'ETHEL THE MAGNIFICENT'
'A maid of grace and complete majesty.'
Later on in the morning Mildred was passing by the door of her brother's
study, when she heard his voice calling to her. He was sitting in his
usual chair, with his back to the light, reading, but he laid down his
book directly.
'Are you busy, Mildred?'
'Not if you want me,' she returned, brightly. 'I was just thinking I had
hardly spoken to you to-day.'
'The same thought was lying heavy on my conscience. Heriot tells me you
are looking better already. I hope you are beginning to feel at home
with us, my dear.'
'With you, Arnold--do you need to ask?' Mildred returned, reproachfully.
But the tears started to her eyes.
'And the children are good to you?' he continued, a little anxiously.
'They are everything I can wish. Cardie is most thoughtful for my
comfort, and Olive is fast losing her shyness. The only thing I regret
is that I manage to see so little of you, Arnold.'
He patted her hand gently. 'It is better so, my dear. I am poor company,
I fear, and have grown into strangely unsociable ways. They are good
children; but you must not let them spoil me, Mildred. Sometimes I think
I ought to rouse myself more for their sakes.'
'Indeed, Arnold, their conduct is most exemplary. Neither Cardie nor Roy
ever seem to let you go out alone.'
'Ay, ay,' he muttered; 'his mother was right. The lad is beyond his
years, and has a wise head on young shoulders. Heriot tells me I must be
looking out for a curate. I had some notion of waiting for Richard, but
he will have it the work is beyond me.'
Mildred was silent. She thought any work, however exhausting, was better
than the long lonely hours passed in the study--hours during which his
children were denied admittance, and for which all Richard's mannishness
was not allowed to find a remedy; and yet, as she looked at the wan,
thin face, and weary stoop of the figure, might it not be that Dr.
Heriot was right?
'Heriot has heard of some one at Durham who is likely to suit me, he
thinks; he wants me to have him down. By the bye, Mildred, how do you
get on with Heriot?'
'He is very nice,' she returned, vaguely, rather taken aback by the
suddenness of the question. 'Such a general favourite could not fail to
please,' she continued, a little mischievously.
'Ah, you are laughing at us. Well, Heriot is our weak point, I confess.
Cardie is not given to raptures, but he has not a word to say against
him, and Trelawny is always having him up at Kirkleatham. Kirkby Stephen
could not do without Heriot now.'
'He is clever in his profession, then?'
'Very. And then so thoroughly unselfish; he would go twenty miles to do
any one a service, and take as much pains to hide it afterwards. I shall
be disappointed, indeed Mildred, if you and he do not become good
friends.'
'Dear Arnold, he is a perfect stranger to me yet. I like him quite well
enough to wish to see more of him. There seems some mystery about him,'
she continued, hesitating; for Mildred, honest and straightforward by
nature, was a foe to all mysteries.
'Only the mystery of a disappointed life. He has no secrets with us--he
never had. We knew him when we lived at Lambeth, and even then his story
was well known to us.'
'Betha told me he had given up a large West End practice in consequence
of severe domestic trouble. She hinted once that he had a bad wife.'
'She was hardly deserving of the name. I have heard that she was nine
years older than he, and a great beauty; a woman, too, of marvellous
fascination, and gifted beyond the generality of her sex, and that he
was madly in love when he married her.'
'Perhaps the love was only on his side?'
'Alas! yes. He found out, when it was too late, that she had accepted
him out of pique, and that his rival was living. The very first days of
their union were embittered by the discovery that jealousy had forged
these life-long fetters for them, and that already remorse was driving
his unhappy bride almost frantic. Can you conceive the torment for poor
Heriot? He could not set her free, though he loved her so that he would
willingly have laid down his life to give her peace. She had no mother
living, or he would have sent her away when he saw how distasteful his
presence was to her; but, though she had murdered his happiness as well
as her own, he was bound to be her protector.'
'He was right,' returned Mildred, in a low voice.
'Ay, and he acted nobly. Instead of overwhelming her with reproaches
that could have done no good, or crushing her still more with his
coldness, he forgave her, and set himself to win the heart that proved
itself so unworthy of his forbearance. Any other husband would have
thought himself injured beyond reparation, but not so Heriot. He hid his
wretchedness, and by every means in his power tried to lighten the
burden of his domestic misery.'
'But people must have seen it?'
