"Val, child, what are you humming under your breath?" said her father,
suddenly rousing himself from his slumbers and looking into his
daughter's pretty face. "Your voice is like that of a bird, my darling.
I think it has gained in sweetness a good deal lately. Have you and
Wyndham been practising much together. Wyndham has one of the purest
tenor voices I ever heard in an amateur."
"Oh, what a worry Mr. Wyndham is," said Valentine, rising from her seat
and shaking out her muslin dress. "Everybody talks to me of his
perfections. I'm perfectly tired of them. I wish he wouldn't come here
so often. No, I was not thinking of any of his songs. I was humming
some words Mr. Carr sings--'Bid me to Live'--you know the words--I like
Mr. Carr so much--don't you, dad, dear?"
"Adrian Carr--yes," replied Mr. Paget in a slow deliberate voice. "Yes,
a good sort of fellow, I've no doubt. I heard some gossip about him at
my club yesterday--what was it? Oh, that he was engaged, or about to be
engaged, to Lady Mabel Pennant. You know the Pennants, don't you, Val?
Have you seen Lady Mabel? She is one of the youngest, I think."
"Yes, she's a fright," responded Valentine, with a decided show of
temper in her voice.
Her face had flushed too, she could not tell why.
"I did not know Lady Mabel was such a plain girl," responded Mr. Paget
drily. "At any rate it is a good connection for Carr. He seems a fairly
clever fellow. Valentine, my child, I have something of importance to
talk to you about. Don't let us worry about Carr just now--I have
something to say to you, something that I'm troubled to have to say.
You love your old father very much, don't you, darling?"
"Love you, daddy! Oh, you know--need you ask? I was frightened about
you a few minutes ago, father. When you were asleep just now, your face
looked old, and there were lines about it. It frightens me to think of
you ever growing old."
"Sit close to me, my dear daughter. I have a great deal to say. We will
leave the subject of my looks just at present. It is true that I am not
young, but I may have many years before me yet. It greatly depends on
you."
"On me, father?"
"Yes. I will explain to you by-and-bye. Now I want to talk about
yourself. You have never had a care all your life, have you, my little
Val?"
"I don't think so, daddy--at least only pin-pricks. You know I used to
hate my spelling lessons long ago, and Mdlle. Lacount used to worry me
over the French irregular verbs. But such things were only pin-pricks.
Yes, I am seventeen, and I have never had a real care all my life."
"You are seventeen and four months, Valentine. You were born on the
14th of February, and your mother and I called you after St. Valentine.
Your mother died when you were a week old. I promised her then that her
baby should never know a sorrow if I could help it."
"You have helped it, daddy; I am as happy as the day is long. I don't
wish for a thing in the wide world. I just want us both to live
together as we are doing now. Of course we will--why not? Shall we go
up to the drawing-room now, father?"
"My dear child, in a little time. I have not said yet what I want to
say. Valentine, you were quite right when you watched my face as I
slumbered. Child, I have got a care upon me. I can't speak of it to
anybody--only it could crush me--and--and--part us, Valentine. If it
fell upon you, it--it--would crush you, my child."
Mr. Paget rose. Valentine, deadly white and frightened, clung to him.
She was half crying. The effect of such terrible and sudden words
nearly paralyzed her; but when she felt the arm which her father put
round her tremble, she made a valiant and brave effort--the tears which
filled her brown eyes were arrested, and she looked up with courage in
her face.
"You speak of my doing something," she whispered. "What is it? Tell me.
Nothing shall part us. I don't mind anything else, but nothing shall
ever part us."
"Val, I have not spoken of this care to any one but you."
"No, father."
"And I don't show it in my face as a rule, do I?"
"Oh, no! Oh, no! You always seem bright and cheerful."
Her tears were raining fast now. She took his hand and pressed it to
her lips.
"But I have had this trouble for some time, my little girl."
"You will tell me all about it, please, dad?"
"No, my darling, you would not understand, and my keenest pain would be
that you should ever know. You can remove this trouble, little Val, and
then we need not be parted. Now, sit down by my side."
Mr. Paget sank again into the leathern armchair. He was still trembling
visibly. This moment through which he was passing was one of the most
bitter of his life.
"You will not breathe a word of what I have told you to any mortal,
Valentine?"
"Death itself should not drag it from me," replied the girl.
She set her lips, her eyes shone fiercely. Then she looked at her
trembling father, and they glowed with love and pity.
"I can save you," she whispered, going on her knees by his side. "It is
lovely to think of saving you. What can I do?"
"My little Val--my little precious darling!"
"What can I do to save you, father?"
"Valentine, dear--you can marry Gerald Wyndham."
Valentine had put her arms round her father's neck, now they dropped
slowly away--her eyes grew big and frightened.
"I don't love him," she whispered.
"Never mind, he loves you--he is a good fellow--he will treat you well.
If you marry him you need not be parted from me. You and he can live
together here--here, in this house. There need be no difference at all,
except that you will have saved your father."
Paget spoke with outward calmness, but the anxiety under his words made
them thrill. Each slowly uttered sentence fell like a hammer of pain on
the girl's head.
"I don't understand," she said again in a husky tone. "I would, I will
do anything to save you. But Mr. Wyndham is poor and young--in some
things he is younger than I am. How can my marrying him take the load
off your heart, father? Father, dear, speak."
"I can give you no reason, Valentine, you must take it on trust. It is
all a question of your faith in me. I do not see any loophole of
salvation but through you, my little girl. If you marry Wyndham I see
peace and rest ahead, otherwise we are amongst the breakers. If you do
this thing for your old father, Valentine, you will have to do it in
the dark, for never, never, I pray, until Eternity comes, must you know
what you have done."
Valentine Paget had always a delicate and bright color in her cheeks.
It was soft as the innermost blush of a rose, and this delicate and
lovely color was one of her chief charms. Now it faded, leaving her
young face pinched and small and drawn. She sank down on the hearthrug,
clasping her hands in her lap, her eyes looking straight before her.
"I never wanted to marry," she said at last. "Certainly not yet, for I
am only a child. I am only seventeen, but other girls of seventeen are
old compared to me. When you are only a child, it is dreadful to marry
some one you don't care about, and it is dreadful to do a deed in the
dark. If you trusted me, father--if you told me all the dreadful truth
whatever it is, it might turn me into a woman--an old woman even--but
it would be less bad than this. This seems to crush me--and oh, it does
frighten me so dreadfully."
Mr. Paget rose from his seat and walked up and down the room.
"You shan't be crushed or frightened," he said. "I will give it up."
"And then the blow will fall on _you_?"
"I may be able to avert it. I will see. Forget what I said to-night,
little girl."
Mortimer Paget's face just now was a good deal whiter than his
daughter's, but there was a new light in his eyes--a momentary gleam of
nobility.
"I won't crush you, Val," he said, and he meant his words.
"And _I_ won't crush _you_," said the girl.
She went up to his side, and, taking his hand, slipped his arm round
her neck.
"We will live together, and I will have perfect faith in you, and I'll
marry Mr. Wyndham. He is good--oh, yes, he is good and kind; and if he
did not love me so much, if he did not frighten me with just being too
loving when I don't care at all, I might get on very well with him.
Now dismiss your cares, father. If this can save you, your little Val
has done it. Let us come up to the drawing-room. Mrs. Johnstone must
think herself forsaken. Shall I sing to you to-night, daddy, some of
the old-fashioned songs? Come, you have got to smile and look cheerful
for Val's sake. If I give myself up for you, you must do as much for
me. Come, a smile if you please, sir. 'Begone, dull care.' You and I
will never agree."