Lizzy Davis had retired to her room somewhat weary after the day's
journey, not altogether unexcited by her meeting with her father. How
was it that there was a gentleness, almost a tenderness, in his manner
she had never known before? The short, stern address, the abrupt
question, the stare piercing and defiant of one who seemed ever to
distrust what he heard, were all replaced by a tone of quiet and easy
confidence, and a look that bespoke perfect trustfulness.
“Have I only seen him hitherto in moments of trial and excitement; are
these the real traits of his nature; is it the hard conflict of life
calls forth the sterner features of his character; and might he, in
happier circumstances, be ever kind and confiding, as I see him now?”
What a thrill of ecstasy did the thought impart! What a realization
of the home she had often dreamed of! “He mistakes me, too,” said she,
aloud, “if he fancies that my heart is set upon some high ambition.
A life of quiet obscurity, in some spot peaceful and unknown as this,
would suffice for all my wishes. I want no triumphs,--I covet no
rivalries.” A glance at herself in the glass at this moment sent the
deep color to her cheek, and she blushed deeply. Was it that those
bright, flashing eyes, that fair and haughty brow, and those lips
tremulous with proud significance gave a denial to these words? Indeed,
it seemed as much, for she quickly added, “Not that I would fly the
field, or ingloriously escape the struggle--Who's there?” cried she,
quickly, as a low tap came to the door.
“It is I, Lizzy. I heard you still moving about, and I thought I 'd
propose half an hour's stroll in the moonlight before bed. What do you
say to it?”
“I should like it of all things, papa,” cried she, opening the door at
once.
“Throw a shawl across your shoulders, child,” said he; “the air is not
always free from moisture. We 'll go along by the river-side.”
A bright moon in a sky without a cloud lit up the landscape, and by the
strongly marked contrast of light and shadow imparted a most striking
effect to a scene wild, broken, and irregular. Fantastically shaped
rocks broke the current of the stream; at every moment gnarled and
twisted roots straggled along the shelving banks, and in the uncertain
light assumed goblin shapes and forms, the plashing stream, as it
rushed by, appearing to give motion to the objects around. Nor was the
semblance all unreal, for here and there a pliant branch rose and fell
on the surging water like the arm of some drowning swimmer.
[Illustration: 108]
The father and daughter walked along for some time in utter silence, and
the thoughts of each filled with the scene before them. Lizzy fancied
it was a conflict of river gods,--some great Titanic war, where angry
giants were the combatants; or again, as fairer forms succeeded, they
seemed a group of nymphs bathing in the soft moonlight. As for Grog, it
reminded him of a row at Ascot, where the swell-mob smashed the police;
and so strikingly did it call up the memory of the event that he laughed
aloud and heartily.
“Do tell me what you are laughing at, papa,” said she, entreatingly.
“It was something that I saw long ago,--something I was reminded of by
those trees yonder, bobbing up and down with the current.”
“But what was it?” asked she, more eagerly; for even yet the memory kept
him laughing.
“Nothing that could interest you, girl,” said he, bluntly; and then, as
if ashamed of the rudeness of his speech, he added, “Though I have seen
a good deal of life, Lizzy, there's but little of it I could recall for
either your benefit or instruction.”
Lizzy was silent; she wished him to speak on, but did not choose to
question him. Strangely enough, too, though be shunned the theme, he had
been glad if she had led him on to talk of it.
After a long pause he sighed heavily, and said: “I suppose every one, if
truth were told, would have rather a sad tale to tell of the world when
he comes to my age. It don't improve upon acquaintance, I promise you.
Not that I want to discourage _you_ about it, my girl. You 'll come to
my way of thinking one of these days, and it will be quite soon enough.”
“And have you really found men so false and worthless as you say?”
“I'll tell you in one word the whole story, Lizzy. The fellows that are
born to a good station and good property are all fair and honest, if
they like it; the rest of the world must be rogues, whether they like it
or not.”
“This is a very disenchanting picture you put before me.” “Here 's how
it is, girl,” said he, warming with his subject. “Every man in the world
is a gambler; let him rail against dice, racing, cards, or billiards, he
has a game of his own in his heart, and he's playing for a seat in
the Cabinet, a place in the colonies, a bishopric, or the command of a
regiment. The difference is, merely, that your regular play-man admits
chance into his calculations, the other fellows don't; they pit pure
skill against the table, and trust to their knowledge of the game.”
