"But the question I have come here to-day to ask is this," I continued. "What is to become of my father?"
"The more proper thing for you to say, Heather Dalrymple, is this: What is to become of the man who has had the good fortune to marry Lady Helen Dalrymple?"
"But I don't think it a good fortune at all," I said. "Oh, Lady Helen, I must speak the truth; I can't beat about the bush any longer. My dear, my darling father is not a bit happy, not a bit! He did what he did—oh! it was so noble of him!—to—save your brother—I know the whole story. Oh, he was a hero! But must all his life be sacrificed because he is a hero? Your brother is in his grave; give my own dad back his freedom; let him come and live with Vernon and me!"
"Upon my word, I never heard of such a request in all my life!"
"But you will do it," I said. "There need be no scandal; you can go abroad or anywhere you like, and I am sure father will visit you sometimes, and no one need think anything about that, and—and you know you're not really fond of father, because if you were you would not make him so terribly unhappy. Oh, do let him come and live with us!"
"You take my breath away! You are the most audacious, dreadful girl I ever came across. What do you take me for?"
"Lady Helen, I know you have a heart somewhere."
She looked at me. The rims round her eyes were blackened, her eyebrows were artificially darkened, her face was powdered—could I get at any soul behind that much bedecked exterior? Bedecked, do I call it? Disfigured is the word I ought to use.
"Lady Helen," I said suddenly, "give my father his happiness! Don't, oh, don't be cruel to him any longer, I beg of you, I beseech of you!"
"Child, don't make a fool of yourself." Lady Helen rose.