She could not accept the encouragement, and only formed, with her lips, the words, “Mercy to her—wrath to me!”
The simplicity and hearty piety which, with all Dr. May’s faults, had always been part of his character, and had borne him, in faith and trust, through all his trials, had never belonged to her. Where he had been sincere, erring only from impulsiveness, she had been double-minded and calculating; and, now that her delusion had been broken down, she had nothing to rest upon. Her whole religious life had been mechanical, deceiving herself more than even others, and all seemed now swept away, except the sense of hypocrisy, and of having cut herself off, for ever, from her innocent child. Her father saw that it was vain to argue with her, and only said, “You will think otherwise by and by, my dear. Now shall I say a prayer before we go down?”
As she made no reply, he repeated the Lord’s Prayer, but she did not join; and then he added a broken, hesitating intercession for the mourners, which caused her to bury her face deeper in her hands, but her dull wretchedness altered not.
Rising, he said authoritatively, “Come, Flora, you must go to bed. See, it is morning.”
“You have sat up all night with me!” said Flora, with somewhat of her anxious, considerate self.
“So has George. He had just dropped asleep on the sofa when you awoke.”
“I thought he was in anger,” said she.
“Not with you, dearest.”
“No, I remember now, not where it was justly due. Papa,” she said, pausing, as to recall her recollection, “what did I do? I must have done something very unkind to make him go away and leave me.”
“I insisted on his leaving you, my dear. You seemed oppressed, and his affectionate ways were doing you harm; so I was hardhearted, and turned him out, sadly against his will.”