She sighed deeply, but did not speak.
“And the women are the same,” resumed he: “some scheming to get their
husbands high office, some intriguing for honors or Court favor; all of
them ready to do a sharp thing,--to make a hit on the Stock Exchange.”
“And are there none above these mean and petty subterfuges?” cried she,
indignantly.
“Yes; the few I have told you,--they who come into the world to claim
the stakes. They can afford to be high-minded, and generous, and
noble-hearted, as much as they please. They are booked 'all right,'
and need never trouble their heads about the race; and that is the real
reason, girl, why these men have an ascendancy over all others. They are
not driven to scramble for a place; they have no struggles to encounter;
the crowd makes way for them as they want to pass; and if they have
anything good, ay, or even good-looking, about them, what credit don't
they get for it!”
“But surely there must be many a lowly walk where a man with contentment
can maintain himself honorably and even proudly?”
“I don't know of them, if there be,” said Davis, sulkily. “Lawyers,
parsons, merchants, are all, I fancy, pretty much alike,--all on 'the
dodge.'”
“And Beecher,--poor Beecher?” broke in Lizzy. And there was a blended
pity and tenderness in the tone that made it very difficult to say what
her question really implied.
“Why do you call him poor Beecher?” asked he, quickly. “He ain't so poor
in one sense of the word.”
“It was in no allusion to his fortune I spoke. I was thinking of him
solely with reference to his character.”
“And he is poor Beecher, is he, then?” asked Davis, half sternly.
If she did not reply, it was rather in the fear of offending her father,
whose manner, so suddenly changing, apprised her of an interest in the
subject she had never suspected.
“Look here, Lizzy,” said he, drawing her arm more closely to his side,
while he bespoke her attention; “men born in Beecher's class don't
need to be clever; they have no necessity for the wiles and schemes and
subtleties that--that fellows like myself, in short, must practise. What
they want is good address, pleasing manners,--all the better if they be
good-looking. It don't require genius to write a check on one's banker;
there is no great talent needed to say 'Yes,' or 'No,' in the House of
Lords. The world--I mean their own world--likes them all the more if
they have n't got great abilities. Now Beecher is just the fellow to
suit them.”
“He is not a peer, surely?” asked she, hastily.
“No, he ain't yet, but he may be one any day. He is as sure of the
peerage as--I am not! and then, poor Beecher--as you called him awhile
ago--becomes the Lord Viscount Lackington, with twelve or fourteen
thousand a year! I tell you, girl, that of all the trades men follow,
the very best, to enjoy life, is to be an English lord with a good
fortune.”
“And is it true, as I have read,” asked Lizzy, “that this high station,
so fenced around by privileges, is a prize open to all who have talent
or ability to deserve it,--that men of humble origin, if they be
gifted with high qualities, and devote them ardently to their country's
service, are adopted, from time to time, into that noble brotherhood?”
“All rubbish; don't believe a word of it. It's a flam and a humbug,--a
fiction like the old story about an Englishman's house being his castle,
or that balderdash, 'No man need criminate himself.' They 're always
inventing 'wise saws' like these in England, and they get abroad, and
are believed, at last, just by dint of repeating. Here 's the true state
of the case,” said he, coming suddenly to a halt, and speaking with
greater emphasis. “Here I stand, Christopher Davis, with as much wit
under the crown of my hat as any noble lord on the woolsack, and I might
just as well try to turn myself into a horse and be first favorite for
the Oaks, as attempt to become a peer of Great Britain. It ain't to be
done, girl,--it ain't to be done!”
“But, surely, I have heard of men suddenly raised to rank and title for
the services--”
“So you do. They want a clever lawyer, now and then, to help them on
with a peerage case; or, if the country grows forgetful of them, they
attract some notice by asking a lucky general to join them; and even
then they do it the way a set of old ladies would offer a seat in the
coach to a stout-looking fellow on a road beset with robbers,--they hope
he 'll fight for 'em; but, after all, it takes about three generations
before one of these new hands gets regularly recognized by the rest.”
“What haughty pride!” exclaimed she; but nothing in her tone implied
reprobation.
“Ain't it haughty pride?” cried he; “but if you only knew how it is
nurtured in them, how they are worshipped! They walk down St. James's
Street, and the policeman elbows me out of the way to make room for
them; they stroll into Tattersall's, and the very horses cock their
tails and step higher as they trot past; they go into church, and the
parson clears his throat and speaks up in a fine round voice for them.
