But she held it fast, and made no answer.
“Olive, I say—do you insult me thus?” and his voice rose in anger. “Go to bed, I command you! Will you not?”
“No!” The refusal was spoken softly—very softly—but it expressed indomitable firmness; and there was something in the girl's resolute spirit, before which that of the man quailed. With a sudden transition, which showed that the drink had already somewhat overpowered his brain, he melted into complaints.
“You are very rude to your poor father; you—almost the only comfort he has left!”
This touch even of maudlin sentiment went direct to Olive's heart. She clung to him, kissed him, begged his forgiveness, nay, even wept over him. He ceased to rage, and sat in a sullen silence for many minutes. Meanwhile Olive took away every temptation from his sight. Then she roused him gently.
“Now, papa, it is time to go to bed. Pray, come upstairs.”
He—the calm, gentlemanlike, Captain Rothesay—burst into a storm of passion that would have disgraced a boor. “How dare you order me about in this manner! Cannot I do as I like, without being controlled by you—a mere chit of a girl—a very child?”
“I know I am only a child,” answered Olive, meekly. “Do not be angry with me, papa; do not speak unkindly to your poor little daughter.”
“My daughter! how dare you call yourself so, you white-faced, mean-looking hunchback!”——
At the word, Olive recoiled—a strong shudder ran through her frame; one long, sobbing sigh, and no more.