The squire was not able to resist this appeal. He sunk into his chair and covered his face, saying mournfully: “O, Antony! Antony! Thou hes broken my heart.”
But when Antony knelt down by his side, and kissed the hand that lay so pathetically suggestive upon the broad knee, he made no movement of dissent. In another minute the door closed softly, and he was alone—as really a bereaved father as if he stood at an open grave.
Antony’s adieu to Phyllis was easily made, but his parting with his sister hurt him in his deepest affections. Whatever of unselfish love he felt belonged to Elizabeth, and she returned to her brother the very strongest care and tenderness of her nature. They had a long conference, from which Antony came away pale and sick with emotion, leaving his sister sobbing on her couch. It is always a painful thing to witness grief from which we are shut out, and Phyllis was unhappy without being able to weep with her uncle and cousins. But it is one blessing of a refined household that sorrow must be put aside for the duties and courtesies of life. The dinner table was set, and the squire washed his face, and put on his evening suit, his long white vest and lace kerchief, and, without being conscious of it, was relieved by the change. And Elizabeth had to rouse herself and take thought for her household duties, and dress even more carefully than usual, in order to make her white cheeks and sorrowful eyes less noticeable. And the courtesies of eating together made a current in the tide of unhappy thought; so that before the meal was over there had been some smiles; and hope, the apprehender of joy, the sister of faith, had whispered to both father and sister, “Keep a good heart! Things may be better than they appear to be.”
As the squire rose from the table, he said: “Now, Elizabeth, I hev something varry particular to say to thee. Phyllis will bide by herself an hour, and then we’ll hev no more secrets, and we’ll try to be as happy as things will let us be.”
Elizabeth was in some measure prepared for what her father had to say; but she was placed in a very unhappy position. She did what was kindest and wisest under the circumstances, accepted without remonstrance the part assigned her. The young are usually romantic, and their first impulses are generously impracticable ones. Elizabeth was not wiser than her years by nature, but she was wiser by her will. For the first few minutes it had seemed to her the most honorable and womanly thing to refuse to stand in her brother’s place. But her good heart and good sense soon told her that it would be the kindest course to submit. Yet she was quite aware that her succession would be regarded by the tenants and neighbors with extreme dislike. They would look upon Richard and herself as supplanters; Richard’s foreign birth would be a constant offense; her clear mind took in all the consequences, and she felt hurt at Antony for forcing them upon her.
She sat pale and silent, listening to all the squire said, and vainly trying to find some honorable and kind way out of the position.
“Thou must know what thou art doing, Elizabeth,” he said, “and must take the charge wi’ thy eyes open to a’ it asks of thee.”
Then he showed her the books of the estate, made her understand the value of every field and meadow, of every house and farm and young plantation of wood. “It’s a grand property, and Antony was a born fool to part wi’ such a bird in t’ hand for any number o’ finer ones in t’ bush. Does ta understand its value?”
“I am sure I do.”
“And thou is proud o’ being the daughter o’ such land?”