It's only because the blessed sun is not an English institution, or he
'd keep all his warmth and light for the peerage!”
“And have they, who render all this homage, no shame for their
self-abasement?”
“Shame! why, the very approach to them is an honor. When a lord in the
ring at Newmarket nods his head to me and says, 'How d' ye do, Davis?'
my pals--my acquaintances, I mean--are twice as respectful to me for the
rest of the day. Not that _I_ care for that,” added he, sternly; “I know
_them_ a deuced sight better than they fancy!--far better than _they_
know _me!_”
Lizzy fell into a revery; her thoughts went back to a conversation she
had once held with Beecher about the habits of the great world, and all
the difficulties to its approach.
“I wish I could dare to put a question to you, papa,” said she, at last.
“Do so, girl. I 'll do my best to answer it”
“And not be angry at my presumption,--not be offended with me?”
“Not a bit. Be frank with me, and you 'll find me just as candid.”
“What I would ask, then, is this,--and mind, papa, it is in no mere
curiosity, no idle indulgence of a passing whim I would ask it, but for
sake of self-guidance and direction,--who are we?--what are we?”
The blood rose to Davis's face and temples till he became crimson;
his nostrils dilated, and his eyes flashed with a wild lustre. Had the
bitterest insult of an enemy been hurled at his face before the open
world, his countenance could not have betrayed an expression of more
intense passion.
“By heaven!” said he, with a long-drawn breath, “I did n't think there
was one in Europe would have asked me that much to my face. There's no
denying it, girl, you have my own pluck in you.”
“If I ever thought it would have moved you so--”
“Only to make me love you the more, girl,--to make me know you for my
own child in heart and soul,” cried he, pressing her warmly to him.
“But I would not have cost you this emotion, dearest pa--”
“It's over now; I am as cool as yourself. There 's my hand,--there
's not much show of nervousness there. 'Who are we?'” exclaimed he,
fiercely, echoing her question. “I 'd like to know how many of that
eight-and-twenty millions they say we are in England could answer such a
question? There's a short thick book or two tells about the peerage and
baronetage, and says who are they; but as for the rest of us--” A wave
of the hand finished the sentence. “My own answer would be that of
many another: I 'm the son of a man who bore the same name, and who,
if alive, would tell the same story. As to what we are, that's another
question,” added he, shrewdly; “though, to be sure, English life
and habits have established a very easy way of treating the matter.
Everybody with no visible means of support, and who does nothing for his
own subsistence, is either a gentleman or a vagrant. If he be positively
and utterly unable to do anything for himself, he 's a gentleman; if he
can do a stroke of work in some line or other, he 's only a vagrant.”
“And you, papa?” asked she, with an accent as calm and unconcerned as
might be.
“I?--I am a little of both, perhaps,” said he, after a pause.
A silence ensued, long enough to be painful to each; Lizzy did not dare
to repeat her question, although it still remained unanswered, and Davis
knew well that he had not met it frankly, as he promised. What a severe
struggle was that his mind now endured! The hoarded secret of his whole
life,--the great mystery to which he had sacrificed all the happiness of
a home, for which he had consented to estrange himself from his child,
training her up amidst associations and habits every one of which
increased the distance between them,--there it was now on his lip; a
word might reveal it, and by its utterance might be blasted all the
fondest hopes his heart had ever cherished. To make Lizzy a lady, to
surround her not only with all the wants and requirements of station,
but to imbue her mind with sentiments and modes of thought such as befit
that condition, had been the devoted labor of his life. For this he had
toiled and struggled, contrived, plotted, and schemed for years long.
What terrible scenes had he not encountered, with what desperate
characters not associated! In the fearful commerce of the play-table
there was not a dark passion of the human heart he had not explored,--to
know men in their worst aspects, in their insolence of triumph, the
meanness of their defeat, in their moments of avarice, in their waste;
to read their natures so that every start or sigh, a motion of the
finger, a quivering of the lip should have its significance; to
perceive, as by an instinct, wherein the craft or subtlety of each lay,
and by the same rapid intuition to know his weak point also! Men have
won high collegiate honors with less intensity of study than he gave to
this dark pursuit; men have come out of battle with less peril to life
than he faced every day of his existence, and all for one object,--all
that his daughter might breathe an atmosphere from which he must live
excluded, and know a world whose threshold he should never pass. Such
was the terrible conflict that now raged within him as he reviewed the
past, and saw to what a narrow issue he had reduced his one chance of
happiness. “There she stands now,” thought he, “all that my fondest
hopes had ever fashioned her; and who is to say what one word--one
single word uttered by my lips--may not make of that noble nature, pure
and spotless as it is? How will she bear to hear that her station is
a deception, her whole life a lie,--that she is the daughter of Grog
Davis, the leg?” Heaven knows with what dexterous artifices he had often
met this difficulty as it used to present itself to his mind, how he
had seen in what way he could extricate himself, how reconcile his own
shortcomings with her high-soaring tastes and habits! Whatever such
devices he had ever conceived, none came to his aid now; not one offered
him the slightest assistance.
