“You think to get over me like that! You have no pity for me; you are a most heartless girl. You shall not stir from here until you tell me where you have been.”
“Then I will tell you, father. I know you’ll be angry, but I cannot help it. There is such a thing as dying for want of—oh, not for want of food, and not for want of clothes—for want of pleasure, fun, life, the joy of being alive. I did go, and I am not ashamed.”
“Where?” asked the man.
“I went to Wynford Castle. I have spent the evening there. Now, you may be as angry as you please, but you shall not scold me; no, not a word until the morning.”
With a sudden movement the girl flitted past the angry man. The next instant she had reached her room. She opened the door, shut it behind her, and locked herself in. When she was quite alone she pulled off her hat, and got with frantic speed out of her wet jacket; then she clasped her hands high above her head.
“How am I to bear it! What have I done that I should be so miserable?” she thought.
She flung herself across the bare, uninviting bed, and lay there for some time sobbing heavily. All the joy and animation had left her young frame; all the gaiety had departed from her. But presently her passionate sobs came to an end; she undressed and got into bed.
She was bitterly—most bitterly—cold, and it was a long time before the meager clothes which covered her brought any degree of warmth to her frame. But by-and-by she did doze off into a troubled slumber. In her sleep she dreamt of her mother—her mother who was dead.
She awoke presently, and opening her eyes in the midst of the darkness, the thought of her dream came back to her. She remembered a certain night in her life when she had been awakened suddenly to say good-by to her mother. The mother had asked the father to leave the child alone with her.
“You will be always good to him, Sylvia?” she said then. “You will humor him and be patient. I hand my work on to you. It was too much for me, and God is taking me away, but I pass it on to you. If you promise to take the burden and carry it, and not to fail, I shall die happy. Will you, Sylvia—will you?”