Chapter Twenty Two.
Another six months had passed, and it was spring again, with its bright promises of renewing life and sunshine, when, one evening, Mrs Ellis sat holding her child’s hand, the tears stealing slowly down her cheeks as she talked in a low voice, stifling a sob from time to time, and in every way showing how bad an ambassadress she was, and how thoroughly her sympathies were with her child.
“Did father tell you to say this, mother?” said Mary wearily.
“Yes, my darling. He says he is getting older, and that it is the one wish of his heart to see you happy.”
“But he would not see me happy, mother, if I said Yes,” replied Mary. “I cannot, indeed, I cannot love Daniel Barnett. I could never make him a good wife. Why will he persecute me so?”
“Because he loves you, dear; and don’t, pray don’t be hasty! You don’t know: the love may come, dear.”
“Yes, mother; the love may come, but will it?”
“See how good and patient he has been; and father says it is his sole care to see you settled, and to know that if anything happens to him you have a strong right hand to protect you. Come, darling, let me go down and tell them both that you have thought better of it, and that you consent.”
“Mother, you do not wish it,” said Mary gently. “All this does not come from the heart.”
“I think it does, my darling,” said Mrs Ellis. “You see, it is my duty to do what your father wishes. Yours to love and obey him.”