‘You can never know my justification for this line of conduct,’ replied Mr. Harefield. ‘I marked out this course for myself long ago, when my daughter was a child. I will spare her a deception that turned my life to gall. I will spare her disillusions that broke my heart. I am speaking openly to you, Mr. Culverhouse, more freely than I have spoken to any man, and I beg that all I have said may be sacred.’ ‘It shall be so,’ answered Cyril. ‘You think you can protect your daughter from the possibility of a sorrow like that which has darkened your own life. But do you not think that Providence is stronger to guard and save than you can be, and that it might be wiser to let her obey the instinct of her own heart?’ ‘As I did,’ cried Christian Harefield, with a laugh. ‘Sir, Providence did not guard or save me. I was a man--of mature years--and thought I knew mankind by heart. Yet I walked blindfold into the trap. Would you have me trust my daughter’s instinct at eighteen, when my own reason at thirty could so betray me? No, I shall take my own course. If I can save a silly girl from a future of ruined hopes and broken dreams, I will so save her, against her own will. I have never played the tender father, but perhaps in this my sternness may serve my daughter better than a more loving father’s softness. If Beatrix marries without my approval she will be a pauper.’ ‘I would gladly so take her,’ cried Cyril. ‘And teach her to disobey her father! you, who read the commandments to her in church every other Sunday, would teach her to set one of them at nought!’ It was Cyril’s own argument. He blushed as he heard it. ‘Must you withhold your love because you withhold your money?’ he asked. ‘You say that your own marriage was unhappy because you were a rich man. Let the weight of riches be lifted from your daughter’s life. She does not value them--nor do I.’ ‘What, a Culverhouse--the son of a spendthrift father--a parson, too! You can afford to despise riches?’ ‘Yes, because I look round me and see how rarely money can bring happiness. Perhaps there is not much real and perfect happiness upon earth; but I am very sure that what little there is has never been bought with gold. Leave your estate away from your daughter--leave it where you please--devote it to some great work. Let me have Beatrix without a sixpence--let me be your son--and if it is possible for affection to brighten your later life you shall not find it wanting.’ ‘It is not possible,’ answered Harefield, coldly. ‘I never desired affection except from one source--and it was not given me. I cannot open my heart again--its doors are sealed.’ ‘Against your only child?’ ‘Against all flesh and blood.’ ‘Then, if you withhold your love from Beatrix, it would be only right and reasonable to withhold your fortune, and leave her free to accept the love which may in some measure atone for the loss of yours.’