“Very well,” he answered, still very gruffly.
“Now what is it?” he asked, when he came to my room between ten and eleven that night. “What girl’s confidence am I to be worried, with?”
“No girl’s confidence, as you are pleased to call it, George. Now listen. Our father must not see Mr Chillingfleet in the morning. He must not—he shall not. You, George, must prevent it.”
“I must prevent it! Is that what you have kept me out of my bed to say? Upon my word, Rose, you are unreasonable. Pray tell me how I am to keep my father from doing what he wishes.”
“Oh! George, you are very clever, and you can find a way when I—I can’t, although I’d give all the world to. George, George! he must not see Mr Chillingfleet, and this is the reason.”
Then I told my story. I told it quite calmly and without any outward show of shame. I found as I talked that I had grown accustomed to this tragedy, that the first edge of its agony was blunted to me.
I was not prepared, however, for the effect it had on my brother. As my story proceeded I saw all the colour leave George’s large, healthily-tinted face; drops of perspiration stood on his forehead. He took out his handkerchief and wiped the moisture from his lips and brow.
When I ceased speaking he sank down on the nearest chair. I had expected a perfect storm of angry and bitter words. George did not utter one.
“Well?” I could not help saying at last.
“Well,” he answered, “there’s an end of everything, that’s all. I meant to ask an honest girl with a nice little bit of money to be my wife. I thought I’d ask her next Sunday. I love her, too, ’tisn’t on account of the money; that’s at an end. She shan’t ever say she married the brother of a thief!”