal affection.
“Yes, my child, I have had bad news, very bad news, I am afraid I am a poor dissembler,” he said at length. “Later on, under the strict seal of secrecy, I may tell you the cause of my trouble. But not now, not now. Run away, my precious little girl, and leave me to my black mood.”
She dared not worry him further, although her heart was aching for him. Nobody knew better than she the kind, tender nature underlying that rather stern exterior. Before she obeyed him, she put her arms round his neck and kissed him affectionately.
“Tell me when you please, dear, in your own good time, and your poor little Rosabelle, to whom you have always been so kind and generous, will do her best to comfort you.”
“I know you will, you precious, warm-hearted girl.” He clasped her hand almost convulsively. What he had found out had wounded him to the core. Nothing hurt this strong, proud man so much as the discovery that his confidence had been misplaced in those near to him, that his trust in them had been abused.
“Thank heaven, I have one dear little friend in the world, one dear, loyal little friend who has never given me a moment’s uneasiness, who I am confident never will. But run away now, my darling. I cannot speak yet, even to you, of what is troubling me.”
She obeyed him, and left the room wondering. The words he had spoken had been very vague, but her quick instinct had prompted certain suspicions of the cause of his deep perturbation. She was confident that Mrs. Morrice was at the bottom of it. Had he found out something to her discredit, and if so, what? Was it possible that Lane had conceived it to be his duty to report to him that conversation between aunt and nephew which she had overheard?