In this melancholy mood did the father find his daughter on entering the kiosk.
She made no attempt to conceal it—not even with a counterfeit of a smile. Rather with a frown did she receive him; and in her eyes might have been detected the slightest scintillation of anger, whether or not he was its object.
It is possible that just then the thought was passing through her mind that but for him her destiny might have been different; but for him, Herbert Vaughan, not Montagu Smythje, might have been on the eve of offering for her hand, which would then have gone with her heart. Now, in the contingency of her consenting to the proposal she expected, would she and Herbert be separated, and for ever!
Never more was she to experience that supreme happiness—the supremest known upon earth, and perhaps, equalling the joys of heaven itself—never more could she indulge in that sweet delicious dream—a virgin’s love—with the hope of its being returned. Her love might remain like a flower that had lost its perfume, only to shed it on the solitary air; no more a sweet passion, but a barren, bitter thought, without hope to cheer it till the end of time.
Ah, Custos Vaughan! proud, foolish parent! Could you have known how you were aiding to destroy the happiness of your child—how you were contributing to crush that young heart—you would have approached less cheerfully to complete the ceremony of its sacrifice!
Volume Two—Chapter Eighteen.
Paving the Way.
“Katherine!” gravely began the father, on stepping inside the kiosk.