A swift, pained perception of his age, his feebleness, gave Rose a sudden sharp pang of grief, of foreshadowed loss; the revelation that comes suddenly—like the opening of a window in the soul—of the mortality of those we love, of life’s awful uncertainty.
She opened the door with a pale face. “Father!” she exclaimed, “you’re so late, I was getting anxious.”
He looked up without a smile, his eyes dull and weary. “I was delayed—by business matters,” he said simply.
He followed her into the library, and putting down a bundle of papers he carried sank wearily into his great chair and hid his face in his hands without another word.
Rose looked at him keenly, her heart throbbing with a new dismay, and seeing that the fingers which pressed his temples slightly trembled she went to the dining-room and pouring out a glass of wine brought it to him. “You are very tired,” she said gently; “try to take this, father, I think you need it.”
He looked up blankly, took the glass and tasting the wine set it aside. His face had aged ten years.
In her distress Rose only thought of cheering him. She averted her eyes; it seemed almost an indelicacy to inquire too closely into such apparent distress. “The roses I ordered came to-day,” she said, with a forced lightness of tone which jarred; “I thought, perhaps, we could decide this evening where to set them out. Do you think they’d do best by the south wall, father?”
He passed his hand over his eyes like a man whose sight was failing. “The roses?” he repeated absently; “I do not know. My child,” he added in a heavy tone, “something has happened to-day; I’m practically a ruined man.”
She caught her breath, frightened for the moment and taken unawares; in the assured comfort and peace of her life it seemed impossible. “Oh, father!” she exclaimed, “not really?”
He nodded, speech was difficult; the full force and horror of the calamity still hung over him.