'Careless and cold enough; isn't it?' said Daly sadly, as the other handed back Eliza's letter to him. 'I'm afraid she doesn't mind much what either of us feels, thinking of the grand life that's before her. I'll go to town at once and see if it's as she says.'
Hogan made no reply. He walked away; and when he had gone a little distance, threw himself down on the ground and groaned aloud in agony of spirit.
Daly's inquiries proved that the marriage had actually taken place that morning in the church Eliza mentioned. He was even shewn her signature in the book; and there remained not a doubt that she was actually the lawful wife of Charles Crofton. Daly felt a certain pride in his daughter's position; but he sorely missed her bright face and laughing teasing ways. He felt that he had lost his daughter for ever, and it sometimes almost seemed to him as if she had died.
As time went on, an occasional letter came, dated at first from London, afterwards from the continent; but they were as brief as they were far between, and told almost nothing. She hoped he was in good health. She was well, and seeing many things she had never even heard of before, and going into a great deal of gay society. This was usually their substance.
From the time of Eliza's departure, a great change came over Hogan. He grew so gloomy and irritable, that those with whom he had formerly been a favourite began gradually to shrink from him. Few will take misery as an excuse for broken spirits, and all steal away from the stricken one—
As the ancients shunned the token
Of a lightning-blasted tree.
But there was one who never avoided Hogan. Mary Conlan was often by his side, always ready with smiles and cheering words. She never alluded to his grief; but he saw by her actions and her sympathetic eyes how she felt for him in his sorrow. And though it seemed sometimes, when he turned from her with a dark brow and monosyllabic answer, that her task was an ungracious one, yet he blessed her in his heart that she still did not forsake him, and cherished the kind and gentle words she spoke as the only thing that made life not utterly a burden.
CHAPTER IV.—THE GLAMOUR FADES.
In an elegantly furnished apartment of one of the most fashionable hotels of Paris, a young lady sat alone. The rich sunshine of a warm July afternoon streamed through the room. Now and then a gentle breeze strayed in at the open window beside which she was seated, and sounds of life, careless, outwardly happy life, floated upwards.