Having watched his friends out of sight he turned back into the house,
took down his gun and belt of cartridges and sauntered up the hill. But
his mind was not on his sport. Adelina’s fateful words were echoing like
a tolling bell through his heart, “Too late! too late!” He tried to
explain to himself that sense of shock that the words had given him. He
had been trying for the past nine months to analyse his feeling for Peg.
Love? That was hardly possible. Seven years ago, when as boy and girl
together they had ridden the country over, there was no thought of love
in his mind. All that sort of thing he would have despised as a silly,
sissy affair. He could remember that he had assumed a sort of
responsibility for Peg in those days; it was his business to take care
of her, she was so delicate a thing, so needing care. It was that sense
of responsibility for her that had wrought in him such fury at Asa on
the day when Peg and Tubby had their ignominious tumble into the pool.
But love for Peg? He could not quite analyse the sense of desolation, of
outrage, that had swept his soul when Adelina had announced to him nine
months ago that another had intervened and had assumed the right to care
for her. Peg engaged to be married? That she had really given to another
than himself the right always to protect her, to care for her, to
defend, to fight if need be for her? It seemed to him that no man should
step in and claim that right. He would like to see the man who would
dare do this. Was this love?
He had been devouring under Dalton’s guiding during the few spare hours
that had been his these last months the works of some of the masters of
English fiction. He had read of love and of lovers, their ecstasies,
their passions, their despairs. Certainly no emotion of like quality had
fallen upon him. Would Peg expect that of him, if he should by any
chance he able to oust the other man from her heart? Could he give her
that kind of love? He knew he could not. Why then should he disturb her?
Why not go his way till she was married and safely in another man’s
care? Ah, that was it! Could any man care for her, give her that tender,
unceasing, protective care that he knew he could give, that he longed to
give, and that somehow he could not persuade himself that Peg would
desire any other man to give? Was that love?
After all, it was Peg who had the word. If Peg were satisfied that this
man should henceforth be her protector, then he would simply back off
the stage. He would hate to do anything to disturb little Peg. He could
not endure the thought that anything should grieve her. He remembered
how her tears used to fill him with fury. He felt now that he would
gladly tear in pieces any man who would bring the tears to those great
blue eyes. He must see Peg, and he must see her with the young man. He
must see her eyes as she looked upon him. He could easily visualise the
young man’s eyes as he looked upon her. But the young man counted for
nothing. Nor indeed did he himself count for anything. It was Peg that
mattered. He came to see that clearly. More than anything in his life,
it was important that Peg should be happy and safe. And the man that Peg
felt could make her happy and keep her safe should have the right to do
so. Yes, Peg had the word. And Peg’s happiness and security were the
important issues. What should come to him or to that other man was
really a subordinate issue.
It was late afternoon when he rode slowly down the drive. He had
clarified his mind as to his objective in going to the “big white
house,” but he knew not just what reception was awaiting him. The air
was warm and balmy, a gift day from summer to autumn; the valley was
full of deep purples and blues; the river gleamed bright in the late
afternoon sun; and far in the west the dark mountains lay softly against
a sky of liquid gold. It was good to be alive, and good to be at home in
the valley again. Paul’s heart was warm with tender memories of his
boyhood days, his boyhood friends, and among these he discovered now
that Peg had ever held the central place. In every scheme of life, past
and future, Peg was assigned the chief rôle. And this afternoon it was
to meet Peg, after all, that he was riding to the “big white house.” The
others, important and dear as they were, formed the setting merely for
her appearance. Paul caught himself up sharply for this, but off guard
he found his mind ever arranging its stage furnishing in such fashion as
to give Peg the central place and the leading rôle.
Hence when he rode quietly into the front yard and stood at the open
door of the living room, it was Peg who first caught and held his eyes.
For some moments he stood silently gazing at the girl across the width
of the room. Then he took a step toward her, his eyes still fastened
upon her face.
