“Sir, sir!” she cried, “you must go back, you must go back—you must not be seen here!”
“John!” cried Mrs. Asquith, “don’t give way to her; this is your house, and here is your child.”
He turned his face from one side to the other, shrinking a little from the housekeeper, yet making a step back as if in obedience—appealing to Mary, yet drawing his arm away from hers in a self-contradictory movement, opening his mouth but only with a gasp, saying nothing.
Mrs. Mills put her hand upon his sleeve.
“Come back, sir,” she said; “come back, oh! come back to your own comfortable room, where things are fit and proper for you. My mistress would break her heart if she thought you were here. Oh, sir, come back! You know what my mistress would say, and that it’s all for your good. What does she think of night and day but for your good?”
He gasped again as if for breath, and then drew away, retreating a little. “Mary,” he said, “perhapth she’s right. I’ll be better in my own place.” As he stood thus irresolute, feeble, with a woman on each side of him, a picture of a bewildered soul cowed with long subjection, there came into the movement of the strange little drama another unexpected actor. Hetty had sprung up from her sofa, forgetting her weakness, putting out her hands at first as if to keep away the sight; and her movement had disturbed Rhoda, who sprang up too, and stood for a moment astonished, taking in the scene. Then with a cry the little girl flung herself forward, clutching at the grey coat, clinging to his knees. “Father!” she cried. Her little voice, shrill in its childish tones, rang through the air like the ring of a pistol shot, clearing away the mist. He gave a great, sobbing cry, shook himself clear, and stooping down, gathered the child into his arms. They all stood round, a group of hushed spectators, to watch that meeting. He seemed to grope for a chair, and sat down and folded her to him. “My little girl, my darling! my little girl, my darling! I’ve found you at latht!” Hetty tottered across the floor to her mother, and caught her arm and clung to her, hiding her head upon Mary’s shoulder. And behind them all young Darrell came in, and stood looking on like the rest.
Even the housekeeper had been paralysed by
“‘MY LITTLE GIRL, MY DARLING!’” (p. 374.)