'Not through his complaint, for he ever honoured her. I have been told
by those who knew him at the time, that his conduct to her was
blameless, and that they marvelled at the gentleness with which he bore
her wayward fits. After the birth of their only child there was an
interval of comparative comfort; in her weakness there was a glimmering
of compassion for the man she had injured, and who was the father of her
boy. Heriot was touched by the unusual kindness of her manner; there
were even tears in her eyes when he took the little creature in his arms
and noticed the long eyelashes, so like his mother's.'
'But the child died?'
'Yes--"the little peacemaker," as Heriot fondly called it. But certainly
all peace was buried in its little grave; for it was during the months
that followed her child's loss that Margaret Heriot developed that
unwholesome craving for stimulants which afterwards grew to absolute
disease, and which was to wear out her husband's patience into slow
disgust and then into utter weariness of life.'
'Oh, Arnold, I never suspected this!'
'It was just then we made his acquaintance, and, as a priest, he sought
my help and counsel in ministering to what was indeed a diseased mind;
but, poor misguided woman! she would not see me. In her better moments
she would cling to Heriot, and beg him to save her from the demon that
seemed to possess her. She even knelt and asked his forgiveness once;
but no remedy that he could recommend could be effectual in the case of
one who had never been taught to deny herself a moment's gratification.
I shudder to think of the scenes to which she subjected him, of the
daily torture and uncertainty in which he lived: his was the mockery of
a home. Her softer feelings had in time turned to hate; she never spoke
to him at last but to reproach him with being the cause of her misery.'
'Then it was this that induced him to give up his London practice?'
'Yes. It was a strange act of his; but I verily believe the man was
broken-hearted. He had grown to loathe his life, and the spectacle of
her daily degradation made him anxious to shake off friends and old
belongings. I believe, too, she had contracted serious debts, and he was
anxious to take her out of the way of temptation. Heriot was always a
creature of impulse; his chief motive in following us here was to bury
himself socially, though I think our friendship had even then become
necessary to him. At one time he trusted, too, that the change might be
beneficial for her; but he soon found out his mistake.'
'They say that women who have contracted this fatal habit are so seldom
cured,' sighed Mildred.
'God help their husbands!' ejaculated Mr. Lambert. 'I always thought
myself that the poor creature was possessed, for her acts certainly
bordered on frenzy. He found at last that he was fighting against mental
disease, but he refused all advice to place her under restraint. "I am
her husband," he said once to me; "I have taken her for better and
worse. But there will be no better for her, my poor Margaret; she will
not be long with me--there is another disease at work; let her die in
her husband's home."'
'But did she die there? I thought Betha told me she was away from him.'
'Yes, he had sent her with her nurse to the sea, meaning to join them,
when news reached him that she was rapidly failing. The release came
none too soon. Poor creature! she had suffered martyrdom; it was by her
own wish that he was called, but he arrived too late--the final attack
was very sudden. And so, as he said, the demon that had tormented her
was cast out for ever. "Anything more grandly beautiful than she looked
could not be imagined." But what touched him most was to find among the
treasures she had secretly hidden about her, an infant's sock and a
scrap of downy hair; and faintly, almost illegibly, traced on the paper
by her dying hand, "My little son's hair, to be given to his father."
Ah, Mildred, my dear, you look ready to weep; but, alas! such stories
are by no means rare, and during my ministry I have met with others
almost as sad as Heriot's. His troubles are over now, poor fellow,
though doubtless they have left life-long scars. Grieved as he has been,
he may yet see the fruit of his noble forbearance in that tardy
repentance and mute prayer for forgiveness. Who knows but that the first
sight that may meet his eyes in the other world may be Margaret,
"sitting clothed and in her right mind at her Master's feet"?'
Never had Mildred seen her brother more roused and excited than during
the recital of his friend's unhappy story, while in herself it had
excited a degree of emotion that was almost painful.
'It shows how carefully we should abstain from judging people from their
outward appearance,' she remarked, after a short interval of silence.
'When I first saw Dr. Heriot I thought there was something a little
repellent in that dark face of his, but when he spoke he gave me a more
pleasing impression.'
'He has his bitter moods at times; no one could pass through such an
ordeal quite unscathed. I am afraid he will never marry again; he told
me once that the woman did not live whom he could love as he loved
Margaret.'
'She must have been very beautiful.'
'I believe her chief charm lay in her wonderful fascination of manner.
