“‘Father, dear father, say nothing more of that. I am alive, and since you have forgiven me, I am almost happy again. Dear father, let us live for each other now. I will be the most loving, the most faithful, devoted daughter that ever parent had. I will live for you, father. Only for you—and—and—for my child—my boy.’
“‘Your child, Elfrida!’ he said, staring at me, while a shiver passed through his frame.
“‘Yes, the child of my wilful, unfortunate marriage, dear father. I wrote and told you all about my marriage, but I fear you never got my letter.’
“‘No,’ he said, with a visible effort to recover from the shock he had received; ‘no. I heard of your marriage from other sources, and not until I returned to England, three weeks ago, with the remains of my wife for interment in the vault at Enderby Castle. The news met me there—terrible news to meet a father coming home to bury his wife.’
“‘Oh, my father! Oh, my father! Can you forgive me?’ I cried out, at this.
“‘I could not forgive myself, child. I never dreamed of blaming you. Does any one blame the bird that is snared?’ he tenderly inquired.
“‘You are too merciful to me—too merciful. I do not deserve it,’ I said, covering my face with my hands, for my father’s kind words pierced my heart like poniards.
“‘Hush, child; hush. Do not reproach yourself so bitterly. Let me tell you how it was that I did not receive any tidings of your marriage until my return to England.’
“‘I know, dear father. It was because you were far away in the Canaries.’
“‘That was not all, my child. Listen. While I was still in the archipelago, late in October, I received a batch of letters from England, all bringing me good news of my son and daughter. There was one from you, telling me of your fully restored health and good spirits, and your desire to spend the winter at Brighton. Another from Miss Murray, giving a very flattering account of your progress in education. A third was from Madame de la Champe, much to the same effect.’