“Of course, dearest, if it is your wish, we will say nothing now,” he returned slowly. In his heart a fierce wave of self-contempt at his own hypocrisy surged up once more, but he forced it doggedly down. He had 163 promised his chief to play the game, and after all it was for the sake of the girl beside him, that he might be able, when the inevitable moment of disclosure came, to be of real service to her and her unfortunate father, and to shield her from the brunt of the blow. “I should not like your father to think that we deceived him, but perhaps it would be as well if we kept our secret for a little time. Later, when I have succeeded in landing a good, permanent position with a prospect of advancement, I can go to him with greater assurance, and ask him for you.”
“Poor Father!” sighed Emily, with a wistful, tremulous little smile. “We have been inseparable ever since I can remember. He has lived only for me, and I cannot bear to think of leaving him––especially now, when he seems weighed down with some secret anxiety, which he will share with no one, not even me. I feel that he needs me, more than ever before. It wrings my heart, Guy, to see him age before my very eyes, and to know that he will not confide in me, I may not help him! He seems to lean upon me, upon my presence near him, as if somehow I gave him strength. Although he maintains a steadfast silence, his eyes never leave me, and such a sad, hungry expression comes into them sometimes, almost as if he were going away from me forever, as if he were trying to say farewell to me, that I have to turn away to hide my tears from him.”
“Poor little girl! It must make you terribly unhappy.” Morrow paused, and then added, as if in afterthought: “Perhaps when we tell your father that we care for each other, that when I have proved myself you are going to be my wife, he may confide in me––that is, if he is willing to give you to me. You know, dear, it is easier sometimes for a man to talk to another 164 of his private worries, than to a woman, even the one nearest and dearest to him in all the world. I may possibly be of assistance to him. You told me last night that the change in him had been coming on gradually for several months. When did it first occur to you that he was in trouble?”
“I don’t know. I can’t remember. You see, I didn’t realize it until that letter came, and then I began to think back, and the significance of little things which I had not noticed particularly when they occurred, was borne in upon me. Although I have no reason for connecting the two happenings beyond the fact that they coincided, I cannot help feeling that Mr. Pennold––the young man whom you have observed when he called to see my father––has something to do with the state of things, for it was with his very first appearance, more than two years ago, that my father became a changed man.”
“Tell me about it,” Morrow urged, gently. “Can you remember, dear, when he first came?”
“Oh, yes. We have so few visitors––Father doesn’t, as a rule, encourage new acquaintances, you know, Guy, although he did seem to like you from the very beginning––that the reception of a perfect stranger into our home as a constant caller puzzled me. It occurred on a Sunday afternoon in summer. I was sitting out on the porch reading, when a strange young man came up the path from the gate, and asked to see my father. I called to him––he was weeding the flowerbed around the corner of the house––and when he came, I went up to my room, leaving them alone together. I didn’t go, though, until I had seen their meeting, and one thing about it seemed strange to me, even then. The stranger, Mr. Pennold, evidently did not know my 165 father, had never even seen him before, from the way he greeted him, but when Father first caught sight of his face, his own went deathly white and he gripped the porch railing for a moment, as if for support.
“‘You wished to see me?’ he said, and his voice sounded queer and hollow and dazed, like a person awaking from sleep. ‘What can I do for you?’
“‘This is Mr. James Brunell?’ the young man asked. ‘You are a map-maker, I understand. I have come to ask for your estimate on a large contract for wall-maps for suburban schools. If you can spare a half-hour, we can talk it over now, sir, in private. I have a letter of introduction to you from an old acquaintance. My name is Pennold.’
“‘I know.’ My father smiled as he spoke, an odd, slow smile which somehow held no mirth or welcome. ‘I noted the family resemblance at once. A relative of yours was at one time associated with me in business.’
“The young man laughed shortly.