“Good afternoon,” said the Colonel, courteously, rising to greet a
stranger.
“You don’t know me,” he said, smiling at the girl.
With a faint cry she advanced slowly toward him. “Oh, it is you!” she
said. “Oh, Paul, you have come back!” With hands reaching toward him she
ran the remaining steps.
“Yes, Peg, I said I would come for you,” he said, his voice tense and
low, taking her hands in his.
“I always said you would come,” she said, her blue eyes shining, her
face pale, her lips trembling.
The sight of her shining eyes, her pale face and quivering lips was to
Paul’s heart like a breath of wind upon a smouldering fire. Swiftly he
released her hands, threw his arms about her, drew her close to him and
kissed her upon the lips. As suddenly he released her and stood back as
if expecting he knew not what.
“Peggy!” cried the Colonel.
“My dear!” cried his wife.
“Paul!” shouted the Reverend Donald Fraser, one of the group.
The only silent member of the party was a young man, tall,
broad-shouldered, with a strong if somewhat heavy face and good blue
eyes, now shining with amazement and anger.
“Why not?” cried Peg, standing up straight and tall, her face crimson,
her eyes flashing. “It is Paul.”
“Why not?” said Paul, his voice ringing out with a glad challenge in it.
“I said I would come for her.”
The Reverend Donald Fraser was the first to recover normality.
“You are welcome home, Paul. I heard of you last winter in the city, but
I failed to see you.” He took Paul’s hand in his, shook it warmly,
patting him on the shoulder the while. “You were doing great work there,
I understand.”
The Colonel and his wife joined in the greeting, but Paul fancied there
was something wanting in the welcome. He missed the Colonel’s old time
shout of joy at seeing him.
The Colonel then presented him formally to the young man, standing
behind Peg. “Mr. Guy Laughton, the eldest son of Sir Stephen Laughton,
one of our oldest Dorset families and my oldest and best friend,” the
little Colonel announced in swelling words. “Guy, this is Paul Gaspard,
an old family friend, indeed I might almost say a member of the family.
Brought the boy up indeed.”
The young man bowed in an easy, off-hand manner, muttering his delight
at the meeting. Paul took a stride toward him, offering his hand.
“I am glad to meet you, Mr. Laughton,” he said, “glad to meet an old
friend of the Colonel’s.” The grip in which he expressed his delight
made the young man wince.
“You will join us at dinner, Paul,” said the Colonel’s wife. “We are
just sitting down.”
Something in her manner prompted Paul to decline, but the quick, eager
look in Peg’s eyes decided him.
“Thank you, Aunt Augusta,” he replied. “I shall be glad to.”
The dinner somehow was going badly, despite the Colonel’s very best
dinner stories and his lady’s most brilliant efforts at conversation.
The young Englishman attended strictly to his eating, carrying an air of
nonchalant if courteous indifference toward the efforts at conversation
by the Colonel and his wife. The Reverend Donald Fraser won the
gratitude of Mrs. Pelham for the gallant manner in which he came to her
rescue. The minister felt the restraint and as a friend of the family
was bound to do his utmost to save the situation. After the Colonel had
failed in an heroic attempt to engage Laughton in a discussion of
English politics, for which he cared not a farthing, English sport, in
which he was deeply interested, doings at Oxford, where they had a
common meeting ground, the minister took Paul in hand. He drew from him
an interesting description of the life, the habits, the occupations of
the Indians of the far North country. Finally he took him up on the
religion of the Chippewayans.
“They have a real religion I suppose?”
“Yes, sir,” said Paul. “It is not our religion, but I would say a real
religion, with very noble elements in it. They believe in and worship a
supreme spirit whose favour they seek and whom they strive to obey.”
“But it is wholly pagan?”
“Yes, we call them pagan, but I often wondered what God would call some
of them. For some of them, those who really practise their religion, are
good men. Of course, some of them don’t take much stock in their
religion, but——”
“But,” interrupted the minister, “there are many of our own people don’t
take much stock in religion, I fear.”
