“I would you could see the matter as I see it,” he sighed. “This man grown old, and reaping in his old age the fruits of the egotism he has sown. I do not believe that in all the world there is a single soul would weep his lordship's death--if we except, perhaps, Mistress Winthrop.”
“And do you pity him for that?” quoth Sir Richard coldly. “What right has he to expect aught else? Who sows for himself, reaps for himself. I marvel, indeed, that there should be even one to bewail him--to spare him a kind thought.”
“And even there,” mused Mr. Caryll, “it is perhaps gratitude rather than affection that inspires the kindness.”
“His ward. As sweet a lady, I think, as I have ever seen,” said Mr. Caryll, incautious enthusiasm assailing him. Sir Richard's eyes narrowed.
“You have some acquaintance with her?” he suggested.
Very briefly Mr. Caryll sketched for the second time that evening the circumstances of his first meeting with Rotherby.
Sir Richard nodded sardonically. “Hum! He is his father's son, not a doubt of that. 'Twill be a most worthy successor to my Lord Ostermore. But the lady? Tell me of the lady. How comes she linked with them?”
“I scarce know, save from the scraps that I have heard. Her father, it would seem, was Ostermore's friend, and, dying, he appointed Ostermore her guardian. Her fortune, I take it, is very slender. Nevertheless, Ostermore, whatever he may have done by other people, appears in this case to have discharged his trust with zeal and with affection. But, indeed, who could have done other where that sweet lady was concerned? You should see her, Sir Richard!” He was pacing the room now as he spoke, and as he spoke he warmed to his subject more and more. “She is middling tall, of a most dainty slenderness, dark-haired, with a so sweet and saintly beauty of face that it must be seen to be believed. And eyes--Lord! the glory of her eyes! They are eyes that would lead a man into hell and make him believe it heaven,
“'Love doth to her eyes repair To help him of his blindness.'”
Sir Richard watched him, displeasure growing in his face. “So!” he said at last. “Is that the reason?”
“The reason of what?” quoth Mr. Caryll, recalled from his sweet rapture.
“The reason of these fresh qualms of yours. The reason of all this sympathy for Ostermore; this unwillingness to perform the sacred duty that is yours.”