“Oh, papa,” said Sara, “it is dreadful to think of dress at all, or any thing so trifling, on such a day; but we must do it—people will think—; I am sure even already they may be thinking—”
“Yes,” said Mr. Brownlow, vaguely—“I don’t think it matters—I would rather have five minutes’ sleep.”
“Papa,” said Sara in desperation, “I have just seen Mr. Powys—he has come with some papers—that is, I think he has gone away. He came to—to—I mean he told me he was sent to—I did not understand what it was, but he has gone away—”
“Ah, he has gone away,” said Mr. Brownlow, sitting up; “that is all right—all right. And there are the Motherwells coming. Sara, I think Charles Motherwell is a very honest sort of man.”
“Yes, papa,” said Sara. She was too much excited and disturbed to perceive clearly what he meant, and yet the contrast of the two names struck her dimly. At such a moment what was Charles Motherwell to her?
“I think he’s a very good fellow,” said Mr. Brownlow, rising; and he went and stirred the smoldering fire. Then he came up to where she stood, watching him. “We shall have to go and live in the house at Masterton,” he said, with a sigh. “It will be a strange place for such a creature as you.”
“I don’t see why it should be strange for me,” said Sara; and then her face blazed suddenly with a color her father did not understand. “Papa, I shall have you all to myself,” she said, hurriedly, feeling in her heart more than half a hypocrite. “There will be no troublesome parties like this, and nobody we don’t want to see.”
Mr. Brownlow looked at her half suspiciously; but he did not know what had happened in those two minutes beside the fruit and flowers in the dining-room. He made a desperate effort to recover himself, and to take courage and play out his part steadily to the end.
“We must get through it to-night,” he said. “We must keep up for to-night. Go and put on all your pretty things, my darling. You have had to bear the brunt of every thing to-day.”
“No, papa; it does not matter,” said Sara, smothering the longing she had to cry, and tell him—tell him?—she did not know what. And then she turned and put her one question. “Is it true?—have we nothing? Is it all as that terrible woman said?”