Heriot is a severe critic in feminine beauty; he is singularly
fastidious; he will not allow that Miss Trelawny is handsome, though I
believe she is generally considered to be so. But I must not waste any
more time in gossiping about our neighbours. By the bye, Mildred, you
must prepare for an inundation of visitors this afternoon.'
Mr. Lambert was right. Mildred, to her great surprise, found herself
holding a reception, which lasted late into the afternoon; at one time
there was quite a block of wagonettes and pony carriages in the
courtyard; and but for her brother's kindness in remaining to steer her
through the difficulties of numerous introductions, she might have found
her neighbours' goodwill a little perplexing.
She had just decided in her own mind that Mrs. Sadler was disagreeable,
and the Northcotes slightly presuming and in bad style, and that Mrs.
Heath was as rosy and commonplace as her husband, when they took their
leave, and another set of visitors arrived who were rather, more to
Mildred's taste.
These were the Delameres of Castlesteads. The Reverend Stephen Delamere
was a tall, ascetic-looking man, with quiet, well-bred manners, in
severe clerical costume. His wife had a simple, beautiful face, and was
altogether a pleasant, comely-looking creature, but her speech was
somewhat homely; and Mildred thought her a little over-dressed: the pink
cheeks and smiling eyes hardly required the pink ribbons and feathers to
set them off. Their only child, a lad of ten years, was with them, and
Mildred, who was fond of boys, could not help admiring the bold gipsy
face and dark eyes.
'I am afraid Claude is like me, people say so,' observed Mrs. Delamere,
turning her beaming face on Mildred. 'I would much rather he were like
his father; the Delameres are all good-looking; old Mr. Delamere was;
Stephen called him after his grandfather; I think Claude such a pretty
name; Claude Lorraine Delamere: Lorraine is a family name, too; not
mine, you know,' dimpling more than ever at the idea; 'good gracious,
the Greysons don't own many pretty names among them.'
'Susie, I have been asking our friend Richard to take an early
opportunity of driving his aunt over to Castlesteads,' interrupted her
husband, with an uneasy glance, 'and we must make Miss Lambert promise
to bring over her nieces to the Rush-bearing.'
Mrs. Delamere clapped her plump hands together joyously, showing a slit
in her pink glove as she did so.
'I am so glad you have mentioned that, Stephen, I might have forgotten
it. Miss Lambert, you must come to us; you must indeed. The Chestertons
of the Hall are sure to ask you; but you must remember you are engaged
to us.'
'The Rush-bearing,' repeated Mildred, somewhat perplexed.
'It is an old Westmoreland custom,' explained Mr. Delamere; 'it is kept
on St. Peter's Day, and is a special holiday with us. I believe it was
revived in the last century at Great Musgrave,' he continued, looking at
Mr. Lambert for confirmation of the statement.
'Yes, but it did not long continue; it has been revived again of late;
it is a pretty sight, Mildred, and well worth seeing; the children carry
garlands instead of rushes to the church, where service is said; and
afterwards there is a dance in the park, and sports, such as wrestling,
pole-leaping, and trotting matches, are carried on all the afternoon.'
'But what is the origin of such a custom, Arnold?'
'It dates from the time when our forefathers used green rushes instead
of carpets, the intention being to bless the rushes on the day of the
patron saint.'
'You must permit me to contradict you in one particular, Lambert, as our
authorities slightly differ. The real origin of the custom was that, on
the day of the patron saint, the church was strewn with fresh rushes,
the procession being headed by a girl dressed in white, and wearing a
crown; but Miss Lambert looks impressed,' he continued, with a serious
smile; 'you must come and see it for yourself. Chrissy tells me she is
too old to wear a crown this year. Some of our ladies show great taste
in the formation of their garlands.'
'May Chesterton's is always the prettiest. Do you mean to dance with May
on the green this year, Claude?' asked Mrs. Delamere, turning to her
boy.
Claude shook his head and coloured disdainfully.
'I am going in for the foot-race; father says I may,' he returned,
proudly.
'May is his little sweetheart; he has been faithful to her ever since he
was six years old. Uncle Greyson says----'
'Susie, we must be going,' exclaimed her husband, hastily. 'You must not
forget the Chestertons and Islip are dining with us to-night. Claude, my
boy, bid Miss Lambert good-bye. My wife and I hope to see you very soon
at the vicarage.'
