“I am not; look at her yourself. Never was there a more dutiful daughter than Joyce. She would rather die than break her promise to you. Free her from it. Make her happy by telling her she can see Pennington.”
“Mark, don’t ask too much. Joyce is all I have to comfort me. When I am gone you will be the head of the family. You can then advise her as you please.”
“Better be kind to her and give her your blessing while you live,” said his son, turning away, believing that his words would bear fruit.
What Mark had said deeply troubled Mr. Crawford. He now noticed Joyce closely, and was surprised that he had not perceived the change in her. He meant to speak to her, but kept putting it off day by day, until sickness seized him. The doctor came, and told him he had but a short time to live. Mr. Crawford heard the verdict with composure. The Puritan blood in his veins led him to meet death as he would meet any enemy in life. But he would do justice to his daughter before he died. Calling Joyce to him, he took her hand in his, and said: “Joyce, you have been all that a daughter should be to me, but to you I have been a hard, cruel father.”
“No, no, you have been the kindest of fathers,” she cried, her tears falling fast. “Father, don’t talk so, or you will break my heart.”
“Listen, Joyce. I now know how much suffering I have caused you. I drove from you the man you loved. Do you still love him, Joyce?”
“Father, I love him, I shall always love him, but I have been true to my promise. I—”
“There, child,” broke in Mr. Crawford, “say no more. I know how true you have been, how sacred you have kept your word, while I—oh, forgive me, Joyce!”
“Don’t, father, don’t, you only did what you thought was right.”
“But Pennington, Joyce—has he been true all these years?”