I suppose I must have turned very white, for I felt him take hold of me, and press me into a chair beside him. But it would not do to let my strength go.
“Papa, I want your consent to my marriage with Dr. Urquhart. He would come and ask you himself; but he is too ill. We have waited a long time, and suffered much. He is not young, and I feel old—quite old myself, sometimes. Do not part us any more.”
This was, as near as I can recollect, what I said—said very quietly and humbly, I know it was; for my father seemed neither surprised nor angry; but he sat there as hard as a stone, repeating only, “It must be over.”
“Why?”
He answered by one word:—“Harry”
“No other reason?”
“None.”
Then I dared to speak out plain, even to my father. “Papa, you said, publicly, you had forgiven him for the death of Harry.”
“But I never said I should forget.”
“Ay, there it is!” I cried out bitterly. “People say they forgive, but they cannot forget. It would go hard with some of us if the just God dealt with us in like manner.”