From that hour in which Kate had yielded to the will of her father, and consented to become the wife of Montagu Smythje, she felt more sensibly than ever the sacrifice she was about to make. But there were none to step forth and save her—no strong hand and stout heart to rescue her from her painful position. It had now become a compromise; and, summoning all the strength of her soul, she awaited the unhappy issue with such resignation as she could command.
She had but one thought to cheer her, if cheer it could be called—she had not sacrificed her filial affection. She had performed the wishes of her father—that father who, however harsh he might be to others, had been ever kind and affectionate to her. Now, more than ever, did she feel impressed with his kindness, when she considered the errand on which he had gone forth.
Though thus resigned, or trying to feel so, she could neither stifle her passion for Herbert, nor conceal the melancholy which its hopelessness occasioned; and during all that morning, after her father had left her, the shadow appeared upon her countenance with more than its wonted darkness.
Her lover—that is, her fiancé—for Smythje now stood to her in that relationship—did not fail to observe her unusual melancholy, though failing to attribute it to the true cause.
It was natural that the young lady should feel sad at the absence of her worthy parent, who for many years had never been separated from her beyond the period of a few hours’ duration, or, at most, a single day. She would soon get used to it, and then all would be right again.
With some such reflections did Smythje account for the abstraction which he had observed in the behaviour of his betrothed.
During all the morning he had been assiduous in his attentions—more than wontedly so. He had been left by the Custos in a proud position—that of protector—and he was desirous of showing how worthy he was of the trust reposed in him.
Alas! in the opinion of Kate he was by far too assiduous.
The protégée felt importuned; and his most well-meant attentions had the effect only to weary her. Too glad would she have been to be left alone to her sighs and her sadness.
Shortly after breakfast, Smythje proposed a stroll—a short one. He had no zest for toilsome excursions; and, since the day of his shooting adventure, no zeal again to attempt any distant traverse of the forest.