“For dresses—only dresses?”
With a sigh, the rector dropped into his chair. After a moment’s despondency, he commenced to make calculations on his blotting-pad, while Mary stood looking out of the window, crying a little and shaping a new resolve. It was useless to go to her dressmaker with empty hands, and the everlasting 62 cry for money could only be silenced by the one person who held it all—her father.
Once more, rage against him surged up in her heart, and she relieved her pent-up feelings in the usual way.
“Oh, it is shameful, shameful! Father is to blame—father! He’s driving us to ruin. There’s nothing too bad one can say about him. He deserves to be robbed of his miserly hoard.”
“Hush, hush, dearest,” murmured the rector; “your father’s money is his own, not ours. If he were to find out that you had pledged your jewels, there’s no knowing what he might not do.”
“Do! What could he do?” she replied, with a mirthless laugh. “A man can’t prosecute his own child.”
“Some men can, and do. Your father is just the sort to outrage all family sentiment, and defy public opinion.”
“You don’t think that!” she cried, turning around on him very suddenly, with a terrified look in her eyes.
They were interrupted by a tap at the door.
“A gentleman to see you, sir; at least, sir, to see Mr. Dick.” The manservant’s manner was halting and embarrassed.