“Oh, father, father! I am all pain. I think of it day and night—it never leaves me. I think I shall see it before me all my life.”
“See what, Lettice? What do you mean?”
“His face!” quivered Lettice, and was silent. Mr Bertrand knew that she was referring to the stricken look with which Arthur Newcome had left the room where he had received the deathblow to his hopes, and the remembrance brought a cloud across his own face.
“Ay! I don’t wonder at that; but it will only add to our trouble, Lettice, if you fell ill—and we have had enough anxiety.”
He was conscious of not being very sympathetic, but his feeling was so strong on the subject that he could not control his words, and when Lettice spoke again it was with no reference to herself.
“Father, do you think he will ever—forget?—get over it?”
Mr Bertrand hesitated. “With most young men I should have said unhesitatingly—yes! but I think Arthur Newcome will probably remember longer than most, though I sincerely hope he will recover in time. But at the best, Lettice, you have caused him bitter pain and humiliation, and, what is worse, have shaken his faith in women for the rest of his life.”
Lettice gave a little cry of pain. “Oh, father! I want to talk to you. I want to tell you how I feel, but I can’t, while you speak in that hard, dry voice! Don’t you see—don’t you see that you are all killing me with your coldness? I have made you miserable, and have been weak, and foolish, and vain; but, father, father! I have not base wicked, and I have suffered most of all! Why do you break my heart by treating me like a stranger, and freezing me by your cruel, cruel kindness? You are my father—if I have done wrong, won’t you help me to be better in the future? It isn’t as if I were careless of what I have done. You see—you see how I suffer!” And she held out her arms with a gesture so wild and heart-broken that her father was startled, and caught her to him with one of his old, fond gestures.
“My poor child! My little Lettice! Heaven knows I have not intended to be cruel to you, dear, but I have been so worried and distressed that I have hardly known what I was about. You must forgive me, dear, and I will help you in every way I can. I do indeed see that you are miserable, poor child; but that I cannot help. It is only right that you should realise—”
“Father, I don’t think you or anyone else can tell how intensely I feel it all. You know I have been a coward all my life—afraid to grieve anyone, always trying to avoid disagreeable things; and now to feel that I have ruined Arthur’s life and wrecked his happiness, goes through my heart like a knife. And his poor, poor face! Father, I am too miserable and ashamed to be sure of anything, but I do believe this will be a lesson to me all my life. I can never, never be so cruel again! I will never marry now, but I will try to be a comfort to you, father dear, and do everything I can to make up for the misery I have caused—only do, do love me a little bit. Don’t everybody stop loving me!”