“Right, sir. And just as with us, those who are most loyal to their
religious principles are the best men. And they are good men.”
“Good men? What do you mean exactly?” inquired the Colonel, whose
experience of the native population of British Columbia had not been of
the happiest.
“Good in your own understanding of the word, sir,” said Paul firmly.
“They are honest, they are loyal to their obligations, they are kind to
their own, they are capable of heroic self-sacrifice, they have perfect
manners, the manners of a gentleman, in short.”
“How do they treat their women? Beasts of burden, I understand. Eh,
what?” said Laughton, abruptly breaking into the conversation.
“They treat their women pretty much as my ancestors and yours treated
their women a few generations ago, as Mr. Fraser, who is an expert on
that subject, will tell you, I guess,” said Paul.
“Quite right, Paul, and not so many generations ago either. Indeed, I
will go so far as to say as very many men in my country and yours treat
their women today,” said Mr. Fraser, addressing himself to Laughton.
“That, sir, I take leave to deny,” said the Englishman with some little
heat.
“You will excuse me, Mr. Laughton,” said the minister. “I was visiting
my native country only a year ago. Yes, in the highlands of Scotland I
saw things that grieved me to the heart and that made my blood boil.
Sir, I saw women carrying the manure from their byres in creels upon
their backs and depositing it upon their little fields, while their men
were lolling in the sun, smoking their pipes.”
“Ah!” said Laughton, with an ironic smile. “You are speaking of the
crofters and that lot.”
“Yes, more’s the pity. But I also visited in Edinburgh, in Glasgow, in
Dundee. I spent some weeks in London, sir—no, excuse me, not the East
End only, I will take you also to the West End. I stood at the doors of
your grand theatres and music halls. I saw there the painted women, poor
unhappy creatures that they are! Beasts of burden? Would to God they
were only beasts of burden, sir! Beasts, and lower than beasts, made to
serve the lusts of English gentlemen!” The blue eyes of the Scot were
aflame with indignation. “I warrant you, Paul, you saw nothing of that
among your Indians of the North. Ah, sir,” turning again to Laughton,
“the paganism of London is something for which all honest Englishmen
ought to be concerned and for which all of us ought to blush. You will
excuse me, Mrs. Pelham,” he continued, bowing courteously to his
hostess. “I have studied this matter with some care, and as a man of the
British Empire I am filled with anxiety for the future of our people.”
“Oh, hang it, Fraser! You will always have that sort of thing. We are
not so bad as the rest of the world.”
“Sir, you are right, but should we not be something better?” said the
minister earnestly. “But I have no wish to discuss this matter here.”
“I ought to apologise, sir,” said Laughton. “I believe I am responsible
for giving the conversation the turn it has taken. Mr. Gaspard was
speaking of gentlemen among the northern savages, I believe.”
“Yes,” said Paul, “and I stay by what I have said. They were Indians,
pagan, savages, they had their faults, their vices, they were by no
means perfect. I have met some fine men, some gentlemen, though I have
seen little of the world I must confess, but no finer gentleman have I
met than the old chief of the Chippewayans. He was a man of the finest
courage and endurance; he took the most scrupulous care of his people:
when they suffered he suffered, he ruled them with justice and
consideration, he kept them free from the vices of white civilisation;
he stuck by his word; he was clean right through to the bone; he was
what I call a gentleman.”
“Must have been one of the right sort,” said Laughton heartily.
“He was that,” replied Paul, his eyes lighting up with a kindly look at
the Englishman. “You would have been glad to know him.”
“You got to know him well, eh?”
“I did,” said Paul. “I lived with him for six years.” He paused just a
moment, then lifting his chin a little and looking Laughton in the eyes
he added, “His daughter was my father’s wife.”
“What say? Your father’s——Good Lord!——I mean——” The Englishman stopped
in confusion.
