“My aunt will not come here again, sir; she is very angry with me.”
“Had she the impertinence to tell you so?”
“She is angry,” Florence went on, in tones that faltered despite her utmost efforts, “because she thinks I have deceived her. She has been—on business of her own, I suppose—to the banker of her late husband, and——”
“Well?” queried her father, finding that she paused; his own face flushing and eyes sinking as they met her wistful gaze.
“And she tells me that my legacy has been drawn out. Oh, papa!” Florence flung herself into his arms, sobbing. “It is not true, is it? Do tell me that it isn’t true!”
“And if it is, what then?” he retorted. “If it had not been for my meddling, mischief-making sister you would have known nothing of the circumstance until I was prepared to return the loan. You don’t suppose I mean to rob you, child, do you?”
Without replying, she turned from him and wept as if her heart would break. Nothing angered him more than the sight of her tears, and he soon worked himself into the belief that he was an ill-used man.
“Are you mad, Florence, that you go on in this ridiculous manner? Have done, I say! I’ll not put up with it! I consider that I have an undoubted right, as your father and guardian, to invest your money for your benefit. You must be of an avaricious disposition, or you would not act in this way.”
Still she made no reply, but her silent grief eventually softened him, and, sitting down beside her, he said, with more feeling:
“My dear, dear child, don’t weep like this! I cannot bear to see it; and, indeed, my love, you are wrong to entertain such fears—you are, really.”