Then came another thought,--“How long is this deception to be carried
on? Am I to wait?” said he, “and if so, for what? Ay, there's the
question, for what? Is it that some other may break the news to her,
and tell her whose daughter she is?” In that world he knew best he could
well imagine with what especial malice such a tale would be revealed.
Not that slander need call imagination to its aid. Alas! his life had
incidents enough for malignity to gloat over!
His stout arm shook, and his strong frame trembled with a sort of
convulsive shudder as these thoughts flashed across his mind.
“Are you cold, dearest pa? Are you ill?” asked she, eagerly.
“No. Why do you ask?” said he, sternly.
“You trembled all over; I was afraid you were not well.”
“I 'm never ill,” said he, in the same tone. “There 's a bullet in me
somewhere about the hip--they can't make out exactly where--gives me
a twinge of pain now and then. Except that, I never knew what ailment
means.”
“In what battle?”
“It was n't a battle,” broke he in; “it was a duel. It's an old story
now, and not worth remembering. There, you need not shudder, girl;
the fellow who shot me is alive, though, I must say, he has n't a very
graceful way of walking. Do you ever read the newspapers,--did they
allow you ever to read them at school?”
“No; but occasionally I used to catchy a glance at them in the
drawing-room. It was a kind of reading fascinated me intensely, it was
so real. But why do you ask me?”
“I don't know why I asked the question,” muttered he, half moodily, and
hung his head down. “Yes, I do,” cried he, after a pause. “I wanted to
know if you ever saw _my_ name--our name--in the public prints.”
“Once,--only once, and very long ago, I did, and I asked the governess
if the name were common in England, and she said, 'Yes.' I remember
the paragraph that attracted me to this very hour. It was the case of
a young man--I forget the name--who shot himself in despair, after some
losses at play, and the narrative was headed, 'More of Grog Davis!'”
Davis started back, and, in a voice thick and hoarse with passion, cried
out,--
“And then? What next?” The words were uttered in a voice so fearfully
wild that Lizzy stood in a sort of stupefied terror, and unable to
reply. “Don't you hear me, girl?” cried he. “I asked you what came
next.”
“There was an account of an inquest,--some investigation as to how the
poor fellow had met his death. I remember little about that. I was only
curious to learn who this Grog Davis might be--”
“And they could n't tell you, it seems!”
“No; they had never heard of him.”
“Then I 'll tell you, girl. Here he stands before you.”
“You! papa--you--dearest pa! Oh, no, no!” cried she, imploringly, as
she threw herself on his neck and sobbed bitterly,--“oh no! I 'll not
believe it.”
“And why not believe it? What was there in that same story that should
prejudice _me_? There, there, girl, if you give way thus, it will offend
me,--ay, Lizzy, offend me.”
She raised her head from his shoulder, dried her eyes, and stood calm
and unmoved before him. Her pale face, paler in the bright moonlight,
now showed not a trace of passion or emotion.
Davis would have given his right hand at that moment that she had been
led into some burst of excitement, some outbreak of passionate feeling,
which, in rebuking, might have carried him away from all thoughts about
himself; but she was cold and still and silent, like one who has heard
some terrible tidings, but yet has summoned up courage for the trial.
There was that in her calm, impassive stare that cut him to the very
heart; nor could any words have reproached him so bitterly as that
steadfast look.
“If you don't know who we are, you know what we are, girl. Is that not
so?” cried he, in a thick and passionate tone. “I meant to have told it
you fifty times. There was n't a week in the last two years that I did
n't, at least, begin a letter to you about it I did more: I cut all
the things out of the newspapers and made a collection of them, and
intended, some day or other, you should read them. Indeed, it was only
because you seemed so happy there that, I spared you. I felt the day
must come, though. Know it you must, sooner or later, and better from me
than another I mean better for the other; for, by heaven! I 'd have shot
him who told you. Why don't you speak to me, girl? What's passing in
your mind?”
