They did not see the Dean again till dinner, when he came down, dressed as was his fastidious habit, with silk stockings and buckled shoes, in the full array of his degree. He sat at the table silently, scarcely eating, and paid no attention to the conversation, forced and trivial, between Bella and Miss Ley. Now and then a heavy tear rolled down his cheek. He was a man of methodical habits, and till ten o’clock always remained in the drawing-room; on this occasion, therefore, as on others, he sat down and took up the Guardian, but Bella saw that he did not read, since for an hour his gaze was fixed vacantly on the same place, and now and then he drew out a handkerchief to dry his eyes. When the clock struck he rose, and his face was worn and gray with utter wretchedness.
“Good-night, Polly,” he said. “I hope Bella has seen that you have everything you require.”
He walked towards the door, but Miss Langton stopped him.
“You’re not going without kissing me, father? You know it cuts my heart to make you so unhappy.”
“I don’t think we need discuss the matter again, Bella,” he answered coldly. “As you reminded me, you are of an age to decide your own affairs. I have nothing more to say, but I shall remain steadfast to my resolution.”
He turned on his heels and closed the door behind him; they heard him lock himself in his study.
“He’s never gone to bed without kissing me before,” said Bella painfully. “Even when he stayed out late, he used to come into my room to bid me good-night. Oh, poor man, how frightfully unhappy I’ve made him!”
She looked at Miss Ley with anguish in her eyes.
“Oh, Mary, how hard it is that in this life you can’t do good to one person without hurting another! Duty so often points in two contrary directions, and the pleasure of doing the one duty is so much less than the pain of neglecting the other.”
“Would you like me to speak to your father?”