Something veiled with crêpe. The girl went to this object and removed the covering. She disclosed a bust.
The marble bust of a man. A marvellous piece of work.
A man of middle age with a pointed beard. A jolly-looking man, a forceful face and a lovable face, roguish a bit, with that old Gallic spirit that makes fun in public of the things that Englishmen laugh over in private, yet benevolent.
The face of a man who begins life as a delightful companion, and ends it as a delightful grandfather.
Looking at him one would say, “He might act foolishly, but he could do no real wrong, I would trust him with my last shilling—”
“He was my father,” said the girl, as Hellier gazed upon the marble, that, under the chisel of some masterhand, spoke, laughed and diffused jollity around it.
“He was my father and he was a murderer—so the world says.”
Hellier turned slightly aside and placed his hand to the side of his head; he could not speak.
The shocking statement was made in such a calm voice. A calmness that spoke of what suffering endured, what shame, what ruin.
She arranged the dismal crêpe around the joyous thing.