'Yes, come soon,' repeated Mrs. Delamere, with a comfortable squeeze of
her hand and more smiles. 'Stephen is always in such a hurry; but you
must pay us a long visit, and bring that poor girl with you. Yes, I am
ready, Stephen,' as a frown of impatience came over her husband's face.
'You know of old what a sad gossip I am; but there, what are women's
tongues given them for if they are not to be used?' and Susie looked up
archly at the smooth, blue-shaven face, that was slow to relax into a
smile.
Mildred hoped that these would be her last visitors, but she was
mistaken, for a couple of harmless maiden ladies, rejoicing in the
cognomen of Ortolan, took their places, and chirruped to Mildred in
shrill little birdlike voices. Mildred, who had plenty of quiet humour
of her own, thought they were not unlike a pair of love-birds Arnold had
once given her, the little sharp faces, and hooked noses, and light
prominent eyes were not unlike them; and the bright green shawls,
bordered with yellow palm-leaves, completed the illusion. They were so
wonderfully alike, too, the only perceptible difference being that Miss
Tabitha had gray curls, and a velvet band, and talked more; and Miss
Prissy had a large miniature of an officer, probably an Ortolan too,
adorning her small brown wrist.
They talked to Mildred breathlessly about the mothers' meeting, and the
clothing-club, and the savings' bank.
'Such a useful institution of dear Mr. Lambert's,' exclaimed Miss
Prissy.
'The whole parish is so well conducted,' echoed her sister with a
tremulous movement of the head and curls; 'we think ourselves blessed in
our pastor, Miss Lambert,' in a perfectly audible whisper; 'such
discourses, such clear doctrine and Bible truth, such resignation
manifested under such a trying dispensation. Oh dear, Prissy,'
interrupting herself, as a stanhope, with a couple of dark brown horses,
was driven into the court with some little commotion, 'here is the
squire, and what will he say at our taking the precedence of him, and
making bold to pay our respects to Miss Lambert?'
'He would say you are very kind neighbours, I hope,' returned Mildred,
trying not to smile, and wondering when her ordeal would be over. Her
brother had not effected his escape yet, and his jaded face was a tacit
reproach to her. Richard, who had ushered in their previous visitors,
and had remained yawning in the background, brightened up visibly.
'Here are the Trelawnys, sir; it is very good of them to call so soon.'
'It is only what I should have expected, Cardie,' returned his father,
with mild indifference. 'Mr. Trelawny is a man of the world, and knows
what is right, that is all.'
And Richard for once looked crestfallen.
'Dear now, but doesn't she look a beauty,' whispered Miss Tabitha,
ecstatically, as Miss Trelawny swept into the room on her father's arm,
and greeted Mildred civilly, but without effusion, and then seated
herself at some little distance, where Richard immediately joined her,
the squire meanwhile taking up a somewhat lofty attitude on the
hearthrug, directly facing Mildred.
Mildred thought she had never seen a finer specimen of an English
gentleman; the tall, well-knit figure, the clear-cut face, and olive
complexion, relieved by the snow-white hair, made up a very striking
exterior; perhaps the eyes were a little cold and glassy-looking, but on
the whole it could not be denied that Mr. Trelawny was a very
aristocratic-looking man.
His manners were easy and polished, and he was evidently well read on
many subjects. Nevertheless a flavour of condescension in his tone gave
Mildred an uneasy conviction that she was hardly appearing to her best
advantage. She was painfully aware once or twice of a slight hesitation
marring a more than usually well-worded sentence, and could see it was
at once perceived.
Mildred had never considered herself of great consequence, but she had a
certain wholesome self-respect which was grievously wounded by the
patronising indulgence that rectified her harmless error.
'I felt all at once as though I were nobody, and might be taken up for
false pretensions for trying to be somebody,' as she expressed it to Dr.
Heriot afterwards, who laughed and said--
'Very true.'
Mildred would have risen to seat herself by Miss Trelawny, but the
squire's elaborate observations allowed her no reprieve. Once or twice
she strove to draw her into the conversation; but a turn of the head,
and a brief answer, more curt than agreeable, was all that rewarded her
efforts. Nevertheless Mildred liked her voice; it had a pleasant
crispness in it, and the abruptness was not unmusical.
Mildred only saw her full face when she rose to take leave: her figure
was very graceful, but her features could hardly be termed beautiful;
though the dead brown hair, with its waves of ripples, and the large
brilliant eyes, made her a decidedly striking-looking girl.
