It may not have been judicious, but I was seldom successful in choosing words, and expected nothing but his strongest opposition, so I answered stoutly, “I trust that you will even yet grant it, sir. If not—and Miss Carrington is of age—we must endeavor to do without it.”
He turned from me, striking the impatient horse, and when the beast stood fast, he fixed his eyes on his daughter.
“Have you lost your reason as well as all sense of duty, Grace?” he stormed. “What is this beggarly farmer, the nephew of my bitterest enemy, that you should give up so much for him? Have you counted the cost—hardship, degrading drudgery, and your father’s displeasure? And would you choose these instead of your natural position as mistress of Carrington?”
“While I have strength to work for her she shall suffer none of them,” I said. But neither, apparently, heeded me, and, rapidly growing fiercer, the old man added:
“There will be no half-measures—you must make the choice. As that man’s wife you will never enter the doors of the Manor. Remember who you are, girl, and shake off this foolishness.” 338
His mood changed in an instant. Colonel Carrington was clearly not himself that day, for there was an almost pleading tone in the concluding words, and he awaited her answer in a state of tense anxiety, while I could see that Grace was trembling.
“It is too late, father. The choice is already made,” she said. “There are worse things than poverty, and if it comes we can bear it together. We hope you will still yield your consent, even though we wait long for it, and had you asked anything but this I should have done it. Now I have given my promise—and I do not wish to break it.”
Her voice was strained and uneven, and with a thrill of pride, leaning sideways from the saddle, I caught her horse’s bridle as by right of ownership. However, in spite of his enmity, I was sorry for Colonel Carrington. It must have been a trying moment, for he loved his daughter, but wounded pride gained the mastery, and his face grew livid. I made some protestation that we both regretted his displeasure, and that Grace should want nothing which I could give her, but again he utterly ignored me, and, wrenching on the curb, backed the horse a few paces. Then, and I shall never forget the bitterness of his tone, he said:
“First those fools in British Columbia, then the men I settled in Carrington, and now my child to turn against me in my adversity. You have made your choice, girl, and you will rue it. I will humble you all before I die.”
He caught at his breath, his face twitched, and his left hand sank to his side, but he wheeled the black horse with his right and left us without another word, while Grace sat looking after him with a white face and tears in her eyes.