CHAPTER XVIII
Man's perfidy
To Archibald Rushford, sitting ruminant in his room, staring absently out at the dunes and the sea, his paper forgotten, there entered presently Susie—a rather subdued Susie, as he noted from the corner of his eye—who drew up a chair very close to his and sat down and propped her chin in her hands and looked up at him.
It came to him in a flash of revelation that, did she have a mother, it was to her she would have gone at this moment, and not to him, and his eyes were a little misty as he looked down at her. That she and her sister should have grown, motherless, to such sweet, triumphant womanhood struck him in this instant as a kind of miracle—he had never thought of it before. He had taken their beauty, their wit, their sanity, as matters of course; he had never looked at them, clearly, from the outside; he had never quite thoroughly appreciated them. They had come this far, guideless, in the journey of life, and had done well and bravely; but now Susie, at least, had reached a point in the path where she needed help and counsel. She had come to him for it and he must give her the best he had.
"Dad," she began, a little tremulously, "would you mind so very much if I should m-marry and live in Europe? Of course," she added, hastily, to break the force of the blow, "you would come over very often and stay with us, and we would go over very often to see you."
"So he has spoken to you, has he?" laughed her father. "He told me he hadn't."
"Spoken! You know about it? Oh, dad, what do you mean?"
"I mean that a certain William Frederick Albert, of Markeld—I believe that's his name—or most of it—was in here a while ago and had the impudence to ask me to give you to him."
"Oh!" gasped Susie, with flaming cheeks, and sank back in her chair and I dare say cried a little; but her father didn't see her, for his own eyes were full of tears. The moment passed, the tears were wiped away—"Tell me about it, dad," she said.
"Tell you about it? I have told you!"