“My dear daughter!” he rejoined, shunning a direct answer. “It is but reasonable to suppose you will be some day changing your name. I should be unhappy to leave the world, thinking you would not; and I could leave it all the happier to think you will change it for one worthy of being adopted by the daughter of a Vernon—one borne by a man deserving to be my son!”
“Dear father?” cried she, once more sobbing spasmodically, “pray do not speak to me of this! I know whom you mean. Yes; I know it, I know it. O father, it can never be!”
She was thinking of the name Scudamore; and that it could never be here!
“Perhaps you are mistaken, my child. Perhaps I did not mean any name in particular.”
Her grand blue eyes, deeper blue under their bedewing of tears, turned inquiringly upon her father’s face.
She said nothing; but seemed waiting for him to further explain himself.
“My daughter,” he said, “I think I can guess what you meant by your last speech. You object to the name Scudamore? Is it not so?”
“Sooner than bear it, I shall be for ever content to keep my own—yours—throughout all my life. Dear father! I shall do anything to obey you—even this. Oh! you will not compel me to an act that would make me for ever unhappy? I do not, cannot love Frank Scudamore; and without love how could I—how could he—”
The womanly instinct which had been guiding the young girl seemed suddenly to forsake her. The interrogatory ended in a convulsive sob; and once more she was weeping.
Sir George could no longer restrain his tears, nor expression of the sympathy from whence they proceeded.