“Yes,” said Fraser, “and a fine, educated, Christian woman she was too.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Paul with quiet dignity. “She was that and more
than that to me.”
There was an awkward silence for some moments. Mrs. Pelham appeared much
annoyed. The Colonel fussed about, ordering from the servant things he
did not want. Peg, with face crimson, kept her eyes upon her plate.
Again the minister stepped into the breach.
“The children are well?” he asked Paul.
“I go to Fort Reliance to bring them out with me. Peter I am going to
place on the ranch where I spent a summer myself. The little girl,” here
his voice took on a softer tone, “I shall bring with me to Vancouver.
They have both done splendidly at the school, so the missionary says.”
“Little Tanna I remember was very beautiful,” said Peg, for the first
time joining in the conversation.
“She is beautiful, very quick mentally, has a good voice, a bright,
cheery little soul,” said Paul.
“She is blind,” said Peg softly to Laughton.
“Good Lord! I mean—how awful!” said Laughton, in a horrified voice.
“She is not unhappy,” said Paul quietly.
Again the conversation lagged, though the Colonel endeavoured to lure
Laughton into speaking of his plans. Laughton informed him he had no
plans, and left the matter there. Paul began to be conscious of an
attitude almost of hostility on the part of Mrs. Pelham, and even the
Colonel refused to be interested in his affairs.
As the ladies rose from the table Peg came to Paul’s side and said
hurriedly, “I want to hear about Vancouver. Adelina was very
tantalizing, beginning so many interesting things and never finishing
anything.”
“I must go soon,” said Paul.
“You are not to go without seeing me,” she said imperiously, as she
passed to her mother, who was waiting impatiently for her.
“You are behaving ridiculously, Peggy,” said her mother when they were
alone. “The whole dinner was spoiled with—that—that disgusting
conversation and—and all.”
“Well, Mamma, I had little enough to do with the conversation.”
“That’s just it. You can talk well, but you allowed Paul and Mr. Fraser
to absorb the attention of the table and bring in objectionable things.
I have no patience with you. And Paul—what need was there for dragging
in those horrid half-breed children and their mother? Surely the less
said about them the better.”
“Oh, Mamma, I thought it was just splendid of him to stick up for them
as he did.”
“What will Guy think of your friends, I wonder?”
“I wonder what he thinks of his own friends!” retorted Peg.
“What do you mean, child?”
“I mean that horrid creature, Lady Alicia, who went everywhere,
and—and—you know the kind of person she is.”
“We only met her incidentally. And—of course, the thing is quite
different. Her family is among the oldest in Dorset. Surely the thing is
quite different from this horrid affair with a squaw. Ugh! it is too
awful! Disgusting! What must Guy think of your friends in this country?
And the idea of you kissing him that way!”
“I don’t know how I came to do that, Mamma. Somehow it seemed a very
natural thing to do,” said Peg, blushing hotly. “I just couldn’t help
it.”
“Then let there be no more of such nonsense. Guy was very much shocked.”
“Was he then, poor dear?” said Peg, with a grimace. “Oh, he will put it
down to our extraordinary colonial ways. If Mr. Guy doesn’t like it, he
can just lump it.”
Her mother’s eyes were reading her daughter’s face with some anxiety.
“Don’t be rude, child,” she said sharply.
“I was not thinking of you, Mamma,” said Peg.
“Well,” said her mother more calmly, “I am quite sure I can trust you,
after all you have seen of the right sort of life and the right sort of
people for the past two years, to show both self-control and sound
common sense.”
“I hope so, Mamma,” said Peg demurely.
“And I hope too, Peggy, that you will remember that you must consider
your future.”
“I hope so, Mamma,” said Peg, more demurely.
“Of course, Paul is a fine boy and he has many attractive qualities, but
he is hardly more than a boy, and——”
“He is over twenty-two, Mamma, just two years older than I.”
“But he knows absolutely nothing of the world.”
