Philip Waldron's eyes gleamed as he fixed them on the doctor's face.
"I will tell you something of my story—if you wish it."
"Say on."
"As a young man at home I was greatly under my father's influence. Perhaps because of his indifference I was the more anxious to please him. At all events, urged by him, but with secret reluctance, I proposed and was accepted by that lady whose carriage I stopped to-night. She was rich, beautiful, but I did not love her. I know my conduct was weak, it was ignoble—but I did her no wrong. For me she had not one spark of affection. My prospective wealth was the bait."
Waldron paused, and drew his hand across his eyes. "Then—then I met the girl who in the end became my wife. That she was poor was an insurmountable barrier in my father's eyes. I sought freedom from my hateful engagement in vain. I need not trouble you with all the story. Suffice it that I left home and married the woman I loved. My father's anger was overwhelming. We were never forgiven. When my brother died I hoped for some sign from my father, but he made none. And now my wife also is dead."
"And you are alone in the world?" asked the doctor, who had followed his story with interest.
Philip Waldron's face lit up with a rarely winning smile.
"No," he said, "I have a little girl." Then the smile faded, as he added, "She is a cripple."
"And have you never appealed to your father?"
Unopened Letters