And she—she had told him, and she still lived! She had told him and he had not cursed her, he had not struck her to the ground, he had not even succeeded in putting her from him! She had told him, and the world still moved about her, his gold watch, which lay on the table on a level with her head, still ticked, the dog still barked in the field below. Miss Peacock’s voice could still be heard, invoking Calamy’s presence. She had told him, and he was still her father, nay, if she was not deceived, he was more truly her father, nearer to her, more her own, than he had ever been before.
Presently, “Ovington’s son! Ovington’s son!” he muttered in a tone of wonder. “Good God! Couldn’t you find a man?”
“He is a man,” she pleaded, “indeed, indeed, he is!”
“Ay, and you are a woman!” bitterly. “Fire and tow! A few kisses and you are aflame for him. For shame, girl, for shame! And how am I to be sure it’s no worse? Ain’t you ashamed of yourself?”
She shivered, but she was silent.
“Deceiving your father when he was blind!”
She clung to him. He felt her trembling convulsively.
After that he sat for a time as if exhausted, suffering her embrace, and silent save when at rare intervals an oath broke from him, or, in a gust of passion, he struck his hand on the arm of his chair. Once, “My father would ha’ spurned you from the house,” he cried, “you jade.” She did not answer, and a new idea striking him, he sat up sharply. “But what—what the devil is all this about? What’s all this, if it’s over and—and done with?” His tone was almost jubilant. “If he’s off with it? Maybe, girl, I’ll forgive you, bad as you’ve been, if—if that’s so. Do you say it’s over?”
“No, no!” she cried. “He came——”
“You told me——”