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What an afternoon it was for Esther!

‘Ah!’ she said at last, ‘it’s good to hear all this! My aunt, you should know, is narrow and too religious; she cannot understand an artist’s life. It does not frighten me,’ she added grandly; ‘I am an artist’s daughter.’

With that speech, Dick consoled himself for his imposture; she was not deceived so grossly after all; and then if a fraud, was not the fraud piety itself? – and what could be more obligatory than to keep alive in the heart of a daughter that filial trust and honour which, even although misplaced, became her like a jewel of the mind? There might be another thought, a shade of cowardice, a selfish desire to please; poor Dick was merely human; and what would you have had him do?

CHAPTER IV – ESTHER ON THE FILIAL RELATION

A MONTH later Dick and Esther met at the stile beside the cross roads; had there been any one to see them but the birds and summer insects, it would have been remarked that they met after a different fashion from the day before. Dick took her in his arms, and their lips were set together for a long while. Then he held her at arm’s-length, and they looked straight into each other’s eyes.

‘Esther!’ he said; you should have heard his voice!

‘Dick!’ said she.

‘My darling!’

It was some time before they started for their walk; he kept an arm about her, and their sides were close together as they walked; the sun, the birds, the west wind running among the trees, a pressure, a look, the grasp tightening round a single finger, these things stood them in lieu of thought and filled their hearts with joy. The path they were following led them through a wood of pine-trees carpeted with heather and blue-berry, and upon this pleasant carpet, Dick, not without some seriousness, made her sit down.

‘Esther!’ he began, ‘there is something you ought to know. You know my father is a rich man, and you would think, now that we love each other, we might marry when we pleased. But I fear, darling, we may have long to wait, and shall want all our courage.’

‘I have courage for anything,’ she said, ‘I have all I want; with you and my father, I am so well off, and waiting is made so happy, that I could wait a lifetime and not weary.’

He had a sharp pang at the mention of the Admiral. ‘Hear me out,’ he continued. ‘I ought to have told you this before; but it is a thought I shrink from; if it were possible, I should not tell you even now. My poor father and I are scarce on speaking terms.’

‘Your father,’ she repeated, turning pale.

‘It must sound strange to you; but yet I cannot think I am to blame,’ he said. ‘I will tell you how it happened.’

‘Oh Dick!’ she said, when she had heard him to an end, ‘how brave you are, and how proud. Yet I would not be proud with a father. I would tell him all.’

‘What!’ cried Dick, ‘go in months after, and brag that I had meant to thrash the man, and then didn’t. And why? Because my father had made a bigger ass of himself than I supposed. My dear, that’s nonsense.’

She winced at his words and drew away. ‘But when that is all he asks,’ she pleaded. ‘If he only knew that you had felt that impulse, it would make him so proud and happy. He would see you were his own son after all, and had the same thoughts and the same chivalry of spirit. And then you did yourself injustice when you spoke just now. It was because the editor was weak and poor and excused himself, that you repented your first determination. Had he been a big red man, with whiskers, you would have beaten him – you know you would – if Mr. Naseby had been ten times more committed. Do you think, if you can tell it to me, and I understand at once, that it would be more difficult to tell it to your own father, or that he would not be more ready to sympathise with you than I am? And I love you, Dick; but then he is your father.’