Averting his face upon the pillow, he wept wildly as she.
Sorrow cannot endure for ever. The purest and most poignant grief must in time come to an end.
And the dying man knew of a solace, not only to himself, but to his dear, noble daughter—dearer and nobler from the sacrifice he had declared herself willing to make for him.
His views about her future had been for some time undergoing a change. The gloom of the grave, to one who knows he is hastening towards it, casts its shadow alike over the pride of the past, and the splendours of the present. Equally does it temper the ambitions of the future.
And so had it effected the views of Sir George Vernon—socially as well as politically. Perhaps he saw in that future the dawning of a new day—when the régime of the Republic will be the only one acknowledged upon earth!
Whether or not, there was in his mind at that moment a man who represented this idea; a man he had once slighted, even to scorn. On his deathbed he felt scorn no longer; partly because he had repented of it; and partly that he knew this man was in the mind of his daughter—in her heart of heart. And he knew also she would never be happy without having him in her arms!
She had promised a self-sacrifice—nobly promised it. A command, a request, a simple word would secure it! Was he to speak that word?
No! Let the crest of the Vernons be erased from the page of heraldry! Let it be blended with the plebeian insignia of a republic, rather than a daughter of his house, his own dear child, should be the child of a life-long sorrow!
In that critical hour, he determined she should not. “You do not love Frank Scudamore?” he said, after the long sad interlude, recurring to her last speech. “I do not, father; I cannot!”
“But you love another? Do not fear to speak frankly—candidly, my child! You love another?”