He had turned his fine eyes from her, even as, it is said, the royal despot of beasts will cower under the fearless human gaze; but at this the goaded fire flashed into them.
“She would answer,” he cried, “cursing the graceless offspring of our house, who could so misread a father’s tender love.”
“No, father, she is in heaven. The secrets of our hearts are bared to her.”
He cringed before her for a moment, defeated and exposed. Looking in her noble eyes, he knew that his moral tenure of her heart, her duty, hung upon a thread—knew that nothing but the last poignant threat of self-destruction could restore them to him. His stately cowardice had even foreseen this contingency.
“You leave me no alternative,” he said, his face as grey as ashes. “I cannot survive dishonour and my broken word. Thus, Yolande, do I take your message to her!” and with the word he fetched a pistol from his pocket and put its muzzle to his temple.
She uttered a fearful scream, and flew to him—wrenched down his arm, cried, and fondled him with inarticulate moans. He stood quite passive.
“Give me time!” she could only sob at last.
“I can give you nothing, Yolande,” he answered. “Yours is all the gift. I am a bankrupt but for you.”
He made a movement as if to break from her. She held him madly. In that minute the whole joy of life drained from her veins and left them barren. At length she released him, and stepped back.
“Father,” she said, “in all your life never mention my mother’s name to me again. When I die, bury me away from her in another grave. I am only worthy to be your daughter. Deal with me as you will.”