“No, father,” she replied, “at least nothing that I am conscious of. We cannot be always gay or sad at our pleasure, you know.”
“Nay, but at least,” said the old gentleman, “Nestor has been disobedient, or old Giles is sick, or you have been working yourself into a sentimental sadness over Lady Willoughby's[3] troubles.”
“No, dear father; though, in reality, that melancholy story might well move a stouter heart than mine.”
“Well, confess then,” said her father, “that, like the young French gentleman in Prince Arthur's days, you are sad as night only for wantonness. But what say you, mother, has anything gone wrong in household affairs to cross Virginia?”
“No, Mr. Temple,” said the old lady. “Certainly, if Virginia is cast down at the little she has to do, I don't know what ought to become of me. But that's a matter of little consequence. Old people have had their day, and needn't expect much sympathy.”
“Indeed, dear mother,” said Virginia, “I do not complain of anything that I have to do. I know that you do not entrust as much to me as you ought, or as I wish. I assure you, that if anything has made me sad, it is not you, dear mother,” she added, as she tenderly kissed her mother.
“Oh, I know that, my dear; but your father seems to delight in always charging me with whatever goes wrong. Goodness knows, I toil from Monday morning till Saturday night for you all, and this is all the thanks I get. And if I were to work my old fingers to the bone, it would be all the same. Well, it won't last always.”
To this assault Colonel Temple knew the best plan was not to reply. He had learned from sad experience the truth of the old adages, that “breath makes fire hotter,” and that “the least said is soonest mended.” He only signified his consciousness of what had been said by a quiet shrug of the shoulders, and then resumed his conversation with Virginia.
“Well then, my dear, I am at a loss to conjecture the cause of your sadness, and must throw myself upon your indulgence to tell me or not, as you will. I don't think you ever lost anything by confiding in your old father.”
“I know I never did,” said Virginia, with a gentle sigh, “and it is for the very reason that you always make my foolish little sorrows your own, that I am unwilling to trouble you with them. But really, on the present occasion—I scarcely know what to tell you.”