“It is my father,” she said. “I do not mind your knowing; it is a kind of nightmare to me. I do all that I can for him, and that seems little.”
“He is ill?”
“He is killing himself day by day.”
For the moment Gabriel found nothing to say to her, for fate shackled him. He would have given much to have been able to throw his manhood at the girl’s feet like an honest sword. But that same sword was rusted to its hypocritic sheath. He could but protest with his lips, pay verbal homage.
“This must be a heavy burden for you,” he said, presently.
“It is my duty.”
“You do not complain.”
“That were graceless,” she said, “and yet I do not know what I should do if I had not the thought of you ever with me.”
Their solitude was broken by the woman, Mrs. Primmer. Her face was hard and calculating. There was a certain critical vigilance in her eyes that made Gabriel restless. He felt that the woman was watching him almost like a spy, and that her verdict in no wise flattered the spirituality of his mission. Mrs. Primmer’s morality had been baked in a mould of clay. Charity had escaped in the process. Greed and self-satisfaction were lined and graven about her mouth.
Mrs. Primmer’s fingers lingered long over the table. She had a discordant habit of clattering and fidgeting with the china. She stole side glances the while at the man seated in the window recess.