“Except everything there is to know of life in the great North land,
and——”
“Don’t interrupt me, child. You have your father’s habit of
interrupting. What I mean is that he has seen nothing outside this
country, and very little of that; no experience of men and affairs.”
“Adelina told me a lot of wonderful things he is doing in Vancouver,
wonderful for a boy.”
“Adelina!” Her mother’s voice was full of scorn. “Much her judgment is
worth in matters of this kind! And the girl is mad about him herself.”
“Is she?” asked Peg, with a queer little smile.
“And he would suit her admirably.”
“Perhaps I ought to tell him, Mamma,” said Peg, with a gleam in her eye.
“Only I don’t think he would listen to me.”
Her mother looked at her sharply. “What do you mean, Peg? You are most
annoying and perplexing.”
“I mean, Mamma, that Paul loves me and would not look at Adelina.”
Her mother gasped. “And how do you know, child?”
“Oh, Mamma! How did you know? How does any woman know?”
“Woman!” ejaculated her mother.
“You know I must think of my future,” said Peg sweetly. “You see, I know
Paul.”
“You know Paul! Nonsense! You knew him seven or eight years ago.”
“Paul is not the kind that changes, Mamma.”
“Good heavens, child! What are you talking about?”
“About Paul. And that he is in love with me and that he will never,
never change.” The girl’s face was alight with a glow of ecstatic
rapture.
Her mother sank heavily into a chair. “And Guy?” she asked faintly.
“I am sorry for Guy. He is a good chap. But you can’t blame me for Guy.”
“And your father? He has set his heart upon your marrying Guy. You know
he talked the matter over with Sir Stephen. Why, Peg, they all think it
is settled, and you allowed them to think so.”
“Perhaps I did. And I am sorry for that. But you see, I didn’t quite
know about Paul—oh, I ought to have known. But you all said he would
never come back. Father said so. Poor Father! I _am_ sorry for him.”
“Do you mean to tell me, Peggy, that you are deliberately throwing over
Guy for this——” Her mother paused, breathless.
“For Paul? I am not throwing over Guy. I never accepted Guy, whatever
you and Father may have done or understood.”
“And you mean to marry this boy, with all his horrid connections?”
“Mamma,” cried Peg, “if Paul asks me to marry him I will. I would take
on the whole lot of them if Paul would ask me.”
“You shameless girl!” exclaimed her mother, in a fury of contempt.
“Of course, he hasn’t asked me. You see, Adelina told him I was engaged
to Guy—I got that out of her. And he, poor boy!—you know his queer
notions of honour and conscience and all that sort of thing—it would be
like him to go off without a word, even if he broke his heart over it.”
Her mother sniffed audibly and contemptuously.
“But I won’t let him,” continued Peg joyously. “Do you think I could do
that, now that I know he loves me? Oh, he is a silly boy! I know he
meant to come here tonight and play the noble, self-controlled,
high-minded gentleman, see me taken up with Guy, and, making no sign,
then go away, and that sort of stuff that all the silly men do in books.
But the moment he looked at me he forgot himself, forgot everything but
me. His eyes, his dear blue-grey eyes, told me everything. That’s why I
kissed him, Mamma. How could I help it? And now he is bracing himself up
to go away without a word. And he will if I let him. But I’m not going
to let him go. I’m going to let him ask me—make him ask me—oh, Mamma, I
am shameless, but I am happy, so happy, happy, my heart is just
bursting, mad with joy! For Paul is the only man in the world I have
ever loved or can love.”
The girl was standing with her back to the dining-room door, her hands
clasped over her heart, her face uplifted and radiant as light, her eyes
glowing through a mist of tears, her voice low and vibrant with the
passion of her love. As she uttered these last words the dining-room
door was opened and in it stood Paul, with the others close behind him.