“I scarcely know,” said she, in a hollow voice. “I don't quite feel sure
I am awake!”
“Yes!” cried he, with a terrible oath, “you _are_ awake; it was the past
was the dream! When you were the Princess, and every post brought you
some fresh means of extravagance,--_that_ was the dream! The world went
well with myself in those days. Luck stood to me in whatever I touched.
In all I ventured I was sure to come right, as if I had made my bargain
with Fortune. But the jade threw me over at last, that she did. From the
hour I went in against Hope's stables at Rickworth,--that's two years
and eleven days to-day,--I never won a bet! The greenest youngsters from
Oxford beat me at my own weapons. I went on selling,--now a farm, now a
house, now a brood mare. I sent the money all to you, girl, every guinea
of it. What I did myself I did on tick till the September settling at
Cottiswoode, and then it was all up. I was ruined!”
“Ruined!” echoed she, while she grasped his arm and drew him closer to
her side; “you surely had made friends--”
“Friends are capital things when the world goes well with you, but
friends are fond of a good cook and iced champagne, and they don't fancy
broken boots and a bad hat. Besides, what credit is to the merchant,
luck is to one of us. Let the word get abroad luck is against you; let
them begin to say, 'There 's that poor devil Davis in for it again; he's
so unlucky!'--once they say that, you are shunned like a fellow with the
plague; none will associate with you, none give you a helping hand or a
word of counsel. Why, the grooms wouldn't gallop if I was on the ground,
for fear my bad luck might strain a sinew and slip a ligament! And they
were right too! Smile if you like, girl,--I am not a very superstitious
fellow,--but nobody shall persuade me there ain't such a thing as luck.
Be that as it may, _mine_ turned,--I was ruined!”
“And were there none to come to your aid? You must surely have lent a
helping hand to many--”
“Look here, girl,” said he; “now that we are on this subject, you may as
well understand it aright. If a gentleman born--a fellow like Beecher,
there--comes to grief, there's always plenty of others ready to serve
him; some for the sake of his family, some for his name, some because
there's always the chance that he may pay one day or other. Snobs, too,
would help him, because he 's the Honorable Annesley Beecher; but it's
vastly different when it's Grog Davis is in case. Every one rejoices
when a leg breaks down.”
“A leg is the slang for--for--”
“For a betting man,” interposed Davis. “When a fellow takes up the turf
as a profession, they call him 'a leg,'--not that they 'd exactly say it
to his face!” added he, with a smile of intense sarcasm.
“Go on,” said she, faintly, after a slight pause.
“Go on with what?” cried he, rudely. “I've told you everything. You
wanted to know what I was, and how I made my living. Well, you know it
all now. To be sure, the newspapers, if you read them, could give
you more precise details; but there's one thing, girl, they could n't
blink,--there's not one of them could say that what my head planned
overnight my hand was not ready to defend in the morning! I can't always
throw a main, but I 'll hit my man,--and at five-and-thirty paces, if he
don't like to stand closer.”
“And what led you to this life, papa? Was it choice?”
“I have told you enough already; too much, mayhap,” said he, doggedly.
“Question me no more!”
Had Davis but seen the face of her at his side, what a terrible shock
it would have given him, hard and stern as he was! She was pale as
marble,--even the lips were colorless; while along her cheeks a heavy
tear stole slowly along. It was the only one she shed, but it cost an
agony.
“And this is the awaking from that glorious dream I have long been lost
in?--this the explanation of that life of costly extravagance, where
every wish was answered, every taste pampered. This is the reverse of
that medal which represented me as noble by birth and high in station!”
If these were the first bitter thoughts that crossed her mind, her next
were to ask herself why it was that the tidings had not humiliated her
more deeply. “How is it that while I see and hear all this,” cried she,
“I listen in a spirit of defiance, not defeat? Is it that in my heart I
dare to arraign the decrees the world has adopted for its guidance? Do
I presume to believe that I can play the rebel successfully against the
haughtiest aristocracy of Europe?--There is yet one question, papa,”
said she, slowly and deliberately, “that I would wish to ask you. It is
the last I will ever put, leaving to your own discretion to answer it
or not. Why was it--I mean, with what object did you place me where by
habit and education I should contract ideas of life so widely different
from those I was born to?”
