“I do not think so,” I answered. “I do not wish to be. It is not I who have made myself; I cannot control my instincts. I do not wish to say anything to you unless it comes from my heart.”
“You are my daughter,” she murmured, softly.
“It is true,” I answered; “yet consider that I have only known it a few days. Do you think that I can feel—like that—towards you so soon? It is impossible. A few weeks ago we were strangers. I cannot forget that.”
She winced a little at the word, but I repeated it.
“It may seem an odd thing to say, but so far at any rate as I was concerned, we were strangers. I do feel—differently towards you now of course. In time the rest will come, no doubt, but I should only be a hypocrite if I pretended more at present, you must see that; and,” I continued, with a shade of bitterness in my tone, “there is the shame. One cannot forget that all at once.”
She shrank back as though I had struck her a blow across the face. Unwittingly I knew that I had wounded her deeply. But how could I help it?
“The shame,” she repeated in a low tone—“ay, the shame. That seems an odd word for me to hear. But it is a true one. I must learn to bear it. There is the shame! Oh, God! this is my punishment.”
“You cannot deny it,” I said. “How could you ever have thought of it in any other way? You deliberately chose to live with my father without marrying him. By your own admission there was not the faintest obstacle to your marriage. You had the satisfaction of living up to your theories, I have to pay the penalty.”
She bowed her head.