The girl, following her mother’s horrified gaze, faced swiftly about and
stood aghast. A rush of crimson dyed her face, her neck, her bosom, then
faded, leaving her pale, shrinking, overwhelmed, speechless. As her eyes
found Paul’s face she drew herself erect, with head thrown back,
waiting. For one instant Paul stood motionless, his eyes devouring her
lovely face, then, with swift steps, he was at her side, on his knees,
her hand clasped in both of his, his lips pressed to her fingers.
“Peg, dear, dear Peg,” he murmured. “Is it true? Can it be true that you
love me?”
She stooped low over him. “Yes, Paul, dear Paul, with all my heart I
love you,” she said, lifting him to his feet, her voice low, sweet, but
reaching to every ear in the room.
The little Colonel was the first to recover speech. “My God!” he cried,
in a voice shaking with amazement and anger. “What does this mean?
What—what can I say, Guy?”
Pale to the lips, but with the cool steadiness with which men of his
race have been wont to meet shattering disaster, the Englishman made
answer.
“What is there to say, sir? The last word is with Peg, and she appears
to have said all that is necessary.” Then walking slowly toward the girl
he offered his hand. “May I wish you all the joy in life?” he said,
bowing low over her hand. A moment he hesitated, then offered his hand
to Paul. “You have already the best of luck, the sweetest girl in the
world. And I believe you will be good to her.”
Tall and very straight Paul stood, with one arm around the girl at his
side, his head held high, his face grave, his blue-grey eyes steady upon
the little Colonel. His voice came firm and clear in a quaint mingling
of dignity and boyish candour.
“I love Peg. I can’t help loving her, Uncle Colonel. I have always loved
her, I think. I never knew till tonight how much. And, before God Who
hears me now, I pledge myself to love her and serve her all my life.”
The Colonel was dazed, like a man struck by a cyclone. He stood, as it
were, among the ruins of that imaginative structure which, in
collaboration with his life-long friend and comrade in arms, Sir Stephen
Laughton, he had erected with fond and elaborate care for his child. He
found himself defeated, humiliated, and worse, for, as he thought, his
honour was involved. As he recovered his mental poise his indignation
rose. His wrathful eyes wandered from face to face, seeking sympathy and
help, and finding none, searching out a point of attack. As most
vulnerable he lit upon the young Englishman who, looking wretched and
embarrassed, had edged somewhat behind the Reverend Donald Fraser,
standing uncompromisingly fronting the wrathful man.
“Guy, I deeply regret this—eh—most—eh—unhappy, most
disgraceful—eh—occurrence. Will you explain to your respected father my
deep disappointment and regret. Tell him—but what is there to say? What
can a man do in such a case as this?” He waved his hand vaguely toward
the two young people pilloried as culprits before him. “What can a man
do, I ask you?”
“If I may venture a suggestion, sir,” replied Guy, with the air of a man
offering perfectly disinterested advice, “I should say congratulations
all around were in order.”
“Congratulations!” shouted the Colonel. “Damnation!”
“Edgar, my dear Edgar,” protested his wife.
“My dear, allow me. And you, sir,” he said, turning abruptly to the
Reverend Donald Fraser, “can you condone such proceedings? What do you
say, sir?”
“Sir, with your permission,” said the minister with solemn gravity, “in
words of weightier authority than my own, I would say, ‘Whoso findeth a
wife findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favor from the Lord.’ Who are
we that we should seek to oppose the leadings of providence?”
“Providence?” snorted the Colonel. “The devil!”
“Edgar, I beg you,” pleaded his wife, who in twenty-two years had never
seen her husband in such a mood.
“My dear, my dear, you must allow me. In this matter my honour is
involved.” Then, wheeling upon Paul, in tones of chilling courtesy he
said, “And you, sir, all that I shall say to you is this, that I have
the honour to wish you good night.”
“Colonel Pelham!” entreated Paul.
“You will find your horse in the stable, sir,” said the Colonel, bowing
profoundly.
