A cloud has fallen upon the little shop in New Street. Stephen Walker is restless and anxious, for he feels that something is going wrong. Carry has changed so much during the last three months that he cannot but notice it. Her bright colour has quite gone now, and only comes back in sudden starts and flushes. Her manner, too, has altered even more than her appearance. She, who used to be so lively and gay, who was always humming scraps of song over her work, has now become silent and abstracted. If she noticed that her father was watching her she would break out in a burst of fitful merriment, talking and laughing in a forced, unnatural way, which was even more painful than her silence. Stephen Walker was a long time before he arrived reluctantly at the conclusion that there was something wrong with Carry. At first he tried hard to persuade himself that the change existed only in his own imagination—that she was a little poorly, perhaps, nothing more; but at last he could no longer deceive himself, there was evidently something mentally, or physically, altogether wrong with her. Very sadly the old man pondered over the matter, and wearied himself with conjectures as to what could be the cause. She had no bodily ill, and quite repudiated any suggestion he made to that effect. She was perfectly well, she said, and Stephen Walker at last came to the conclusion it must be upon her mind. It was evident that nothing could make her unhappy except some love affair; and if so, with whom could Carry be in love? When this question was once fairly raised in Stephen Walker's mind he set himself to watch; but it was a long time after he did so before he came to any conclusion upon the subject, still longer before he could make up his mind to speak to her about it. One day, however, when he came into the shop after a short absence on business, he found the gentleman he suspected leaning on the counter talking confidentially with Carry. At the sight of her father she started and coloured painfully, while the gentleman rose hastily, saying,—
“I have a holiday you see, Mr. Walker.”
Mr. Walker made some general answer and passed into the inner room. The gentleman left almost immediately; but Carry did not, as was her custom, come into the parlour, but remained in the shop all the afternoon. It was not until the shop was closed for the evening, and Carry had taken her work and sat down, that father and daughter were together alone. Even then Stephen Walker had difficulty in approaching the subject, for Carry seemed to feel instinctively what he wished to speak of, and endeavoured, by talking forcedly upon all sorts of topics, to keep him from approaching it. At last he took advantage of a momentary pause in her talk to begin.
“My dear Carry, you know very well that I love you dearly. I am a poor, nervous creature, my dear, but I cannot but see that you are not the same as you used to be.”
Carry, with a very pale face, laid down her work when her father commenced, and she now interposed with a faint protest that she was quite well.
“My dear Carry, I am not quite sure that I would not rather know that you are not quite well. You may be, as you say, quite well bodily; that is, you may be free from any actual illness, but you are unquestionably changed, you are pale, and nervous, and out of spirits; it follows then that your illness must be mental. Now, my dear Carry, if you had a mother you would tell her, and she would advise you and talk to you as I cannot do. You are very unfortunately placed, dear—unfortunate in being so much alone, very unfortunate that the only person upon whom you can rely is a poor nervous man like myself. But do not think of this, Carry, only think that your old father loves you with all his heart, only think that your happiness is his only object in life, and open your heart to him, dear, as you would to a mother.”
Carry was crying now, kneeling at her father's knees.
“Can't you tell me, Carry?”
She shook her head.