“It shows a weakening—it shows a relaxation of the fiber—a—that is what I think. And so complete a change! Gerald, my father shall do nothing he does not wish to do for me.”
“I never supposed you would wish that, my dear. What is it? Don’t form too hasty a judgment. Has he said that he does not want to do anything that has been spoken of between you?”
“No, he has spoken of nothing. He has got Edward Penton’s boy with him, and he is quite affectionate, talking of a resemblance—”
“Alicia, is it Penton you are thinking so much of?”
“No, no,” she cried, leaning upon his shoulder, bursting at last into sudden, long-repressed tears. “No, no! It is my brother, my brother! my Walter! He who should have been, who ought to have been—Gerald, it may be wrong, but I can’t bear it, I can’t bear it. He talks of a resemblance—”
“Alicia, I see it too. I thought it would soften your heart.”
“Oh!” she cried, “how little you know;” and, flinging herself from him, with a cry of mortification and disappointment, she flew into her own room and closed the door.
Russell Penton stood looking after her with a troubled countenance, and then he began to walk slowly up and down the corridor. He did not approve, and perhaps, as she said in her passion, did not understand this strange revulsion of all gentle sentiments. But it went to his heart to leave her to herself in a moment of pain, even though the pain was of her own inflicting. He did not follow or attempt to console her. She was not a girl to be soothed and persuaded out of this outburst of passionate feeling. He respected her individuality, her age, her power to bear her own burdens; but because his heart was very tender, though he did not disturb Alicia, he walked up and down, waiting till she should return to him, outside that closed door.
CHAPTER XX.
SIR WALTER AND HIS HEIR.
There was a ball at Penton that evening.