Mildred, who was somewhat Quaker-like in her taste, thought the
cream-coloured silk, with its ruby velvet facings, somewhat out of place
in their homely vicarage, though the Rubens hat was wonderfully
picturesque; it seemed less incongruous when Miss Trelawny remarked
casually that they were on their way to a garden-party.
'Do you like archery? Papa is thinking of getting up a club for the
neighbourhood,' she said, looking at Mildred as she spoke. In spite of
their dark brilliancy there was a sad, wistful look in her eyes that
somehow haunted Mildred. They looked like eyes that were demanding
sympathy from a world that failed to understand them.
It was not to be expected that Mildred would be prepossessed by Miss
Trelawny in a first visit. Not for weeks, nor for long afterwards, did
she form a true estimate of her visitor, or learn the idiosyncrasies of
a character at once peculiar and original.
People never understood Ethel Trelawny. There were subtle difficulties
in her nature that baffled and repelled them. 'She was odd,' they said,
'so unusual altogether, and said such queer things;' a few even hinted
that it was possible that a part might sometimes be acted.
Miss Trelawny was nineteen now, and had passed through two London
seasons with indifferent success, a fact somewhat surprising, as her
attractions certainly were very great. Without being exactly beautiful,
she yet gave an impression of beauty, and certain tints of colour and
warm lights made her at times almost brilliant. In a crowded ballroom
she was always the centre of observation; but one by one her partners
dropped off, displeased and perplexed by the scarifying process to which
they had been subjected.
'People come to dance and not to think,' observed one young cornet,
turning restive under such treatment, and yet obstinate in his
admiration of Ethel. He had been severely scorched during a previous
dance, but had returned to the charge most gallantly; 'the music is
delicious; do take one more turn with me; there is a clear space now.'
'Do people ever think; does that man, for example?' returned Ethel,
indicating a tall man before them, who was pulling his blonde moustache
with an expression of satisfied vacuity. 'What sort of dwarfed soul
lives in that six feet or so of human matter?'
'Miss Trelawny, you are too bad,' burst out her companion with an
expression of honest wrath that showed him not far removed from boyhood.
'That fellow is the bravest and the kindest-hearted in our regiment. He
nursed me, by Jove, that he did, when I was down with fever in the
hunting-box last year. Not think--Robert Drummond not think,' and he
doubled his fist with an energy that soon showed a gash in the faultless
lavender kid glove.
'I like you all the better for your defence of your friend,' returned
Ethel calmly, and she turned on him a smile so frank and sweet that the
young man was almost dazzled. 'If one cannot think, one should at least
feel. If I give you one turn more, I dare say you will forgive me,' and
from that moment she and Charlie Treherne were firm friends.
But others were not so fortunate, and retired crestfallen and
humiliated. One of Charlie's brother-officers whom he introduced to
Ethel in a fit of enthusiasm as 'our major, and a man every inch of him,
one of the sort who would do the charge at Balaclava again,' subsided
into sulkiness and total inanity on finding that instead of discussing
Patti and the last opera, Ethel was bent on discovering the ten missing
tribes of Israel.
'How hot this room is. They don't give us enough ventilation, I think,'
gasped the worthy major at length.
'I was just thinking it was so cool. You are the third partner I have
had who has complained of the heat. If you are tired of this waltz, let
us sit down in that delightful conservatory;' but as the major, with a
good deal of unnecessary energy, declared he could dance till daybreak
without fatigue, Ethel quietly continued her discourse.
'I have a theory, I forget from whom I first gathered it, that we shall
be discovered to be the direct descendants of the tribe of Gad. Look
round this room, Major Hartstone, you will find a faint type of Jewish
features on many a face; that girl with the dark _crepe_ hair
especially. I consider we shall play a prominent part in the
millennium.'
'Millennium--aw; you are too droll, Miss Trelawny. I can see a joke as
well as most people, but you go too deep for me. Fancy what Charlie will
say when I tell him that he belongs to the tribe of Gad--tribe of
Gad--aw--aw--' and as the major, unable to restrain his hilarity any
longer, burst into a fit of hearty laughter, Ethel, deeply offended,
desired him to lead her to her place.
It was no better in the Row, where Miss Trelawny rode daily with her
father, her beautiful figure and superb horsemanship attracting all
eyes. At first she had quite a little crowd of loungers round her, but
they dispersed by degrees.