Paul stood motionless for a moment, then with an answering bow he
replied gravely, “Good night, Colonel Pelham. Good night, Aunt Augusta.”
“Wait, Paul, for me,” said Peg, starting forward. “I’m going with you.”
“Not tonight, Peg,” said Paul. “When I am ready for you I shall come for
you.”
“And when will that be?” inquired the Colonel ironically.
“Tomorrow, sir. Today, I am glad to say, Pine Croft comes back into my
hands, clear of all encumbrances.”
“Clear?” gasped the Colonel.
“Clear,” said Paul quietly. “Tomorrow I shall come for your daughter.”
“You defy me, sir?” shouted the Colonel.
“Edgar, I beseech you——” cried his wife.
“Please, my dear, I must beg you not to intrude,” replied the Colonel,
quite losing control of himself.
“Mamma, good night. I am going with Paul tonight. I cannot stay here one
moment longer. When Paul goes out of that door I go too.” Her cheeks
were a flame of colour, her eyes a blaze of light.
“Wait, Peggy. I am going with you,” said her mother, going to her side.
“Augusta? Going? Where?” exclaimed her husband, aghast.
“With my daughter,” replied his wife, her head high. “I have no doubt
but Paul can find a place for us tonight.”
“Mr. Fraser,” said Paul, “would you be able to give me your services
tomorrow afternoon, at a marriage ceremony?”
“That I will, my boy, with all my heart,” said the minister. “And you,
sir,” he continued, facing the Colonel, “it is my duty to inform you
that you are acting in an unworthy and un-Christian manner.”
“Sir,” replied the Colonel haughtily, “I beg to inform you that neither
my honour nor my conscience are in your keeping.”
“Come, Peggy,” said his wife. “We will get ready.”
“Augusta!” said her husband faintly. “You are not going?”
“Edgar, you are breaking the girl’s heart,” said his wife, with a break
in her voice, on her face a look tender, wistful, reminiscent. “And I
know what that means.”
“You know? Augusta!”
“Yes, by bitter experience,” said his wife.
“By bitter experience?” echoed her husband faintly, all the fight gone
out of him. “Do you mean that I—— My God, Augusta! What do you mean?”
“No, no, Edgar! Don’t be a goose! You have been a perfect dear to me all
these years. But can’t you see that you are breaking Peg’s heart?” said
his wife, coming nearer to him.
“Augusta!” implored the Colonel, opening his arms toward her. “Have I
ever in any way hurt—injured—broken—— Good God, Augusta!” The little
man’s voice grew husky.
“Dear, dear Daddy,” cried Peg, running to him and throwing her arms
round her father’s neck. “I have been a wicked girl. But Paul loves me,
as you love Mamma. And, Daddy, I love Paul. And who was it taught me to
love Paul, long ago? It was you, Daddy, it was your own self, Daddy,
when you used to love him. You don’t want to break my heart?”
“Break your heart, Peggy? My little Peggy!” said the Colonel, sniffing
and fumbling for his handkerchief. “Here, Paul, take care of this girl,”
he said, pushing Peg away from him. “Augusta, my dear, if ever I have in
any way, by word——”
“Hush, you silly man. You have been a perfect angel to me,” said his
wife, putting her arms about him and kissing him.
“Guy!” said the Colonel, when he had wiped his eyes and recovered his
speech, “I deeply regret your disappointment. You will assure Sir
Stephen that somehow this thing got beyond me. I did for you all a man
could, but Peg must follow her heart.”
“I think, sir,” said Guy, greatly relieved, “you have really hit it. I
quite agree. Of course, Peg must follow her heart.”
“Paul, give me your hand, my boy,” said the Colonel, with recovered
dignity. “Take my girl when you are ready for her. And after all, my
dear,” turning to his wife, “we shall be glad to have the Gaspards again
at Pine Croft.”
“Yes, my dear, especially these Gaspards,” replied his wife.
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Gaspards of Pine Croft, by Ralph Connor