“Can't you guess?” said he, rudely.
“Mayhap I do guess the reason,” said she, in a low but unbroken voice.
“I remember your saying one night to Mr. Beecher, 'When a colt has a
turn of speed, he 's always worth the training.'”
Davis grew crimson; his very ears tingled as the blood mounted to his
head. Was it shame, was it anger, was it a strange pride to see the
traits of his own heart thus reflected on his child, or was it a
blending of all three together? At all events, he never uttered a word,
but walked slowly along at her side.
A low faint sigh from Lizzy suddenly aroused him, and he said, “Are you
ill,--are you tired, girl?”
“I 'd like to go back to the house,” said she, calmly but weakly. He
turned without a word, and they walked on towards the inn.
“When I proposed this walk, Lizzy, I never meant it to have been so sad
a one.”
“Nor yours the fault if it is so,” said she, drearily.
“I could, it is true, have kept you longer in the dark. I might have
maintained this deception a week or two longer.”
“Oh, that were useless; the mistake was in not--No matter--it was
never a question wherein I could have a voice. Has n't the night grown
colder?”
“No; it's just what it was when we came out,” said he, gruffly. “Now
that you know all this affair,” resumed he, after a lapse of some
minutes, “there 's another matter I 'd like to talk over; it touches
yourself, too, and we may as well have it now as later. What about
Beecher; he has been paying you attentions, hasn't he?”
“None beyond what I may reasonably expect from one in his position
towards me.”
“Yes, but he has, though. I sent over Lienstahl to report to me, and
he says that Beecher's manner implied attachment, and yours showed no
repugnance to him. Is this true?”
“It may be, for aught I know,” said she, indifferently. “Mr. Beecher
probably knows what he meant. I certainly can answer for myself, and
will say that whatever my manner might imply, my heart--if that be the
name for it--gave no concurrence to what the Count attributed to me.”
“Do you dislike him?”
“Dislike? No; certainly not; he is too gentle, too obliging, too
conciliating in manner, too well bred to create dislike. He is not very
brilliant--”
“He 'll be a peer,” broke in Davis.
“I suspect that all his views of life are deeply tinged with prejudice?”
“He'll be a peer,” continued Davis.
“He has been utterly neglected in education.”
“He don't want it.”
“I mean that to suit the station he fills--”
“He has got the station; he's sure of it; he can't be stripped of it.
In one word, girl, he has, by right and birth, rank and fortune, such
as ten generations of men like myself, laboring hard every hour of their
lives, could never win. He 'll be a peer of England, and I know of no
title means so much.”
“But of all his failings,” said Lizzy, who seemed to take little heed
of her father's interruptions, while steadily following out her own
thoughts,--“of all his failings, he has none greater or more pernicious
than the belief that it is a mark of intelligence to outwit one's
neighbor; that cunning is a high quality, and craft means genius.”
“These might be poor qualities to gain a living with,” said Davis, “but
I tell you, once for all, he does n't need to be brilliant, or witty, or
any other nonsense of that kind. He 'll have the right to go where all
the cleverness of the world couldn't place him, to live in a set where,
if he could Write plays like Shakspeare, build bridges like Brunel, or
train a horse like John Scott, it would n't avail him a brass farthing;
and if you only knew, child, what these people think of each other, and
what the world thinks of _them_, you 'd see it's the best stake ever was
run for.”
Lizzy never replied a word; every syllable of her father's speech was,
as it were, “filtering down” into her mind, and she brooded long over
the thoughts thus suggested. Thus, walking along in silence, side by
side, they drew nigh the house. They had now gained the little garden
before the door, and were standing in the broad full moonlight, face to
face, Davis saw that her eyes were red and her cheeks marked by tears;
but an impassive calm, and a demeanor subdued even to coldness, seemed
to have succeeded to this emotion. “Oh, my poor girl,” broke he out, in
a voice of deepest feeling, “if I did n't know the world so well,--if I
did n't know how little one gains by indulging affection,--if I did
n't know, besides, how you yourself will think of all this some ten or
twelve years hence, I could n't have the heart for it.”
“And--must--it--be?” faltered she out, in a broken accent.
Davis threw his arm around her, and, pressing her to him, sobbed
bitterly. “There, there,” cried he, “go in,--go in, child; go to bed,
and get some sleep.” And with this he turned quickly away and left her.