I brushed my lips upon her crown of hair—it was false hair, that being the fashion of the day. “Try to make yourself as pretty as you can,” said I, releasing her and myself. “You’ll hear from me to-night or to-morrow, unless I’ve caught my death in this damp cave. You must leave it to the frogs, and snakes, and bats, and build yourself a decent house somewhere. You’ll die here.”
“I’m afraid Hugh wouldn’t consent to live anywhere but here. It’s the ancestral seat, you know. The Massingfords have lived here since forever and ever.”
“Have died here, you mean. Have killed wives they wanted to get rid of, here.”
She startled—looked excitedly at me. “Papa!” she exclaimed breathlessly. “Yes—I wouldn’t put it past him!”
I laughed.
She drew a long breath of relief. “Oh, you weren’t in earnest,” she said.
“No,” replied I. “But—don’t live here.”
“I shan’t,” said she firmly. “It’s dreadful for the looks. You’ve seen what so many of these English women look like.”
“Like shriveled, frost-bitten apples,” said I. “They don’t die because they’re used to it. But it’s death for people accustomed to civilization. Not even the steady glow of pride in your title and position can keep you heated up enough to save you.”
“Will you give Hugh a house, if he’ll consent?”