"Heaven knows I do, for I cannot make you happy," I answered, mournfully.
"Let me go away where I can never grieve or trouble you again! I will,— indeed, I will,—for anything is easier to bear than this. Oh, Jean, why did you leave me when you went?"—and with that despairing cry Effie stretched her arms into the empty air, as if seeking that lost friend.
My anger melted, and I tried to soothe her, saying gently, as I laid her tear-wet cheek to mine,—
"My child, death alone must part us two. We will be patient with each other, and so may learn to be happy yet."
A long silence fell upon us both. My thoughts were busy with the thought of what a different home mine might have been, if Agnes had been true; and Effie—God only knows how sharp a conflict passed in that young heart! I could not guess it till the bitter sequel of that hour came.
A timid hand upon my own aroused me, and, looking down, I met such an altered face, it touched me like a mute reproach. All the passion bad died out, and a great patience seemed to have arisen there. It looked so meek and wan, I bent and kissed it; but no smile answered me as Effie humbly said,—
"Forgive me, Sir, and tell me how I can make you happier. For I am truly grateful for all you have done for me, and will try to be a docile child to you."
"Be happy yourself, Effie, and I shall be content. I am too grave and old to be a fit companion for you, dear. You shall have gay faces and young friends to make this quiet place more cheerful. I should have thought of that before. Dance, sing, be merry, Effie, and never let your life be darkened by Basil Ventnor's changeful moods."
"And you?" she whispered, looking up.
"I will sit among my books, or seek alone the few friends I care to see, and never mar your gayety with my gloomy presence, dear. We must begin at once to go our separate ways; for, with so many years between us, we can never find the same paths pleasant very long. Let me be a father to you, and a friend,—I cannot be a lover, child."