If his careless preference for her, for her gayety and her wit, if his thoughtless seeking of her society, if the coupling of his name with hers, had led her to this breaking of her life, then there was no question, there could be no question—he thrust the thought deep down out of sight but it remained there, coiled like the serpent, ready to strike at the heart of his happiness.
XII
IT was ten o’clock in the morning, and Rose was clipping the dead leaves from her flowers in the bow-window of the library, while Judge Temple still read the morning paper in his great high-backed chair; a shaft of sunlight stealing through the open carving touched his scanty white hair and showed the crumpled lines of the blue veins on his temples. He was an old man; he had married late in life and Rose, the youngest born and only survivor of five children, was proportionately dear to him. There was a warm sympathy between them and a companionship beautiful to see.
“There’s some trouble in the Cabinet,” he observed, as he turned his paper; “there are hints here about Wicklow White.”
Rose looked thoughtful but continued to arrange her flowers. “Margaret seems very unhappy and very gay, as usual,” she remarked softly.
“Too gay, my dear,” the judge commented; “old-fashioned fogies like myself get easily shocked. Never go to her dressmaker!”
Rose laughed, her scissors sparkling in the sun. “Why, father, people rave about her and copy her everywhere.”
“Let them,” said the judge dryly, “let them—but not my daughter! Rose, I’d—I’d whip you!”
“You never did that in your life,” she smiled, “I’m almost tempted to try it and see.”
“Better not,” he retorted grimly, taking off his spectacles and putting them into his pocket; “you’d get a lesson!”