'Do you see that girl--Miss Boville?' asked one in a languid drawl, as
Ethel reined her horse up under a tree, and sat looking dreamily over
the shifting mass of carriages and gaily-dressed pedestrians; 'she is
awfully handsome; don't you think so?'
'I don't know. I have not thought about it,' she returned, abstractedly;
'the question is, Captain Ellison, has she a beautiful mind?'
'My dear Miss Trelawny, you positively startle me; you are so unlike
other people. I only know she has caught Medwin and his ten thousand a
year.'
'Poor thing,' was the answer, leaning over and stroking her horse's neck
thoughtfully. 'Touched--quite touched,' observed the young man,
significantly tapping his forehead, as Ethel rode by--'must be a little
queer, you know, or she would not say such things--sort of craze or
hallucination--do you know if it be in the family?'
'Nonsense, it is only an ill-arranged mind airing its ideas; she is
delightfully young and fresh,' returned his companion, a clever
barrister, who had the wit to read a girl's vagarisms aright as the
volcanic eruptions of an undisciplined and unsatisfied nature.
But it would not do; people passed over Ethel for other girls who were
comparatively plain and ordinary, but whose thinking powers were more
under control. One declaration had indeed been made, but it was received
by such sad wonder on Ethel's part, that the young man looked at her in
reproachful confusion.
'Surely you cannot have mistaken my attentions, Miss Trelawny? As a man
of honour, I thought it right to come to a clear understanding; if I
have ventured to hope too much, I trust you will tell me so.'
'Do you mean you wish to marry me?' asked Ethel, in a tone of regret and
dismay.
Arthur Sullivan had been a special favourite with her; he had listened
to her rhapsodies good-humouredly, and had forborne to laugh at them; he
was good-looking too, and possessed of moderate intelligence, and they
had got on very well together during a whole season. It was with a
sensation of real pain that she heard him avow his intentions.
'There is some mistake. I have never led you to believe that I would
ever be your wife,' she continued, turning pale, and her eyes filling
with tears.
'No, Miss Trelawny--never,' he answered, hurriedly; 'you are no flirt.
If any one be to blame, it is I, for daring to hope I could win you.'
'Indeed it is I who do not deserve you,' she returned, sadly; 'but it is
not your fault that you cannot give me what I want. Perhaps I expect too
much; perhaps I hardly know what it is I really do want.'
'May I wait till you find out?' he asked, earnestly; 'real love is not
to be despised, even though it be accompanied with little wisdom.'
The white lids dropped heavily over the eyes, and for a moment she made
no answer; only as he rose from her side, and walked up and down in his
agitation, she rose too, hurriedly.
'It cannot be--I feel it--I know it--you are too good to me, Mr.
Sullivan; and I want something more than goodness--but--but--does my
father know?'
'Can you doubt it?'
'Then he will never forgive me for refusing you. Oh, what a hard thing
it is to be a woman, and to wait for one's fate, instead of going out to
seek it. Now I have lost my friend in finding a lover, and my father's
anger will be bitter against me.'
Ethel was right; in refusing Arthur Sullivan she had refused the
presumptive heir to a baronetcy, and Mr. Trelawny's ambitious soul was
sorely vexed within him.
'You have never been of any use or comfort to me, Ethel, and you never
will,' he said, harshly; 'just as I was looking to you to redeem
matters, you are throwing away this chance. What was the fault with the
young fellow? you seemed fond enough of him at one time; he is handsome
and gentlemanly enough to please any girl; but it is just one of your
fads.'
'He is very amiable, but his character wants backbone, papa. When I
marry, my husband must be my master; I have no taste for holding the
reins myself.'
'When you marry: I wish you would marry, Ethel, for all the comfort you
are to me. If my boys had lived--but what is the use of wishing for
anything?'
'Papa,' she returned with spirit, 'I cannot help being a girl; it is my
misfortune, not my fault. I wish I could satisfy you better,' she
continued, softly, 'but it seems as though we grow more apart every
day.'
'It is your own fault,' he returned, morosely. 'Marry Arthur Sullivan,
and I will promise to think better of your sense.'
'I cannot, papa. I am not going to marry any one,' she answered, in the
suppressed voice he knew so well. And then, as though fearful the
argument might be continued, she quietly left the room.