Cécile’s pale features quivered nervously. Her grandfather took her hand.
“My child,” he said, “think well before you decide a question of such importance.”
“No,” she answered; “the sooner he knows my decision the better for us both. I know that I am going to pain him deeply, but the longer we delay the worse it will be, and I cannot see him again until he knows the truth; I am incapable of such treachery.”
“Then you mean to give the boy his dismissal,” said the doctor, in a rage. “Good heavens! what strange creatures women are!”
She looked at him with such an expression of despair that he stopped short.
“No, no, little girl, I am not angry with you. It is my fault more than yours. You were too young to know your own mind. I am an old fool, and shall always be one until the bitter end.”
Then came the painful duty of writing to Jack. He began a dozen letters, destroyed them all, and finally sent the telegram, hoping that Cécile would have come to her senses before the week was over.
The next Saturday, when Dr. Rivals said to his granddaughter, “He will come to-morrow; is your decision irrevocable?”
“Irrevocable,” she said, slowly.
Jack arrived early on Sunday. When he reached the door the servant said, “My master is waiting for you in the garden.”