Part 17 (1/2)

She was lying wide-awake. The darkness of her eyes in her face, unnaturally white from the moonlight, frightened him. He had a memory of Nelly's mother as he had seen her newly-dead, and the memory scared him.

”Is that you, papa?” Nelly asked, half-lifting herself on her pillow.

”Come and sit down. I was thinking of dressing myself and coming down to you.”

”You mustn't do that if your headache is not better.”

”It was nothing at all of a headache,” she said with a weary little sigh, ”but I must have fallen asleep. If I had not I should have come down to dinner. I only awoke just before the church clock struck nine.

Were you very lonely?”

”I am always lonely without you, Nell. You have had nothing to eat, have you? No. Well, perhaps you'd better come down and have a little meal in the study by the fire. Unless you'd prefer a fire up here. The room strikes cold. To be sure, the windows are open. There is snow coming, I think.”

”I like the cold. I'm not hungry, but I shall get up presently. I haven't really gone to bed.”

She put out a chilly little hand over her father's, and he took it into his. When had they wanted anyone but each other? What new love could ever be as true and tender as his?

”Oh!” cried Nelly, burying her face in her pillow. ”I'm a wicked girl to be discontented. I ought to have everything in the world, having you.”

”And when did my Nelly become discontented?” he asked, with a pa.s.sionate tenderness. ”What has clouded over my girl, the light of the house? What is it, Nell?”

He had been both father and mother to her. For a second or two she kept her face buried, as if she would still hold her secret from him. His hand brushed the pale ripples of her hair, as another hand had brushed them a short time back. He expected her to answer him, and he was waiting.

”It is Captain Langrishe,” she whispered at last. ”His boat goes from Tilbury to-morrow morning.”

”From Tilbury.” The General remembered that Grogan of the Artillery, the club bore, had a daughter and son-in-law sailing from Tilbury next morning, and had suggested his accompanying him to the docks. ”Why he should have asked me,” the General had said irritably, ”when I can barely endure him for half-an-hour, is more than I can imagine!”

”What is wrong between you and Langrishe, Nell?” he asked softly. ”I thought he was a good fellow. I know he's a good soldier; and a good soldier must be a good fellow. Has anyone been making mischief?”

He sent a sudden wrathful thought towards the Dowager. Who else was so likely to make mischief? The thought that someone had been making mischief was almost hopeful, since mischief done could be undone if one only set about it rightly.

”No one,” Nelly answered mournfully.

The General suddenly stiffened. His one explanation of Langrishe's pride standing in the way was forgotten; it was not reason enough. Was it possible that Langrishe had been playing fast-and-loose with his girl?

Was it possible--this was more incredible still--that he did not return her innocent pa.s.sion? For a few seconds he did not speak. His indignation was ebbing into a dull acquiescence. If Langrishe did not care--why, no one on earth could make him care. No one could blame him even.

”You must give up thinking of him, Nell,” he said at last. He could not bring himself to ask her if Langrishe cared. ”You must forget him, little girl, and try to be satisfied with your old father till someone more worthy comes along.”

”But he is worthy.” Nelly spoke with a sudden flash of spirit. ”And he cares so much. I always felt he cared. But I never knew how much till we met at his sister's this afternoon and he bade me good-bye.”

”Then why is he going?” the General asked, with pardonable amazement.

”Oh, I don't know,” Nelly answered irritably. She had never been irritable in all her sunny life. ”But although he is gone I am happier than I have been for a long time since I know he cares so much.”

”I'll tell you what,”--the General got up quite briskly--”dress yourself, Nell, and come down to the study, and we'll talk things over.

You may be sure, little girl, that your old father will leave no stone unturned to secure your happiness. I'll ring for your dinner to be brought up on a tray and we'll have a happy evening together. And you'd better have a fire here, Nell. It's a very pretty room, my dear, with all your pretty fal-lals, but it strikes me as being very chilly.”

He went downstairs and rang the bell for Miss Nelly's dinner. The fire had been stoked in his absence, and was now burning gloriously.

He drew Nelly's chair closer to it and a screen around the chair. He put a cus.h.i.+on for her back, and a ha.s.sock for her feet. The little acts were each an eloquent expression of his love for her. He was suddenly, irrationally hopeful. He reproached himself because he had done so little. He had thought he was doing a great deal when he, an old man and so high in his profession, had made advances to the young fellow for his girl's sake. To be sure, he had been certain that Langrishe was in love with Nell, else the thing had not been possible. Now that his love was beyond doubt the old idea recurred to him. It must be some chivalrous, overstrained scruple about his poverty which came between poor Nell and her happiness. Standing by the fire, waiting for Nelly, he rubbed his hands together with a return of cheerfulness.