CHAPTER II.
THE FINAL RUPTURE.
John Hungerford was stricken with astonishment and dismay by the foregoing outburst of passion from his child. As a rule, she had ever been gentle and tractable, rarely defying his authority, and never before had he seen her manifest such temper as she had just given way to. He had always believed that she loved him, although he had long been conscious of a growing barrier between them—that she invariably sought her mother's companionship when she was in the house, and held aloof from him. But he had been so absorbed in his own pursuits that he had not given much serious thought to the matter; consequently it had now come like a bolt from a clear sky, when she had openly declared that she did not love him, while he was at no loss for words to complete the scathing, unfinished sentence to which she had given utterance just before she had fled from his presence.
It had taken him unawares, and, indifferent as he had become to his responsibilities as a husband and father; determined as he was to cut loose from them to gratify his pleasure-loving and vacillating disposition, his heart was now bruised and lacerated, his proud spirit humiliated as it never before had been, by Dorothy's passionate arraignment and bitter repudiation of him.
His wife, greatly to his surprise, had received him with her accustomed courtesy, had quietly acceded to his wishes when he informed her that he contemplated seeking a divorce, and had calmly told him that she had no intention of contesting his application for a legal separation. He had not believed he would be able to secure his freedom so easily, and secretly congratulated himself that the matter had been so quickly adjusted, and had terminated without a scene, even though he had been not a little chagrined by his wife's dignified bearing and a certain conscious superiority throughout the interview; also by the absence of all excitement or sentiment, except as, now and then, a flash of scorn or pity for him leaped from her eyes or rang in her tones.
But it had been quite another thing to have Dorothy, whom he had always fondly loved, in his selfish way, so openly denounce him for his faithlessness to her mother, and impeach him for the humiliation to which he was about to subject them both. As his anger subsided, as he began to realize something of what it meant, he was cut to the quick, and a sickening sense of loss and desolation suddenly swept over him, causing his throat to swell with painful tension and his eyes to sting with a rush of hot tears.
His only child—his pet and little playmate for fifteen years—had practically told him that she would not care if she never saw him again. It seemed almost as if she had suddenly died and were lost to him forever. He wondered if he ever would see her again, hear her fresh young voice calling "papa," or feel her soft lips caressing his cheek.
He stood for several minutes staring miserably at the door through which she had disappeared, a long, quivering sigh heaving his broad chest. Then his eyes swept the familiar, tastefully arranged room, which showed the graceful touch of his wife's deft hands in every detail, and finally rested upon the great bow of blue ribbon which had become loosened from Dorothy's hair and fallen to the floor almost at his feet.
He stooped, picked it up, and thrust it into his bosom; then mechanically took his hat, and quietly left the house.
But, as the outer door closed behind him, and the latch clicked sharply into its socket, there shot through all his nerves a thrill of keen pain which for many years repeated itself whenever the same sound fell upon his ears.