“Don’t run away, Thérèse, I’d rather you stayed! I knew it must come some day. It’s only a little sooner than I expected.”
“But, ma chérie—don’t look like that, Bridgie dear! Your father says there is a mistake. He seemed surprised like yourself. If, as he says, the bank is mistaken—”
But at this Bridgie shook her head with doleful conviction.
“The bank is never wrong! Oh, I’ve been through this before, and every time father declares it’s a mistake, but it never is! I’ve been disappointed so often that I can’t hope any more. Poor dear father seems to have no idea how quickly money goes, and he is so extravagant with his horses. He bought a new hunter this autumn, and made alterations in the stables. I have tried to be careful, but, as I said before, it is so little I can do! Well, this is the last stage but one. There are a few more shares that can be sold to keep us going for a little longer, and then out we go. Poor father, he won’t be able to carry out his programme at this rate. Esmeralda’s duke has not come forward, and neither has my millionaire. When we leave the Castle we shall have to squeeze into a cottage, and live on potatoes and buttermilk. I am glad I am not going to the meet. I should have been wretched all the time, but Joan need not know until she comes back.”
Bridgie’s pale cheeks seemed sufficient explanation of her determination to stay at home, and Esmeralda was sweetly sympathetic and concerned, but quite decided that exertion must at all costs be avoided.
“Me dear, you must not think of going! It would be madness. I’ll keep father company, so don’t you worry a bit, but just lie down and take it easy the whole day long,” she cried gushingly; and Bridgie smiled, despite her heartache, and felt comforted by the reflection that two people would owe their happiness to her absence.
The Major looked very handsome in his “pink” coat, but his brow was clouded, and he sighed profoundly as he came into the dining-room to light his cigar, and saw his eldest daughter standing disconsolately by the window.
“So you are not coming after all, Bride? Letting Joan take your place? Well, everyone to his taste. I feel as if it would do me good to have a hard run and let off steam that way. I’ll show them some riding to-day, if they have never seen it before. There won’t be much that will stand in my way, but you prefer to stay at home and eat your heart out in quiet. Your mother was the same; she couldn’t throw it off. It’s a pity for your own sake you don’t take after me instead.” Then suddenly, as he looked at her, his face altered, and he put his arms round her with a rare tenderness. “Poor little woman! Poor little anxious Martha, this is rough on you! I’ve brought about this ill day by my thoughtlessness. If I’d been as careful as you, we might have lasted out until the children were grown up, but I was like Micawber—always expecting something to ‘turn up.’ You must try to forgive me, Bride. You must not be hard on your old father!”
Ah, and it was a lovely sight to see Bridget O’Shaughnessy’s face at that moment—the sweetness of it, and the pity and tenderness, and the deep, unselfish love! Her father was touched by the sight, and lingered by her side, stroking her soft hair and murmuring fond, regretful words.
“I haven’t treated you well. That minx Joan has twisted me round her finger, and you have suffered for it. You have had a hard time these last two years. Never mind, we’ll make a fresh start. I’ll turn over a new leaf from this day, and you shall take me in hand. Who knows but we may pull through yet?”