In the course of life, other human beings become connected with him, attached to him, and he to them.  Natural claims must be considered and decently satisfied—­agreed!  But for the disposal of a man’s superfluities, of such a fortune as Melrose’s, there is no law—­there ought to be no law; and the English character, as distinct from the French, has decided that there shall be no law.  “If his liking, or his caprice even,” thought Faversham passionately, “chooses to make me his heir, he has every right to give, and I to accept.  I am a stranger to him; so, in all but the physical sense, is his daughter.  But I am not a stranger to English life.  My upbringing and experience—­even such as they are—­are better qualifications than hers.  What can a girl of twenty, partly Italian, brought up away from England, hardly speaking her father’s tongue, do for this English estate, compared to what I could do—­with a free hand, and a million to draw on?  Whom do I wrong by accepting what a miraculous chance has brought me—­by standing by it—­by fighting for it?  No one—­justly considered.  And I will fight for it—­though a hundred Tathams call me adventurer!”

So much for the root determination of the man; the result of weeks of excited brooding over wealth, and what can be done with wealth, amid increasing difficulties and problems from all sides.

His determination indeed did not protect him from the attacks of conscience; of certain moral instincts and prepossessions, that is, natural to a man of his birth and environment.

The mind, however, replied to them glibly enough.  “I shall do the just and reasonable thing!  As I promised Tatham, I shall look into the story of these two women, and if it is what it professes to be, I shall press Melrose to provide for them.”

Conscience objected:  “If he refuses?”

“They can enforce their claim legally, and I shall make him realize it.”

“Can you?” said Conscience.  “Have you any hold upon him at all?”

A flood of humiliation, indeed, rushed in upon him, as he recalled his effort, while Melrose was away in August, to make at least some temporary improvement in the condition of the Mainstairs cottages—­secretly—­out of his own money—­by the help of the cottagers themselves.  The attempt had been reported to Melrose by that spying little beast, Nash, and peremptorily stopped by telegram—­“Kindly leave my property alone.  It is not yours to meddle with.”

And that most abominable scene, after Melrose’s return to the Tower!  Faversham could never think of it without shame and disgust.  Ten times had he been on the point of dashing down his papers at Melrose’s feet, and turning his back on the old madman, and his house, forever.  It was, of course, the thought of the gifts he had already accepted, and of that vast heritage waiting for him when Melrose should be in his grave, which had restrained him—­that alone; no cynic could put it more nakedly than did Faversham’s own thoughts.  He was tied and bound by his own actions, and his own desires; he had submitted—­grovelled to a tyrant; and he knew well enough that from that day he had been a lesser and a meaner man.