She was bitterly offended, and expressed the feeling in her own childish fashion.
Rachael sat down in the hall, and watched the girl as she glided up the broad staircase, perhaps hoping that she would look back, or, it may be, regretting the course she had taken, for her face was unutterably sad, and her attitude one of great despondency.
At last, when Clara was out of sight, she turned a wistful look on her brother.
"She will hate me now."
Her voice was more plaintive than the words. The confidence of that young girl was all the world to her; for, independent of everything else, it was the one human link that bound her to the man she loved with such passionate idolatry. Her kindness to his child was the silver cord which even his strong will could not sunder, even if he should wish it.
Hepworth saw her anguish, and pitied it.
"Let her go," he said, stooping down and kissing his sister on the forehead, which, with her neck and arms, was cold as marble. "She is disappointed, vexed, and really indignant with us both; but a good night's sleep will set her heart right again. I wish we had never chanced to come here."
"Oh, Heavens! so do I."
"Rachael," said Hepworth, "what is it troubles you so?"
"What? Is it not enough that the child I have made a part of my own life should quarrel with me and with you, because of me, for a stranger?"