“But why, why should I?” she asked. “Can you not see, my God! can you not see that I am not ready for him?”
The cold gray of her face turned to a vivid red, and she got up hastily and went to the window.
CHAPTER XL.
Gwen’s duty-forced efforts to comfort her father, were incessant, and rather tragic; he said very little and worked his usual number of hours conscientiously at his latest work, but the best part of him was away. His head bowed a little more every day, his step fell a little more heavily, his eye lost a fresh spark of life; he was following his wife in his patient, well-bred manner, with neither cry nor moan.
Sudden fits of half compunctuous duty would now and again seize upon him, and remind him that he had a daughter who also knew sorrow, then he would pursue Gwen softly, and catch her, no matter how inconvenient it might be, and ply her with questions on embarrassing topics. Gwen was very gentle with him and used to do him small services with a curious shy anxiety that had a touch of motherliness in it.
One day late in August Mrs. Fellowes was sitting down for a brief rest, when to her astonishment Gwen was announced, she had never sought her of her own accord since her mother’s death.
She sat down now quite naturally, and looked round the room with a pleased smile.
“Ah! you have altered that bracket, it used to be in the other corner! And the piano, I hardly know if I like it there—I believe I do. I wonder why my tea is never an atom like yours, is it the cream, or the cups, or what?”
When she had drunk her tea she put the cup down and said suddenly, “I would like to go to Strange Hall next week, will you come with me?”
“Next week!” repeated Mrs. Fellowes.