“Did I say she was kind to me?” said Spears, melting a little. “Well, yes, I suppose she was.”
“And was it really,” said Janet, drooping her head, after she had cast one keen glance at her father’s face, “really—about nothing but Mr. Markham’s nonsense that she came here?”
“Janet,” said her father, taking her by the hand—his mind had wandered from the great question of the moment, but her words brought it suddenly back. He looked tenderly and anxiously into the girl’s face, which sank before his gaze, but only with an easy blush and pleasant embarrassment. “I don’t want to be inquisitorial. I don’t want to pry into what is perhaps too delicate for a man’s ear. But tell me if you can what you mean by Mr. Markham’s nonsense? He has always seemed very serious to me. Try and tell me if you can—try and speak to me as you would have spoken if your mother had been here.”
This touched her heart, for she was not a bad girl. She began to cry a little. “She would not have asked me—she would have understood,” she said. “Oh, father, what can I tell you beyond what I have told you? Besides, what does it matter what I say? He must have spoke himself, or what brought the lady here?”
This seemed conclusive to Spears too. It did not occur to him that “Mr. Markham’s nonsense” must mean something more than what Paul had said to his mother. He put his arm round his child, and drew her close to him. “You should not say ‘he must have spoke,’ Janet—though it would seem indeed as if he had said something. She wanted me to order him off. Tell me, my girl, are you really—fond of this young fellow?” he said, with persuasive tenderness. “Don’t turn your face away, there is nothing to be ashamed of. I thought you were but a child, and lo! you are a woman with lovers after you,” he went on, with a smile that was pathetic. “I can’t say I like it, but it’s nature, and I won’t complain.”
“Oh don’t, father,” said Janet, drawing herself away. “Don’t! How can I tell you—or any one?” There was just enough of feeling to give a natural air of pretty reserve and delicacy to the girlish shrinking, the quick movement she made to conceal her face from his eyes. Her voice was tremulous, her cheeks suffused with the blush of excitement and pleasant confusion. After a pause she turned half round and asked, as if avoiding a more difficult question, “Is it a very grand house? Will it come to him after? Will he be a Sir too?”
“If it lasts till his time,” said the revolutionary, “which let us hope it will not. The chances are, that all these detestable distinctions will be swept away long before, and the wrongs of the poor be made an end of. The country will not bear it much longer.”
“Oh!” cried Janet, forgetting her bashfulness, and turning upon him a face full of eager vehemence and indignation. “I am sick of hearing of the country! What harm does it do the country? Will they have a penny the more for taking away his money? Why shouldn’t I be a lady as well as any one else? To have a grand house, and a man in livery to walk behind me is what I should like above everything! I hope it will last till our time. I don’t believe there will be any difference. Oh, father, won’t you just give up making speeches and holding meetings, and let things be?”
“Janet!” he cried, with a flash of anger; but it seemed ludicrous, after all, to attach any importance to what such a child said. He laughed a confused and disconcerted laugh. “That doesn’t come well from my daughter! And what do you know about such things? You are a little goose, and that is all about it. Besides, what does it matter? We are all going to Queensland—he, too. There will not be many grand houses, or men in livery, you baby! to be found there.”
“Oh!” cried Janet, growing pale with disappointment and dismay; “but you don’t think he will have to go there now?”